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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: WWMJD (What Would Mrs. J Do?)\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2152\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger warning: Contains references to substance abuse and violence.\n\nIts funny how you don’t ever really appreciate things until you no longer have them, until they are gone. We were 16. What 16 year old appreciates anything really?\n\nI remember there was this one morning, I must have gotten a total of like 3 hours sleep the night before. I show up for first period like I have just crossed the finish line at the NYC marathon, all breathless and sweaty and full of teenage drama. I slide into my seat just as the final bell rings and lay my head down on my desk, letting my long curly hair fall all over the place. I am like that for like a full minute, relishing the coolness of the desk on my cheek, the darkness underneath my folded arms, when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. I pop my head up, ready to apologize, but Mrs. J is just smiling at me and in her hand is what looks like a chocolate croissant.\n\n“Here,” she says. “You need this more than I do.”\n\nLike I said you never appreciate things in the moment. Looking back now I am pretty sure that lady just flat out gave me her breakfast.\n\nI never ate in the morning, partly because I didn’t wake up hungry but mostly because there was never anything to eat in my house, nothing good anyway. Mom would sometimes just forget to go shopping, or the milk in the fridge would smell off, like the boys locker room after gym class. I had my own money from babysitting and dog walking but I would rather spend it on concert tickets or clothes than on breakfast. \n\nSomehow Mrs. J could always tell when I was hungry. She could also tell when I was tired and needed to just lay my head down for a minute or when I was sad and needed to be left alone. I was sad a lot in high school though, and it was hard to teach literature to someone who wanted to be left alone all the time. So sometimes Mrs. J would smile gently at me, as if to say Nova just answer this one question and then you can go back to staring blankly at the wall. The weird thing is, I always knew the answers, even when I hadn’t eaten breakfast and had been up half the night texting. I loved to read and write, ever since I was a little girl. Sometimes, when I was really out of it, Mrs. J would hand me a piece of paper (I kept forgetting my notebook at home) and tell me to just write something, anything.\n\nI remember this one time, right in the middle of reading the Odyssey, Mrs, J suddenly slammed the book closed and clapped her hands loudly, as if to wake us up.\n\n“You all look like a rock band the night after a big concert”.\n\nI am pretty sure teachers weren’t supposed to say stuff like that, but in truth at least half of us probably were a bit hungover. It was Monday after all, and this was high school in springtime in suburban New Jersey. There was nothing to do on weekends other than hang out at the mall (boring!), go to the movie theatre (only if you wanted to make out and your parents were home), or bring a six pack and a blanket down to the shore, so most kids just did that. \n\nMrs. J then stood up and motioned for us to follow her.\n\n“Come on, class is outside today.”\n\nI don’t think she was allowed to do that either, just take us out of the building like that without asking the principal first and probably like a billion permission slips. But Mrs. J often did stuff she probably wasn’t supposed to, like that time she ordered two large pizza pies from the shop on Main Street, right in the middle of a lesson on adverbs. Or the time she stopped prepping us for the midterm, because everyone wanted to talk about that kid who had gotten beat up on the football field because he liked boys. Coach Mike said he had gotten extra tackles for being disrespectful but everyone knew what it was really about. Rumor had it Coach Mike used to press up on the cheerleaders after the game too, but when the team is winning suddenly no one can see clearly anymore.\n\nBut not Mrs. J. She had simply closed the book she had been reading from, sat down on top of her desk (she said she liked it better up there than in the chair) and said “I imagine you guys have some feelings about that.”\n\nThat was how she often got us to talk about teen stuff. Maegan said that it wasn’t fair that Noah got those extra tackles because he was the smallest guy on the team and then Joey said it didn’t matter, that you had to work hard to be the best. Natalie called Coach Mike an asshole and I expected Mrs. J to tell her not to use that word in class but instead she just nodded and let us keep talking. Finally April, who always got frustrated easily, blurted out “This is bullshit, Mrs. J. Everyone knows Noah got those tackles for being gay!” Then the room got real quiet, everyone watching Mrs. J to see what she was going to do next. She paused for a second, biting her lower lip in that way she did when she was thinking, and then she looked April right in the eye.\n\n“You are absolutely right, April. Some people are afraid of what they don’t understand. What do you think you should do about that?”\n\nNo one else ever talked to us that way, like we actually had some power in the world even though we were only 16. Years later, when I was about to graduate law school and start my own career, I found out that Mrs. J had gotten married to a beautiful blond lady, and a lot more made sense. \n\nI never meant to get her in trouble though. \n\nIt wasn’t my mom’s fault that the house was dirty and that sometimes the milk in the fridge went sour. She had a lot on her plate, what with three kids and a husband who occasionally came home late, smelling like stale beer and cigarettes. Suburban life was like that, the teens went to the shore and the men went to the bar. Like I said, there really wasn’t anything else to do; that’s why I went to college in the city, and then moved there as soon as I graduated. Small town life will eat you alive if you let it.\n\nBut anyway, my mom did her best, and she was infinitely patient when my dad came home a little stumbly; leaving a big glass of water and two Advil by the couch, making sure to tiptoe around him quietly. Usually it worked out fine. \n\nLike I said, Mrs. J could always tell when something was going on, and the night before that morning she gave me her chocolate croissant, things had not worked out so fine. \n\nDad had come home real, real late, even later than normal, and I guess he had lipstick on his collar or something, because for once my mom wasn’t quiet at all. She screamed and shouted and she threw a glass which shattered on the wall behind him into a million tiny pieces. At one point he tried to grab her, maybe to calm her down, I don’t know, because that was when I saw red and the next thing I knew I was standing over him with a big knife from the kitchen. \n\nThings got kind of fuzzy after that. \n\nMrs. J kept me after class that day and when she asked me if I was ok, maybe because I was so tired from all of the drama from the night before, I told her the whole story. I didn’t know about mandated reporting back then. I also didn’t know that my dad’s best drinking buddy at the Irish pub down on Main Street was actually Coach Mike. \n\nMaybe the two of them concocted some kind of story, or maybe it had to do with having class outside that time, or the pizza, or one of the million other cool things Mrs J did that were most certainly not allowed at Lacey Township High School. All I know is the following Friday we didn’t read or write anything. Instead Mrs. J sat us down and told us she was leaving.\n\nShe said that she was going to teach at a middle school in Brooklyn where people might appreciate her unique style a bit more.. She said that she loved us and to never stop fighting for what we believed in, for what we wanted out of life. She didn’t mention me or my dad. She didn’t say she had been fired, and she didn’t end her little speech with ‘What do you think you should do about that?” \n\nBut that is what we heard.\n\nWe organized the biggest protest our small town had ever seen, complete with signs and everything. The entire 11th grade sat out on the football field for two whole hours and refused to move unless she got her job back. \n\nIt didn’t work, she left anyway. But on her last day she got a little choked up and told us we were the best teenagers she had ever met.\n\nA lady with glasses and a briefcase showed up at my house a few times and after that my dad seemed a bit more subdued. He started showing up for dinner more and bringing my mom flowers sometimes. They both took me to dinner at the Olive Garden after graduation. He told me he was proud of me and handed me an envelope with $200 inside. \n\nNeither of them ever mentioned the night with the knife again.\n\nMrs. J sent me something for graduation too, a card with a kitten hanging from a tree branch and the words “Hang in There.” Inside she wrote “Best of luck in college. Go out there and do great things, you deserve it!”\n\nShe must have been keeping tabs on me, because I got the same exact card from her when I graduated from law school 8 years later. \n\nA lot of my classmates went into corporate law because that was where the money was, but I decided I wanted try to help people instead and was hired as in house council for a small non-profit in the city. \n\nEventually I got married, to a sweet, wonderful man I met at a law conference. We went on honeymoon in the Bahamas, spent five days drinking rum on the beach and watching the sunset. I got my hair braided like I was 22 on Spring Break, and he laughed at the sunburned streaks on my scalp. \n\nWhen I unloaded my mailbox a week later there was another card, buried underneath the useless catalogs and statements from accounts I had forgotten to make paperless. It was the same cat of course but this time she had written, “Congratulations on your wedding! So happy for the both you.”\n\nShe must have bought a whole pack of those cards.\n\nMy dad stayed on the straight and narrow ever since that lady came to our house when I was 16. He was dead sober when he walked me down the aisle at my wedding, and he was dead sober when he buried my mom ten years later. (By the time they found the cancer it was pretty much too late to do anything.) The funeral was held in the tiny church right down the road from my childhood home. They were mostly happy in the end too, as happy as anyone can be in this life, especially when you live in small town New Jersey. \n\nI know someone else might have not let a father like that participate in her wedding day, but you can’t really choose who your family is. Besides, I let go of most of my anger that night in the kitchen. Life is just too short to carry something that heavy.\n\nMrs. J would have understood.\n\nIts funny about teachers. You don’t really think about the impact they are having on your life at the time, too caught up in all the drama that is high school. But now, as an adult with a successful career, a husband, and a baby on the way, I find myself thinking about Mrs. J often. Sometimes when I am faced with a difficult decision, I even ask myself what would Mrs. J do.\n\nShe was the best teacher I 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: The Tragedy Of Frederick XIV\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2956\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a backstabbing (literal or metaphorical) gone wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "ONE. \n“The Gallows.”\nThe guards dragged a man through the gallows. His eyes were flushed and red and his face was swollen from holding his breath, for he refused to allow even a single tear to fall. The guards pulled the man up the stairs; the soddened and weathered wood creaked and bounced with each step. They carried the man across the stage of the scaffold to the Hangman, whose eyes were buried in the hollows of the hessian-burlap fastened to his face.\nA crowd had gathered in the gallows. Among them was King Theobold, The Crown of the Northern Empire, who sat front and center of this spectacle. King Theobold raised his hand, and the crowd reduced its whooping to a whisper. “Centy Milione. You have been charged with, tried, and convicted of embezzlement and treason of the highest order. You packed your purloin-purse with pilfers, and compromised the integrity of our nation. You are hereby stripped of your duties as High Commander, and for your transgressions, you shall reimburse The Crown with your life.”\nCenty drew a deep breath, but before the Hangman could cinch the rope, Centy coughed to the crowd. “I, Centy Milione, am a convicted man, and I maintain my innocence. But since my sentence is irrevocable, I have only one request that I wish, in my final moments of life, to be granted.”\nKing Theobold flicked his wrist, and the Hangman stepped away from the edge of the scaffold’s stage. “And what might that be?”\n“Someone is missing from the crowd, and I would like for that person to be present. Seeing their face would comfort me.”\n“Who?”\n“Frederick The Fourteenth.” \nRory, a Captain of The Northern Imperial Army, climbed out of the crowd and approached King Theobold. “I shall fetch Frederick for you, Sir.”\n“Very well. We shall resume upon your return.” \n\n* * *\n\nFrederick XIV stepped away from the window in his bedchamber. The spectators had gathered in the gallows below and they were jeering loudly as the Hangman held the nape of the man on the platform. Frederick threw his back to the wall near the window, working his thumb and pointer into the fissures of his forehead. “One moment I’m the Chief Officer, and in the next I’ll be High Commander! High Commander…I’ll likely be crowned tomorrow. I must prepare!” Frederick, at his desk, retrieved paper and a fountain pen, then began to write:\n\nDearest King Theobold, our Illustrious Crown, \nI am most truly obliged to you— \n\nAn image twinkled in his periphery. \nAcross the room, above the mantle, there was a painting: a portrait of three men of similar stature and countenance to each other, also to Frederick XIV but to a lesser degree. From on-high, they stared down at Frederick XIV as he crossed the room towards them. “Tomorrow I shall be named High Commander of the Northern Imperial Army, and I will follow in your footsteps. And maybe one day my personage will join yours in portraiture.” He received two knocks at his door. “Who’s there!?”\n“Celia, sir. Captain Rory would like to join your company.”\nFrederick opened the door to reveal Celia, the chambermaid, and Rory a step behind her. Rory: “Sir, there has been a request made for you.”\n“What is the nature of this request?”\n“Am I allowed inside?” Frederick ushered Rory inside. “King Theobold has granted Centy one wish.”\n“Has he not been executed?”\n“In only a moment’s time. But never mind that, Frederick. Centy’s wish is to see you.”\nFrederick flew across the room and away from Rory. “See me!? For what reason!?”\n“Frederick, you are but his dearest friend. What is the reason for your delay?”\nFrederick turned his back to Rory. “There is no reason other than that I would not want to see a hanging in the gallows.”\n“But you have witnessed your fair share of executions.”\n“None of which have been dear friends.” Frederick said.\n“So what shall I tell Centy…?”\n“Tell Centy that my love is with him. And that his visage shall be forever reflected in my duties.”\n“Of High Commander...?”\nFrederick nodded his head. “I’ll likely be crowned tomorrow. His ill repute shall be absolved with me.”\n“Ill repute!? Are you suggesting that you believe Centy to be guilty?”\n“Centy was convicted.” Frederick kicked at the lint littering the floor. “Whether I believe that he is guilty or innocent matters not. His shadow will swing in the gallows inevitably.” \n“What am I hearing, sir? Have you not shed a tear at the thought of his absence?”\n“Yes. Many times.”\n“Then how could you dare allow him to leave without one final show of your affection?”\n“I think that it is best, for both he and I, to not meet under such conditions, no matter how sentimental.” Frederick turned his back to Rory. The crowds below began to bellow beneath the cloudy sky. Rory sneered, slamming the door behind him. Frederick XIV to the portrait: “Father, Grandfather, Great-Grandfather, I hope that after the ceremony tomorrow, you’ll acknowledge me as one of your own; an aurora in the sky of our heritage. I hope that I will have proven myself worthy in thine eye.”\n\nKing Theobold belted out from the gallows. “Centy Milione.” Frederick returned to the window, but did not look out. “You have been charged with, tried, and convicted of embezzlement and treason of the highest order. You packed your purloin-purse with pilfers, and compromised the integrity of our nation. You are hereby stripped of your duties as High Commander, and for your transgressions, you shall reimburse The Crown with your life.” Frederick’s face twisted centripetally into his head, wringing out but one tear that trekked the contour of his cheek to his chin. King Theobold: “Hangman! Allow Centy Milione to pay his debts.” The wood of the gallows outside creaked. The lone tear from Frederick’s face croaked when it splattered across the floor. And the sound of Centy’s final grunt echoed.\n\nTWO. \n“Patrilineage.”\nThe wind stirred recklessly, carrying waves of rainwater across the land. Lightning found Frederick's bedchamber and thunder clapped in his ear, waking him from his slumber. He held his aching head. “Celia…Celia!”\nThe chambermaid rushed inside with a candelabra. “Yes, sir?”\n“I cannot see.” With the candle from her candelabra, she lit more candles, placing them at various spots throughout the room. “Fetch me a glass of water. My head is tender and sore.”\nCelia left the room. Frederick laid on his pillow until he heard a voice: “Son.” Frederick opened his eyes, and standing at his bedside was his father, Frederick XIII. “We must go now.” \nFrederick could see his grandfather, Frederick XII, staring out of the window, and Frederick XI, his great-grandfather, admiring the portrait. “Father. Grandfather. Great-Grandfather. Why must you leave now? I seek wise counsel.”\n“Your ways have offended us.” Frederick XI said. \n“There is no way that we could accept you as you are.” Frederick XII said.\n“And we will not offer wise counsel. Your legacy is now your own.” Frederick XIII said.\nThunder hammered and lightning seemingly struck the center of the bedchamber, forcing Frederick XIV to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Frederick opened his eyes. “Father! Father!” Frederick searched the room, but they were gone. \n\nIn their wake, he padded across the parquet floor to his mantle. He squinted at the portrait, and what he saw poisoned his heart. Only the three heads of his patriarchy remained; their bodies had disappeared entirely.\nCelia handed him the glass of water. “Are you okay?”\nFrederick kept his face in the fold of his elbow. He thumbed up at the portrait. “Tell me what you see, Celia.”\n“Your Great-grandfather, Grandfather, and Father.”\n“Can you see the whole of them?”\n“Yes, sir, I can.”\n“I must rest.” Frederick chugged his glass of water, and sent Celia away before climbing sluggishly into bed. He laid with his eyes wide. The torrent raged outside.\n\n“I Declare War!”\nFrederick snapped his fingers. “More spirits!” He reclined in his gilded chaise lounge with a glass in his fist which Celia refilled. Frederick finished the glass in one gulp, then dropped it; the thick crystal thumped across the varnished wood. He stumbled from the chaise lounge and grabbed a hold of two harlots, and they guided him to the bed.\nPresent were two Officers, Francis and Giles, each heaped with a pair of women, and spirits in their mitts. “How’s it feel to have an empire under your command!?” Francis jeered.\ngrand. \n“And the luxury to rest on your laurels in the lap of an impregnable Kingdom!?” Giles said.\nswell. \nFrederick looked to the women. “Kiss me, will you?” The two women pressed their faces into his. He received a knock at the door. “Who dares disturb me!?” Frederick burped.\n“Celia, sir!”\n“Are you aware, Celia, that we are engaged in official military duties?”\n“Yes, sir.”\n“Then why do you bother our securing of this great nation?”\n“The Chief Officer says he must see you now.”\n“Allow the sap in.” Rory rushed in. “Mr. Rory, Chief Officer! Have you come to join in the luxuries afforded to our ranks?”\n“No, sir.”\n“Then why do you—” Frederick burped again. “Why do you dare interrupt our briefing?”\n“The Southern Empire, sir.” Rory said. \nFrederick slurred. “Yyyessssss?”\n“They have declared war!”\n\nFrederick puckered up instantaneously! His eyelids spread wide, his pupils shrunk to little black dots, and his eyes receded far into skull. He folded his dressing gown across his chest and crossed his legs. “The South has declared war, you say!? What must we do!?”\n“But you are the High Commander.”\n“Right.”\n“King Theobold rejected their demands and accepted their declaration of war. He has since issued a decree!”\n“Very well.” Frederick stumbled to the center of the room. “Everyone out, save for the Chief Officer.” Only Frederick and Rory remained.\n“High Commander, what is your plan!? Our nation’s security is at stake!”\n“I know, I know!” With his arms crossed high on his chest, Frederick crept across the room to his mantle. He laid his head into his rested elbow. He looked up to his portrait; three silhouettes now stained the canvas. “Chief Officer?”\nRory observed Frederick’s constitution with a hawk’s eye. “Yes, High Commander?”\n“Look up at the portrait and tell me what you see.”\n“Your Great-Grandfather, Grandfather, and your Father. Why?”\n“Do you see the whole of them?”\n“Yes. I do.”\n“Heavens. Gather the rest of our Staff. I will meet you all in The Hall Of Mirrors.”\n“Yes, sir!” Rory exited the bedchamber.\nFrederick to the emptied portrait: “How could you have abandoned me at such an inopportune time?” Frederick’s eyes were deep, dark portholes that revealed no soul. “Celia!?”\nCelia entered. “Yes, sir?”\nHe raised his glass. “More spirits, please.”\n\nTHREE.\n“The Soul Of A Man.”\nFrederick, hunched forward while clearing the gown from his feet, tottered into The Hall Of Mirrors. In the center was an expansive table with fifteen chairs measuring its circumference. The Army Staff silently observed the High Commander’s disposition. Frederick looked them all over and pointed out an unfamiliar figure: a kimono-clad, ashen-faced woman. “Who’s she!?”\n“Kitty.” She lifted her face, slightly peeking under her brow. “A medium.”\n“Why should we need a—” Frederick burped. “A medium!?”\nShe will be of assistance as we plot the fate of our empire.”\n“She couldn’t possibly serve as our wise counsel.”\n“We, the Staff of the Northern Imperial Army conceded that neither of us but one is able to offer wise counsel.”\n“But you are the best of the best. Are you not?”\n“Our very best was plucked from among us.” Rory said. “Now, we must seek wise counsel elsewhere?”\n“Where else?”\n“From beyond the grave.”\nFrederick waved his hand. “Under no circumstances shall we do such a thing!”\n“High Commander, you must understand, lives are at stake. Your reputation is at stake. And since you cannot lead us, then we must source our dearly departed friend.” Frederick turned his back, observing the staff through the mirrors. “Centy Milione.”\n“Centy. Milione. Cen-ty. Centy.” Frederick mumbled into the circle of fog on the glass.\n“You remember him, don’t you, High Commander?”\n“Right! Of course…why wouldn’t I? A great man!”\n“Then there should be no objections.” Rory turned to the medium. “Kitty, if you will, please bring to us our dearly departed, Centy Milione.”\n\nKitty placed two, Japanese Taiko drums on the table before her and clanged them rhythmically. She left them alone, and the rhythm continued in her absence. She leaped weightlessly from the floor. With the fabric flagging from her frail frame, she raced across the polished mahogany from end-to-end, mumbling a chant. She stopped. On her back she convulsed atop the table, arching her body before falling to the floor. From the floor a figure rose; the soul of Centy Milione! The Army Staff could not believe their eyes. “Centy!?”\n“Rory! It is I!” The two hugged. “Staff! What a pleasure to be in your presence once again!” Centy found that Frederick was huddled in a corner of glass. “Frederick, my dear friend! Join us!”\n“How could—how?” Frederick crawled to the table side.\n“It has been so long since I last saw your face. My final request was to see you, but you didn’t show.”\n“I know.”\n“How come?”\n“I couldn’t bear to see you in that moment.”\nCenty caressed Frederick’s head. “It’s okay.” Centy looked to the rest of the Staff. “So, why have you summoned me?”\nRory pounced. “Our great empire is at war!”\n“There should be no issues then! A Frederick is amongst you.”\n“We seek wise counsel.” Rory continued.\nCenty looked down. Frederick XIV avoided Centy’s gaze. Centy jousted Frederick. “Have you spoken to your father…?” Frederick was silent.\n“Well have you?” Rory barked.\n“Yes.”\n“And your Grandfather?” Centy continued.\n“Yes.”\n“Your Great-Grandfather, too?”\n“Yes.”\n“Great! What did they say?”\nFrederick broke free and ran to a mirror across the room. “This cannot be.” He whispered to himself.\nCenty followed. “What’s the matter!?”\nFrederick broke free once more and darted to another mirror. “This can-not be. How could it be!?” Centy met him there as well. Frederick didn’t resist. “Centy, tell them how good of a friend you were to me.” Frederick brushed Centy’s ghastly complexion. “You were a good friend. But I was not.” Rory stood up at the table.\n“What do you mean, my friend?” Centy asked.\nFrederick looked up at the ceiling, but seemingly beyond it. “For my entire life, I walked the path of my predecessors, but I could never keep pace. And now, they have sprinted far ahead of me. They came to me in the night and informed me that they must leave my side. That I had offended their honor, and ripped my name from the annals of our history.” \n“What could you have done that was so abhorrent?”\nFrederick wept until he regained control of himself. “When you called out for from the gallows, I was afraid to see you. You broke the chain that linked me to my Father, my Grandfather, and my Great-Grandfather. All I could see was their scorn and shame.” Frederick looked into Centy’s troubled eyes. “After the celebration, hosted in King Theobold’s honor, he had you arrested.”\n“Right.”\n“And you were tried.”\n“Yes.”\n“And subsequently convicted.”\n“This is all true.”\n“The punishment for the charges leveled against you — hanging in the gallows — was fair...but the evidence. It was fabricated.” The Staff gasped.\n“I knew it!” Rory screamed.\n“That evidence, in light of the celebration that you hosted…I knew it would be the perfect foil. That the pride of King Theobold would believe it. And he did. I told him that you had embezzled monies as well as colluded with another nation. And he accepted my word as bond.”\nThe Staffed sucked in all of the air in the room. Centy pushed away from Frederick with haste. “How could you!? How dare you? You knew how much that position meant to me, and how right I was for it. You had me killed to assuage your vainglorious greed!?” Centy was so heated that he could breathe fire. He beamed his scalding eyes at Frederick. “You fool! And because you are so, I wish for you to suffer a fool’s fate!”\nCenty spun away from them all and reduced himself to a bended form. Kitty reclaimed her seat.\nHiding his face in the arm of his dressing gown, Frederick watched as Rory crept slowly to him. Rory rested a knee. “I knew from the beginning that you had something to do with it. But no one trusted my word. You call yourself a friend? I should spit upon your trifling head. You do not deserve anyone’s pity.” Frederick shielded furthermore; his face pressured to burst with tears that refused to fall. “You send a courageous man, an honorable man, a competent man, to the gallows to satisfy your own selfish pride? And then attempt to replace him with your pathetic inadequacies!? Well I hope you enjoyed yourself, because your time amongst our ranks has expired.” Rory stood over Frederick. “You drunken coward. You’ll believe anything. There is no war! The Southern Empire never declared war upon us.” Frederick’s face read of shame. “Carry him to a cell. He’ll stand before King Theobold in the morning, and the hellhounds will drag him from the gallows come nightfall.”\nThe Staff lifted Frederick from the floor, and he didn’t resist. He could barely lift his head as they carried his limp body towards the exit. All that Frederick XIV could manage was a mumble: “I…I…I—” Frederick relaxed altogether as the air hissed from his drunken lips." } ]
[ { "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 Unfading Wit of Mrs Ling\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Okay, class! Pop quiz!\" bellowed Mrs Ling, sending Form 4H into a fit of pure joy. What followed was a solid hour of science-related questions that made everyone’s head spin. The students, in a stroke of autonomy, split themselves into four groups, each vying to answer the most questions correctly and earn the coveted title of victor.\nNow, the curious thing wasn't that the pop quiz itself was a barrel of laughs. No, it was Mrs Ling herself who had everyone in stitches. She was a woman in her mid-40s, sporting spectacles as thick as a brick wall and a knack for transforming her voice into a kaleidoscope of tones. Her vocal shenanigans never failed to coax uproarious laughter from all corners of the classroom.\nMrs Ling was, without a doubt, the apple of many an SMK Bandar student's eye. Besides her weekly pop quizzes, she was renowned for conjuring up an endless array of surprises. On occasion, she'd bar students from entering the canteen during recess, demanding answers to her cunning questions as the price of admission. Her inquiries ranged from simple bones-in-the-body calculations to pondering if poor Pluto should get the boot as a planet, and even to identifying the sole metallic liquid at room temperature.\nYou see, whenever her students caught sight of her, they'd groan like the old wooden floors of a haunted house. Yet, despite their grumbling, they held an unbreakable fondness for her. They simply didn't mind being denied food if they couldn't provide the correct answers. Mrs Ling had a knack for contorting her face into the funniest of expressions – squinting her eyes, twisting her lips, raising a solitary eyebrow, and mockingly shaking her head whenever they stumbled upon the wrong response. \"Off you go and find that correct answer, or go hungry!\" she'd exclaim, all in good fun but with an air of unyielding seriousness.\nOh, how they adored Mrs Ling. She was a true gem in their eyes, despite her mischievous antics.\n\n*\n\nOne dreary Monday morning, the poor souls of 4H were in for a right shocker. Enter Mrs Ling, her face etched with sourness, clutching their test papers like a grudge in her hands. And their shock levels skyrocketed when, instead of beaming with a customary smile, she slammed those test papers on the teacher's desk with a bang that could wake the dead.\n\"You lot have failed the test!\" she hollered, her fury shaking the very foundations of the classroom. A hush fell over the students, so silent you could hear a pin drop. \"Unbelievable laziness. All simple questions, none right. The essays? Pure pain!\"\nKhairul, bless his heart, felt compelled to apologise on behalf of his classmates. He rose from his seat and said, \"Mrs Ling, we're really sorry. We promise to do better next time.\"\nHer response wasn't any gentler. Oh no. She unleashed an even sterner barrage of words. \"You think I'm having a laugh?\" Mrs Ling snapped. \"You reckon your apologies can spruce up your marks?\"\nKhairul wilted like a damp daisy, his face ablaze with shame as he sat back down in silence. Guilty glances were exchanged among the students, their shoulders slumped, eyes fixated on their desks. Truth be told, they had all studied their arses off. They held a deep affection for Mrs Ling, and every one of them wanted to impress her. They made damn sure to revise every topic she'd mentioned would be on the test. So why, pray tell, did they end up failing?\nJust as the tension reached its peak, Mrs Ling turned on her heel, facing the whiteboard, her fingers pressed to her forehead as if in despair. Panic set in throughout the class. Was she crying? Khairul, being the brave soul he was, felt compelled to investigate. He rose once more, striding toward Mrs Ling, ready to comfort her if she was indeed in tears. He'd go so far as to make the entire class apologise for their careless test-taking.\n\"Mrs Ling,\" Khairul uttered softly.\nStill facing the whiteboard, Mrs Ling shook her head.\n\"Mrs Ling, we're really, really sorry—\"\nAll of a sudden, Mrs Ling spun around, a grin stretching wider than the horizon, her thick spectacles perched on her naturally nerdy face. \"Gotcha!\" she exclaimed, laughing like a right prankster. \"You lot just got punked! You've all scored A-pluses, and six of you managed a perfect 100%!\"\nA collective sigh of relief escaped the class as laughter erupted. \"You nearly gave me a heart attack, Mrs Ling,\" Sandra chimed in, teasingly but clearly grateful for the heart-stopping prank.\n\"Sorry, Sandra. But hey, a quick heartbeat is good cardio!\" Mrs Ling quipped, setting the entire class off into another fit of laughter. \"Alrighty then, class. Give yourselves a pat on the back for acing that test! Now, whip out your textbooks and flip to page 54,\" she declared, and the once downcast students of 4H eagerly obeyed, now brimming with enthusiasm for their science lesson.\nAnd that is yet another reason why those students adored Mrs Ling to bits. She was a bona fide comedian, a laugh-a-minute type of teacher.\n\n\n\nHowever, it wasn't all laughter and jest with Mrs Ling. There came a time when a heavy cloud of sadness descended upon the students, as news reached their ears of her husband's passing. He had fought a valiant battle against the unforgiving stage four cancer for months on end. \"Mrs Ling won't be joining us for a little while,\" Mr. Abdul Hadi, the esteemed principal, solemnly announced during the weekly Monday morning assembly. \"Let us send her our prayers and well wishes, as she navigates these challenging times alongside her two-year-old son and four-year-old daughter.\"\nThere's no denying it, Mrs Ling held a special place in the hearts of every SMK Bandar student. They were deeply moved by the news of her husband's departure, even though they had never met the man. Tears streamed down the faces of several girls, and the entire hall fell into a hush so profound, you could almost hear the silent prayers of their hearts.\nFor the entire week that followed, the entire school rallied together. They penned comforting messages and condolences, leaving them upon Mrs Ling's desk in the staffroom. Those were the days when smartphones hadn't yet graced our lives, and communication took place through landline telephones or good old-fashioned mail. The students hoped, with all their might, that their words would bring solace to Mrs Ling's grieving heart, though they knew it was but a small gesture in the face of such sorrow.\nAnd when the following Monday finally arrived, and Mrs Ling returned to the fold, her heart swelled with gratitude. The sight that greeted her eyes was one to behold! Her desk overflowed with messages of every hue, crafted upon different-coloured papers. Flowers, balloons, and other trinkets adorned the space, as tokens of love and support. \"Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for your kind words,\" she spoke into the microphone during the school assembly. And as tears welled in her eyes, a chain reaction ensued. Students and teachers alike found themselves unable to contain their own emotions, joining Mrs Ling in her sorrowful tears.\nThose were undeniably emotional moments. Mrs Ling, usually full of cheer and wit, now carried the weight of grief upon her shoulders. She soldiered on, carrying out her duties as a teacher, but there were no jokes, no pop quizzes, and no surprises at the canteen to lift the spirits of the students. The students missed the old Mrs Ling, but they understood that grief takes time, and it may be a while before she could once again embrace the radiant self they held so dear.\n\n\n\nA scant two months following Mr. Ling's devastating loss, and with Mrs Ling still visibly mourning, the students of Form 4H were about to be hit by another shocking wave.\nMrs Ling entered the classroom, and it was apparent she was not just sorrowful, but steeped in a deep, profound misery. Pain etched upon her face, and the entire class couldn't help but notice the ghastly blue-black bruise adorning her arm. Questions rained down upon her like confetti, but she waved them off, motioning for the students to take their seats.\n\"Alright, class. I won’t be able to teach you today. Clear your tables, tuck away those textbooks and stationery. Just stash 'em in your knapsacks,\" Mrs Ling announced.\nThe classroom fell eerily silent. The students couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of sympathy for their beloved Mrs Ling. Not only did she have to bear the weight of her husband's passing a couple of months prior, now she was grappling with the pain of these mysterious injuries.\nOnce all the students had obediently stowed away their belongings and cleared their tables, Mrs Ling fixed her gaze upon them, creating an air of anticipation. Khairul, always the spokesperson for the class, couldn't contain his curiosity. \"What's the matter, Mrs Ling? Wha—\"\nBefore he could finish his sentence, Mrs Ling's face contorted with pain. She clenched her teeth, her hand, the uninjured one, moving to hold the bruise on her arm. \"Ooopp izzzz,\" she managed to utter through gritted teeth.\nThe entire class grew increasingly concerned, some students even rising from their seats in an attempt to check on her, but Mrs Ling's vigorous head-shaking brought them to a halt.\nAfter a few tense moments, her grimace subsided, her face returning to its normal state. Yet, her hand continued to rub the bruise upon her arm. And then, something quite extraordinary occurred, leaving the entire class in a state of fear and awe.\nAs she continued to rub circles on the bruise, the black-blue hues of the bruise began to spread, as if the colours were smudging like cake icing. They crept across her arm, some even transferring onto her hand. A sight that would make everyone’s jaw drop, no doubt.\nAnd just like that, Mrs Ling lifted her gaze, her spectacled face transforming into a mischievous smirk. \"Gotcha!\" she exclaimed, with a hint of triumph in her voice. \"It's pop quiz time!\"\nThe class erupted into an uproar. They playfully scolded their dear Mrs Ling for pulling such a prank, one that had sparked a frisson of fear in them. The noise grew so cacophonous that Mr. Rambo, yes, that was indeed his real name, from the neighbouring class, scurried through the door to investigate the commotion. Yet, upon seeing his colleague sporting a smile, he returned the gesture and made his way back to his own classroom.\n\"Hush now, students. Shocked, right? Form groups. Pop quiz!\" Mrs Ling announced, and with beaming smiles adorning their faces, the entire class shuffled to their respective groups.\nIt's abundantly clear that the entire class of Form 4H was elated, not only because it was time for a pop quiz, but also because their beloved Mrs Ling had made her much-awaited comeback, igniting a sense of pure happiness among them!\n\n\n\nOver the next few weeks, Mrs Ling began to reclaim her former self. And as much as the students rejoiced, it also meant bidding farewell to those carefree days when they could stroll into the canteen during recess without a worry. Now, they had to buckle down and arm themselves with scientific knowledge galore, or risk being left hungry and barred from the canteen.\nThere were days when Mrs Ling threw them a curveball. She'd toss out-of-the-curriculum questions their way, like \"Do you reckon aliens exist?\" or \"Does every star in the universe have its own galaxy system?\" or \"What are 70-Virginis-b and 51-Pegasi-b?\" On those days, the poor souls who found themselves in the hot seat were mighty annoyed, for it meant missing out on their much-needed sustenance. But despite the hunger pangs, they cherished those moments, for they held the key to uncovering fresh knowledge. They'd find themselves diving into countless books at the library. Back then, the internet was a far-off fantasy, and Google was just an infant info-source.\nAs the months ticked by, a certain student from 4H named Noel had an epiphany. September had arrived and he knew what that meant. \"Guys! Do you realise what's going down on the 13th?\" Noel queried, causing a collective sense of confusion among his classmates.\n\"What?\" Junaidi chimed in, perplexed, while the rest of the class mirrored his bewilderment.\n\"You all forgot?\" Noel exclaimed, his hopes of sparking their memory waning. \"Someone's got a birthday on that day!\"\n\"Who?\" Shuhada chimed in. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened and her lips curled up into a radiant smile. The enlightenment hit her like a sudden downpour. \"Ohmigosh! Ohmigosh!\"\nThe entire class burst into jubilation as they all remembered the grand occasion looming ahead. It was none other than their beloved Mrs Ling's birthday! Plans were set in motion, discussions buzzing with ideas of cake, parties, and decorations. Most importantly, they vowed to deliver a taste of their mischievous medicine, to shower Mrs Ling with surprises and pranks aplenty. \"We're gonna give her a dose of her own tricks,\" Khairul declared, setting off a series of sly giggles around the canteen's meal space.\nThey divvied up responsibilities, assigning cake acquisition, gathering decorative items, and collecting the funds. So engrossed were they in their fervent chatter that the bell caught them off guard, ringing out its signal that recess time had come to an end.\nWith hearts aflutter and grins plastered upon their faces, they scurried back to their classroom, eagerly awaiting the day they would put their plans into motion. Oh, the excitement was palpable, as they relished the anticipation of surprises yet to come.\n\n\n\nWhen the long-awaited 13th of September finally arrived, and with just a few minutes to spare before Mrs Ling graced their classroom, the mischievous students of 4H busied themselves with executing their grand surprise plan. Steven scurried off to the canteen, with the crucial mission of retrieving the birthday cake. He had managed to convince the canteen owner to lend them some precious fridge space earlier. Meanwhile, the rest of the class transformed their haven into a festive paradise, adorning it with balloons and stickers, turning it into a party room of sheer delight.\nThey purposely sealed the door tight, ensuring that they would hear the telltale signs of Mrs Ling's arrival. And then, a few minutes later, it happened. Footsteps grew louder, and the doorknob began to turn, a clear indication that Mrs Ling was approaching.\n\"Ready!\" Khairul whispered with a hint of excitement.\nThen, in perfect synchronisation, as the door swung open, they unleashed a thunderous roar, shouting at the top of their lungs, \"SURPRIIIIIIIIISEEE!\"\nBut, to their astonishment and sheer panic, their plan took an unexpected turn. The person who stepped into the classroom was not Mrs Ling at all. No, it was their dear old principal, Mr. Abdul Hadi. And that wasn't the only cause for alarm. Right after their exuberant voices echoed off the four walls of the room, Mr. Abdul Hadi began to tremble uncontrollably, clutching his chest in distress.\n\"Sir!!!\" Sandra wailed, as Mr. Abdul Hadi lost his balance, desperately clinging to the whiteboard. And before they could react, the poor man dramatically collapsed to the floor, still trembling.\nIn a flurry of panic, the entire class rushed to Mr. Abdul Hadi's aid. But just like that, he closed his eyes, fainting away. It was clear as day that their beloved principal had suffered a heart attack. \"What do we do?\" Sarah cried out in a state of panic.\n\"Someone needs to perform CPR!\" Raudatul suggested urgently.\nBracing himself for the task at hand, Junaidi stepped forward. He approached the motionless Mr. Abdul Hadi, placing his arms on top of each other upon the principal's chest. And then, in a twist of fate, Mr. Abdul Hadi opened his eyes, sporting a cheeky smile, and in walked Mrs Ling through the door, hollering, \"Gotcha!\"\nWell, suffice it to say that not only did the students of 4H fail to give Mrs Ling a taste of her own medicine, but she also managed to multiply her prankster prowess by conspiring with none other than the school principal himself.\nOh, how the laughter erupted in waves! Needless to say, there was no science lesson to be had on that eventful day. They fully immersed themselves in celebration mode, indulging in merriment and feasting. \"Thank you all so much for this surprise party! I love each and every one of you,\" Mrs Ling expressed, her words warming the hearts of all in attendance. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she playfully added, \"I hope you don't mind me inviting our principal to join the festivities.\"\nOf course, the students didn't mind one bit. If anything, they were grateful to cater to both Mrs Ling and their principal. It only made their grand plan all the more memorable and marvellous.\n\n*\n\nIt's been 27 years since my old gang and I left SMK Bandar. Nowadays, we're all wrapped up in our own lives, juggling families and careers. Thankfully, technology keeps us connected through WhatsApp and Facebook. Every now and then, we gather 'round to reminisce about the good ol' days with our dear Mrs Ling. Sadly, she passed away five years back, after a long fight against breast cancer. I still recall the tears we shed when we got the news. But, in a strange way, it brought a smile to our faces when we heard that, even in her final moments, she managed to crack a joke. They say she'd often talk to the ceiling, as if her late husband was up there, saying, \"Patience, love. I'll soon join you.\" I hope Mrs Ling's soul rests in eternal peace. Her playful spirit has indeed helped us realise the importance of humour, even when times are tough. Her laughter and warm smiles will always live on in our memories." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: My neighbour, Percival\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2640\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is convinced they’re going to be betrayed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Under clouds heavy with rain, a herald carrying the Earl’s banner arrived in the centre of Avebury village. He dismounted his horse, and in the time it took him to retrieve the scroll of parchment from the saddlebag a throng - wrought with apprehension - began to form around him.\n\nThe thatched homesteads and hovels emptied, village folk whispering of war, who it might be with, and how many of the village’s men might be called upon to join the Earl’s levy.\n\nThe herald held out the parchment at an arm’s length and loudly began his announcement: “Aethelred the Younger, Earl of Marlborough and the townships therein, invites the good folk of Avebury to participate in a most neighbourly venture. His message to you reads as follows:”\n\nRolfe, arriving late, jostled his way to the front of the crowd who were now shuffling and murmuring amongst themselves.\n\n“I invite each homestead within the village boundary to grow a pumpkin; whomever can deliver to me the largest pumpkin shall find themselves in receipt of a generous six shillings, and will share an evening feast with me in the Great Hall. Yours sincerely, Earl Aethelred.”\n\nDuring the announcement, the villagers had formed an almost perfect circle around the herald and his horse. On the other side of the circle, Rolfe had spotted Percival, a man of a similar age with fair features and red hair. I suppose that crafty heretic feels that he can win the favour of our good lord. Not without the grace of God on his side, he won’t, Rolfe thought to himself.\n\nTwo summers past - after Rolfe had noticed a long absence in Percival’s attendance at church - he had spread news of Percival’s godlessness across the village. Others had told him of Percival’s terrible sickness, but Rolfe maintained that no affliction would have kept him from surrendering himself to the Lord, the son of god, and the holy trinity. Only weeks before Percival’s absence, Rolfe’s entire family of a wife and two daughters had attended church every day through their own sickness, all the way until their untimely ends.\n\nRolfe stared bitterly across the crowd at Percival, who he had no doubt would find some method or another to cheat and connive his way to victory. If this happened, he told himself, then he might even sway the young and impressionable Earl into heresy himself. With the devil’s words slipped into his mind, Rolfe imagined that the Earl may let this humble village come to ruin. Rolfe cringed; he wasn’t willing to let that happen.\n\nAt dawn, three days after the herald had first visited, Rolfe scrambled out of his small hovel after hearing the sound of wheels over the stone paving that marked the beginning of Avebury. Living at the wooded edge of the village, both Rolfe and Percival were always the first to hear the arrival of traders and used this to their advantage in getting the first pick of their wares.\n\n“Good sir, good sir,” shouted Rolfe, slamming the rickety wooden door behind him and vaulting the small stone wall. “Good sir will you stop a moment, I have much to buy from you.” The trader, with his mule and cart, stopped in front of Rolfe’s hovel.\n\n“Let me be as bold to guess what you’re here for,” said the trader. “Pumpkin seeds?”\n\n“You’re quite right, a wise man you are,” said Rolfe hurriedly. At that very moment, he heard the slamming of Percival’s door on the other side of the small road, and his grin immediately melted into a sourness.\n\n“Good morning, neighbour,” said Percival. Rolfe grunted and turned back to the trader.\n\n“I need a small bag of seeds, no more than ten,” said Rolfe, quietly as if to keep the secret from Percival.\n\n“Pumpkin seeds!” the trader bellowed, his voice carrying down the road. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Word of the contest has spread far; the lucky man will take quite the bounty, I hear.”\n\n“Indeed,” said Percival, arriving at the cart. “All in good spirit, though - Lord only knows the village could do with a few more silvers.”\n\n“Aye, aye. Now, lads: when I went to collect pumpkin seeds on my journey here, I came across something quite incredible. One of you is in luck,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.\n\nRolfe glanced bitterly at Percival. It will be me that is in luck, not him, thought Rolfe as he awaited to hear of his good fortune.\n\n“Seeds from the Far East. Now they don’t come cheap boys, and I don’t have many - but I’m told that the pumpkins they produce will grow as big as this mule, here,” he said, slapping it on its rear end.\n\n“How much?” blurted Rolfe, already reaching for his pockets.\n\n“Thruppence for the lot of them, friend.”\n\n“Thruppence! Covetous scoundrel! And I suspect you’d want me to hand my daughter over, too!” laughed Rolfe.\n\nPercival and the trader shared an uncomfortable glance.\n\n“And what is a thruppence next to the six shillings you stand to gain?”\n\nRolfe grunted and threw his hands in the air as if the trader had robbed him of these special, Eastern seeds.\n\n“And for the regular seeds?” asked Percival.\n\n“A penny.”\n\n“That’ll do me,” Percival said with a smile, handing over a coin in return for a small fabric bag. “May the best man win, neighbour.”\n\nRolfe recoiled at the wink he’d received from Percival. “I’ll take the special seeds,” he said to the trader, proudly. “But I’ll need to borrow some money from my uncle. Will you be in the centre of the village in a few hours?”\n\nAll evening, Rolfe didn’t take his eyes off of the seeds. He rolled them in his hands, inspecting them for some kind of hidden attribute, some quality that justified so great of an expense. He cradled the seeds like children, knowing completely that their destiny was tightly entwined with the fate of Avebury itself. But do they feel special? he asked himself. And what would he tell Uncle Garrett? A thruppence - almost of quarter of the homestead’s yearly income, spent on what? And didn’t God decree gluttony a sin? In the afternoon, he’d told his uncle bluntly that he’d pay him back as soon as he could. If he could hold off Uncle Garrett until then, he decided, he’d pay back his last surviving relative with interest. Family comes first, he assured himself.\n\nThat night, Rolfe dreamt of what would come of the village, should his plan fail to be brought to fruition. In his dream, he walked down from his hovel, traversing the hill down the cobbled path into the village opening where the herald once stood. Around the village centre, the thatched homes burned, and with each step he took, the sky grew blacker and blacker, choking on the smoke of Avebury. In the centre of the village a great chasm began to open, coughing out glowing molten rock. He turned to make his way back to his hovel, but there stood his late wife and children, disfigured, rotting, and calling out his name.\n\nRolfe woke up the next morning, like every morning, to the sound of the village animals. The crowing, bleating, chirping symphony of Avebury made him quickly forget details of the dream, though the motivation it had provided him remained. I’ll plant the seeds right away was the very first thought in his mind that morning. Every second and minute counts when there is so much on the line; my own fortunes and the fate of the village both. But when he emptied the small bag into his hand for another inspection, Rolfe realised that something was awry almost instantly: the colour of the seeds had changed. He reminded himself that a lesser mind might have missed it, nothing more than a slight discrepancy in hue. That was all. It wasn’t obvious, but Rolfe felt that he’d always had a keen eye for this type of thing, and faith that his devotion to God would always lead him to the ultimate truths, big or small.\n\nHeld up in the cold light of morning, these seeds were visibly several shades lighter than the ones he’d purchased the day prior. “That bastard!” he said, slamming his hand down onto the small table. “That filthy, godless bastard!” he shouted once more.\n\nRolfe had come to the realisation that Percival had crept into his home during the night - much like a small rodent, he felt - and swapped the exotic seeds with his own. Rolfe had thought it strange how quickly Percival had agreed to buy the cheaper seeds, and now the picture was becoming clear. Rolfe would front the cost, whilst Percival would take the prize. A trick as old as time itself!\n\nRolfe lingered outside Percival’s door, picturing the inevitable outcry as he broke it down to reclaim what was his - the shrieks of Percival’s family, the village roused and descending upon him, his execution, burned at the stake, crying, screaming, skin boiling to a crisp! Was it all worth it, he wondered? Was it at all possible that the seeds had simply appeared different in the warm light of the candle to the cold light of morning? Rolfe shuddered. The devil’s whispers! he exclaimed to himself. A fork away from the path of righteousness, the path of Avebury’s salvation. Too much resolve have I, too much fortitude to succumb to temptation. It’s like I used to tell that dear daughter of mine: the path of righteousness is never the easy path.\n\nBut then he saw it - a trowel beside freshly dug dirt, the empty seed bag atop. Percival had already planted them! Rolfe frantically dug through the damp soil, retrieving as many seeds as he could. But Percival would soon discover this - the buffoon would denounce it as treachery to the Earl, bringing the sum of all Rolfe’s efforts to nil. Rolfe rushed back into his home, careful to avoid knocking something over and waking Percival, before quickly returning to his neighbours home and re-planting the seeds that Percival had deceived him with.\n\nIt was only a week later, walking down to the market to pick vegetables for a stew, that Rolfe noticed small saplings in Percival’s lot. He glanced from Percival’s patch - in it, the man crouched over the green sapling with his daughter by his side, pinching a leaf and laughing with her - laughing at Rolfe, no doubt. The warm fragrance of Percival’s wife’s soup seeped out and covered the street. And then the other side: mounds of featureless dirt beside an empty, cold home. A thought rushed to the front of his mind: why hasn’t my Margaret started on dinner yet?\n\nRolfe could hear Percival talking to his daughter: “I’ve never seen pumpkins sprout so quickly!”\n\nRolfe was frozen in the middle of the road, staring dumbfounded. His fists formed into tight knots of hatred, ever-reddening and shaking.\n\n“Good morning to ya,” said Percival with a wave. “Go on lass, say hello to neighbour Rolfe.” The girl waved shyly. Percival smiled and looped an arm around the waist of the girl.\n\n“Morning Percival, morning lass,” said Rolfe. “I’ll tell my little’un you said hello.”\n\nAt Sunday Mass, the priest told Rolfe under flickering candlelight that word came - Percival had again fallen sick. What is wrong with that man? Rolfe wondered. As the villagers filtered out, he took his place on an empty pew and clasped his hands together. The setting sun cast colours from the church’s stained glass windows across his face, and Rolfe felt pleased that he had prayed for Percival to find his way again, to see that sickness was no reason to turn his back on God but instead should be a reason to find God. For a brief moment, Rolfe wanted Percival to be shown the path to righteousness, to know what it felt like to bask in God’s loving glow. I want Percival to have everything that I have, he prayed, to be surrounded by love, as I am. Only then will he understand God’s plan.\n\nBut on the way home, Rolfe saw Percival, not at his home but in the woods. He was collecting firewood and skulking around like a rodent, much like on the night that he switched the seeds. Rolfe could see that the man didn’t have a sick bone in his body. And that’s when the truth came to him, charging like a boar; at first a mere spec in the distance but quickly filling his vision until all that could be seen was a grunting, drooling, biting creature. He’s not sick of body, but sick of mind! It all makes sense now! The devil has filled a void within him, and it is not his fault; for he knows not. And at that moment, Rolfe could feel God speak to him, not with words, but with a driving purpose. The path was clear. Rolfe could free Percival from his prison. We must guide the blind, for they cannot see.\n\nRolfe crept under the moonlight, snatched the wood-cutting axe from Percival, and struck him down. He drove the blade of the axe clean through his collarbone, missing his head entirely. Percival wailed until the second splintering blow landed.\n\nRolfe waited to move the body until midnight. Rocking back and forth, the voice of God had grown louder and drowned out Percival’s family calling out for him in the darkness. When the body was buried back in the village, Rolfe knew that Avebury had finally been saved.\n\nFour months later, sitting at the table of the Great Hall, Earl Aethelred asked Rolfe a question: “So, tell me, how did you get that pumpkin to grow quite so enormous? It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”\n\nRolfe used a dirty sleeve to wipe tomato juice from his beard, and Aethelred did little to hide his disgust. “The grace of god, M’Lord, I can only be thankful to the grace of God.”\n\n“Inspiring,” sighed the Earl, “I am always so very humbled by simple folk like yourself. Such humility in the peasantry, something that Father Edgar has tried to instil in me always. Seeing you here, now, reminds me how much I have to be grateful for. And now, something else that brought me gratitude - servants!” he shouted, turning to face his house staff, adjusting himself to sit upright in his chair. Moments later, four servants carried out a large platter - so large that they carried it between them like pallbearers - and placed it on the centre of the dining table. On the platter, a pumpkin the size of a mule.\n\nThe young Earl inspected it closely. “How wonderful!” he said, fidgeting on his chair with excitement. “Servant, boy! Here!” he barked. A boy, similar in age to the Earl, nervously approached the table. “Boy, is this really a pumpkin?”\n\nThe boy looked back at the other house staff, hands clasped behind his back. They nodded.\n\n“Yes, M-M’lord.”\n\n“Then why is it so red? Pumpkins are supposed to be orange!” said the Earl, outraged. He took in hand a carving knife, but couldn’t break the tough skin of the pumpkin. “One of you, get me something proper! Something to smash this thing open with!”\n\nA few moments later a member of the house staff returned with a small axe. The Earl took it in his hands and slammed the axe upon the pumpkin. Its skin barely shifted, but on the second blow it split open, and its red, seedy innards emptied across the table and the young Earl cried out in delight.\n\nRolfe trembled, hands gripping the table, and God’s voice had become so loud that he could hear nothing else." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: An unlikely messiah\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1833\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with somebody getting called to the principal’s office." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As the teacher was delivering an intriguing lecture on optics, a ward boy interrupted the class by seeking permission to enter and handed her a slip of paper. Reading the memo, she addressed Mark Graham Carlson, informing him that the principal wanted to meet him in his office. Although the teacher's tone was jocular, Mark appeared apprehensive as he got up and walked down the aisle, avoiding eye contact with anyone. His mind raced with possibilities as to why he was summoned, ranging from the graffiti in the bathroom to his math grades.\nMark was a stout student with a broad forehead and a chubby face, standing at around 5 and a half feet tall. Due to his height, he was seated at the back of the classroom, where he appeared disinterested and lazy. His grades were average in all subjects except computer science and English, in which he excelled. Despite being mediocre in most subjects, he would surprise his classmates with his exceptional skills in coding and language. Nevertheless, Mark had few friends due to his unpredictability and tendency to be grumpy, occasionally making insolent remarks that could offend anyone. His classmates kept their distance from him, never knowing when he would lash out at them.\nAs Mark walked towards the principal's office, he cursed himself for writing a derisive comment about his physics teacher on the bathroom wall. Teacher Anderson, or Mr. A, had called him out for not being able to solve a differential equation and jokingly suggested that he sit under a tree and wait for an apple to fall on his head to fix his brain. Furious, Mark sprayed his graffiti on the bathroom wall, but was caught by a cleaning staff member who he bribed with a cigarette and $20 to keep it a secret. Unfortunately, the staff member reported him to the school warden, who fined Mark for possessing a cigarette and attempting to bribe an employee. Mark begged the warden to keep the matter under wraps and apologized for his actions, but was warned that he could face expulsion if he repeated them.\nUpon entering the principal's office, Mark was stopped by the secretary, Mrs. Emily, who asked him why he was not in class. Mark handed her the memo and replied bluntly, catching her off guard. Mrs. Emily responded unpleasantly, telling Mark to have a seat as the principal was busy and she would call him in later. Mark sat down on a sofa in the corner, feeling nervous as this was his first time being called to the principal's office. He began to fear that the school had decided to expel him, his heart palpitating as he tried to brace himself for the worst. He couldn't help but keep his eyes fixed on the secretary, his heart skipping a beat every time the phone on her desk rang.\nThe phone rang once more, causing Mark to gasp and freeze as he heard his name being called. \"Mr. Carlson, the principal will see you now,\" came the voice on the other end of the line. Mark made his way to the door with heavy steps, struggling to keep his nerves in check. \"May I come in, sir?\" he asked in a shaky voice. The person inside responded in a clear, authoritative tone, instructing Mark to take a seat as the meeting would take some time. The current principal, Mr. James, had only taken the position a few months prior, having previously served as a vice principal in a private school in town. Known for his ability to fix disciplinary and academic issues within schools, Mr. James exuded confidence with his commanding presence. Despite his formal attire and somber appearance, there was a slight warmth and approachability to his demeanor that put both students and staff at ease.\n\"so Mr Mark, your teachers and classmates have complained that you do not behave properly in class, so are rude mean and agry to them often\", \"Apart from your below average performance, you also defaced school property, found possessing cigarrettes and attempting to bribe security and cleaning staff\". Mr James annoyingly read out from the bunch of papers he had in is hand.\nAs Mr. James spoke, Mark's heart sank further. He knew he had been in trouble before, but this time it seemed to be more serious. He couldn't even bring himself to look up at the principal. The accusations against him were true, and he felt ashamed. He had never meant to hurt anyone, but he knew that was no excuse.\n\"I... I'm sorry, sir,\" Mark stammered, his voice barely audible. \"I know I haven't been doing well in class, and I have been having some personal problems lately. But I had no right to deface school property or insult anyone, and I understand how serious that is.\"\nMr. James nodded, his expression stern. \"Yes, it is very serious, Mr. Mark. Your behavior has not only been disruptive to the school, but it has also hurt others. It is unacceptable.\"\nMark nodded in agreement, feeling even more ashamed. He knew he had let down the school and the people around him.\n\"Now, I want to hear from you,\" Mr. James continued, his voice softer now. \"What is going on with you, Mr. Mark? Why have you been acting out like this?\"\nMark took a deep breath, feeling tears well up in his eyes. He didn't know where to begin. He had been struggling with his parents' divorce, his grades were slipping, and he didn't have any close friends at school. But he didn't want to make excuses.\n\"I don't know, sir,\" Mark replied, his voice shaking. \"I guess I've just been having a tough time lately. My parents are getting divorced and there is an atmosphere of negativity, chaos and disorientation in my house.. I hardly sleep at night and my stress had given me the habit of overeating... But I know that doesn't excuse what I've done.\"\nThe principal looked at Mark for a moment before speaking, \"I am sorry to hear about your parents, Mark. Divorce is a tough thing to go through, especially for a young person like you. But I am glad you took the responsibility for your actions. And we need to work together to figure out how to address these issues. Are you willing to do that?\"\nMark nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope. Maybe he could turn things around. Maybe he could make things right. \"I understand, sir. And I am willing to make things right. I will apologize to my teachers and classmates, and I will clean up the defaced walls. I will do whatever it takes to show that I am truly sorry for my behavior.\"\nThe principal looked at Mark for a moment before speaking, \"I appreciate your willingness to change, Mark. But I am afraid that it's not enough. Your behavior has consequences, and you need to face them. I am going to suspend you for two weeks, When you return to school, you will need to make up for the work you have missed and show that you are committed to improving your behavior.\"\nMark nodded, feeling a sense of determination. He knew that he had a lot of work to do, but he was ready to face it. He stood up and walked out of the office, feeling a mix of relief and nervousness. He knew that he had a long road ahead of him, but he was ready to take the first step.\nAs Mark stepped out of the lobby, Mrs. Emily called out his name and handed him some papers. \"Here you go,\" she said, attempting to sound sympathetic. Mark took the papers from her, aware of their contents. One was a suspension order, a blemish on his academic record, and the other was an appointment letter to see the school counselor, Miss Chloe. \"You're required to visit Miss Chloe's office after lunch today,\" Mrs. Emily informed him with a subtle smile. Mark nodded in agreement. He couldn't help but think about what his classmates would say if they found out about his situation. \"They'll think I'm mentally ill,\" he muttered to himself as he headed towards his classroom.\nFortunately, everyone was outside for the games hour, so Mark quietly collected his books and left the school building. He made his way to the health and medicine complex and easily located Miss Chloe's office, which had recently been painted with blue and green patterns and had a pleasant fragrance of mint and vanilla from the air freshener. The ambiance was relaxing and comfortable.\nMark nervously knocked on the door and was greeted by a charming young lady with a smile. \"Good afternoon, how can I assist you?\" she asked. Mark handed her the papers, and as she read the suspension order, he realized his mistake. However, it was too late, and she already knew about his suspension. \"I'm sorry about your situation, Mr. Mark,\" she said, flipping through the referral letter from the principal's office. \n\"Please take a seat,\" she gestured towards the chair and offered Mark a glass of water. \"Take a deep breath and tell me about yourself. Don't hold anything back,\" she encouraged him as they settled in for the session. Mark opened up to her, sharing everything from his love for computers to the divorce of his parents. By the end, he felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.\n\"Mr. Mark, there's no need to worry. The good thing is that you've come at the right time. You don't need any medication, but I will give you some exercises to improve your concentration, reduce anxiety and procrastination, and increase your interest. Here's a journal sheet that you need to fill out every day before going to bed. If you forget, do it as soon as possible the next day. This will help us gauge your emotions and mood, so we can correct any problems sooner,\" she explained with a gentle smile.\nMark took the advice seriously and diligently practiced the mental exercises that were given to him. In no time, he got a grip on his emotions and mood swings. He no longer acted grumpily and became an active participant in his classes. His grades in other subjects also started to improve gradually.\nAs time passed, Mark graduated from school with flying colors. He went on to become a successful entrepreneur and earned several rewards and recognitions for his contributions to the field. But amidst all of this success, Mark never forgot about the life-changing summons to the principal's office.\nIt was the friendly and pragmatic approach of the principal that helped Mark win over his shortcomings and excel in life. The support and guidance he received helped him to transform himself into a better version of himself. Mark's success story is a testament to the power of a friendly and pragmatic approach in bringing about positive changes in people's lives." } ]
[ { "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 Promised\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2785\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is stuck between two opposing sides and can’t decide which one to choose." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: This story contains themes of abuse and mental health.\n\nYou promised…\n\nA voice calls from the half-open door. \n“A quick word, Barbara?”\nJudging by the tone of the voices, something’s afoot. \n“Of course.” \nMy favourite teacher Mrs Swanson confers with Miss Berry, the school secretary. As they exchange confidences, my unease increases. \n\nNeither have glanced my way, but something’s definitely rotten in the state of Denmark. I can’t think of anything I’ve done amiss – unless you count my turning up late to school a few times because of “difficulties at home” – a euphemism if there ever was one. You might have thought Mrs Hick, my form tutor, would have been more sympathetic, but apparently not. When she gave me a detention and ordered me to put up all the stools in the lab, it hurt. Even now, the memory stings – it seemed so unfair on top of everything else. When I refused, I was sent to see the Head of something or other to explain. But maybe the lowered voices have nothing to do with me. Whatever it is, I wait for it to to be confirmed.\n\nHere I am standing out for all the wrong reasons. All I want is to blur into the background.\n\n\nThe woman sitting in the posh car with the coiffed hair and stylish suit is Mrs Barrett. She’s waiting for me in the school parking area. Which right now, is eerily silent.\nShe leans over, opens the door. “Step inside, Pam.”\nI do, heart hammering.\n“Things have come to a head, I’m afraid. As we expected they might.” She taps my arm consolingly.\n“Right.” \n “Don’t worry. We’ve found a place. Your mum will be waiting for you there.”\n\nThe time on the dashboard is 2.15. Lessons are in progress till 3. A quick check before we sweep out of the main school gates. The car speeds past shops I often visit during lunch breaks; I’m hit with an acute nostalgia. There’s the gasometer, hardly the most scenic feature of the urban landscape – tugging at me – will I ever get to see it again? I’m constantly on the lookout, expecting him to appear round every corner. This is going to sound crazy, given the circumstances, but I even find myself feeling sorry for him. Yet, he’s the last person I should be thinking about now. It’s just the part that cares about him. I know he will feel betrayed. You see, this isn’t the first time. Memories swarm, overwhelming me. I mustn’t think like that.\nIf I do, I’ll never get through this.\n\n\nHe was all over Mrs Barrett when she visited my parent’s house after mum called social services. She never admitted she’d called them, but who else could it have been? Once Mrs B had her foot in the door, he put on quite a show offering her cups of tea and the best chicken soup ever. She played along, often saying “Quite,” or “Just so,” but she wasn’t taken in. When she told him she was a few years off retirement, he said he’d never have guessed. Mrs B is a smooth operator. This is all in a day’s work for her, whereas it’s my life. \n\nContinuing the car ride, the familiar landmarks start to fade. Everything feels different, making me want the journey to last forever. That way, I won’t have to face whatever lies ahead. Before long, we are heading into another town. After passing a row of high street shops and other buildings, we come to a road with a church at one end where she turns right. My stomach churns.\n“Soon be there,” she says. “We were lucky to get a place at such short notice.” Another pat on my arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe.”\n\n\nFinally, we draw up at a suburban house. Apart from the hedge at the front, it looks much the same as the neighbouring houses – unless you happen to know it’s the women’s refuge. I will later learn that the first Women’s Aid refuge in Britain opened its doors at Chiswick in 1971 to protect women from domestic violence and help them with the financial problems they faced if they left abusive partners. \n\nMy stomach carries on unpredictably. I’m constantly thinking he’ll jump out of some hedge, but the coast is clear.\n“Come on,” she says as we leave the car and head for the front door with no window. \n\nThis is the days before mobile phones. Mrs Barrett announces her presence by rapping on the knocker five times. \nThere’s a flurry of activity within. It seems to take forever, but eventually a gap forms in a door held back by two sturdy chains. \n“Yeah?” A woman in a long baggy top stares blankly at us through the gap. \n“Oh dear.” Mrs B raises her eyes, explains who we are.\n A few minutes later, we find ourselves standing in a corridor with a carpet that has seen better days.\n“It’s going to be a struggle to find a room for you,” the woman says, and my heart sinks.\n“Well, never mind that now.” Mrs B flings open the door to the front room. “Go and sit in there, Pam. I’ll sort things out with Janice. She runs things here now.”\n“Janice is in the office with the new lady. She’s in a bit of a state,” the woman explains. \nThis is horrible. I think of mum. However bad things get, sometimes it’s easier not to change things. Maybe she shouldn’t have bothered.\nI know I don’t mean that.\n\nThe last time he hurt mum, I got between them. The bruises weren’t visible beneath my clothes, but I was sore for days. He later told me hadn’t meant to hurt me – “usually, you’re such a good girl, but you shouldn’t have got in the way.” Then he made me promise not to tell anyone about what had happened. \n“It’s a private matter. I can’t let you out until you promise. You must promise not to repeat any of this to anyone.”\nI promised.\n\nA few days after this, mum grabs me as soon as I get in from school.\n“I don’t think I can go on much longer.” She’s whispering and crying at the same time.\n“Where is he?”\n“Popped out to the shops. He could be back any minute. I can’t stay here.”\n“Are you sure, mum?” It’s not the first time she’s spoken like this, but my mind leapfrogs at the idea of a better life. A life free from arguing and pain.\n\nIf the walls could talk, I wonder what they would make of this latest “betrayal.” Talking behind his back, we are like fish gasping for air. I expect him to appear and put a stop to it. “How long has he been gone, mum?”\n“He left twenty minutes ago.”\nToo risky to leave now (he might catch us on the way out) and there’s no time to pack anything. Mum gave me some cash the last time we escaped. Knowing he wouldn’t rummage there, I hid it in my tampon packet. “Have you any money?” I ask. \n“I’ve put a bit aside – just in case. I’ve been in touch with Mrs Barrett. I asked her not to call round. Don’t want him getting suspicious.”\n“What did she say?”\n“She said if things get desperate to call her and she’ll sort something out.”\nMy heart beats thick and fast. “Mum?”\n“Yes.”\n“Are you serious about this?”\n“Yes. I really think so.”\n“It will be too much to go through it all again if you’re not.”\n“I am.”\n“You promise?”\n“Yes.”\n\nIn the refuge, they keep the front room curtains permanently closed giving it an “us and them” feel. Other than a lumpy settee, some mismatched armchairs, and a scratched coffee table, the only thing of interest is a flickering tv with the volume turned down. People are usually too distracted to watch it properly. I later come across a record player tucked away in some corner and make good use of it.\nMum comes in pale and trembling. I want to hug her but can’t. However awful things have been at home, it was still home. Here, until we get settled, it’s just displacement.\n“I got here alright,” I say.\nMum is shaking, even though it’s not cold. “Mrs-B-said-she’d-collect-you.” She sounds like she’s been dragged from underwater which is how she’s lived her life for years. I feel if I touch her, she’ll disintegrate. But she’s been crumbling away for so long, how could I tell? I can’t remember when she last smiled with her eyes. \n“I hope I’ve done the right thing.” She keeps repeating this.\nSometimes her inertia makes me angry. This is no time for doubts.\n“Of course you’ve done the right thing.”\n“He’ll have been in such a state when he got back from shopping and saw I was gone.” Her body is fragile, wrenched by sobs. It’s hard to believe that body once gave life to me. How could he ever hurt her?\n“Why are you so worried about the state he’s in?”\n“I feel like I’ve betrayed him.”\nMe too, but I’m not going to admit that.\n\nA friendly woman with long copper hair and colourful bangles breezes in and places a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table.”\n“Hi, I’m Lily,” she says. “There, there Jenny.” She puts her arms round mum. “Cry it out, love. You’ll feel much better for it.” Then, she turns to me. “I know it’s not much fun in here with the curtains closed, but we had a bit of trouble the other night. We don’t want anyone peering in.”\nSo, the men do know about this place. I’d forgotten about that. Of course, they do. Gaslighters are experts at getting what they want out of women.\nI suddenly feel terribly thirsty.”\n“We ask the women not to say anything, but…” Lily smiles at mum. “How’s the tea?”\n“The tea is fine, but I can’t manage anything else. This is my daughter, Pam.”\n“Hi, Pam. Sorry, I should have got you a drink. If you go into the kitchen, you’re bound to find something. It’s at the end of the corridor. Last door on the left. There’s lemonade and coke in the fridge if you don’t fancy tea.”\nIts alright. I know the way.\n\nIt turns out there are no rooms available, so the first night I sleep next to mum on makeshift cushions on the front room floor while she has the settee. I can’t sleep but it feels nice to be close. For once, there are no intrusions, no shouting, no disturbances. Just mother/daughter time together. Feels like heaven. \n\nIt feels even more like heaven when a room becomes available. At the last minute, one of the women says she’s going to give her “old man another chance” so we are given the one she’s been sleeping in with her two young children. We’re considered lucky. It has a nice view of the garden. There are trees, swings and a slide provided for children. People are queuing up for a place here.\n\nGradually, I get to know the others in the house, form tenuous friendships. The women come from all walks of life. Some are friendly, others distant, all of them are in pain. One I want to permanently wrap my arms around when she tells me she was repeatedly raped by the man who is the father of her son. I worry there are no good men out there but then remember the male history teacher at school who has always been kind and professional —he helped with my studies when things got tough, told me to keep believing in myself. Some of the women say they hate men; one says everything was fine till she and her partner “tied the knot.” Then it all went downhill because he acted like he owned her. Some have relationships with other women that might or might not turn sour. A few say they have given up on relationships for good. All the talk, however justified, upsets me, because how can couples, whatever their sex, ever make it work? How does it go so wrong and how can the violence be stopped? \n\nMrs B and the refuge workers are trying their best to help mum. They arrange financial aid, deal with the legal side of things, get a court date sorted and a restraining order to keep him away from me and mum. \n\nThe hardest part is sitting round the long table at the family court. Seeing him there. He keeps looking at me. Then, having to say things when my knees are shaking. How can you measure love and hate and all the bits in between? He has his solicitor present, as does mum. \nWhat do you want to do? The judge asks me. \nI opt for a quiet life. I want to be with mum. \nHow do you feel about your dad?\nWhat kind of question is that? I try my best to answer truthfully. The words come out, rushed and inadequate. \nI do care about him. Of course I do. I just can’t stand the way he treats mum.\n\nWhen me and mum return home to start a life without him, Mum finds out he’s staying in a private hostel. He asks to see me, but I don’t want to.\nIt takes a while, but gradually mum’s confidence returns. She manages her money well and buys a few bits for the home. She gets rid of all the clutter he insisted on hanging onto. For me, it’s like Spring arriving after a dark winter. She starts talking of going back to work, something he put a stop to. She encourages me to decorate my room. I get my hair cut and start inviting my friends round without feeling anxious.\nA burden has been lifted.\n\nOne day I’m gazing out of the living room window at the daffodils in the garden. Mum touches my shoulder but avoids eye contact.\n“I’ve something to tell you.”\n“What?” The chill I feel has nothing to do with the cold.\n“I’ve asked him to come back.” \n“What! Why would you do that?”\n“He says he’ll change. Try and do better.”\n“I don’t understand.”\n“He means it this time.”\n“But he promised to change last time, and it didn’t happen. Also…”\n“What?”\n“You’ve been doing so well. You’ve transformed the place. It’s lovely here now.”\n“He says he misses us.”\n“What made you agree to meet him?”\n“You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young.”\n“But it’s terrible when he’s around. He tries to control everything you do, and he hurts you if you disobey him. You can’t have forgotten. He wouldn’t even let you go out to the shops without his permission. You’ve made such progress.”\n“He’s promised to get help.”\n“He said that before. It lasted less than a week and he was back to his old self. Also….” Inside I’m shattering into a thousand pieces — “you’re doing so well. It’ll be like going backwards.”\n“I’m sorry, Pam. I don’t expect you to understand. He is my husband. Maybe you’ll see it one day.”\n“Mum! After all we’ve been through!” The past six months have been the happiest of my life. It’s been so peaceful. No more arguments.\n“I’ve said he can come back next week, Pam.”\nMy tears are blurring the view from the window, stinging my eyes. \nYou promised.\nThe air outside is chilly. I run into the small garden, snagging myself on a rose bush with closed buds. The daffodils, however, remain defiantly open and the velvet jackets on the magnolia tree are bursting with white flowers. Yet my life seems to have shrunk to a pinprick. Why did I bother painting my bedroom walls a vibrant blue? Will he force me to change the colour? It’s hard to see a way out of this but find it I must. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon. If I’m to stand any chance at all. \n\nBut back to mum. It’s true I don’t understand. Maybe one day I will, but right now I’m working on words to express what I feel. What is it?\nA sense of betrayal?\nThat she chose him.\n\n\nTo anyone suffering from an abusive relationship, our minds and bodies deserve to be loved and respected. It is possible to break the cycle — providing you can get help. Sadly, for social, economic, and other reasons, not everyone is able to do that." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Making Music\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1937\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": "The lights dim in the auditorium and I wait as the next school’s Concert Band settles onstage and follows the First Chair’s directions. The young man calls upon each section to play, tuning them confidently, performing his duty as Concertmaster with precision and grace, before sitting back in his chair. This well-trained ensemble rises as the band’s director enters the stage and bows to the audience, receiving a polite round of applause.\nThe ABODA Festival is the highlight of my year, a time when all the high school bands present their polished pieces for adjudication. Where possible, I attend every session, marveling at what the children can achieve, what levels of accomplishment their directors manage to coax out of their students each year. But this year may be my last. I’m not as young as I once was and the siren’s call to retirement is becoming stronger.\nIf I were to be honest, there is always that level of dissatisfaction and envy in my heart as I watch these school bands, because I have never been able to develop a band to this level. My small elementary school band has always played beginner music, and the children are happy when we manage to play from the start all the way to the end of a piece, with all the instruments finishing together. Such an event is usually a cause for celebration. Of course, my students are only aged eight through to eleven, and we are lucky to play in time, with some degree of pitch accuracy. The intricacies of full tone, dynamic control, and balance of parts are definitely beyond their limited capabilities.\nWouldn’t it be grand to be the musical director for one of these massive high school bands? I think as the band on stage opens with their first piece. It’s a striking forte, with a heraldic fanfare of trumpets supported by a resounding timpani, that sets my heart pounding and soul soaring. These performers are children, I remind myself as my heart leaps in my throat.\nThe flutes and oboes soar and bring the first section to a cataclysmic climax, before floating gracefully into the B section, well supported by clarinets- such difficult instruments to wrangle a pleasant tone from in their beginner form, but the band on stage makes it appear effortless. I sit spellbound, my eyes closed, immersed in the beauty for five or so minutes as the music transports me.\nAs the final crescendo swells and the last notes cry out through the auditorium, there is that moment of breathless silence. It is that silence that any conductor is waiting for, hoping for, that spellbound moment when the last sound has finished, but the music will not release its grip on the hearts of those who listen. That single moment of space where hearts and heads are overwhelmed and need to reboot in order to remember how to send a signal to the hands, reminding them to clap.\nI clap.\nMy eyes are old and I squint at the stage, looking among the sea of faces for any that I might know. I have taught a lot of children, and sometimes there is a face of an ex-student on stage. Unfortunately, I can’t make out any features with clarity anymore.\nOnce all the bands in this group have played, there is an interval, and I head toward the foyer where a group of parents have set up a tea, coffee and cake stall.\n“Miss Jones!”\nI myopically squint through the sea of people. A boy, no, a young man, hails me and wrangles his way through the crowded space. As he nears, I recognise the concert uniform of the band that had just performed on stage, and he is carrying a clarinet case.\n“Miss Jones, I thought that was you,” he says, his voice a lovely rich tenor that I can’t seem to place. I search his face for clues. I have taught so many children over the years that they blend into one another, and I am unable to recall his name. It’s especially hard with boys. They change much between the ages of eleven and seventeen, much more than girls seem to. After a boy hits puberty, their whole faces seem to undergo a huge transformation, and their voices are totally unrecognisable.\n“Hello…” I stumble about through my brain, trying to place him.\n“Hey, Mum!” The boy waves towards a woman who weaves her way through the crowded foyer. She is familiar, and I recall her face—Mothers don’t seem to change much in six years—but I struggle to bring her name to mind. “Look who’s here!” The young man says with a radiant smile.\n“Miss Jones, so good to see you!” The mother smiles at me.\n“How are you both? How is school?” I ask politely, brain still madly churning, trying to place her face in my memory.\n“Bradley is doing so well,” the mother says. Bradley, clue number one! Yes, this is Bradley… Bradley Macintosh. The name comes to me in a flash. Mum is Barbara. Funny how just one clue pops all the pieces together in your brain. “I’m so happy to see you here today. Do you have a band of your own performing today?” Barbara asks.\n“No, I just come to see all my ex-students perform. It really is lovely to see you still playing.”\nAnd it is lovely. Bradley was one of those students that was really difficult to forget. School work was hard for him. He struggled through all his subjects and Barbara was constantly up at the school, working with the teachers to help him catch up. I remember when he asked to join the recorder ensemble. It had been an initiative by a small group of students who wanted more challenging pieces to play, and so a regular lunchtime rehearsal began. My heart sank a little when Bradley showed up with one of the boys and asked to play. It was not because I didn’t want him to join, but knowing how he struggled, and how challenging the pieces we were working on, I didn’t want to put him off music. I didn’t want him to fail. So I wrote out simplified parts just for him and taught him to play the bass recorder. He could play one note in each bar, providing the very important foundation for our playing. He went on to take up clarinet, but he graduated to high school before he had enough skill to join my school band.\n“I blame you, Miss Jones,” Barbara says with a twinkling smile. “You are the reason for all the running around I have to do. Do you know Bradley is in three ensembles? That’s after school rehearsals three nights a week, plus multiple performances throughout the year.”\n“Oh dear,” I commiserate with a smile. “I am so sorry. Music will keep you busy and poor!”\n“Yes, it certainly does!”\n“But you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you, Mum?” Bradley asks her. She smiles back up at her son. I remember him as a tiny little thing. Now he towers head and shoulders above me.\n“No, I love every minute.” She turns to look back at me. “And it’s all because of you, Miss Jones.”\n“Me? Bradley was never in my school band. You really can’t blame me.”\n“You set him on this path when you believed in him enough and let him join that little recorder ensemble.”\nI feel ashamed because I didn’t believe in Bradley. I just allowed him to participate and made sure that he could participate in a way that he would be able to succeed. So, I modified his part; simplified it, because I really didn’t believe that he could play it as written in the score, but I worked hard to make sure that he could play something.\n“It was a big thing for me to be part of that group,” Bradley says. “Do you remember Paul and Jason? I really wanted to be like them, and they were in the ensemble.”\nPaul and Jason Parker, the twins. I hadn’t thought about them in years. They were prodigies in everything, gifted and talented beyond their years. It was due to them and their requests that the recorder ensemble began that year. They wanted to challenge themselves beyond classroom music and play some pieces with increased difficulty.\n“And do you know what, Miss Jones? We’re in the same music class now and we all play in the concert band together. And you’ll never believe it, now that I’m a senior, I’m First Chair clarinet.”\n“You were the Concertmaster? That’s fantastic, Bradley.” And it is. From a little boy who struggled with everything in school, to one who is leading the concert band. “I am so proud of you!”\n“I’m also in WAYSO, but I’m only clarinet two.”\n“You’re in the Youth Symphony Orchestra? That is very impressive. I will have to look out for you when they play next.”\n“We’re playing at the Concert Hall in two weeks, which is why I’ve got to rush off now. I have an afternoon rehearsal. I’m so happy that I saw you here and hopefully I will see you again at the next concert. Thank you, Miss Jones.” He smiled expansively and waved as he left.\nBefore she followed her son, Barbara took my hand in both of hers and leaned close to whisper. “Thank you for being the first person to believe in him. You helped him to believe in himself.” There were tears in her eyes. “He had been going through such a bad time, his self esteem was so low, that he had begun to believe the world would be better without him in it. Then one day he came home and said he’d joined your music group. You have no idea how surprised Frank and I were. We had no idea he wanted to play an instrument. Now look at him.” We both turned to watch the confident young man stop to exchange laughing chats with friends as he wove his way through the crowd. He seemed to shine, exuding self assurance and importance.\nI don’t know what to say, so I just smile and thank her before she leaves, following Bradley into the crowd. I take my cup of tea to a small plastic chair and sit, watching people as they come and go. So many children, so many parents. So much music making.\n“Hey, Miss Jones!” I hear my name called and look up. Three boys are making their way toward me. “Bradley said you were here. Do you remember us?”\nDo I remember? Two identical faces. I hadn’t taught that many identical twins. “Paul and Jason Parker, and is that Aldo Coloutti?” Aldo had always been the third wheel of their party, and it would seem nothing had changed. “How are you boys going?”\nThe boys take turns in telling me how they are working hard at school, what their future plans are, and as the bell rings to enter the auditorium for the second session of the day, they take their leave.\n“It’s been great to see you, Miss Jones.”\nI smile as they bound away, young men with big futures, and I am still smiling as I make my way back to the auditorium. I won’t ever be the one conducting these amazing students, I sigh to myself. But I have helped some of them to get where they are, and really what more could any teacher ask for. \nMaybe retirement will wait, just one more year." } ]
[ { "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 Storm of Betrayal\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1027\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is convinced they’re going to be betrayed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A storm outside roared like a dragon, only nature able to conjure up such mythical sounds. It offered no comfort this night, as it shouldn’t. This night wasn’t a warm summer evening where children frolicked in the gardens or a cold winter where someone could light a fire and ponder the philosophy of life. This stormy night was a herald of what was to come. For, inside the walls of the castle, another storm was forming.\nIn the dimly lit chamber of Lord Grayson's castle, Sir William sat hunched over a flickering candle, his brow furrowed in deep thought. The eerie silence of the castle's walls seemed to whisper secrets of betrayal, and Sir William could not shake the feeling that danger lurked around every corner. For weeks, he had been plagued by a sense of unease, a gnawing fear that someone close to him was plotting his downfall. His fellow knights, once loyal companions, now seemed to eye him with suspicion, their smiles strained and their words guarded. Even Lady Margaret, the fair maiden he had sworn to love, seemed to flinch at his touch, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and mistrust; the sense of foreshadowing behind her glances.\nSir William had always prided himself on his keen intuition, his ability to read people's true intentions with uncanny accuracy. Now, every fiber of his being screamed that betrayal was imminent, that a dagger lay hidden behind every smile, a poison in every cup. Sir William’s intuition was keen as ever, although his mind was muddled as it grappled with the concept that danger was brought by his closest allies.\nAs he paced the cold stone floors of his chamber, Sir William's mind raced with possibilities. \nCould it be Sir Robert, his most trusted advisor, who had been behaving strangely of late, disappearing for hours at a time with no explanation? Or perhaps Sir Thomas, a knight whose loyalty had never wavered, but whose gaze now held a fire of resentment that chilled Sir William to the bone.\nAnd then there was Lady Margaret, whose beauty had captivated him from the moment he had eyes on her. Could she, too, be part of the conspiracy against him, her gentle touch a mask for hidden motives?\nAs the night dragged on and the storm persisted, Sir William's paranoia grew, his infirm attempts to sleep haunted by visions of treachery and deceit. He could no longer trust his own shadow, his every move watched by unseen eyes, his every word whispered to unseen ears. Alone, his mind was the only true voice of reason. Lightning and thunder crashed beyond the chilled walls, causing the once-stoic leader to jump. \nDesperate for answers, Sir William sought the counsel of the castle's wise woman, a mysterious figure rumored to possess supernatural powers of divination. When Sir William heard about her supposed gifts, he sought her for his counsel. She wanted nothing in his palace in exchange for her wisdom. With trembling hands, he knocked on the door of her small cottage, the air heavy with the smell of herbs and incense.\n\"Come in, Sir William,\" a voice called from within, its tone both soothing and foreboding.\nSteeling himself, Sir William pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. The wise woman sat hunched over a crystal ball, her eyes fixed on its swirling depths.\n\"I have come seeking answers,\" Sir William said, his voice hoarse with emotion. \"I fear betrayal is at hand, and I know not whom to trust.\"\nThe wise woman's gaze met his, her eyes dark and unreadable. \n\"The shadows of the past cling to you, Sir William,\" she said cryptically. \"But fear not, for the truth will soon be revealed.\"\nWith a wave of her hand, the wise woman beckoned Sir William closer, her fingers tracing patterns on the crystal ball's surface. And as Sir William watched in awe, images began to form before his eyes, swirling and shifting like smoke on the wind.\nHe saw Sir Robert, his once trusted advisor, meeting secretly with a hooded figure in the dead of night. In a twirl of smoke, he saw Sir Thomas, his loyal companion, drawing his sword with a look of malice in his eyes. And he saw Lady Margaret, her face a mask of deceit, whispering poison into the ears of her fellow courtiers.\nThe truth hit Sir William like a thunderbolt, shattering the walls of his trust and leaving him raw and exposed. Betrayal was indeed at hand, but not from the enemies he had feared. It was from those closest to him, those he had loved and trusted with his very life. With a newfound determination, Sir William set out to confront his betrayers, his sword held high and his heart burning with righteous fury. The castle's halls echoed with the clash of steel on steel, the cries of battle mingling with the howl of the wind. Rage filled him as he knew who his true enemies were; their motives clouding their loyalty to the true leader of the realm.\nIn the end, Sir William emerged victorious, his enemies vanquished and his honor restored. But the scars of betrayal ran deep, leaving him forever changed and forever wary of the shadows that lurked in the hearts of men. As if Mother Nature knew the conflict had ceased, the storm ended almost instantly. A night sky filled with constellations of unknowable origin, shining with clarity, the same as a kingdom that had thwarted a backstabbing.\nAs he stood alone on the battlements, the stars twinkling overhead and the castle silent at his back, Sir William knew that the greatest battle he would ever face was not against external foes. It was the darkness within his own soul that the war would be greatest. With a heavy heart, he vowed to never again be deceived by the sweet smile of treachery, nor the whispered promises of deceit. For in the time of the Dark Ages, where honor was a fragile thing and trust a rare commodity, it was better to be wary and wise than to be betrayed and broken." } ]
[ { "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: Dark Lash\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1880\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": "“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do,” Principle Rania declared serenely.\n\nThe elf woman gazed at Yvette from behind her desk. Like most elves she hardly looked her age, with long, dark, pinned-back hair and luscious pale skin. ...Not bad for someone over six hundred.\n\nYvette looked crestfallen. “But Ms. Rania, I never meant to displace the school champion! I don’t even want to be the magic champion.”\n\nRania sighed. “It’s far too late for that now Yvette. You fought him and defeated him, thus he was shown to be unworthy. Whether you want it or not, you are now Normalton Academy’s magic champion for this year’s Quest Days.”\n\nYvette bit her lip. “Surely there’s something your magic can do.”\n\nRania shook her head. “The compass mark on your hand shows the school itself has chosen you as its champion. I cannot interfere, this is an old magic from the very foundation of this school. So, tomorrow, report to Coach Chiros after school.”\n\nA last desperate thought entered Yvette’s mind. “Could I give it away?”\n\nRania tilted her head, “You’re not that selfish Yvette. You’re part of a team now. They’re without a magic user, and they now have but weeks to adapt to you on the team.”\n\nYvette stood up. “But I don’t have time for extracurriculars!”\n\nRania snapped her fingers as a file flew from her cabinet and opened up. The elf scanned the paper for a bit before dismissing the file back to the cabinet. “I see nothing that can conflict. Good luck to you, Yvette. Bring honor and glory to Normalton.”\n\nThere was a slight knocking at the door. “Enter,” Rania called.\n\nIn strode Yvette’s favorite teacher, Ms. Umbrah. The necromancer was pale with purple eyes and long dark hair. Zipscheme, her snake familiar, was curled around an arm. Umbrah gave Yvette a smile as she looked at Rania.\n\n“Could I take Yvette back to my class now,” she asked softly. “I just dropped off those graded papers for you.”\n\nRania nodded. “Of course.”\n\nTaking Yvette gently by the shoulders, Ms. Umbrah led her out of the office and out into the hall.\n\n“I heard all about it Yvette.”\n\nThe young witch swallowed, “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. He was being such a jerk I thought I’d teach him a lesson and—”\n\n“Now, now, no need to explain,” Ms. Umbrah said calmly. “What’s done is done. You defeated him in a lawful magic duel and won fairly. I know being the new champion is a daunting undertaking but not to worry - you are smart and clever.”\n\nUmbrah halted and turned Yvette to face her. “Meet me after school and I’ll teach you something to give you an edge.”\n\nYvette nodded and sighed out an exasperated, “alright.”\n\nThroughout classes Yvette could hardly focus, especially in geometry. Mr. S - short for Mr. Sagittarius - the satyr history teacher even scolded her.\n\n“Pay attention Yvette!”\n\n“Pay attention Yvette,” Cole echoed cheekily.\n\nMr. S. scowled. “Already acting like a jock, are we?”\n\nYvette shrank in her chair, giving a sheepish, “Sorry, Mr. S,” and locked eyes on the chalkboard.\n\nLunch was full of constant reminders as fellow students pestered her to show the brand off, and gave her their opinion on every single thing in existence.\n\n“Hey, Yvette,” a snarky female voice called. Yvette clenched her jaw as she recognized the voice. Turning she regarded a tall brunette with a smirk, flanked by two smaller female friends, a harpy and a fae.\n\n“What do you want, Aunica?” Yvette asked icily.\n\nAunica was a hoodlum that her dad and his small force had dealt with many times. She was a sorceress - a magic user able to call upon magic without a familiar - and she had it out for Yvette.\n\nAunica grinned, “I heard you’re the new champ. I knew Cody wasn’t up to snuff, losing to you just proves it. I could have you beat and crying in seconds.”\n\nAunica’s female companions agreed and nodded, backing up their friend.\n\n“If you feel that strongly Aunica, we could take this to the ring,” Yvette stated matter of factly. Victory or defeat would be a win-win in her opinion.\n\nAunica sucked her teeth. “I don’t think so. I don’t care about any dumb school pride. But I’m definitely going to watch this year’s Quest Days, just to see you get splattered.”\n\nThere was a deep throated growl by Yvette as a dark furred werewolf was suddenly at her side wearing a letterman.\n\n“Ohh, your boyfriend is such a loyal doggy,” Aunica sneered.\n\n“Hey, Aunica, feel like another twenty-four hours of the runs?” Estrella was now on Yvette’s other side.\n\nAunica hissed, she would not soon forget the time she tried to pick on Estrella, the fae’s revenge had her practically living in the girls’ room. “See you around Yvette. You goody two shoes.”\n\nWith Aunica gone the half-werewolf slowly transformed back into a large, hairy, bronze-skinned youth.\n\n“I hate that floozy,” the boy said, before glancing at Estrella. “Slightly more than I hate you.”\n\nThe fae stuck her tongue out in response. “Go chew a rawhide bone, Ian.”\n\nEach taking an arm, Yvette’s friends led her to the table. Ian tried his best to encourage his witchy girlfriend with his own experiences on the football field and how she could use some of his strategies. Estrella worked calming spells as she poured out nothing but support for her friend.\n\nThe trio was joined by a white-haired warlock, a sleek black-and-white fox familiar trailing after him. “Yvette, I can’t believe it.”\n\n“Tobin,” Yvette started.\n\n“I thought you were above being goaded into a fight by that blowhard Cody.”\n\n“No one’s perfect. Despite what you may think of yourself, Tobin,” the voice was reproachful as all four teens turned to see a pale skinned and dark-haired boy carrying an umbrella indoors. He had been sitting at the table for some time it seemed.\n\n“No one asked you Helio,” Tobin growled.\n\nHelio smiled, showing his long vampiric fangs. Yvette sighed. \n\nShe was lucky to have such friends, even if they ‘hated’ each other. They liked her and that seemed to be enough to keep them from killing one another. She gave Hensbane a scratch on his white chin. The sleek, understated fox squinted his violet eyes and tilted his proud head upwards and then, in a rare moment of affection, licked Yvette’s hand in appreciation.\n\nThe rest of the classes faded by and Yvette soon found herself back in Ms. Umbrah’s classroom in the late afternoon. The necromancer sat crosslegged in her dark dress on the floor. Despite the room having access to electric lights, there were candles all around. Zipscheme the snake was on her desk wearing her tiny red reading glasses, scrutinizing papers.\n\n“Yvette, come sit with me for a bit before we begin.”\n\nThe young witch sat opposite Umbrah who opened her stunning purple eyes.\n\n“I know you have some experience fighting with magic, as you’ve proven over your victory over Cody... But the opponents you will face will all have experience themselves. Basic combat magics and shields are what you can expect from teenage spellcasters. Hone those skills of course, but I’m going to teach you spell most of them won’t know or expect.”\n\nYvette looked intrigued. Umbrah continued.\n\n“What I’m about to teach you is advanced, but I know you can handle it. More importantly, I trust you with this spell.”\n\nYvette drew in her breath. “Ms. Umbrah. It’s not something that will get you or me in trouble is it?”\n\nUmbrah smiled warmly. “No, no, perfectly legal according to tournament rules and nothing underhanded.”\n\nThe student cocked her head to the side. “Why are you helping me?”\n\nUmbrah chuckled. “Always looking for a motive in someone. You really are a detective Yvette. I want to see you succeed out there. I want to see your potential realized. Not to mention Normalton could use a win this year.” She took Yvette’s hand. “Do you trust me? That’s the important thing.”\n\nYvette nodded her head solemnly, her answer but a breath. “Yes.”\n\nUmbrah drew her up. “Watch me carefully.”\n\nWith a flick of her wrist Ms. Umbrah sent a dark shadow tendril arching forward like a whip as she snuffed out a candle with a whip crack.\n\n“Jeepers,” Yvette whispered.\n\n“That’s the darklash spell,” Umbrah stated as she dismissed her lash. “A quick and devastating attack. Also, quite utilitarian with some practice.”\n\nA flick of her other wrist and Umbrah ensnared a yardstick and jerked it towards her where she caught it deftly.\n\n“How do you do it?”\n\nUmbrah smiled. “First you must recognize a truth. That all of us have an inner darkness. Even you.”\n\nYvette stiffened. “You want me to think dark thoughts?”\n\n“Not if it bothers you. I simply want you to acknowledge it, don’t tell me. Just come to terms with it. Darkness is not the same as evil, though it can lead to evil. Master your darkness so it shall not master you. Can you feel it?”\n\nYvette nodded as she felt a stirring within her, hidden fears and unspoken desires known only to her. But instead of retreating from the thoughts she simply acknowledged them. They did not define her, only her actions. Though Yvette found herself wondering what dark thoughts Umbrah had. She was so kind and gentle.\n\n“Strike the candle,” Umbrah ordered firmly, yet gently.\n\nYvette flung her wrist out like she was cracking a whip. Nothing happened.\n\nUmbrah smiled. “Try again Yvette, remember the feeling of mastering yourself and then channel that inner shadow to strike.”\n\nYvette tried two more times, on the fourth she snapped her wrist forward with a shout of frustration. The candle was knocked over from the force.\n\n“Yes, well done my darling!” Umbrah smiled. “Keep going - work on your aim this time. Focus on the wick, not the stick.” Yvette nodded and continued practicing with Cole on her shoulder.\n\n“The more you practice, the easier it becomes just like anything else in life,” Umbrah encouraged.\n\nYvette and Cole took a water break, and scarfed down a whole sleeve of saltine crackers before they practiced trying to use the darklash to wrap objects. This did not go as well, but Umbrah urged Yvette not to lose heart. The two spellcasters moved together in a dance as Umbrah taught Yvette to move and strike better.\n\nSoon both were breathing heavily.\n\n“I think that’s enough today, Yvette. Practice on your own, you’re going to be getting a lot of practice in the coming weeks.”\n\n“Sounds like I got here at the right time.” Both females turned to see Yvette’s dad, Devarch, clad in his khaki police uniform with a service revolver on hip. His bearded face broke out in a grin.\n\n“Dad!” Yvette exclaimed.\n\n“Oh! Hello, Chief Salls,” Ms. Umbrah purred.\n\nDevarch took his hat off as he smiled at her.\n\n“Ms. Umbrah.”\n\n“Oh please Devarch, you may call me Circe.” \n\nYvette noticed her father blush, and she smirked. He did have a type, based on his last marriage to a powerful witch.\n\n“Er, dad? Should we go now?”\n\nThe chief of police nodded. “Sure thing pumpkin. How about dinner in town?”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Never Miss A Trip\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3138\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a school trip that takes a turn for the unexpected." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Good morning, Houghton Secondary School, my name's Lisa. How can I help you?”\n“I certainly hope so. Is Emma Strickland available?”\n“Just a moment; I'll see if she's teaching. Whom shall I say is calling?”\nConrad thought before deciding that honesty was the better option. “It's Conrad Carmichael, and it's to do with one of her students.”\n“Thank you, transferring you now.”\nHe waited for about a minute. Be nice if utility call centres were this fast, he thought.\n“Hello, Emma Strickland speaking.”\nNot what he expected, his English teacher, back then, was much sterner in voice, shrill even. “Good morning; I've just met one of your pupils at the cemetery. A bit distressed in truth, a Rowena Carter.”\n“Ahh, she was missing this morning. Is she all right?”\n“She is on her way to school as we speak. I'm calling to try and stave off detention. She's a good kid but was upset.”\n“Oh dear, it's not like her to skip school these days. Is there anything I should know about?”\n“This may sound odd,” because it is, “but some man appears to have convinced her she was going to die this coming Saturday.”\nSilence greeted this. He could imagine her sitting at a desk thinking nutter while considering the police option.\n“For real? I had her made of sterner stuff than that.”\n“Yes, for real. This chap is quite a convincing man.”\n“And you know why?” There was a distance growing in her voice now, safeguarding dropping in.\n“Because he told me the same thing.”\n“And did you believe him too?”\n“Err, yes, I did. It's hard to explain. It's not every day you're told that you will soon cease to be.”\nOn the other end of the line, Emma was rubbing her temple. Jesus, there are more nutters around here than I first thought. \n“OK, and you say Rowena appeared rattled?”\n“Look, I know it sounds silly, but it's affected her. I called because she trusts you, favourite teacher, and all that.”\nEmma thought that quite touching, “She told you that?”\n“Yes, and she was at the cemetery because there wasn't anybody to talk to. A case of thinking it's too silly to bother anyone with.”\nEmma sighed; that was quite sad. Having someone to talk to is very isolating. But, of course, it might be because her boyfriend, Adrian, was on a school history trip.\n“All right, Mr Carmichael, I will intervene when she gets here, and if she corroborates your story, then I'll see that no further action is necessary. Now, on the matter of this strange man, do you have a name? If he's troubling our pupils, I must pass it to the authorities.”\nConrad was reluctant to give Stringer's name. There were things he needed to know. “I do, yes. However, I've arranged a meeting with him tomorrow concerning my own prediction. I don't think he's a physical threat but I need to know if he believes what he says or is mad as a box of frogs.”\nThe turn of phrase made Emma smile, “Pupil welfare is paramount here. It's not just physical, but psychological harm too. If it's sent one of my best pupils into tears, I call it an issue.”\n“Rowena wants answers too. So I said I would let her know after meeting him and that, if it were OK with you, I'd drop around to your dad's place on Saturday to tell her.”\nEmma considered the options. She decided talking to Rowena was the best one. If she gave her any cause for concern, the whole matter would go to Colin and the police.\n“And I suppose she told you that my late parent's home would be where we all are on Saturday?”\n“Yes, my condolences on that. I won't stay long. You can hear what I have to say and decide on the best course of action, if necessary, then.”\n“Very well, Mr Carmichael; I look forward to seeing you on Saturday. Around ten in the morning would suit you. I assume you know where to go.” Her mind was now distracted.\n“Yes, your parent's home has resonance with strange events in local folklore. I'll see you then.” He hung up and began walking home.\n###\nEmma put her phone down. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. She buzzed reception to discover that Rowena hadn't arrived yet, so she decided to go down and wait. Have a coffee and ask if anyone knew this Conrad Carmichael.\nSomeone did. Alastair Braithwaite, a music teacher also on a free period, knew Allan Carmichael. Conrad was one of his other two brothers. Together they ran a private investigation business.\nHe'd used them during his divorce, suspecting the former Mrs Braithwaite was putting it out a bit. It turned out she was, and the cliched role of a PI became justified. However, Alastair understood that the brothers had since moved into paranormal investigations.\nDots joining up, she thought. It explained why Conrad knew about her parent's house and why he might want to interview the harbinger of death to see if he was genuine. But, more importantly, their unusual hobby might be interested in a particular cursed mirror. Mentally, she was now steering to meeting him on Saturday, irrespective of what Rowena might say. The more she thought about it, the more she considered Conrad overgenerous.\nHe didn't need to call on behalf of Rowena at all. If anything, that made him someone to get to know, a suitor. Get a grip, Em; you only heard of him ten minutes ago.\nLisa interrupted her thought, “Miss Strickland, Rowena has just come in.”\n“Sign her in for personal reasons, then please send her to my office. I need to have a chat about attendance.”\nEmma picked up a coffee and headed back up.\n###\nRowena spent her walk back to school overthinking. Like Adrian, she thought adults were out of touch and responsible for all the cock ups going on in the world. It was as if the imagination and freedom of youth went out the window when you joined the rat race, and money became everything. \nGranted, it was necessary, but how come ideocracy was directly proportional to salary? Teachers seemed more like your weird adult, but then they were exposed to young minds full of enthusiasm challenging their sanity daily. Both Ade, her goth friends and herself all agreed that teachers needed them more than they needed teachers. If the punch came to shove, books could teach you most things.\nConjoined with these considerations was the man Joe Stringer. He'd been shuffling up the road when she passed him walking in the other direction. His size caught her eye minutes before, and an empathic intelligence that told her behind the obesity was a pained mind. She remembered feeling sorry for him until he stopped as she drew level.\n“Rowena Carter, your life is in grave danger.”\nThat stopped her in her tracks. “Excuse me.”\nHis face was anxious, and sweat dripped down the sides of his head. “You heard; your life is going to end on Saturday.”\nAt first, she thought of junior school, and stranger danger leapt forwards. Then again, if she walked fast, he looked like a coronary waiting to happen, “What makes you say that?” What was the phrase? Curiosity killed the cat.\n“I have a curse, and it is the power of foresight. I saw you in a vision last night and knew if I walked here today, at this time, it would happen if, by coincidence, you were here.”\nHe grimaced, clearly not enjoying being out. That was the first thing that struck Rowena as odd. He was here to see if she were, and to her knowledge, she'd never set eyes on him before. Not that you could and not remember. Stringer was different from the type of character you would forget.\n“Why Saturday?” she asked.\nThat was when his haunted eyes looked into hers. “Because that is the day you will die.”\nThose eyes told her he believed what he was saying and that she would take him as correct if she were as intelligent as he thought.\n“Is there anything I can do to avoid it?” That seemed a reasonable question. Of course, with hindsight, she should have asked, “How?” but that was a fantastic tool to hack her brain to pieces with later.\n“No, Miss Carter, you can do nothing to avoid it, nothing at all.”\nThat was when her mind snapped, and the weirdo dropped in. “You're a lying asshole,” she yelled at him before running off, trying not to cry.\nWatching her run away, Joe Stringer thought yes, you all look down on me. Except deeper down, it turned his guts to think his curse had claimed this victim already. It was better not to know when you died after all. However, part of him clutched at a tiny chance that knowing might make them do something that would prove his foresight wrong. God, I hope that is the case. He knew it wasn't.\n###\nShe entered the school grounds with growing anxiety. She was in trouble for not turning up, her parents would go crazy, and the school would think her mad for saying she would die on Saturday.\nEven if it were true, it would still seem like a crazy suicide prediction and back off to that Whitaker bloke for more therapy. But, unfortunately, Ade had to be away today.\nAdrian was a positive thought, as was the stranger called Conrad at the cemetery. Stumbling across an unwanted boyfriend had caught her out. Before that day, she was happy being unattached at the school fence. Now, she felt terrible when he was away. No, terrible was not the right word. Empty, like losing your best friend ever. It hurt, even though my rational mind said it was only a history trip.\n“Hello Rowena, good of you to turn up. Sign in and then go straight to Miss Strickland's office.”\nShe looked up, and the autopilot disengaged. “Am I in trouble?”\nLisa smiled her reception smile. “No, I don't think so. Between you and I, she asked me to mark your absence this morning for personal reasons. So just be humble, and it may not be as bad as your look seems to think. Just don't make a habit of it.”\n“Thanks, it's been an extraordinary morning.” Rowena signed herself in and headed toward the head of English's office, where she stopped. Deep breaths were the order of business. She remembered that from Whitaker.\n“In times of anxiety, try and control your breathing. Slow inhale and exhale. Bring your mind back into the moment and concentrate on your breath.”\nMindfulness exercises from a past that, one day, she might be able to tell Ade about. On the second inhalation, she knocked on the door.\n“Come in, Rowena.”\nShe entered, looking at the floor, and moved to Emma's desk.\n“Firstly, are you OK?” said her teacher.\n“Yes, Miss. \nI'm sorry if I've caused any trouble.” Keep breathing.\nEmma looked across her desk. Not at a pupil but at a young woman needing more than detention and a telling-off. “Did you know you had a friend, well, a stranger as it happens, that you met this morning at the cemetery?”\nRowena looked up, “Conrad Carmichael?”\n“Yes,” said Emma, “He called before you got back and asked me to overlook your absence because you were upset; rather nice of him, don't you think?”\nRowena knew where that question was leading, resulting in a growing sense of anger. \n“Meaning?” she snapped.\n“Meaning nothing. There are things I must ask to ensure nobody is trying to take advantage of you. \nAccording to Mr Carmichael, a man approached you yesterday and delivered some disturbing news.”\nAnger now blended with embarrassment, “Yes, a big lump of a man told me I was going to die this weekend. Not something you hear every day.”\n“Did he threaten you?”\n“No, miss, he frightened me.”\n“In what way?”\nApart from being sick with a headache, Rowena didn't quite know how to feel, “Just his eyes; I think he believed it.”\n“And your imagination did the rest, I suppose?” Emma knew this was awkward. You don't spend years teaching teenagers without recycling conversations every so often. \nDifferent topics and, granted, this were amongst the more unusual, but the pattern and emotional impact mostly stayed the same. Emma hated how distraught they got. It usually train-wrecked her day too.\n“So, it would seem. All the hallmarks of a silly kid to everyone else, the butt of a joke, gullible and easily led.”\nEmma saw her eyes flash, anger management Rowena. Hard though, feeling like an idiot in front of your favourite, so said Carmichael, teacher. Or was that rapidly turning to ex-favourite? She sighed, “Rowena, please understand I'm not trying to belittle you. \nWhen a stranger calls me to say he's been talking to one of my brightest pupils, I have a duty of care to seek out the truth. Whether we like it or not, some people try to take advantage of or, God forbid, groom attractive young ladies like you for all the wrong reasons. As your teacher, I have to make sure you are safe.”\nRowena looked at the floor.\n“Do you understand, young lady, the magnitude of what's going on here? Your mother will have received an absence text this morning; the school will follow that up with phone calls to your emergency contacts on a rota. If nobody knows where you are by break time, the next call is to the police to report a missing student. Without Mr Carmichael's call, we were extremely close to the latter.”\n“I never thought Miss.”\nEmma relaxed; the anger had blown out. Stage one is completed, now to make good the relations. Good cop, bad cop all rolled into one. Who said teachers had it easy can't know any.\n“It's common when people are upset. It doesn't mean we are mad at you. It means we all care about your safety and for you as a person.” She was still looking at the floor. “Rowena, look at me, please.”\nRowena felt about as small as a mouse. She looked up and met her English teacher's eyes. Like Stringers, they were bright and honest. That was why she believed him. She knew that now; the eyes held the keys to the person. Emma was exactly like him in that she did mean what she said. \nAde cared; she knew that and missed him badly right now; a connection was fast setting into something most people flit with but never find. Her parents managed enough to argue and split up, leaving her with a mum that struggled emotionally to hold herself together. Rowena grew up too fast and early, feeling isolated and unloved.\n“That's better,” said Emma handing her a tissue from the square box labelled for those moments. “People care, you know; sometimes they don't show it as often as they should.” She could hear the shallow breathing, stuttering, and trying to stay composed. “Take Mr Carmichael, for example; he didn't need to phone in, did he? He could easily have ignored you this morning and walked on, but he chose not to.\nEven we teachers could have gone through the safeguarding pep talk and thrown detention at you. I'm not recommending that, though.”\n“I know, Miss; sometimes things seem serious one minute and then stupid the next. I never cared much about stuff like that until...” she tailed off; no freaking way.\nEmma smiled, “Yes, I saw you wave at him across the square. Being a teenager is not easy when maturing and hormonal changes kick in. Things that seem insignificant become insane, and important things end up in the background. I believe that may be what's happened here.”\nThis time, a flush rose on Rowena's cheeks, “Well, he is a bit cute.”\nEmma chuckled at that and finished her coffee. “Right, in order and just to satisfy formalities. Did either man physically threaten you?”\n“No, Miss.”\n“Did they threaten or attempt to harm you in any other way?”\n“No, Miss, well, Mr Stringer did scare me, but he might need help. Like I did before if you know what I mean.”\n“Yes, Rowena, I've cited that on the incident form, but I meant Mr Carmichael. Good Samaritan or a little too touchy-feely.”\nRowena opened her mouth, closed it again, and took time to think before reacting; Whitaker again. “Conrad was a proper Samaritan. He asked if I was OK, and I told him to go away, which he did until I called him back. If you met him, then you'd understand.” You might even find boyfriend material that she did not say.\nEmma felt relieved at the latter; Conrad Carmichael very much sounded the gentleman on the phone. Stop it, Emma. “Good; now I will have to file this with the headmaster, and the decision on what to do will pass from there. However, I doubt anything will happen beyond a generic warning letter informing all parents that a stranger approached a pupil. I will write a letter to your mother to take home this afternoon stressing that you are all right and that the school is satisfied you were, or are not, returning to deliberate truancy. There is one proviso...”\n“Which is Miss?”\n“You can promise me now that, one, you are not contemplating deliberate truancy and, two, if you have any similar issues like today, you come into school and see me or someone you feel comfortable with.”\n“Yes, Miss, I think I can do that... unless...”\nEmma raised her eyebrows, “Unless...” she repeated.\n“Unless Mr Stringer is right, I may be off for a while from next week,” The delivery was deadpan.\n“Are you still worried about what he said?”\n“Not so much after talking to Mr Carmichael and you, but something still troubles me about his conviction. He believes what he says.”\n“Then consider helping Adrian's detention turned community service, assisting me at the weekend to ensure you are safe. I also understand Mr Carmichael is convening another interview with Mr Stringer to find out what he's playing at and that he will also be coming over to ease your mind on the matter afterwards.”\n“Thank you, Miss, and I apologise for all the trouble I've caused.”\n“Don't make a habit of it is all I ask... and Rowena.”\n“Yes, Miss?”\n“You are quite right; Adrian is cute, so tread carefully.”\nRowena blushed again, although it went unnoticed since she had already turned to leave. \nShe paused with the door half open, “Oh, Miss...”\n“Yes?”\n“So is Mr. Carmichael.” She said this as the door was closing after 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: What do Mulberries, Bamboo, and Hemp have in common?\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2972\n\nPrompt:\n\nA crumpled piece of paper holding an unexpected message is carried by the wind. Where did it come from, and where is it going?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Name: Liu Xing \nLocation: Luoyang, China\nOccupation: farmer\nDate: August 17th, 105 A.D.\nThe markets of Luoyang, China, were rife with kinetic energy. Vendors haggled, sheep bleated, and coins clinked in the hubbub city. Unbeknownst to the patrons, a transformative event was concocting on the town's outskirts. — a revolution poised to alter the course of history.\nThe pivotal transformation occurred as Farmer Liu Xing slayed on his wheat plantation. Thirst gnawed at his throat, making his mouth dry and lips crack. His reptilian tanned skin showed patches of pink. The grueling heat played tricks on his eyes, conjuring illusions of a distant quarry.\nDriven by delirium, Liu stumbled and fell onto the soft, fertile ground. The enticing aroma of a majestic mulberry tree surrounded him. He found solace in the dense shade of the crown, which offered a much-needed break.\nLiu rummaged around the bamboo sticks in his hemp sack for sustenance, to no avail. Crimson berries tumbled from the mulberry tree around his ankles and into his satchel. He ate a mouthful, staining his teeth red with their sweetness. Thirsty and exhausted, Liu went to cool off at the junction of the Luo and Yi rivers. He unbridled his papyrus straps on his tattered shoes and secured the bag to his back. A smile filled his cheeks as he plunged into the inviting waters.\nThe mighty tides took power over him, tossing, twirling, and coiling his body. The refreshing vortex provided relief from the scorching sun. At a river bend, he clutched onto large roots that extended towards him, offering a lifeline. He pulled himself to safety on a sandy bank to catch his breath.\nLiu squeezed the liquid from the hemp bag of bamboo sticks. The mulberries had permeated the bag in markings, looking akin to a caveman’s petroglyph. He threw the bag on a rock to dry and laid to rest his tired eyes.\nLiu jolted awake later than expected. Aware of his limited time, he hurried back to his wheat field, abandoning his belongings.\nLittle did Liu realize that the hemp sack he had on had the potential to revolutionize how people communicate. Under the blazing sun, the jumbled mess of bamboo, mulberries, and the hemp bag underwent a metamorphosis. The turbulent experience on the river was a catalyst turning it to pulp. Laying flat on the hot rock, it vaporized, leaving behind a delicate sheet of parchment.\nUnbeknownst to Liu, this incident began a new chapter in history.\nLater, a gust of wind brought on Twilight, cooling the land and relieving the valley of its misery. The paper, now ingrained with endless possibilities, clutched the breeze’s hand. Drifting from the rock, it took flight on a journey across the vast land. The dawn of a new era transcribed.\nFilthy and beaten, Liu returned home, oblivious to the winds of change he had unleashed. But the paper’s journey had just begun, carrying with it secrets yet to be born.\nName: Cassius Octavian\nLocation: Alexandria, Egypt \nOccupation: Shipwright\nDate: October 7th, 355 A.D.\nAmidst the lively commotion of the Alexandria docks, I stared into the sunset, daydreaming. I came from a prestigious lineage of shipbuilders. I oversaw the impressive building of a merchant ship. I, Cassius Octavian, possessed an innate skill in designing and constructing sturdy boats. Vessels capable of withstanding the volatile currents of the Ancient Mediterranean Sea.\nThe salty breeze from the Sea carried whispers of distant lands igniting my adventurous spirit. It fueled my commitment to building ships that could withstand the vast expanse of the Ancient waters.\nAmid this maritime symphony, the wind, a mischievous messenger, carried a crumpled piece of parchment into my life. Intrigued, I plucked it from the air and unfolded the worn document. The exquisite sketching of red dye imparted a mysterious opportunity. It spoke to my soul, encouraging me to escape the familiar shores of Alexandria. The urging sense to embark on a journey that could alter the course of my life.\nIntrigued, I contemplated the unexpected message. Under my skilled hands, the ship took shape with each fitted plank. The enduring craftsmanship stood as a testament of Alexandria’s shipwrights. The wind-borne message prompted a decision - stay or venture into the unknown.\nAs the sun sank, I traced the parchment lines. The escapade beckoned, carried by the winds of opportunity.\nIn Alexandria's maritime hub, tradition and the uncharted converged. The bustling city’s rich history and thriving trade pulsed with life around me. The sea, a vast canvas of endless possibilities, beckoned me to set forth into the unknown.\nWith a determined glint in my eye, I made my choice. I gathered my belongings and set forth into the night.\nThe ship, left incomplete but filled with potential, bidding farewell to its master.\nStanding at the bow, I pulled the message from my pocket. A powerful gale blew in, hurling the message from my grasp, setting me a sail. An omen to let the wind guide this adventurous pilgrimage.\nNAME: Ximena Cortez\nLocation: Tikal, (Guatemala)\nOccupation: Midwife and Healer\nDate: August 17th, 652 A.D. \nXimena Cortez, a revered midwife and healer, found solace in Tikal’s rainforest. She embodied the Ancient wisdom whispered and emerald leaves rustling with implied knowledge.\nDuring the Classic Period of Mesoamerica, Tikal stood as a magnificent city. Within the lush rainforests of northern Guatemala, the air was electric with the energies of the Mayan civilization. August 17th, 652 AD, was a day of fruitful significance.\nTikal recognized Ximena as more than a healer. She embodied her sacred profession’s dignity. With a strong spiritual conviction, she believed her work to be a divine calling from the gods. She used sacred plants and studied the human body. She assisted in healing and childbirth.\nThe Mensajero del Viento, a messenger from the unseen realms, carried a crumpled script into Ximena’s sacred space. She unfolded the paper with reverence. The mysterious message hinted at a connection beyond the rainforest canopy, beckoning her to an uncharted journey.\nIt beckoned her to explore beyond the familiar vines and embrace the unknown. With its towering pyramids and ancient wisdom, Tikal became the starting point for a pilgrimage into uncharted territories.\nXimena embarked on a journey transcending time and borders.\nAn inner compass guided her to those she sought to heal.\nXimena’s name echoed through time, leaving an indelible mark on the hearts of those she touched. Her legacy as a guardian of life lived on, an eternal flame burning in the heart of Tikal.\nHer spirit soared through future generations.\nName: Ragnar Eriksson\nLocation: Birka, Sweden\nOccupation: Norse Warrior\nDate: December 7th, 793 A.D.\nThe winter winds swept across the icy waters surrounding Birka on December 7th, 793 A.D.\nRagnar Eriksson, a formidable Norse Warrior, stood on the shores with his longship anchored in the frozen harbor. At his feet, the invisible hands of fate suspended a crumpled paper frozen to the ground. Destiny had appointed him to get this unexpected message.\nRagnar, in carved armor and a horned helmet, scanned the horizon for opportunity. His calloused hands gripped the battle-ax, bearing the marks of many raids. The atmosphere crackled with unease, a tangible tension that enveloped the bustling trading town of Birka.\nIntrigued, he thawed the paper in the warmth of his clenched hand. Dripping water leaked a fiery message that spoke of a distant shore. A solid promise of untold wealth and glory.\nThe Norse Warrior’s heart quickened with the thrill of the unknown as he studied the message. The call to embark on a daring voyage resonated with the very core of his Viking spirit.\nWith the crumpled parchment tucked in his armor, Ragnar joined his fellow warriors in the hall. The flickering firelight created shadows on their faces, reflecting their wish for experience. Ragnar's thoughts drifted toward uncharted seas.\nRagnar Eriksson vowed to pursue the mysterious feat. The crumpled parchment became a harbinger of destiny for Ragnar. With Viking lore immortalising his name, suspending it in time.\nName: Fatima Al-Khwarizmi \nLocation: Baghdad\nOccupation: Mathematician and astronomer \nDate: December 12th, 762 A.D.\nFatima Al-Khwarizmi's voice stood out in the chaotic marketplace in Baghdad. A celestial body commanding attention in a crowded night sky.\nShe moved through the lively scene with a scholar’s grace and a seasoned astronomer’s understanding. Her measured and precise words cut through the ambient chatter. A testament to the meticulous nature of her scholarly pursuits.\nA scholarly wind, guided by her intellectual brilliance, unveiled a crumpled parchment on her lap. “As the stars illuminate the heavens, so too must we illuminate the corridors of knowledge,” she spoke. Khwarizmi’s eloquence resonates the profound echoes of divine reasoning.\nThe veil’s intricate patterns framed her curious gaze. Her mind reflecting the probing mysteries of the cosmos and the intricacies of mathematical principles. The discourse was far beyond a mere presentation of facts, enrapturing an intellectual odyssey. It invited others to embark on enlightenment alongside her.\nFatima Al-Khwarizmi, a luminary in the brilliant era of the Islamic Golden Age, stood as a testament. She represented the enduring power of intellect and the profound impact of eloquent discourse on pursuing knowledge.\nAs she continued to navigate the vibrant marketplace of Baghdad, her words lingered in the air. She left an indelible mark on the minds of the Islamic world.\nTouched by the winds of Fatima’s wisdom, the crumpled parchment became a symbolic messenger of enlightenment. It carried her profound words to distant corners, embodying the celestial souls she studied.\nName: Brother Thomas\nLocation: A Medieval Monastery\nOccupation: Illuminator and Scriber \nDate: July 12th, 1200 AD\nFlickering candlelight lit the hallowed corridors of the medieval monastery. A figure cloaked in austere hues moves with muted purpose. Brother Thomas, an illuminator and scriber, cradles the quill equal to a sacred relic. In the abbey's scriptorium, Brother Thomas speaks with measured words reflecting the solemnity of his vocation.\nThe parchment before Brother Thomas becomes a canvas upon which his creativity flourishes. Each stroke of the quill is an act of devotion to the written word and the divine. His labor surpasses mere transcription.\n“In the sacred pages, we unveil the mysteries of creation,” he said. His voice a gentle cadence echoing through the lit scriptorium. The illuminations he crafts are not mere embellishments; they are expressions of reverence, intricate depictions that dance with hues of vibrant pigments.\nBrother Thomas' quill expresses his spirit with grace. Each stroke is a prayer on vellum, blending art and spirituality. Brother Thomas continues his sacred task amidst sunlight and stained glass windows. The rhythmic scratching of a quill against parchment is a testament to his dedication. He illuminates manuscripts, enduring through time, as an offering to the divine.\nBrother Thomas, the guardian of wisdom in the medieval monastery, is a steward of the written word. In the stillness of his labor, he weaves together the threads of faith and artistry. His illuminated manuscripts leave a lasting impact on history and souls.\nThe blissful wind carries a crumpled manuscript through the gates brought from heaven’s breath. It calls to Brother Thomas to continue his sacred work. Its message transcends time and connects him to the boundless tapestry of human understanding.\nName: Alessandro da Vinci\nLocation: Florence\nOccupation: Apprentice to a Renowned Painter in a Renaissance Artist’s Studio\nDate: November 6th, 1500 A.D.\nIn a sunlit Florence studio, creativity crackles, and the mixture of oil paints lingers. Alessandro da Vinci, an apprentice to a renowned painter, immerses himself in the art world. His passionate tone fills the studio suchlike an artistic symphony.\nAlessandro da Vinci embodies the spirit of artistic enlightenment with his expressive gestures and vivid descriptions. Surrounded by canvases that come to life under the master’s brush. His eyes mirror the transformative power of the Renaissance.\n“In the dance of light and shadow, we unveil the soul of the canvas.” His voice carrying the enthusiasm of a genuine artist. Each passionate brushstroke conveys an echo of the artistic revolution that defines the era. The studio, a sanctuary of creation, becomes a theater of dreams. Alessandro da Vinci paints his aspirations on the canvas of existence.\nThe breeze, a reticent courier, carries a crumpled paper into the studio. Alessandro’s gaze follows its descent. Unfurling the parchment, he discovers a message that speaks of opportunities beyond the sun-soaked streets of Florence. It’s an invitation to explore distant realms, to bring the Renaissance spirit to new corners of the world.\nWith a heart aflame with artistic fervor, Alessandro da Vinci seizes the opportunity. He departs the studio, his master's teachings guiding him, and enters the unfamiliar. In the foreign landscapes and unfamiliar streets, Alessandro continues to express his passion for art. He carries the spirit of the Renaissance torch, illuminating the path of artistic enlightenment. The wind, whispering tales of artistic revolutions, becomes his steadfast companion. It connects him to the vibrant hues of creativity across time and space.\nAlessandro da Vinci, the daring apprentice, becomes an inspiration for history. His passionate journey leaves a lasting impression on distant lands. This legacy echoes the Renaissance spirit wherever the wind carries his crumpled parchment.\nName: Charlotte Whitaker\nLocation: London\nOccupation: Librarian and Aspiring Writer\nDate: 1800 A.D.\nIn Victorian London, aged leather filled the ornate library. The gas lamps cast a warm glow on the polished mahogany shelves that treasures of knowledge. Charlotte Whitaker, a librarian and aspiring writer, moved with sophisticated grace. Her refined manners were a testament to the elegant atmosphere surrounding her.\nCharlotte’s polished and sophisticated speech embodied the spirit of intellectual curiosity that permeated the library. Her spoken words echoed through the grand chambers, a harmonious symphony of refinement in positing literature.\nOn this day, as the wind whispered through the towering windows, a crumpled paper wafted into Charlotte’s vicinity. With a delicate touch, she disclosed the exciting message hidden in the parchment.\nHer sophisticated demeanor remained intact as she contemplated the possibilities outlined in the crumpled note. The library used to be her sanctuary, but now she found herself attracted to new literary territories.\nCharlotte decided on the serenity of the library. With the crumpled parchment in her apron, she entered the energetic streets of Victorian London.\nAs she ventured into the unknown, Charlotte continued to carry herself with an air of sophisticated curiosity. Now, her silent companion, the wind, whispered tales of literary endeavors and unexplored realms. Though inconspicuous, the crumpled paper held the key to a new chapter in Charlotte’s life. It conveyed an opportunity to weave her refined words into the tapestry of literary history.\nCharlotte Whitaker left an indelible mark. Not only on the shelves of the Victorian library, on the literary landscapes she explored as well. The crumpled paper, carried by the wind, became a symbol of her journey. Her intellectual curiosity, grace, and refined manners that defined her reflected in the elegant era of Victorian London.\nName: James Sullivan \nLocation: France\nOccupation: Allied Medic on a World War II Battlefield \nDate: 1940s\nJames Sullivan, an Allied medic, moved with unwavering determination through the thick smoke and echoing gunfire. The chaos of the war-torn French countryside during World War II was unforgiving. Yet, his steadfast and compassionate tone reflected the relentless spirit that defined his role in the front lines.\nJames regarded the brutal dance of war tending to the wounded. He provided a beacon of hope during the destruction. His words carried the weight of the harrowing conditions he faced. A testament to the resilience required to navigate the battlefield.\n“Steady, lads, we’ll get through this,” James spoke, his voice cutting through the cacophony of war. His compassion for the wounded was clear in the gentle touch of his hands. Empathy filled his gaze. Each life he touched became a testament to his commitment to selfless service amidst the adversity of battle.\nAmidst the smoke and despair of war, a crushed paper shot into James's view. He unwound the parchment with the precision of a seasoned medic. The message carried the weight of a soldier's last words, meant for sharing with loved ones. James, a silent witness to the human toll of war, was to relay this poignant farewell.\nDespite the chaos, James embraced the responsibility with a resolute spirit. The crumpled paper was now a vessel of profound emotions. It symbolized the connections that endured even in the darkest hours.\nAmid the battlefield, James pressed on, driven not only by duty but by a deep sense of humanity.\nHe operated through the horrors of war. And ensured the last sentiments of the fallen comrade reached the hearts waiting on the home front.\nAs the war raged on, James Sullivan continued to serve with unwavering determination.\nThe crumpled paper left an indelible mark on James’s soul\nIt evoked memories of the profound ties, and unwavering determination found amid war.\nName: Hayley Garza\nLocation: Austin, Texas\nOccupation: Barista and Part-time Student in a Modern Coffee Shop\nDate: Present Day\nThe hum of animated conversations and the aromatic blend of brewed coffee fill the air. Hayley Garza, a barista, and part-time student, radiates an upbeat and friendly demeanor, mirroring the trendy urban cafe.\nHayley eavesdrops, absorbing snippets of the eclectic mix of patrons’ journeys and tales. The table of travelers left a quote on her receipt that resonated her core.\nAimless, she crumpled the receipt and tossed it into the nearby garbage bin, missing it. A curious young boy nearby sees the crumpled paper on the floor and grabs it. Unfolding the receipt, the words declare,\n“Embrace the winds of change, for they carry the seeds of new beginnings.” Unable to read, he throws the receipt into the recycling bin.\nIn the vibrant café, laughter resumes. Espresso machines hum. Hayley continues to serve with her friendly and casual demeanor. And the discarded receipt awaits to be carried away by the winds of change." } ]
[ { "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 We Should Be Saying\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1930\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW: Language, Politics, Truth.\n\n{a high school graduation}\n\n{a crowd applauds}\n\n“Thank you. When Paul asked me to deliver the commencement address to Lake View High’s Graduating Class of 2023-”\n\n{applause}\n\n“... yes, well, I truly thought your principal had lost his marbles.”\n\n{audience laughs}\n\n“I even gave him a second chance this morning to rescend the invitation - for the Love of God, pick somebody else - but he declined the offer, and insisted I speak.”\n\n{audience laughs}\n\n“So I asked him, who wants to hear from some grumpy old Econ teacher anyway? He mumbled something about my 30 years at Lake View and the collected wisdom I should share before retirement. Whatever, fool.”\n\n{heavier laughter, applause}\n\n“So, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll apologize in advance, as most of you know me as a cantankerous asshole.”\n\n{laughter}\n\n“Nothing I’m about to say will give you hope or make you happy. It is, however, something I feel you need to hear, what you need to be prepared for.”\n\n{laughter, murmers}\n\n“Sunscreen.”\n\n{laughter}\n\n“Lee Perry said it first and it still holds true today. Always wear sunscreen, it’s the best advice there is, but I’ll start with … ”\n\n“Facts.”\n\n“OECD metrics show the US ranks at the bottom of math and science scores across 30 industrialized countries - a condition that has persisted since 2003 and has made no measurable improvement.”\n\n“Whereas, most of you leave high school unprepared for higher-wage work in the STEM fields, and will require a post-secondary degree to compete for those positions.”\n\n“In saying this, only a third of you will complete a post-secondary degree; less than twenty-three percent a Bachelor's; less than eight percent a Master’s.”\n\n“Thus, roughly 70% of the American workforce cannot access those higher-paying jobs. The economic implications alone are staggering - it represents a downward spiral of growth and poverty - but let’s focus on you for a moment, because it’s really all about you, isn’t it?”\n\n{audience laughs}\n\n“Think about it: what will it mean to you when a majority of Americans have no spending power in a country where consumer spending makes up 70% of GDP?”\n\n“Meanwhile, speaking to the thirty percent of you that will receive a degree, you’ll earn 1.5 times more than the high school graduate but be crippled by debt. The average student loan balance in the US is $38.7 thousand dollars whereas most of you will carry balances greater than $50,000, depressing your income potential well into your 40’s and putting downward pressure on your ability to maximize wealth.”\n\n{audience mumbles}\n\n“What will it mean if you and your peers aren’t able to save for retirement or healthcare expenses? Or are unable to buy a house because of mismatched debt to income ratios?”\n\n{more grumbling}\n\n“Automation.”\n\n“Between diminishing opportunity and automation, your generation will face the most competitive job market in American history. You are unprepared for this reality.”\n\n{audience murmurs, checks their phone because they’re bored}\n\n“Aside from the limited jobs and labor pool, producers, driven by the profit motive, will tend towards deploying robots rather than hiring you. Goldman Sachs reported in 2023 that 300 million jobs worldwide will be lost to AI before 2030; current projections show 100% of the world’s goods and services produced by only 2% of its labor by 2050.”\n\n“That’s 98% systemic unemployment as I realize most of you may need help with the math. Do you honestly think we can retrain people that fast? \n\n{audience grumbles}\n\n“Please consider: what will it mean when 98% of you are unemployed when you’re 50?”\n\n{silence}\n\n“In the short run, with no education to bargain for higher wages, and less than eight percent of the workforce in a union, low-skilled labor will be the first to be displaced, risking life-long poverty.”\n\n“So if you’re planning to walk out of here without a plan for college, and that’s seventy percent of you, you’re fucked. You’re destined to be a dependent forever. Parents: please take note. This will affect you as well.”\n\n{some laughter, and someone from the crowd yells, “My son’s already told me he’s never leaving!”}\n\n{the old teacher points to the guy in the crowd and continues}\n\n“Real Wages.”\n\n“The lucky 30-percent, post-secondary graduates will enter a job market where human labor is discounted. Until recently, real wages haven’t risen materially since the 1970’s. Costs have gone up where earnings have not, not unless you’re a CEO where earnings have increased more than 1000% in the same time period. And may God help you if you have brown skin or a vagina. In 2021, women earned $.82 as compared to their male counterparts; $.76 for blacks as compared to white men - overall, black households’ net worth is 13% of white households. Wealth inequity is rampant, and we, as a society ruled by old rich white men, do not give a fuck.”\n\n{brief chuckles in the back}\n\n“If wages are not commensurate with inflation, what will that mean to you? Your friends? Your Family?”\n\n{silence}\n\n“Truth.”\n\n“Capitalism’s function is to root out inefficiencies. Human beings - comparatively inefficient to automation - will be ground into the dirt, and you must prepare yourself for this.”\n\n“No jobs are waiting for you. Nobody will read your resume. Nobody cares what your interests are outside of school. You will be a number, a faceless result in a broader query. You must think about how filters work to disqualify you from every job you will apply for, or elevate you to increase your prospects of being captured in their datasets.”\n\n“Sounds unfair? Yes, there is no such thing as a fair market. Our laws have been engineered to favor the rich and powerful; i.e., not you. There is nothing fair about our system. Be prepared for unfairness.”\n\n{laughter, light applause}\n\n“The American Dream - this crap about a house and financial freedom - is a lie.”\n\n{applause}\n\n“The American Reality is indentured servitude. Your value will be measured by a credit score reflecting your income and payment habits to monied interests. Most of you will own nothing but debt, accumulate no retirement or savings, and be straddled with healthcare expenses that exceed the value of your home. You exist to pay others. You will be worth more when you die than when you were alive.”\n\n{the parents in the audience grumble}\n\n“Capitalism does not care about you. It is not intended to benefit the many, but to reward the few, and if left unchecked, it destroys. It will be up to your generation to change it, or at the least temper it, so it’s less draconian and more compassionate, more socialist. If you can, leave the United States. I recommend Finland.”\n\n{slight laughter from the audience, and someone yells, “Finland, Finland, Finland!”}\n\n“Tokens.”\n\n“Throughout your life, most of you will be convinced to work for nothing in return for what is intrinsically worthless yet may carry a perception of value. A token.”\n\n“You will turn to tokens because Capitalism has robbed you of everything else.”\n\n“Whether it is social appreciation - likes, follows, retweets - or bitcoin, or selling images of your body, or trading wear on your car and your personal time to deliver tacos to some asshole who lives three blocks away, or sacrificing your personal information, or making any kind of art, you will be gifted non-currency. Tokens.”\n\n“Your expenses, labor, good looks, and creativity will make you nothing, but they will make someone else money. Beware of tokens; they are a false currency. You cannot eat them.”\n\n{some of the audience check their phones, amazed at how many tokens they’ve collected in the last five minutes; some even raise their phones to take pictures and earn themselves new tokens by sharing their content on social media}\n\n“Homelessness.”\n\n“Approximately 582,000 people in the US were unhoused in January 2022. Homelessness is not a moral failing, but a visible consequence of Capitalism doing its job. Their numbers are the canaries in the coal mine. If you are annoyed by people ‘camping’ in streets, blocking your access to your favorite Starbucks for your morning latte, consider what forced them there in the first place. Consider when it’ll be your time, when you’ll be on the streets. 98% systemic unemployment.”\n\n{audience gossips, telling each other about how bad the highway overpass has become}\n\n“Human Toxicity.”\n\n“In the information age, stagnant ideas are corrosive. They sit, lodged in the back of the mind, rotting, fermenting opinion, and corrupting anyone else they touch.”\n\n“Humans, and by which I mean people - companies, organizations, social groups and churches, friends, parents, co-workers - dislike change, as it destabilizes their worldview, where their stagnant, dumb ideas have taken root.”\n\n“Take any hot-button idea - be it human rights and civil liberty, racism, homophobia and transphobia, gender fluidity, sexual orientation, immigration, economics, political misinformation, bodily autonomy, ‘boot straps’, climate change, fossil fuels, the physical and psychological effects of American professional football - it doesn’t matter.”\n\n“If someone in your world is unwilling to change their position based on new evidence or data, leave them, or wall them off, for they are poisonous. Toxic. You are better off without them. Convincing someone of the obvious is not worth your precious time. Instead, seek to surround yourself with people who are willing to accept new evidence, think critically, and adapt.”\n\n{the audience, unsettled, writhe in their chairs, looking at each other with deep skepticism}\n\n“Civil Unrest.”\n\n“I’m not here to win a popularity contest. I don’t care what you think or believe. But I’ll tell you this.”\n\n“In addition to your inevitable disintermediation from the workforce and extremely bleak prospects, very soon, the world will go to war over clean water.”\n\n{the audience murmers}\n\n“One billion people alone will be dislocated due to rising sea levels - and, sidenote: your parents think immigration’s bad now, just wait until Texans and Floridians arrive in Kansas looking for a new home.”\n\n{grumbling, laughing, some people start standing}\n\n“What will happen when three billion people between China and India don’t have enough to drink? Why, they will turn desperate, hard-line, fascist.”\n\n“Everywhere, democracies are upending in favor of totalitarian governments due to a shrinking middle class and rising levels of poverty and powerlessness.”\n\n{angry shouts from the crowd}\n\n“And don’t think the US is somehow immune from upheaval. The most positive outcome for the United States to remedy its political division is an outright rejection of Federalism through civil war, whereas the worst is a nuclear holocaust. Don’t be concerned about Trump - be afraid of who follows him! Only the naive think we’re going to just shake hands and makeup with our neighbors. We’ll eat them, lest we break ourselves into smaller political components.”\n\n{people start standing up, heading for the door}\n\n“And all of this is in your time. You have the misfortune of following those who did nothing, said nothing, tried nothing, and I deeply regret my role in your suffering. I am sorry! You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to inherit a world that has no future!”\n\n{security guards begin pulling the teacher away from the podium; the teacher struggles}\n\n“I-I hope you are different and will do something - try anything - to change our trajectory! To strive for bigger meaning! To fight for the benefit of all rather than your own myopic, narcissistic, selfish interests! There’s value in truth! It’s what we should be saying!”\n\n{Leaning into the mic…}\n\n“But-but hey, hey - trust me on the sunscreen!”\n\n{the old man is dragged off stage}\n\n{end scene}" } ]
[ { "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 Academy of Erebos\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2806\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I stood gawking at the palace that defiantly stood amidst the swirling snowstorm. Barren, naked trees flanked the palace on all sides, creating a radial pattern that spiralled outwards towards the property wall. A lone dirt path pierced through the middle of the forest, meandering from the front gates to the foreboding palace. \nThe Academy of Erebos was renowned for transforming juvenile drug traffickers into graduates of the most prestigious universities from all corners of the world. \nThat was precisely why I discovered myself walking within the Gothic hallways of the castle-like institute on a freezing December evening instead of spending a cosy evening sipping hot chocolate, escorted by a tall man with raven-black hair, bronze skin, and black eyes while struggling to drag my suitcase behind me. \n“This is the way to Wing Seven, where you will find the science labs,” Mr. Hyperion droned. He had a small scar resembling an ebony shooting star embedded into his neck that stretched and squeezed with every word he said. “And take that staircase up to the second and third floors to find the classrooms dedicated to the fine arts.”\nMr. Hyperion continued onwards towards the thousandth spiral staircase that I had encountered since the entrance to the building, and this time he started climbing the stairs. Each stair was composed of antique wood, with a regal red carpet fitted perfectly onto its centre. Not a speck of dust was caught on the surface of the carpet. \n“These stairs will take you to the administrative wing of the academy, which is off-limits to students unless your presence is requested by the administrators,” Mr. Hyperion explained as we climbed stair after stair that stretched endlessly up towards the towering, pointed ceiling fitting for a cathedral. “Ms. Marwood, the superintendent, is looking forward to meeting you.”\n“Wonderful,” I grumbled as my suitcase bounced off each step with a resonating boom. \nTwo minutes later, we arrived at the level reserved for the administrators, which overarched the entire school. Four doors were placed on either side of a dimly lit hallway that extended deeper into the level. \nMr. Hyperion breezed past the eight doors and reached the final door at the end of the hallway, with the glittering golden word “SUPERINTENDENT” etched onto it. \n“Bring the student in,” a voice commanded before Mr. Hyperion knocked on the door. \nMr. Hyperion mechanically opened the door, and frigid grey light filtered into the hallway. \n“Hello, Aurelio Russo,” the superintendent greeted. “You may sit on the chair over there.”\nShe was seated behind an oak desk centred in front of a large window overlooking the barren forest far below. The superintendent was a tall woman of pale complexion, with frigid ice-blue eyes and platinum-blond hair done in a neat updo. The flawlessness of her skin contrasted her striking maroon-coloured lips. \nI wordlessly sat down, staring at the grandfather clock that was ticking in the corner of the room. The phrase amplectere verum was painted onto the centre of the grandfather clock. \n“Let’s do some introductions,” she purred. “My name is Layla Marwood, and I am the superintendent of the Academy of Erebos. You are going to have a life-changing experience here, Aurelio. My job is to help students make their dreams a reality. That is why our motto is amplectere verum, or embrace the truth in Latin.\n“Lessons are held every day of the week, from eight in the morning to eight in the evening, with allocated times for meals. Time afterward is reserved for homework assignments, and by eleven, all students are expected to go to bed.\n“We offer lessons across all subjects to ensure that our students can tackle anything universities may throw at them. \n“Already this has proven to be a success. The thousands that we have graduated from the academy have found successful jobs following our educational program.”\n“What about holidays?” I asked urgently. “When are the school holidays?”\n“The time between eleven and 7:30–when you are expected to go to breakfast and attend the morning orientation assemblies–is a holiday. What more could a student want?”\n“An actual holiday, away from this campus, for weeks at a time,” I clarified. “That is what all students dream of. And did you not just tell us to make our dreams come true?”\nAs soon as the words left my mouth, Ms. Marwood’s fist flew onto the desk, slamming it so hard that her teacup jiggled around. Her ice-blue eyes grew more frigid as she narrowed them on me. \n“Several things, Mr. Russo,” Ms. Marwood snarled. “Firstly, that is the kind of unruly thinking that the institute aims to eradicate. Starting right now, you are not to even dream of leaving the campus. It is why you signed up for boarding school until you graduate from a prestigious university. Secondly, you are to address me as Ms. Marwood, not as you. Do you understand me?”\n“Yes, Ms. Marwood,” I murmured. \n“Excellent.” She finished her tea as she set centimetre-thick stacks of paper in front of me. “Your dorm room is in Wing 10B, along with the other new Year 9 students. You will be woken up at the crack of dawn, and you are to wear the formal uniform. You are dismissed.”\nShe started ruffling through more stacks of paper on her desk, making it clear that she was done with me. \nMr. Hyperion opened the door, escorting me out of her office. \nAs I filed the stacks of paper into my suitcase outside of Ms. Marwood’s office, one thing struck me as odd: there were no windows within Ms. Marwood’s office looked towards the hallway, which meant she could not have known who was standing outside. \n*\nI discovered that I happened to share my dorm room with three other students. While Athamus and Narcissus, who shared a bunk bed, remained aloof towards me, Efram Eburnus, who was short with brown hair and green eyes, was cordial, which I found welcoming after experiencing both the literal and figurative blizzard of the academy. \n“I swear, Ms. Marwood wants us to become soldiers,” Efram grumbled over dinner, which was chicken soup. “She instructs all of the teachers to make sure that our hair is combed rigidly towards the right, our ties are impeccably done and we sit ramrod straight. Anyone caught disobeying the rules is punished severely.”\n“Punished?” I gulped. “How?”\n“In a range of different torture methods, the most common one being reduced sleeping hours. Mr. Hyperion, the Dean of Discipline, drags you to his office and forces you to write ‘I will follow the rules’ two hundred and fifty times on the blackboard, after which they strike you across the back.”\n“Have you ever been punished like that?”\n“Oh yes. Multiple times.”\nI discovered that Efram, like all of the other students, was from a wealthy family that had failed to discipline him properly. Eburnus Incorporated the most prominent oil trading industry in the world, and Efram bragged that with the word of his father, the global economy could sway. \nI, too, had heard of Eburnus Incorporated through discussions between my father and mother, who were the owners of the space exploration company worth trillions called InterStellar. \nWhile I was eating my cold soup, I noticed that the majority of the student body had the scar of the shooting star I had seen on Mr. Hyperion’s neck etched into their necks as well, with the only exception being Efram and Narcissus, one of my other roommates. I also noticed that Efram and Narcissus were the only ones who were eating dirtily or talking; the other students were all mechanically scooping the soup into their mouths while staring off into space. Meanwhile, the teachers were methodically striding back and forth, with their eyes scanning students from seat to seat. \n“You better be careful,” Efram warned when my spoon went flying off of the tray and clattered noisily onto the ground. \n“Why?”\nEfram pursed his lips as the teachers all simultaneously glared at us. “I don’t know if I trust you well enough to tell you that yet.”\nThe gong at the clock tower, located at the side of the main building, went off, signalling the end of dinner. \n\nLife soon fell into methodical order at the academy, with breakfast in the early mornings, and rigid schoolwide assemblies conducted by Ms. Marwood afterward, followed by intensive lessons. In total, there were eleven subjects spanning over eleven hours a day, each with its homework assignments. \nAfter a month of attending the academy, I no longer craved the freedom I once used to enjoy. How could I dare frolic around in meadows when there were textbooks to read and worksheets to complete and pencils to sharpen?\nHowever, while I began to assimilate into life at the Academy of Erebos, Efram, who grew to become my best friend, became more and more fretful. His effervescent nature was dimmed into a vexed and depressed husk of his former self, and he began to fail in his studies. \nOne night, after the lightbulb flickered off and Athamus and Narcissus began snoring, Efram crept down from the top bunk and plopped down next to me. \n“What do you want?” I whispered.\n“I have something very important to tell you.” The window filtered in enough moonlight to unveil the dark circles under his eyes. “Do you feel anything off about this place?”\n“In what manner?” \n“Everyone behaves in the same way here,” Efram answered, casting a glance at the shadows in the room. “It’s like no one has their own personality. Everyone does their thing mechanically and rigidly, like preprogrammed machines rather than living humans.”\nI felt a cold, steel hand gripping my windpipe. I had noticed something off about the academy when I had first met Mr. Hyperion, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on it then. Now, the blurry puzzle was sharpening into focus. \n“Everyone has the mark of a shooting star etched into the side of their neck,” I recalled. “Except for us.”\n“And one other person.” Efram shuddered. “Ms. Marwood.”\n“You think she’s doing something?”\n“Oh, I don’t think. I know she’s doing something. A few days ago, when you were sleeping in the nurse’s office after you got food poisoning, I was woken up to the sound of Narcissus screaming.\n“I thought he had a nightmare, but I realised that the screams were coming from outside our room. It sounded like he was being dragged off somewhere, and I heard Ms. Marwood’s artificially sweet voice amidst the screams. \n“The next day, a shooting star mark formed on Narcissus’s neck, and his personality was gone. I asked him what happened to him, and he just said, ‘I’ve embraced the truth.’”\n“Amplectere verum,” I murmured, recalling the motto of the school. \n“Ms. Marwood is pulling the strings of a sinister game,” Efram continued. “She has the whole school under some kind of spell. Neither of us are safe here.”\n“What do you propose we do?” I countered. \n“I have a lot of money with me hidden inside my sack. In three nights, we’re going to sneak out of the campus. It’s only a two-hour walk to London, and from there we can go anywhere we want.”\nBefore Efram crawled back into his bed, he gave a final whisper: “She’s going to come for us soon.”\n\nOne night later, a shrill shriek startled me from my sleep. Cats scratching against blackboards could not even begin to compare to the blood-curling nature of the scream. It took me a second longer to realise that Efram was not in his bed anymore. \nMy heartbeat lurched into my throat, and the room began to spin as I waited dreadfully for Efram to return. \nFive hours and forty-five minutes later, when the first weak, grey rays of sunlight began to break through the blizzard, Efram dreamily came back with dilated pupils. \n“Are you okay?”\n“I’ve embraced the truth.” The sunlight bounced off of the glittering shooting star that was now engraved into his neck. \n\nIt was clear that escape was of utmost importance, now that Efram had fallen into Ms. Marwood’s plot. After everyone else fell asleep that night, I shoved the wad of Efram’s cash into my suitcase, slipped into my winter jacket, and silently slithered out of the room.\nEvery little rustle I heard served to accelerate my pounding heartbeat, every shadow morphed into the outstretched claw of a corpse, every speck of light was the glint of a sword, and every unopened door I ran by concealed Ms. Marwood. The hallways stretched in every direction as I failed to find the right path toward the exit. \n“Ow!” I roared as I crashed into a door. \nBile burned my tongue and my hands turned clammy when the doorknob began to turn. \nI flew at light speed, colliding with statues, shattering vases, and kicking stray chairs out of the way. I finally entered the same hallway that led to the main entrance, with the ominous reverberations of the clock striking midnight echoing in the dead stillness of the night. \nI thrust the front door open and ran outside into the blizzard…\n…to find Ms. Marwood waiting patiently. She was clad in a black cloak that contrasted her eyes, which glittered like diamonds. \n“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked sweetly. \nI turned back, only to find Mr. Hyperion blocking my path. \n“Too little too late.” Ms. Marwood clucked her tongue at Mr. Hyperion. “Let’s bring him into my office, shall we?”\n\nMy arms and legs were bound onto the wooden chair with leather straps, while Mr. Hyperion forced my head onto a headrest that was locked towards the grandfather clock. \n“Aurelio Russo,” Ms. Marwood purred. “You’re a bright one, aren’t you? Incredibly, you’ve managed to piece together almost everything going on here. Let’s clear up some details, shall we?\n“All current and former students and teachers of the Academy of Erebos, except yourself, are part of a grander, collective consciousness that psychologists call a hive mind. No one who attends the Academy of Erebos is an individual, once they come here. They become extensions of my consciousness.”\n“Why?” I snapped. “All that will do is give you a massive headache!”\n“Well, obviously I can’t consciously control the hundreds of thousands of people that I’ve hypnotised,” Ms. Marwood corrected. “They become programmed, I should say, to follow my orders. And I exert my influence upon everyone to gain power, fool.\n“Every university they graduate from, every prosperous job they find, it was all thanks to me. All I request is for them to do things how I see fit. The world is already becoming my oyster, Aurelio, whether you want to admit it or not. How else do you think the wealthiest children on this planet are all concentrated here, under my influence?”\n“So, you scheme to control the minds of everyone who steps foot in this godforsaken academy to make sure that the world runs your way?” I summarised. “That’s insane.”\n“No, that’s practical.” Her eyes flashed hungrily. “Do you know how much money I’m making, how many people I’ve murdered, how many businesses I’ve corrupted, and how much political power I’ve gained? I’m building a global empire, Aurelio. And to start, the most influential people of the planet need to be subjugated.”\n“You will never get away with this,” I growled through gritted teeth. \n“Darling, I already have.” Her smile was as frozen as the raging snowstorm roaring outside. \nMs. Marwood plucked an ebony hairpin from her updo, letting her wavy hair stretch below her shoulders. The end of the hairpin was marked with the emblem of a shooting star. \n“This will be far easier for both of us if you hold still,” Ms. Marwood warned as she stalked towards me, brandishing the hairpin like a sword. \n“You’re not going to do anything to me!” I shrieked. \nMr. Hyperion clamped his hand around my mouth, muffling my cries for help. \nA mad glee glittered in Ms. Marwood’s eyes. “Count to ten, Aurelio. I’m letting you embrace the truth.”\nShe stabbed the hairpin into the left side of my neck, while the smell of melting caramel began burning my sinuses. \nThe world turned black. \n*\nThe young man in his early twenties slowly exited the taxi cab and meandered towards the outstretched arms of his parents. \n“Aurelio, we’ve missed you!” the father exclaimed. \n“Interesting,” he replied without a trace of emotion in him. \nThe parents exchanged glances. \n“What is that black scar on your neck?” the mother demanded. “Why does it look like a shooting star?”\nHe didn’t answer. \n“Have you learnt anything useful during your four years in the Academy of Erebos?” the father tentatively inquired. \n“I’ve embraced the truth.” Aurelio continued onwards, into the house." } ]
[ { "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: Look to Yourself\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1399\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "*Journey off the well-beaten path, please\n\n“No, I’m not doing it,” I said as tonelessly as I could, because as soon as I said the word no, the mid or late 20-something-year-old man’s hand flinched. \n\n“You have an obligation to meet with a sponsor if the company tells you to.” He insisted in a tight tone. \n\nThree years after arriving in Korea, back in the 6th grade, I could understand Korean well enough to understand tone. 14-year-old me was about to get hit if I said again that I was not doing what he was telling me. However, I was not doing what he was saying. Why did a 14-year-old need to go to a karaoke room with a man older than their father? My father, the man who had signed the contract that brought me to the country, was not even 40 years old yet! Still, I was about to yet again pull my trump card and do what no local trainee would dare to do.\n\n“No, no, no, I’m not doing it! I don’t want to go anywhere with some pervert!” I shouted back loudly at the manager. Then I hurried out of his reach and quit the room to make sure that I would get away with it. When I had first arrived, I had talked back all the time, but it was unintentional and due to growing up as the national of a country with nearly no hierarchy system. They thought that they had managed to discipline and train that trait out of me, yet I still knew how to use it, as well as pretending not to understand and walking off strategically. How could I be expected to understand someone speaking too quickly and shouting after me like some madman in a foreign language? Maybe he had a reason, maybe he had nothing better to do to relieve his crushing stress levels than yell at a high school kid? I left the room, so he would not see the rather triumphant look on my face at his frustration and pursue me or throw something at me for treating him like that. \n\nWhat was he really going to do about it? Give me penalty points and tell the company's boss, thinking my parents would be called? Highly doubtful, given that the first time the company had called Papa back in the earliest trainee days, he'd let them speak maybe 2 minutes before he'd understood some of what was being explained in awkward halted Konglish and interrupted. Papa had given them such a good piece of his mind in perfect west coast English with plenty of curse words in his native Hokkien tossed in, about even daring to call his home just to complain about his only child, that the company's boss had vowed to never speak with Mr. Yeh again about anything. I'd been standing in the boss's office at the time and paid the price when the boss chucked his phone at my fleeing back and head whilst he was shouting at me to scram.\n\nIf something needed to be discussed, signed, consent given, or whatever, the company just sent Papa an email like I did every few weeks or so. I highly doubted that he knew anything about the company's latest plan for my future, though, which was in direct opposition to his expressed concerns for his, at the time of contract negotiations, elementary school-aged daughter and the company's promises meant to persuade him. The company had already been holding the passport that I had traveled under hostage in supposed company possession for the past three years, ignoring Papa's repeated demands for its return to him despite its eventual expiration, due to fears he would remove me from the country and cause a quite expensively negotiated 7-year long contract to fall through. In the meantime, I remained a mere pawn.\n\nA week or so later, as I sat in the backseat of a car taking me back to the company’s buildings after school, I looked up briefly from my homework and realized something. The way back to the company had changed, the way I was driven back and forth to the international school five days a week had miraculously changed. But I had seen this manager before and besides as just a nobody rookie trainee and foreigner with brown skin, yeah, I knew that nobody was going to bother to kidnap me. It didn’t take long to put two and two together and make four, though.\n\nOkay, class! Okay, kids! Pop quiz! How do you get out of going somewhere you do not want to go to do something against your will?\n\nThe car stopped in front of an unassuming tower multipurpose building and the manager got out. He came around to open the backseat passenger side door for me, pulling me out and saying, “Okay, kid, let’s go!” \n\nObediently, I exited the vehicle, turned on my heels, and promptly started jogging down the block. The sidewalk was semi-crowded, but I elbowed my way through. Tall for my age with long legs, which were currently on display in the school uniform skirt, it took less than a minute to disappear out of the shouting manager’s sight. \n\nAfter wandering around, like the lost orphan in a strange land that I was, for a few hours, I found my way back to the building used for trainees. Part of me was contemplating not returning and giving up, not that I missed or wanted to go back to where I had come from. And it was ultimately that fact that made me enter the building and accept the fallout after a lengthy head tilted backward look at the now fully activated lights of Seongdong. No more could I be the highly contested trophy of unmarried parents of widely different cultures and origins who couldn't get along to save their lives. Long expected to endure in silence with stoicism, I had had to learn how to and try to survive it all on my own.\n\nYou failed, you got it wrong, kid….if you don't get another retake, then what?\n\nThe next day, after school, the usual ride back once again changed, and I ducked my head as if I didn’t notice. Instead of coasting along to a stop along the sidewalk that was slowly filling with more people yet again as restaurants opened and students were on their way to their first or second after-school academy to learn something more, the car instead entered an underground parking lot. Although I had played flute from third grade and cello from first grade, now there was certainly no time for that. \n\n“The boss says this is your last chance, kid!” The manager said as he opened the car door to let me out. “Act normal, no more refusing or running away. Smile, be nice to this very nice man, and don’t you dare say no to or ignore anything that he says to you.” \n\nHis hand clenched around my wrist agonizingly tight as we entered the elevators and forced his eyes to catch mine in the mounted mirror on the wall. A few weeks ago, I had been taken to get lenses and told to stop wearing my glasses during the day. And to stop plaiting and tying my hair unless I was at school or practicing, although it was down past the middle of my back and annoyingly thick and curly, so I did not like it loose and heavy between my shoulder blades. \n\nWe arrived on the 14th floor of the building and I heard the music already before the doors opened. Unsurprisingly, it was music produced by the company.\n\n“Last chance, kid!” He let go of my wrist and pushed me along the hallway with a hand on the shoulder, shoving me along.\n\nOkay, kid! Pop quiz! How do you get through a difficult task and achieve your goals? Smile and pretend you’re someone else. \n\nThe room door opened and I started the quiz.\n\nFriday, after school, I found out that I passed the quiz. The car went the usual way back, and when I looked up, the manager glanced at me briefly.\n\n“The boss says you go meet the sponsor again another day.” \n\nAnd that reinforced something that I had already learned many years ago, you are your own best teacher and tutor in 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: Further Down The Tracks\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2856\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“And that is why rail tracks are four feet and eight and a half inches apart.”\nMr Burton bestowed his dazzling smile upon the class, but somehow managed to make it land on Darren. Darren blushed, but returned the smile all the same. Mr Burton was his hero, or something like that. Mr Burton was cool and he not only knew stuff, he knew how to tell it in a way that made it really interesting to a point that the pupils in the class were lapping it up.\n“So you’re saying that train tracks are the width they are thanks to horse butts?” \nThere was a half-arsed round of laughter from the speaker’s friends and a few more hangers on. Peter was the one who had spoken, and despite his lame quip, he was one of the brightest here. Darren resented Peter’s act. Peter was rebelling against his own intelligence and showing disdain towards his potential, but it was all an act and Peter would follow his parents into one of their professions or do something similarly drab and mundane. Perhaps this was his last hurrah before he got sucked into the corporate machine and the last of his humanity was cleansed from him.\nMr Burton smiled a different smile to his dazzling smile as he addressed Peter and his flippant comment, “Roman horse butts, Peter, as you well know.” Then the teacher returned his attention to his class, “now I want you all to write an essay entitled, ‘What Have The Romans Ever Done For Us.”\nThere was a collective groan. This was obligatory behaviour and it was wallpaper to Mr Burton. He casually looked at his watch, “you have fifteen minutes to work on your essay in class. The finished essay needs to be with me when we next we meet.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, but everyone knew what was coming next. They would be disappointed if it didn’t.\n“You know what?” he rubbed his chin as he mulled matters further, “I think I will serenade you as you write.”\nHe walked over to a metal cabinet and flung the right door open, pausing in wonderment at his discovery, “oh look! There’s a guitar!”\nMr Burton could not hide his glee as he snatched up the guitar in question. He jumped backwards landing his rear on his desk and launched into one of his impromptu songs. His made up lyrics were always about the subject in hand and served as a prompt as the class went about their work.\nWhat did the Romans ever do for us?\nWell that’s for you lot to suss.\nThey may have been imperial toads,\nBut they built mighty fine roads.\nNo one ever said his lyrics were going to win a prize, but they were fun and there was something magically mad in Mr Burton’s delivery.\n\nDarren hadn’t had the easiest ride of it as a kid, but he knew he didn’t have the worst of it either. He knew there was always someone worse off than him and there was plenty of evidence of that at school. At times, when he was in the thick of it, he couldn’t see beyond the struggle and pain of his plight, but as he moved on and grew out of that phase he got that it was just that. A phase. He sometimes thought that those uncomfortable, intermediate years were a form of grief. Change was hard, and one of the hardest times in a person’s life was when they lost their bubble of innocence and their childhood was coming to an end.\nNot that it ended any time soon. Childhood extended well beyond the phase where children thought they had outgrown everything and knew it all. They were selfishly oblivious to the indulgence they were afforded as they kicked and railed and painted everything around them as bad. \nTwo year olds might have had physical temper tantrums, but teens went the whole hog and waged angry, psychological warfare on the world. Those teenage years were a chrysalis of anger and the worst of it was that the butterfly that emerged from that was not a triumph. There was no beauty in it. That was still to come. A person had to work at beauty, do a bunch of living and earn their wings and strive for a beauty that belonged in the world.\nHowever, good, bad or ugly Darren’s childhood had been, he knew he’d been brought up the right way. He had values. So he never got the subcultural tradition of that kid punching a teacher on the last day of school. \nThe kid that did this wasn’t the one who’d had it worse than everyone else, far from it. The kid who thought it right to punch a teacher was differentiated from everyone else by the level of their entitlement. They felt they had more right to punch the teacher than anyone else.\nNow, a kid with some sort of code, a person with something about them, they would punch the most deserving of the teachers. The recipient of the punch of defiance would be a man. That much was obvious. It was set in stone. No one was going to punch a female teacher. That just wasn’t done. Never had been. Never would be. Not even Mel had done that when she’d been that kid in Darren’s second year here. No, she’d slapped Mr Woolstencroft, the geography teacher.\nWhy Mr Woolstencroft?\nDarren thought it was because he was average. He wasn’t the worst and he wasn’t the best and that made him symbolic of the establishment. Mr Woolstencroft was a representative of the system and that kid got the slap in before they were fed into the machine that awaited them and became something they despised. \nMr Woolstencroft and teachers like him were everything in that moment, and yet they were nothing. Their lack of value made the slap so very easy, but it also rendered it a pathetic and worthless act. Better to go for the worst of the teachers. Better to make a stand against that person who took their place in the machine and not only let it define them, but went with it and used their position to be their version of that kid again and again and again.\nMr Jones the PE teacher was the one to target in that respect. The man was a brute and a bully. Darren would have liked to have seen him taken down a peg or two. A slap would not do. It would have to be done properly, or not at all. Humiliation was the only way. Showing Mr Jones up in public and making him do a walk of shame in front of the whole school. Darren had had day dreams of Mr Jones’ comeuppance. Often, these dreams were in the wake of a PE lesson where Darren’s lack of physical prowess had been mercilessly exploited and he had been mocked ceaselessly by the older man.\nNo one would ever stand up to Mr Jones though, in fact the bigger and stronger of the boys looked up to him. They aspired to that brutality. They valued it. There would be more Mr Jones in the world and few of them would ever be challenged. That was just the way it worked. A random Mr Average got a slap and the Joneses plied their bullying trade with impunity.\nAt least most years, the good guys were left out of the sad drama of the last day. \nMost years.\nDarren didn’t see what happened, but the rumour of what had happened spread a little like the fire that consumed Mr Burton’s guitar. \nSomeone had burned Mr Burton’s guitar.\nIt hurt Darren to hear this and he was probably one of the first to hear. How he discovered this sacrilegious act was something that he never attended to. He did not register who it was that told him, and those details were lost in the mists of time as almost immediately after this terrible atrocity, Darren had seen Mr Burton. He’d seen his favourite teacher. They had crossed paths and Darren had seen the hurt of betrayal in the man’s eyes. He’d seen the slumped posture and a face creased with hurt and his heart had gone out to a man who had made these past five years not only bearable, but special.\nDarren had wanted to say something. He’d wanted to do something, but the moment had passed just as Mr Burton had passed by him, and then it was all over and there was no taking it back. School was over as was Darren’s time with someone who contained a spark that Darren had never encountered before.\n· \nThey say you should never go back.\nDarren had heard the words and he knew there was merit within them, but they did not hold any definition, just like those road signs that warn of a potential hazard. Deer never crossed Darren’s road, so the sign was a distraction and a hazard in itself. Something to be ignored in favour of the road ahead and the journey itself.\nThey say you should never go back, but there he was and Darren was back. His heart stopped momentarily and then it fluttered and his face flushed with that familiar blush that only Mr Burton could illicit. The blush was that thing that goes wrong when everything else was so right. \nDarren saw Mr Burton and time slowed almost to a stop. He was back in that corridor, seeing Mr Burton for the last time, only this Mr Burton was different, and he was different because Darren was now different. \nDarren had grown up. He was a man now. At least on paper he was. It would be a good few years before he would wake up to how far away from being a man he still was. There was still a fair way for Darren to go before he lost the last vestiges of his childhood and his innocence.\nMr Burton was the same, but he was also a million miles away from being the same. They were out of school now and they were both different animals away from that environment. They were also thirty miles away from the school where Mel slapped Mr Woolstencroft’s face and laughed at his injury and surprise before being escorted from the premises.\nThis was a chance encounter and the unexpected aspect of their meeting made it all the more exotic for Darren.\n“Mr Burton!” his eager and childlike voice diminished Darren and for an agonising series of seconds it looked for all the world like Mr Burton would deny Darren. There was the hint of recognition in the older man’s demeanour, but nothing more. This was an act of ignorance that threatened to expunge the memories Darren had of this man as a hero and possibly more than a hero. \nEverything could so easily have been burned away had the world turned in another direction.\nDarren did not register the reluctance that almost saw Mr Burton pass him by. There was the briefest conflict, then the battle was over and Mr Burton was smiling at his former star pupil as he came to a standstill and facilitated their encounter.\nThe decision was made.\nIt was done.\n\n“Please. No more. This has to be the last time.”\nDan Burton is distraught. He is sitting on the very edge of the armchair with his head in his hands, barely recognisable as the happy-go-lucky teacher who inspires children with his boundless energy and his ability to relate to them on their level and yet impart the wisdom of the ages.\nThis here is not the history teacher who brings the past to life.\nThis is a broken man who has never learnt from a history that is so much closer to home.\nHis body shakes gently with the memory of tears and sobbing, but there are no more tears within him. He is beyond that now, and yet he wants it all to stop. He cannot go on like this. Not now. \nNot after Darren.\nDan cannot bear to look up and see the couple on the sofa across from him, but he hears the slurping and he knows full well what is occurring. His mind’s eye provides him with a tableau he has seen so many times before it lives with him always.\nHe waits it out. Not quite frozen in place. Not quite able to transport himself away from the room and the dark business that is taking place just a step away. So close, he could reach out and touch the still warm corpse of his former pupil.\nEventually, the slurping stops and Dan knows that his wife, Sophie, has finished her meal. He looks up. She is leaning back on the sofa, eyes closed. She’s not sleeping, just resting her eyes. Dormant and waiting.\nNow it is for Dan to show their guest to his room for the night, only tonight will be the last night this room exists. Come the morning, this house will be ashes and the family who own it will return from their holiday to a major inconvenience.\nDan takes a hammer with him. \nDarren will never be identified. One of those troubled young men who go missing, never to be found again.\nA boring statistic that should convey sadness, but never does.\nAs he carries Darren up the stairs to the bedroom he gazes down at the lifeless body and says a silent apology. The apology is pathetic. A futile slap in the face of life itself. A slap that will never bring Darren around.\nHe lays Darren on the bed and covers it with a duvet after he has made a few minor adjustments to ensure his body will never be identified. Then he sits for a while and tells Darren a little of it.\nDan needs these confessions. This is the only time he speaks of this aspect of his existence. He needs to tell someone, and who better to tell than his star pupils. They get it better than anyone else.\nThey always get it.\n“I burnt my guitar,” he tells Darren’s corpse, “it was a sacrifice that tied you and several others to me.” Dan sighs and straightens the duvet cover absently, “our meeting was not by chance. I’ve known where you are ever since you left school. I knew. But I had to wait you see. Leave it long enough that you being connected to me was less and less likely…”\nDan trails off and looks up towards the window, but the curtains are drawn and he cannot see beyond. Dan has been unable to see beyond for a long while now.\n“It’s Sophie you see,” Dan sighs, “she’s not well. She needs… Well, you know that bit. So every year, she makes me select the best of my students. Every year. Then, a few years later, I bring them to her and the rest, as they say, is history…”\nDan stares intently through the curtains to a place only he can see. Eventually, he stands up unsteadily on stiff legs. \n“It was your brain or mine,” he says into the room, “at least you had a few years after school. I gave you that didn’t I?”\nDan knows that he is a coward, and that he is putting off the certain eventuality of Sophie taking him one of these days. He thinks it will be a long way off from here. For now, he serves his purpose. He can identify the finest of minds and deliver them to the vibrant and beautiful woman he married. \nEach year, he makes a sacrifice in the vain hope that his beautiful Sophie will return to him. He understands that he is in denial, that that Sophie is long gone, and yet he cannot stop. He goes on and on making those sacrifices to the memory of his wife and to a history that he will never revisit or recapture.\nAs he makes his way down the stairs, he sings a song that comes from nowhere and that no one will ever hear. He sings a song that rides on the laughter of his madness and loops around and around until he is dizzied by it, so dizzied that he fancies he sees the old Sophie, napping on the sofa, her skin no longer a vile grey and her chin devoid of the macabre remnants of the meal she made of a young man’s brilliant brain.\nHe kisses her full on the mouth before bundling her into the car for a nice drive. \nAs they drive away, the flames in the bedroom begin removing Darren from this world until history is all that is left of him.\nAs they drive away, Mr Burton sighs. This is the last of the Summer holidays and a new class awaits him. A new batch of fine young minds delighted by his unconventional ways. Beautiful minds, ripe for the taking." } ]
[ { "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: Passion as the Bigger Picture\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2426\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I plopped down next to Alicia and Sarah at our usual table in the Senior Quad and dug out the smooshed PB&J from the bottom of my backpack. It was hard to believe that we only had two months of lunches left at this table and I’d miss them at NYU next year. Well, hopefully at NYU. Alicia had already gotten a scholarship to USC for water polo and she’d be leaving at the end of June to get a head start on her future. Sarah, on the other hand, had gotten accepted into UCLA’s medical program just last week.\n“Any word from NYU?” Sarah asked as she pulled an apple out of her heather gray lunch tote.\n“I haven’t checked today, but I looked last night and still nothing.” I said.\n“Check again! They could have posted by now. So many people have gotten acceptances today, it’s not even funny,” Alicia added, slapping her hands down on the rickety metal table. \nI reached into the pocket of my denim jacket and pulled out my phone.\n“I highly doubt they’ve announced yet.” I said, refreshing my email.\n“Well, worst case scenario, you don’t get in and have to stay in California with us at UC Berkeley or UCSD.” Alicia said, smiling. \n“Alicia!” Sarah exclaimed, elbowing her in the arm.\n“I said worst case scenario!” Alicia snapped back, rubbing her arm.\n“We’ll be sure to visit you in NYU when you get accepted,” Sarah said, placing her hand on my forearm.\nA moment later and it felt like my world had flipped upside down. I couldn’t even read the rest of the email after “Unfortunately, you have not been accepted” blinded my vision. The words circled in my mind while the dreams of my future followed behind, swirling down a toilet.\nMy trendy and modern New York loft, my days working on my novels in Central Park, the New York Times Bestseller stamps, the visions of my first book signing were all gone. Poof. Vamoose. Gone. \nMy stomach was in knots and my mouth hung slightly open. I looked up to find Alicia and Sarah both staring at me.\n“Well?” Alicia asked, her eyes wide and her fists clenched in excitement.\nI knew they’d be happy that we’d all end up in California, but I wasn’t ready to admit my failure.\n“Nothing yet!” I perked up in my seat and shoved my phone back in my pocket.\n“Probably tomorrow,” Alicia said. \nThe rest of lunch was a blur. I could vaguely make out the conversation Alicia and Sarah were having about which color prom dresses to get as they scrolled through options on their phones.\n“Grace?” Sarah asked, shoving her phone closer to my face. “Emerald or burgundy?”\n“Uh, emerald,” I managed to get out. “It’ll make your eyes pop.”\nAs soon as the bell rang, I darted to the bathroom before heading to English. I slammed my back against the plastic blue walls of the inside of a stall and sunk to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.\nIt felt like my dreams were just shy of my reach and NYU was the last step I needed to be close enough to grab onto them and never let go. Hot tears smeared my mascara down my face while I checked the time on my phone. Two minutes late already. \nI closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. My exhale came out shakily as my lips trembled and the tears fell even harder. Finally, I forced myself to the sink and attempted to clean up my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at my reflection. I could feel that my eyes were still puffy but booked it to class anyway.\nMs. Remenski was scribbling onto the whiteboard as I quickly slid into my seat. My hearing still felt muffled as she turned to face us.\n“Today, we’ll be talking about the art of eavesdropping and why so many great stories can come from the most random conversations,” Ms. Remenski announced, capping the magenta Expo marker in her hand. \nShe was wearing one of her many colorful crochet sweaters, super wide-legged dark wash jeans, and clear-framed glasses. Her strawberry blonde hair was twisted up into a bun on the top of her head and secured with a pencil. To finish everything off, in true Ms. Remenski fashion, she wasn’t wearing any shoes, only light pink socks that went between each toe and were covered in little red cherries.\nShe was my favorite teacher. And although English was already my favorite subject, Ms. Rem’s class was what motivated me to pursue creative writing as a career. And outside of her fashion-sense, she was just different from the other teachers. I felt like I could really be myself in her class and just write the stories I wanted to write without the pressure of feeling judged or graded.\nMs. Rem didn’t assign homework, including reading. We did all of the course reading in class together and she never made anyone read aloud if they didn’t want to. And if we did want to read outside of class, she gave us a list of recommendations we could explore if we felt like it. \nInstead of tests, Ms. Remenski simply told us to write about something interesting that happened to us recently, or about a book we’d read, TV show or movie we watched, or a fictional story of our choosing. She didn’t grade them outside of completion, but always asked if we were looking for critiques and feedback. And if we weren't, she was supportive anyway.\nMs. Rem’s only rule was no phones in class. Although, everyone respected it since it was the bare minimum considering we didn’t have to spend time on the subject, if we didn’t want to, outside of class. I, of course, always did the extra options because reading and writing were my passions. Not only that, but I appreciated her feedback on my stories because I knew she was a published novelist and I respected her work.\nBut now, I felt embarrassed. For all of the stories I’d turned in to her. For the effort I’d put into them. It all felt like a waste without NYU.\n“Grace,” Ms. Rem said. I popped up in my seat and snapped out of my thoughts.\n“Have you eavesdropped on anyone recently?”\n“No,” I replied, looking down at my notebook.\n“You write a lot of great stories,” she adds. “Have you ever based one off of a conversation you heard or tidbit of information you gathered about someone in public?”\nI knew I had but I didn’t feel like answering. I didn’t feel like talking about my inspiration or my passion for creative writing because I felt like it was silly. Being rejected from NYU felt like I was being rejected from being a creative writer. And even though UCSD and Berkeley still had good creative writing programs, not being accepted to NYU felt like I couldn’t play in the big leagues. It was like the universe was telling me I was only good at writing but not great or career-worthy.\n“No,” I mumbled, still looking down at my desk. The room was silent for a minute before Ms. Remenski continued.\n“Well, that’s okay.” She said gently and turned back towards the rest of the class. “My point is random conversations you hear at the supermarket or the airport or Starbucks or wherever can really get the inspiration going. Try listening in on others this week. You’ll never know what you’ll find. It might just be some hot gossip if nothing else.” She said, her lips curling into a playful smile.\nThe rest of the class was spent watching an interview with author Ramona Winstead on the art of eavesdropping and how she found inspiration for her most recent novel whilst listening in on an awkward conversation between a couple on their first date.\nFinally the bell rang and I stood to head out with the rest of the class.\n“Grace, can you stick around for a minute?” Ms. Remenski asked, curling her finger in a “come here” motion.\n“Sure.” \nShe watched the remaining students file out of the classroom with her chin dipped downward, making her glasses slide down to the base of her nose. I felt my stomach somersault. I know I could’ve participated more in class, but I really just didn’t have it in me. Today was already bad enough though. I didn’t need the added disappointment of being a letdown to someone else besides myself. \n“Don’t worry you’re not in trouble.” Ms. Rem said, reading my thoughts. “I just wanted to check in with you. I know a lot of college acceptances are coming out. Have you heard back from anywhere you’re interested in?”\nI looked down at the white and gray speckled tiles and clutched my notebook closer to my chest. My stomach was still barrel-rolling down a hill. Once I said it out loud, it would feel all too real. I wanted to live in this space. Where the only person who knew I’d failed was me. Ms. Remenski was the last person I wanted to admit my failure to aside from my parents. A lump formed in my throat and I had to force out my words.\n“Um, yeah. I was accepted at UCSD and UC Berkeley. But I really wanted to go to NYU for their creative writing program…but I didn’t get in.” The last part came out like a whisper. I managed to meet her bright blue eyes. Her gaze was soft and her lips were pressed gently into a smile.\n“Well, congratulations. Those are still both excellent schools with excellent creative writing programs. You should be really proud of yourself.” She replied, removing her glasses and cupping her hands on her desk. Her nails were painted in rainbow swirls and she had a variety of rings spread across her fingers.\n“Yeah,” I croaked, studying her rings before dropping my eyes back to the floor. I could feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes. “I just feel like without NYU my dreams of becoming a novelist might not actually come true.”\nSaying it aloud invited in a tornado that wiped out all of my ambitions and replaced them with new fears. The fear of my lost future. The fear that my stories would never be properly shared. The fear that I’d be living in the wrong universe. I felt the warmth of tears streaming down my cheeks again but I remained silent.\n“Here,” Ms. Rem said, holding out a box of tissues cloaked in a rainbow crochet cover. I took one and blew my nose while the tears continued to slide down my cheeks. \n“Grace,” she asked eagerly. “Can I tell you a secret?”\nI nodded. The lump in my throat was still choking down my words.\n“I know I’m a teacher and all but here’s something I wish someone had told me at your age. It doesn’t matter where you go to school. And while we’re at it, it doesn’t matter if you’re not acing a subject you have no interest in. That's the main reason I don't make you guys do homework or take tests against your will. It also doesn't matter if you accidentally show up a couple minutes after the bell rings, even though Principal Armas would kill me for saying that. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. What matters is your passion for what you do and pursuing your passion, however you can and how often you can. So many people think that going to a certain school will help them be a New York Times Bestseller or win a Nobel Prize or be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Where you go should be based on where you’ll be happiest pursuing your passion while enjoying the experience of college. Success comes later.\"\nI stared at her wide-eyed and sniffled. The tears had stopped but I felt sloshing in my stomach as my head raced to make sense of what she was saying to me.\n“Then why do teachers and parents and everyone else put so much pressure on getting into a ‘good school,’' I asked with air quotes.\nMs. Rem clicked her tongue, “Well, sure, connections through an alumni network can be useful, but if you really apply all of your drive to your chosen passion, you’ll find success regardless of where you went to school. You’ll make success happen for the thing you care about most. Where you choose to go to college doesn’t define your whole future. Once you graduate, it just becomes something listed on your resume and simply a fact about you.”\nI stood silent, my eyes racing back and forth between hers.\n“Grace, you’re a brilliant and promising young writer. I know the future holds nothing but prosperity for you, regardless of whether you live in California or New York.” She reached out and lightly squeezed my arm. \nHer soft smile and reassurance felt like a warm hug. I felt the weight leave my chest and my stomach settle. I felt rays of sun start to peak through the clouds of uncertainty that were storming my mind. UCSD and UC Berkeley were still a step in the right direction. I could make it work.\nShe flipped her head to the clock on the wall.\n“However, not all the other teachers see it like I do – especially tardiness. So, here’s a late slip for your next class,” Ms. Rem winked at me before scribbling on a pink tardy slip.\n“Thanks,” I said, taking the slip from her hand. “For the slip and the advice. I hope you’re right.”\n“I’m seldom wrong,” she smiled proudly.\n“See you tomorrow,” I said, walking towards the door. \n“Oh, and Grace,” she called. I stopped with my hand on the door handle and looked back at her.\n“UCSD is right on the beach.” She winked again. “Just saying.”\nI smiled at her before heading to my next class.\nThat summer, when I wasn’t writing, I was planning weekend trips to visit Alicia and Sarah in LA. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was watching YouTube videos on surfing, preparing for my Beginner Surfing Elective in the fall at UCSD.\n*Disclaimer: I neither attended any of the schools listed nor do I have any positive or negative bias towards them. I’m with Ms. Rem on this one – go, or don’t go, to whatever school you want. Success is found elsewhere." } ]
[ { "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: Who Does Everything Right?\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1612\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“If Jesus was born, lived, and died in our time, would a church be built on his birthplace?” Half the class was asleep, the other half texting. It was always Emma.\n“No, Mr. Emerson, We’d set up a special containment facility, temporarily, then preserve everything, just as it was.” She looked at Oliver, Noah, or any of the boys. A reaction, anything at all was needed. One boy stirred, not the one she hoped for.\n“Yeah, preserve the cow, the dirty straw, pigs being pigs…” piped up Jonah.\nEveryone laughed, even Mr. Emerson, though if you looked closely, with another blown religion lesson, it was no laughing matter. At least Ms. Fife wasn’t sitting in this time.\n“Ok, well, Here’s the grade ten assignment.” With groans, and muttering, a few people woke up, and others started putting their cell phones away. Emma was handing it out. Why does she bother? wondered Mr. Emerson. \n“And don’t forget! I will collect this at the end of this period and mark it!” Mr. Emerson spluttered.\n*\nDelia could tell, she knew right away. “So how did it go today, David?” she asked with her best breezy voice, the one she practiced at school. “Make any converts to the cause?” \nDelia and David sat down opposite each other at a table in the teacher’s lounge. Three weeks into the semester, Delia, the religion department head, was still asking what she could do. Ms. Fife, the principal, must have already talked to her.\n“Fine, Great,” David lied. “Well, actually I feel like quitting.”\n“Oh, yes of course. I'm sure you won’t mind heading up plans for St. Francis' monthly Mass. This Friday. Remember? You’ll need to remind Father McCaffrey and don’t forget to tell the music teacher about what she needs to rehearse in the way of music for the Mass.” She took a gulp from her coffee and stared at her homemade ham sandwich. Then it was like she suddenly woke up.\n“Did you say you want to quit?”\n“Yes. I did say that.”\n“Why?”\nWhy? Oh, I don’t know, thought David. Was it the only job he could get as a teacher? Were people banging down the door trying to teach religion to teenagers? This job had to be the hardest teaching job on the planet!\n“David, just tell me one thing I can help you with.”\nSo much to choose from! “How about how no matter how interesting I make my lessons, no one engages? What do you do about that?”\nDelia sighed. “I heard that you’re letting your students use their cell phones in class. That’s against school policy. You might want to do something about that. It’s hard to compete with the internet.”\n“So, what do I do exactly?”\n“Tell them it’s not allowed and enforce the rule of no cell phone use during class time.”\n\nIf David had the wisdom that an experienced teacher had, he would have known to never allow a situation like this to develop in the first place. But he was stuck with a problem now that even an experienced teacher would have trouble dealing with. David went to see the vice principal in his spare, to get his ideas.\n“Hello David!” chimed Mr. O’Malley. He threw a tennis ball at him from behind his desk. David fumbled the catch, picked it up off the floor, and handed it back. \n“Just wanted to see if you are on the ball! That’s all!”\n“Not my day,” David muttered. \n“What can I do you for?”\nDavid sat down in one of the two chairs opposite Mr. O’Malley’s desk. Mr. O’Malley made to get up and shut the door to his office.\n“Don’t do that, please,” David asked.\n“Sure. No sweat. What’s up?”\n“My students use their cell phones when I teach them.”\n“And?”\n“I can’t get through to them now in my lessons.”\n“Perfectly understandable. So, do you want a plan to deal with this? I can help you with that. First off, are your students wearing their uniforms properly?”\nDavid wanted to ask what that could possibly have to do with cell phone use in class, but he let it go and just answered the question.\n“No.” \n“Well, that is what you start with.” Mr. O’Malley told him to have written work on the board that the students would be expected to copy when they got in class. Then he wanted David to follow this up each day with an inspection and make a note of all infractions of the school dress code. Three strikes would result in a trip to see the VP. \n“Oh, and one more thing. I want the name of your worst-behaved student in your worst class. We’ll develop something a little later after you have made an impression over the uniforms.”\n“But what about cellphone use?”\n“One thing at a time. We’ll get to it.”\n\nThe very next day, David implemented the plan. And over the days that followed he started to see the genius behind it. Confronting everyone over cell phone use could have been an explosive situation for any teacher. But nitpicking over how teenagers dressed, over small things that could be easily fixed was making students take him seriously. No one wanted to go see the VP and have their parents come to the school for an interview about their uniform. David went back to see Mr. O’Malley to tell him about his progress. This time he caught the ball and laid it on his desk.\n“So?”\n“Great, simply great. It’s been four days and all I have to do is look at a student closely and they start to wonder what they might be doing wrong.”\n“It’s like anything in life,\" expounded the VP. \"If you hold people accountable, they will respond. Now about cell phones. Just put the rule on the board and have a little chat. Be honest. Say you didn’t think the rule was important, and now you have trouble getting people to do their work. Tell them it is important. Ask for cooperation and then in a few days, send your worst-behaved student to me so I can suspend them.”\nDavid was aghast. Suspension? “But what if my worst-behaved student is not using his cell phone?”\n“That is an impossibility!” smiled Mr. O’Malley.\n\nThe chat went well. David didn’t belabor the point or spend a lot of time explaining things. He wasn’t openly challenged about the rule. Other teachers weren’t allowing cell phone use, so the students had expected the change anyway. He started his lesson. The class had been focusing on the life of Jesus, his birth and early life had been covered. Now they would focus on how and why Jesus was considered to have worked miracles and healed people. David started by asking if the students actually believed that miracles had occurred. Emma was first. \n“Of course, those miracles happened!” she so brightly said, frowning when quite a few of the other students booed her.\n“Now class,” Mr. Emerson cautioned. “We need to be more respectful of each other’s opinions.” He focused on Emma, noticing that her cheeks were flushed, and he wondered if he should risk calling on her. He decided to give it a try. “Emma, can you give a reason for why you believe this?”\n“Well, if Jesus hadn’t done anything special in his life would we even know about him?”\nMr. Emerson was surprised by her answer. “Excellent. Who would like to reply to that?”\nJonah had something to say. “This is such a joke! If Jesus did miracles it would only be because they didn’t have hospitals back then!” Many students laughed and some even jeered.\nMr. Emerson waited for the noise to die down. “So, Jonah, whether Jesus did miracles or not doesn’t matter? Is that what I hear you saying?”\nJonah rolled his eyes and waited. Then he got tense and angry suddenly. “Religion is a joke! I have to take religion because my parents make me go to this stupid school! I could care less about this stuff!”\nThe class got extremely quiet. It was like everyone was holding their breath. All eyes were on Mr. Emerson.\n“You don’t have to believe what is taught here Jonah, we have students here who are not Roman Catholics.”\n“Whatever!”\n“So, you abstain from further discussion on this topic? That’s perfectly OK.”\n“I don’t need your permission for anything!” Jonah was livid, and he even stood up. He held up his cell for everyone to see. “And one more thing. I’ll use my cell phone whenever I want!”\n“Leave my class. Go to the office! Now!”\n**\nDavid dropped by Mr. O’Malley’s office after school that day. His face was burning, and he felt exhausted. The VP didn’t throw that ball this time.\n“Five-day suspension. Nicely handled!” chirped the VP.\nDavid slumped into a chair. Why on earth did things go this way? His unspoken thought. It was like Mr. O’Malley could read his mind.\n“Don’t take the whole world on your shoulders, David. We’re not that important!”\n“But what about Jonah?” moaned David.\n“Jonah? I’ll suggest to his parents that he go to a public school. Failing that, he can serve his suspension for flagrant disrespect of a teacher.”\n“So, I didn’t do anything wrong?”\n“Who does everything right David?”\nDavid left that question unanswered and thanked Mr. O’Malley for his help. Outside, it was well past five and he still had a lot of marking to do. The cool fall air was invigorating. David smiled and put his earbuds on. Maybe he could do the hardest job on the planet after 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: The mother and father of clay\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2862\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a regular household item becomes sentient." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Heat rose up through his body, fire and flesh joined as he felt his blood burn. He writhed at the unison, as if his soul were being sacrificed, boiled and baked for a higher being to feast upon. He endured for what felt like an eternity, until a single droplet from his temple cooled the burn and brought him back to life.\n\nHe woke without worry, for this was a familiar place his mind took him ever since he was a young man. The smallpox he suffered luckily didn’t kill but it left its heated mark on Josiah, dragging him down to the feverish depths of hell more regularly than he’d like. His leg ached as if it were still down there with the demons, the ailment a consistent reminder he was lucky to still be of this earth.\n\nEven in the outskirts of Burslem the fires of industry raged; early and relenting like a young child ready to take on the new industrial world. Muffled shouts of foremen and delivery carriages rapped against the side of the house, finding Josiah even under the heavy velvet sheets. The original family factory nestled awkwardly between the small manor and village church, where since 1679 and for close to 100 years after, the noise of the pot chimneys competed against the church bells for village supremacy.\n\nLifting the stiff leg awkwardly out of bed, he rose for the day, dressing not as master but as the apprentice he’d used to be at the Churchyard Works. His home, his heart.\n\n‘Good morning, dear Josiah! Wasn’t last night fun! I do love having you here, please do come stay more often won’t you dear brother?’\n\nJane’s voice carried joyfully through the breakfast parlour and over the work yard noise outside. He knew his brother Thomas would abhor the invite after they’d quarreled, though he would make no move to apologise since it was he who so wrongly refused his birth right to join as partner in the family business. Thomas didn’t have the touch though; he’d eventually burn their name to the ground.\n\n‘You know I appreciate your generous hospitality my gracious sister, but I must be going back to my own factory to check on work at hand, so much to do so little time,’ he called through, loud enough to frustrate Thomas in his office close by. Waring brothers were never a good sign for business, but Josiah had more pressing problems.\n\nThe walk from the Churchyard Works to Ivy House Works was a pleasant one but made slow and painful with his blackened knee giving particular grief post a feverish nights sleep. It needed to go, the doctor had said it may need amputating and Josiah feared the time may soon be nearing. Pushing the thought out of his mind he took in the air of the morning, the entire village holding on with bated breath for signs of spring that were so close to arriving. Farmers moved their cattle for the day, men began their day of labour, the few boys of age and means from the town raced to the nearby schoolhouse.\n\nAs he shuffled slowly comprehending the day, he recognised a man sprinting towards him around the church yard.\n\n‘Sir, I thought you’d want to know as soon as I knew.’ The man expelled breathlessly.\n\n‘Go on Jenkins, I assume it’s last night’s batch?’ Josiah said calmly.\n\nThe man nodded as he caught his breath, apron laden with ash and soot already in this early hour.\n\n‘Every piece is destroyed… another explosion… it must be the glaze, it’s just not working… we tried to separate out all the test pieces so they wouldn’t destroy the rest of the pot but the entire patch is gone sir, except for this one piece I thought you’d want to see.’\n\nThe Ivy House foreman dipped his head in shame, dropping his hand into his pocket to pull out a small brown clay tile, except for a corner section which gleamed white as bone.\n\nJosiah looked at it carefully. Since his fateful days confined with Smallpox, he’d thrown himself into academia, wanting to take the art out of pottery, bring a science to ceramics that he knew would change the industry forever. He’d committed everything to these experiments. Testing new clays from Dorset, experimenting with when to fire, how much flint to use, each decision a step closer to creating something altogether new. Something delicate, something pure, something a queen would want.\n\nThis however was the eighth firing in a row that had been destroyed. Hundreds of samples, hundreds of hours, so much heart ache. The men stared at the small tile, a hint of something to come showing through, though in painful recognition at what it had taken to get even here.\n\n‘A few more of the men have left sir.’\n\nJosiah looked up. He couldn’t be the Wedgwood that failed. He was the one with the ideas, the one to make change, why were they deserting him?\n\n‘They think it’s cursed, the kilns sir’.\n\n‘Explain yourself Jenkins?’\n\n‘She’s angry at what we’re doing, you know the chimney herself, she needs to be pleased like any lady and we’re abusing her, they think she’s Athena, raging her fires to destroy the work, if you please, sir’\n\n‘You think so?’\n\n‘Maybe sir,’ the man replied coyly, ‘they are fickle like any lady folk sir, they need pleasing, they’re artists doing the work we request in earnest, creating art in the hot dark underbelly that we mere mortals can never see or understand.’\n\n‘You really think that?’ He asked.\n\n‘Like any fine lady Mr Wedgwood, you can harness them and ensure they do your bidding, but it takes a special kind of man to tame one.’\n\n*\n\nJosiah sat glassy eyed in his small office at Ivy House. In the days and months he couldn’t sit at a potters wheel, the bread and butter of all the wedgwood boys, he sat and studied, observed, filled the office with experiments and hypothesis’ ready to be solved.\n\nHe knew he could perfect the humble process, but something wasn’t happening, the science wasn’t following what the articles and academics said. He had a feel for clay, an intrinsic understanding of it’s form and boundaries but since his smallpox the feeling had been seeping away. With every hot nightmare it got further and further from his grasp.\n\nA voice from outside cut through the thick silence.\n\n‘Do you need anything more from me tonight sir?’\n\n‘Other than a small miracle no Jenkins, you’re dismissed’.\n\nThe weathered man stood in the office doorframe, age hanging from him in every wrinkle making him appear older than the reality. He’d been with the Wedgwoods his whole life, a faithful servant to the chimneys.\n\n‘If you don’t mind me remarking Mr Wedgewood sir, I think you should go and speak to her. Go and get reconnected with the master chimney. Go and speak to Athena.’\n\n‘Don’t be daft Jenkins, don’t let the men pull you into their silly tales, it’s a kiln it’s science, we’ve just not cracked it yet.’\n\n‘That maybe so sir, but we don’t call her a she for nothing, she has a mind of her own. Think on it, and I’ll bid you goodnight.’\n\nJosiah let the words hang in the office, dark crawling in from the fields outside, soft sounds moving through the house from the cows coming in from their days on the village pasture.\n\nIts stupid, the men need to be educated, I need to put a stop to this foolishness, Josiah thought to himself. No sooner had the words formed in his head a crash sounded from behind the desk, a small jug smashing on the floor behind, a favoured one he made as an apprentice at Churchyard. He got up with difficulty to check the shelf it had been sitting on, assuming the poor thing must have been placed at a strange angle when one of the girls was last cleaning.\n\nAs if to prove their point, one by one, pieces from every wall in the office started to quake, moving of their own accord like rats coming out of the walls. His children, the pieces of his creation were somehow one by one coming alive, trying to tell him something he couldn’t comprehend. He didn’t believe in witchcraft but the room felt spellbound, unnatural, untamed.\n\nThis isn’t happening, this isn’t real, I'm dreaming! Josiah shouted in his mind. One by one each piece began to prove their status and committed their own form of defiant suicide, crashing to the floor in some kind of strange defence. A peasants revolt for their mother who’d brought them from her fiery belly into this world and she had been scorned.\n\nJosiah fell out of the office door, wide eyed and in shock, crashes still reverberating from the house as he hobbled with his blackened leg out into the pottery courtyard for help. As darkness fell the wind began to pick up and the noises from his office only grew louder, as if each piece was remaking itself only to smash again into a thousand pieces, his beloved pottery children siding with their mother, his waring wife.\n\nThe wind tugged at his clothes forcing him to take shelter, finding himself in the mouth of the mother herself, in the doorway of the largest pot chimney he had, the matriarch of the three sisters he had at his disposal.\n\nHe held is hand cautiously up to the brickwork. Even though the kiln had been out of use since the early hours the bricks were still hot, sharp even to the touch. He pulled his hand back in shock. Were the men right, had she pulled away from him, was she angry?\n\nAnother crash echoed from the house.\n\n‘I hate that I am doing this, I don't think I believe in this or what is happening, but I can’t do this without you.’ He said to the chimney, laying another tentative hand on the brick. ‘We’re a team, a partnership, I am you and you are me, we are one in mind and body, and I’m sorry if I have somehow neglected you, dearest one.’\n\nThe wind picked up and another bellow from the office came, an assumed affirmative response in the argument.\n\n‘I need us to be friends, to be partners. You’re the blood and bones of the pot works, the soul of what we do. My soul. What can I do to make this better? Please my lady, please, I need you to hear me, I need to find a way. I will do anything for you.’\n\nA rumble came from the chimney, sound reverberating around the inside of the black hole with a deafening boom. He was sure it was just the wind but on some strange level he felt she might have been speaking to him, though he could not understand.\n\nThe wind slowed and somehow silence fell over the house. He held his breath, placing his forehead to the brick in a final silent payer, hoping against hope his words had done something. From the now setting dark a small boy appeared from the back of the kiln, his eyes only just visible inside a completely black face and torso from cleaning one of the neighbouring chimneys.\n\n‘Sounds like she’s out for blood Mr Wedgwood, sir, hope she doesn’t catch me one day.’\n\nAs quickly as he’d appeared the boy slunk into the growing darkness, leaving Josiah alone with his scornful lady.\n\n\n\nTime passed and Josiah, spurred on by both fear and competitiveness, spent every moment he could trying to embrace the art in his craft. Every day he’d speak to the kilns, their giant bottle shapes engulfing the Ivy House in both size and influence. He’d even named them formally. The largest remained Athena after the superstitious foremen, with her partners being christened Hera and Persephone, keeping in theme and hoping for some kind of luck through their namesakes.\n\nHe got to know every brick in each bottle chimney by touch, knowing where the cold pockets of air were, knowing where mistakes could be made, remaking every shelf to not maximise space but create proper air flow around pieces. He became intimate with the art, embracing the chaos but still, the results weren’t what he needed to satisfy his vision.\n\nWhilst Josiah got closer to his kilns, his leg worsened with infection until he could barely move let alone ever operate a wheel again. He knew the time had come for it to go, else risk an even worse fate and so one wild and wicked evening in June the limb came off, in one neat wood shattering blow. He didn’t resist the procedure as most of the day would, but instead followed the surgery with a strange request as the surgeon at St Thomas’ stitched the bloodied skin over his knee back together.\n\n‘I’ll need that leg to come back with me if you’ll allow it doctor, pray don’t ask me what for, though I will pay you for your discretion sir.’\n\nThe doctor merely nodded and asked for the limb to be salted, as if it were in the end a fairly routine request, like preserving a ham ready for Christmas.\n\n\n\nA week later, Josiah called Jenkins to his office, though the main desk had been moved to allow a small day bed to be installed, keeping him as close as possible to the yard.\n\n‘Jenkins, I have a special request, one that can only be carried out by you, dearest man, my most humble and closest confidant.’ The foreman nodded, eagerly awaiting instruction.\n\n‘I have made up a new glaze formular, based on a new lead and flint test I’ve been constructing. Go into the workshop and take out twelve of the large urns we fired last week and submerge them fully in the new glaze. Don’t put anything else in the kiln, just the twelve. Spread them out all within one middle shelf, away from those air pockets on shelf three we found, let them all look at each other, engage with each other.’ Jenkins nodded profusely.\n\n‘Once you’ve set them up, go into the kitchen pantry and retrieve my leg. It’s in a wooden box submerged in salt from the surgeon. Take it to Athena and place it in her heart, in the very center. Then at midnight, set the kiln alight. Let it run until dawn and then we’ll open her up when the sun hits it’s highest point. Do you have all of that?’\n\nJenkins nodded again, asking only one question in return.\n\n‘Why twelve sir?’\n\n‘That’s all you have to ask, nothing about why we’re setting my amputated limb alight?’\n\n‘No sir, she’s a woman, she is after blood, a sacrifice, your body and your soul, all the boys were hoping it was why you asked for the leg to be returned to us.’\n\nJosiah smiled. ‘The twelve is for the Greek gods Jenkins, we pray to them now for our breakthrough.’\n\nAs the sun set and Josiah waited in his office he listened to the movement of Jenkins outside, carrying out his wishes to the most precise degree. At midnight he smelt the kiln beginning its cycle as he fell in and out of another fevered nights sleep. This time however it felt different, he wasn’t being tortured, his skin wasn’t prickling and blistering it was instead warm as if it were melting, being heated by the everlasting English sun on a summers day out in the barley fields over by Churchyard Works. He felt home.\n\nJosiah woke late the next day, a deep recovering sleep had taken hold of his body. He took up a crutch and heaved himself onto his makeshift desk, willing his body to co-operate through the pain. As he looked out into the yard he saw Jenkins at the mouth of the large bottle chimney, his mouth agape. Josiah dragged himself over the cobbles one painful single step at a time, leaning up against the doorway next to the dutiful foreman.\n\nInside the kiln stood twelve pristine urns, gleaming in the thick darkness, all a perfect shade of bone white. A holy set of chalices, fit for a Queen. The men looked at each other, tears forming in their eyes. They’d found the art in the science, the balance of chaos and precision, allowing their faith in some higher being to take them the rest of the way there.\n\nThe men stayed standing in silence as a small crowd began to gather around them, potters from all around rushed forward for a glimpse at the new creamware, the first ever of its kind. Finally, in amongst the fire, the original mother and father of clay had found their balance.\n\n*\n\nJosiah Wedgwood was an English potter, entrepreneur and abolitionist. Founding the Wedgwood company in 1759, he was the leader in the industrialisation of the manufacture of European pottery. His invention of Creamware later became known as Queen’s ware, after being popularised by queens across Europe and beyond." } ]
[ { "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: Midnight\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1298\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone successfully — or unsuccessfully — escaping their fate." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Raven approached the front steps with a decision. She could stay at home, or face the crowd that currently gathered in the high school auditorium. The school year was coming to an end, and summer break loomed overhead. A whole two months where she spent her time stuck at home with her dreary father was enough to get her to search for a dress at a thrift store. \nIt was a black solid tube dress with a frilly skirt as if she were preparing to attend a funeral. Truth be told, she would much rather attend a funeral than attend her own high school prom. She had nobody to go with, and no reason to enjoy being there. But the alternative was to go home. She couldn’t do that either. So, Raven walked up the front steps and went through to the auditorium. \nShe could hear the pounding bass of the music before she reached the gym. The doors were thrown open, with tacky streamers and balloons strewn everywhere. A buffet table in the corner promised delicious punch and snacks, so she waltzed towards it with purpose. If there were anything that could entice her to stay, it would be the greasy food brought by chaperones. \nRaven was pouring herself another cup of punch when suddenly the cup was taken right out of her hand. A boy stood beside her, chugging the contents of the plastic cup in five seconds tops. He appeared as if he could be from the school, and Raven guessed he was attending the party from the look of his nicely ironed suit. His hair was brown, in a neat bowl cut like baby Justin Bieber.\n“You need to get out of here.” He said. \n“Excuse me?” Raven took no heed and grabbed another cup to fill up for herself. The rude boy smacked it out of her hand. She blinked, unsure of what to do. \n“I’m serious. If you don’t leave this party, you will die. I’ve seen it.” \nGreat, Raven thought to herself. She’d run into the school whackjob. \n“It’s been written that you will die tonight.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the emergency exit. “But I’m going to save you.” \n“What the hell are you talking about? Let go of me!”\n“I just need you to trust me.” \n“No, you weirdo! Get off!” She tried to shake herself free of him, but his grip was tight as iron shackles. He pulled her outside and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him eye to eye. \n“Haven’t you ever thought it was strange?” He asked her. “Every woman in your family dies before the age of seventeen. Unless you don’t want to be an exception, I suggest you go along with my plan. I have a boat waiting for us at the docks. We can get a head start on them.” \nThem? Them who? He took her hand again, dragging her past the treeline. She struggled to keep up on the rough terrain in her heels and considered flinging her shoes at him as he forced her away from school property. \nThrough the forest and down the beach were the docks, full of the many boats that belonged to the fishing Floridians of the region. The strange boy took her to the end of the dock where a gigantic vessel was waiting for him. \n“Dad! I found her!” He cried out triumphantly, pushing her onto the sailboat before boarding himself. \n“Tie her to the mast, we can’t afford for her to flee. We can’t make her understand, but we can make her live.” \n“What is going on? Who are you, people?!” \nThe boy responded by retrieving a roll of duct tape, and securing some of it over her mouth to prevent any further speech. He used some fishing line to bind her wrists to the mast, a weak form of bondage meant to keep her in place. For her own safety, or so they claimed. \nOnce the boat was headed away from the docks, the older man joined them by the railing. \n“Any visions?” The older man asked. “We need to know the second her fate changes.” \n“I know, I--” The boy went quiet and still, his eyes getting a look about them that made him seem a hundred miles away. The man shook the boy’s shoulders desperately. \n“Cameron! Talk to me, boy! What do you see?” \nThe boy snapped out of his trance, suddenly seeming panicked. \n“We need to get her off the boat, they--” \nSuddenly, an arrow whizzed past and struck the man right through the throat. Raven screamed, her mouth still bound with tape. Cameron quickly got in front of her, undoing the bindings on her wrists and guiding her below deck. He ripped the tape off her mouth. \n“What’s going on? Who shot that arrow?!” Raven pleaded with him for answers. For a moment, he seemed inclined to give them. \n“There’s a unique group of people. They hunt down people like you, people like the women of your family. My visions show me every single one of you there ever is or ever will be. Today, I saw you. Since dawn, I’ve seen fifty-seven ways you could possibly die before midnight.” \nRaven glanced at the clock. It was eleven forty-five. \n“Stay down here. I need to keep them from boarding the boat.” Cameron grabbed a shotgun off the pegs mounted to the wall, before instructing her to bolt the door behind him.\nWhen she heard the gunshots, she felt a knot of nerves in her belly. She knew Cameron couldn’t handle it alone. He may have claimed her to be the one to die, but he was the one in the line of fire. \nAfter a while, everything went quiet. There were no shots, no footsteps, no voices. Raven assumed it was a false alarm. And if Cameron was no longer on the ship, perhaps she would be able to get away. She risked opening the door slowly and saw nobody. So she proceeded to go out onto the top deck. She immediately saw Cameron laying in a heaping pool of his own blood. His gun was strewn uselessly by his outstretched hand. \n“Hey!” Raven ran out and kneeled beside him. “Can you hear me? Hey!” She put her hand on his chest, where she saw a bullet was lodged, sputtering blood profusely. \nHe suddenly gasped and sat up, his chest wound healing all at once. He slowly turned to look at her, his eyes wide. \n“You shouldn’t have done that.” He breathed. Raven was grabbed from behind and dragged to her feet. A bearded man leered at her from behind, holding a blade between his thumb and forefinger. His free hand wrapped securely around her bosom. \n“He’s right girly,” He sneered. “People like you don’t need to be making more people like him.” \nA small fishing boat approached them from the water below, and more men boarded, locked, and loaded with more firepower. The man held her securely, refusing to lessen his grip for even a moment.\n“Toss the boy overboard!” The man called to his comrades.\n“No! Stop! You don’t have to do this!” \nThe other men worked together to lift Cameron, despite his wriggling form refusing to give up without a fight. \n“Raven!” He called. “I’m so sorry!” \n“I wish I could say the same,” The man whispered, before slitting her throat and letting her body drop limply to the ground. \nShe held her hands to her throat, but she couldn’t prevent herself from choking on her own blood. She could see it spread out onto the deck, her black hair becoming stained with crimson. She heard the chiming of the clock from the cabin behind her. \nMidnight had come." } ]
[ { "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 Unusual Vase\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2565\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Unusual Vase\n\nMatt awoke with a start to the banging on the door of his Airstream. He never had visitors at 6:00 in the morning. Heck—he never had visitors and that was planned. His Airstream was parked behind his small cabin/studio. Yet someone was here and by the loud and incessant knocking, they were anxious to see him.\n He yelled, “Hold on to your britches, I’ll be there in a minute.” He hastily pulled on his pants and shirt and stumbled to the door. \n Looking through the porthole style window he saw Nadine. She was the town character. If Mayberry had an Otis, then Clearwater had Nadine, A woman who was different from everyone in town, but somehow, she had become part of the closely knit fabric of the community. The rumor was that Nadine was the progeny of the indigenous people who inhabited the area before Europeans descended. As far as Matt knew, Nadine may have been part of Clearwater forever. She had the parched weathered skin might have been like an Indian. Her attire was a collage of various pieces beginning with a bonnet that would have been in place on a farm wife from the turn of the century--the nineteenth century. The next item was a blanket worn as a shawl that was made of native American patterns. Finally, below her ankle length skirt there were the unmistakable combat boots. She carried a cardboard box that could have held a pound cake, but with Nadine’s reputation, it might have been a human head. \n But for all her eccentricities Matt considered her harmless. He opened the door and Nadine tromped in and sat down without so much as a hello or a howdy. She sat the box down on the table and waved Matt over. Her first accusing words to Matt, “Is this your work?”\n Matt was indulgent of Nadine, but he was a bit miffed at her for her attitude and unannounced entrance. “Well, If I can take a look at what you have in that box, I may be able to tell you.”\n “I know you made it. You have to take the blame. Why, it’s got your mark. Just look here.”\n She ripped the tape off the box and raised the object. It was a piece of pottery that might have been Matt’s creation, though he hadn’t made anything like that in years.\n\n Matt had always loved to work with his hands. From the time he could walk, he would follow his father around his shop. His father was a mechanic who could fix anything. When someone in town had been to several garages to get a car fixed without success they would inevitably end up at Mac’s garage. Matt’s father, Mac, would usually straighten things out. His talent was not just limited to autos. He would have all sorts mechanical problems inherited from his customers that he would eventually bring back to life. \n Matt had inherited his father’s ingenuity, but had gone in a slightly different direction. Some aunt had given him a toy pottery wheel when he was nine-years-old. To everyone’s surprise, he immediately began creating bowls, ash trays little blobs of jewelry and all types of notions. When he was old enough to be a real nuisance his dad had introduced him to one of the many local potters. It was there that he developed a real talent. After high school, he didn’t go to a college or university. He went to the mountains of North Carolina to a place called Penland where he refined his craft. \n He worked making useful home products, but he also made artistic pieces. The artistic pieces were sold or given away, but Matt couldn’t earn enough to maintain himself with just ‘art’ so that part of his life gradually disappeared as he made more practical items. He gradually retreated from the world of artistic potters of Seagrove and Jug Town and withdrew to his small cabin up a narrow rarely used lane in the Clearwater community. He did keep one remnant of his artistic life. He had learned early in his career to appreciate the old wood burning kilns. The type and nature of the wood other combustibles used would always give a different and special glaze to the plates, jugs and mugs. The result was that there was a market for his unique wares. His cabin had been his studio and his home, but soon the business part crowded Matt out and he bought and restored an Airstream as his abode. His home was no secret, but, still, he was surprised that Nadine had shown up.\n\n Now he was reacquainted with one of his first artistic pieces. Matt picked up the piece and turned it over in his hands. Yes, it had his stylized initials on the base. And the reddish hue on the bottom third of the piece morphed into a azure and finally a deep cobalt blue color at the lip of the piece. It was created as a vase, but had several small openings about the bulbous body of the piece. A look through each of those holes would give a view of an intricate combination of colors reminiscent of a kaleidoscope. The interior was fashioned in such a way that a small candle could be placed in the bottom to enhance the coloration of the inside surface of the piece. Matt’s special talent for making artistic glazes had made a one-of-a-kind piece of art. It was one of Matt’s first sales. It gave him the incentive to continue his craft.\n Matt handled the pottery as though it was a treasured piece of art. He thought that it was. It was a creation from his youth that he knew he could never repeat.\n “That is yours, isn’t it?” Nadine queried as though she was speaking to a murderer.\n “Yep, it’s mine all right. I must have made that twenty years ago, but I haven’t done anything artistic in a long, long time.”\n “Sonny, I ain’t asking you to make another, and with God as my witness I wish you’d never made that’n. Let me tell you, this thing is cursed. It’s cursed I tell you, and if you can’t remove the curse, then I reckon we’re all doomed. Let me tell you about this here thing.\n “You sold this to young Harry Mabe about 1997. I know you did ‘cause I found the receipt with your name.”\n “Yes, now that you remind me, I think I remember Mr. Mabe. What happened to him?”\n “That’s what I’m here to tell you, but I’d talk a lot better with a cup of coffee and some bacon and eggs. You got some, ain’t ya.”\n Matt got the message squeezed around her into his compact kitchen so he could fix breakfast for her and himself. As he was making himself busy in the small kitchen, he kept an eye on his uninvited guest. She did not further touch the vase, but seemed to be whispering to it.\nIn a few minutes, as she sipped her piping hot coffee and gummed her bacon and eggs, she restarted her narrative. “Ol’ Harry loved that vase. He was going to give it to his daughter for a birthday present, but decided he liked so much that he kept it and gave her a suitcase instead. About a week later, his house burnt to the ground with him inside. Funny thing was, even though that darn house was nothing but ashes that vase was just fine, not even covered with soot.”\nMatt had no idea how to respond to that. “That’s terrible. I really didn’t know Mr. Mabe, but I’m sorry he passed.”\n“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet.’ His daughter, Millie, took that vase and put it on her mantle. She sort of liked it. I guess it reminded her of her dad. She showed it to her remaining family and friends. They marveled that it survived, but, just like Harry, they thought it was the prettiest thing they had ever seen. Things would have been all right except for the incident.”\nMatt was more than curious, “Okay, tell me what happened.”\n“Millie had a break-in. A meth-head came in seeking drugs or whatever else he could get and stabbed her to death. Funny thing is that when the police found her, she was holding on to that vase so tightly, that her hands had to be pried from it.\n“I can tell you more, and will soon, but for now let me tell you that there have been ten owners or more correctly guardians of that vase. All ten have died violent deaths. You may think that’s a coincidence, but I don’t. The last owner, John Vann, began research into the vase. He contacted the Mabe family and found a small locked box that had survived the fire. That’s how I got your name. He was somewhat of an expert of pottery, especially Indian pottery. He told me that the vase seems to be made of materials found more often in western North Carolina. He concluded that the violence associated with the vase may be related to the origin of the clay used to make it. He knew that I was one of the few indigenous people around and asked me to take it if something should happen to him. That evening he was the victim of a hit-and-run. Now, just where did you get the clay for the vase?”\nMatt knew exactly where he found that special clay. “After my time at Penland, I travelled around western North Carolina looking at different pottery styles and different materials. In Transylvania County I found some unique clay on the banks of a creek in the Pisgah National Forest. The vase was made of that clay.”\nNadine’s eyes widened. Matt saw a knowing smile on her wrinkled face for the first time. “Well, let’s go!”\n“Where are we going?”\n“We’re surely not staying here. I think your vase is cursed. Back in 1838 President Andrew Jackson fostered a movement to remove five tribes from the East to beyond the Mississippi. A treaty of Echota, that’s in Georgia, was signed, but it’s not likely the tribes agreed. Chief John Ross a Cherokee chief protested to the government that the treaty had never been approved by his tribe, but no one would listen. The native American forced march to territories west of the Mississippi had begun.”\nMatt had heard this story before, but not from the Indian side. “Just what are you proposing.”\nOne of the native Cherokee chiefs is said to have rendered a curse on the land before leaving the Carolina mountains. He vowed that anyone using the Cherokee land for any reason would harvest a violent death. That’s the curse and that’s what your vase is. It’s Cherokee land.\nWithin the hour, Matt and Nadine were on their way to western North Carolina. \nThey made good time and stopped for a quick lunch and gas in Black Mountain. It was not yet noon and they were about ninety minutes from the site that they were searching. Leaving the restaurant, Matt saw a big man nosing around his truck. He approached him.\nHe saw Matt and confronted him. “That your truck, buddy?” the speaker easily outweighed Matt by fifty pounds. \n“Yeah, it’s mine, and you got no business messing around it.” Matt responded with a boldness he didn’t really feel.\n“Well, you got my case on your front seat. If you don’t unlock that door and give it to me this instant, you’ll wish you had.”\nMatt saw a pistol on his hip and a knife in his hand. There were no other cars around and not a suggestion of a police officer. He had a few valuables in the truck, but nothing worth dying for. He unlocked the truck and the hoodlum pulled out the satchel and sped off in his dirty green pick-up. Matt was shaking badly when Nadine emerged from the restaurant. He explained what had just happened and Nadine was ready to go after him. “He don’t know what he’s taken. We’ve got to get the vase back to end the curse. I’m not sorry for what happens to the thief, but that vase will end up with somebody, somewhere.\nMatt and Nadine jumped into the truck and went after the thief. Within a mile they saw what appeared to be skid marks and a freshly broken guard rail. Twenty feet below the embankment the overturned truck had a stream of steam drifting up to the road. There was no movement.\nNadine looked at Matt. “You’ve got to go down there and get your stuff. You’ve got to get the vase.”\nMatt knew that the elderly Nadine could not get down the hill so he skittered and bounced down the hill. The thief was sitting in the driver’s seat, but he would not terrorize anyone ever again. He had a long splinter of the guard rail neatly penetrating his left eye and exiting the back of his head. He grabbed the satchel made his way back up the hill. He told Nadine, “We’ve got to get the police. We have to report this.”\n“No, we don’t. If we wait, the police will take your satchel and the vase and it will be in someone else’s possession. That person will inherit the curse.”\nThere was no one around that they could see—no onlookers, so they left and didn’t stop until they entered the Pisgah National Forest.\nMatt hadn’t been there in twenty years, but the forest was not much changed. He found the creek by the road and found a place to pull off and follow a path. With a small spade he eventually found the overhang with the colorful clay beneath it. Nadine was behind him with the vase. She had begun a chant in what may have been a native Indian tongue. Matt was standing knee deep in the creek as he hollowed out ample space for the vase. Nadine waded into the cold stream and handed him the vase which he tucked deeply into the creek ban. He covered it with two feet of reddish blue clay and smoothed the surface before placing brush over it to obscure the recent excavation. Nadine had now changed her native chant into English. \n“May our father’s words now be satisfied. The Cherokee soil has been replaced and will forever be a part of this sacred land. May the curse on this vase be lifted. May your spirit rest forever.”\nNadine and Matt left the stream and struggled up the hill. They started the truck and headed back to Clearwater. They were both fatigued and bone tired but also satisfied. They truly felt that the curse of the vase was ended.\n\nThree hours later two college students waded in the creek. Now, it was totally dark and flash lights were used to identify the site. They had been whizzing down a mountain path on their bikes when they heard voices. Crouching in the bushes they expected to see drug dealers concealing a stash. When they found the site, they used their fingers to dig through the clay and into the bank. They expressed disappointment when they found an old vase instead of drugs, but decided to clean it up and take it home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Love of My Life\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1041\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about somebody who wholeheartedly believes in fate, and views every little thing through the lens of predestiny." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I could smell the freshly baked cookies from down the street. Mrs. Walker volunteered to provide desserts for the state fair. Every year, she has a stand in the center of the fairgrounds. She was just the sweetest old lady, everybody loves her. Her husband died a few years back, and I don't think she ever recovered from that. I can't even begin to imagine what would happen if Ronan died.\nI am 17. I know I am young. But I truly love Ronan. I believe that he was put in my path for a reason, and if it is not to be my love, then what is it? I truly believe that he is meant to be in my life forever. It's fate. Everything happens for a reason. He is just perfect. His tall body, blonde hair, blue eyes, deep voice, all of it. I love every inch of him.\nRonan visited me in the hospital last year. He held my hand the whole time. I was at my lowest. I was being harassed and bullied relentlessly. It eventually got too much for me to handle. Sometimes I wonder if I was meant to live. But like I said, everything happens for a reason, so for some reason, God decided that I need to live for now.\nIt was 12:08 am. Ronan and I were parked at the park. We put the seats down and opened the sunroof. I asked him if I was the only one he loves. He kissed me and assured me that I was the only one he needed. We stargazed until 1 am. I had a curfew and it was well past 11:30. Ronan started to drive me home. He had one hand on the steering wheel and the other grasping mine.\nAs he dropped me off, he kissed me goodbye. I got butterflies in my stomach per usual. He drove off and I smiled. I'm so lucky to have him. If I went through the front door, my mother would notice and she would freak out. I decided to go to the back of the house and climb through my window. To my surprise, my dog didn't bark, which means my parents were still sound asleep.\nThe next morning, I have history in 1st hour. That class I have with Ronan. He sits at my table. I keep getting looks from Gavin. I liked him from 6-7th grade. He's still bitter about how I stopped giving him attention after I fell for Ronan. He's an asshole. I don't know why I ever liked him.\nRonan is considered a jock I guess. He plays baseball, basketball, soccer, and football, and he's on a swim team. I am not athletic whatsoever. I'm in band and I play the saxophone of all instruments. Ronan used to always just hang out with his jock friends. I would always hang out with my band friends. It worked. The only reason we even became mildly interested in each other was because of a seating arrangement in 8th grade. The teacher sat us next to each other and we would laugh and make jokes the entire class period.\nI had no clue that he would've even considered dating me. I'm not exactly skinny or pretty or anything. He always reassures me that I am pretty, but I don't really believe it. And it's not like I'm fat either, I'm just kind of in the middle. He is skinnier than I am. I used to hate myself because of it. I was self-conscious about my body and my looks. I couldn't pull anybody in the first few years of middle school, and that is when my mental health started to go downward.\nWhen I was in 6th grade, I got bullied a lot. I started to starve myself. That is not a path I think anyone should decide to take. It can lead to major eating disorders like anorexia or bulimia. It never got that serious, but it was close. I had to be put in therapy to fix it.\nI have been a hopeless romantic all of my life. I always wanted to have a boyfriend. I was always lonely and longing for that type of relationship, that type of love. I listened to a lot of Taylor Swift growing up. I am still a huge fan of hers. I would say that I am probably either a Speak Now girlie, or a Lover girlie.\nI have had lots of crushes growing up, rarely would they like me back. My first boyfriend was in pre-school, but I don't think I would count that. Other than him, Ronan is my first boyfriend. When you know, you know. I believe we were destined to be together. My middle school years were filled with sitting by my locker, fantasizing, and creating love playlists on Spotify. I was pathetic.\nRonan has never pressured me into anything. He always asks if I am ok with something. He has always treated me right. I remember the first time he said 'I love you'. It was April 17, 2018. We were in 8th grade. He had taken me to see A Star Is Born at the movie theater. We got ice cream after and he said that he loved me so much.\nI will always love Ronan. Really. He makes my life better. Our parents get along with each other. I believe it is just a perfect match. He is filled with kindness and support. I will never find another guy like him. I need to cherish the moments I have with him. Every day I am worried that he will just pack up and leave. I don't think he would actually do that, but you may think you know someone until you realize they are nothing like who they say they are.\nI don't think Ronan is like that. He is genuine with his words. He is good with my parents, and my little sister. He is good with animals. He is truly perfect. He is smart, he is humorous. He is anything and everything I could ever ask for. He would never cheat on me, or ghost me. He is truly just an amazing human being." } ]
[ { "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 Magic Scissors\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1266\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Magic Scissors\nby Ellen M. Shapiro\nIn the Jewish year 5105, everything in Spain was upside down. People put their clothes on inside out. They wore hats on their feet and shoes on their heads. It was sticky hot in February and freezing cold in June. The cabbages grew big and round under the earth and the carrots grew long and fat facing the sky.\nOne very, very cold night that June, a rabbi named Shem Tov ben Yitzak was getting ready to write a few words of Torah on parchment. He did that every week so he could remember what to say in shul during his Shabbos morning sermon. But it was so cold that his ink froze. When he stuck his brush into the ink bottle, it hit a solid mass of black. He tried rubbing the bottle between his hands to warm it up, but the ink did not melt. He held the bottle over the candle that lit his kitchen table, but the ink stayed frozen. Alas, he could not write one letter of Torah.\nIn frustration, he grabbed a pair of tiny scissors from his wife’s sewing basket and tried to cut the words out of the parchment. I’ve got to put the scissors back right away, he told himself. She needs them to embroider the pillowcases and baby dresses she sells to keep this roof over our heads.\nThe first letter he cut, the aleph, was rough and crude. The second letter, the bet, was better. And the third letter, the gimel, was almost perfect. “Amazing!” he exclaimed. “I’ve invented a new way to bring the words of the Holy One to my congregants.\nReb Shem Tov enjoyed cutting letters so much that when he finished the words, he wanted to keep going and make a fancy border design around the edges of the parchment. Could making art be another way to praise God, he wondered. Let me try. Hmm, he thought, what should I cut into the border? What was the most important point of my sermon again? Oh yes, the Israelites, amidst their journey across the desert from slavery to the Promised Land, were stuck at the bottom of a mountain because an evil ruler was trying to stop them from entering his territory. So what else is new? The point was that when you need to accomplish something important, you must figure out how to overcome the obstacles in your way.\n“Oy!” Reb Shem Tov clopped himself on the head with his hand. “The design has to include a donkey, a whole drove of donkeys.” The parasha that upside-down week was the one about the talking donkey who helped the Israelites continue their journey across the desert. How could a donkey do that? The Holy One, of course, opened the donkey’s mouth and got him to convince the evil ruler to let the Israelites through.\nBut the Reb could not bring himself to cut even one donkey. It was a graven image and an unkosher beast as well. So he decided to cut silhouettes of mountains and trees and the rope that kept the donkey from running away or falling down the mountain.\nAfter he finished, he put the scissors down with a satisfied smile. Ales getun! But the art was not all done. The little scissors rose from the table and floated in the air. The blades began moving on their own, open-close, open-close, like the mouth of a hungry baby bird. They zoomed down to the parchment and began cutting all by themselves. They cut the whole scene: Men arguing, the Israelites at the bottom of the mountain, ready to march up, and the donkey with his mouth open, talking, talking, talking, convincing the ruler to let the people enter his land.\nWhen the scissors were done, they quietly folded themselves up and went back to their usual place in the sewing basket.\nReb Shem Tov was more than astonished. He was so excited by his discovery he couldn’t sleep all night. When Mrs. Shem Tov woke up she was astonished too. “That is the most miraculous thing I’ve ever seen!” she said. “All these years and I did not know you were a fine artist!”\nWhen he showed his papercut to the congregants at shul, they were also astonished. They finished praying quickly so they could tell all their friends about the nes, the miraculous parchment they’d just seen.\nPeople came from far and wide to see the parchment. Soon, they began bringing their own blank parchments. They gave Reb Shem Tov gold and silver coins to get special designs made. And whenever he began cutting a verse of Torah or a marriage contract, a a ketubah, the magic scissors helped him finish the work. They cut borders and decorations that added layers of meaning to the words. The scissors got so busy Mrs. Shem Tov had to buy a new pair for herself.\nLittle by little, though, the Reb’s scissors began to slow down. They let him do most of the work. Then, one day, all by themselves, they cut a parchment to read, “God gave us the stuff of the earth, but it’s your job to finish the work all by yourself.” Those verse sounded a bit odd, but they inspired the Reb to write a sermon about how God makes wheat, but it’s our job to thresh it and grind it and bake it into bread and cakes. The scissors remained in the basket, quiet, unmoving, just like before the magic started happening. And thus, the Reb realized he didn’t need them anymore. On his own, he was able to make exquisite papercuts and to train other paper-cutters. Soon, people with an interest in Torah and art started coming to his newly enlarged studio—now with a wood stove, even—and take classes.\nBefore long, the paper-cutters the Reb trained began to move to Tzfat, Israel, and open shops. They sold their work to the faithful who lived there and to the many travelers who visited. They delivered by horse-drawn carriage, boat, and carrier pigeon. They competed with all the micro-calligraphers as to which art form was the oldest and most authentic. They, too, trained apprentices who opened studios in towns and villages all over the known world.\nAlas, with the advent of the printing press, the tradition began to disappear. Sure, every now and then, a bride and groom ordered an original ketubah with their names and a pair of lovebirds cut from paper. The last remaining pieces cut by hand survived in homes and museums, gathering dust and a few admirers.\nIn the Jewish year 5738, a painter named Deborah took up the art. She studied and practiced and did not let any obstacle—such as people saying things like, “What do you want to do that for?” — get in her way. Her answer was, “It’s a hiddur mitzvah, a way to make beautiful art to glorify God.” She brought the art of paper-cutting back to life. Now, every day in her studio, scissors and pen-knives make magic in her hands. She creates papercuts for Jewish institutions and art exhibitions, for soon-to-be married couples, and for people like you and me. She teaches classes for adults and children and gives lectures and demonstrations to share this special Jewish art with others. In her art, there are colorful birds and flowers, lions and deer, musical notes and dancers, faces and eyes, pomegranates and grapes, trees and leaves… many, many trees and leaves.\nAnd even a talking donkey, should you request one." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Aiden\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2218\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone successfully — or unsuccessfully — escaping their fate." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Josie’s new babysitting gig for the Harpers down the street was perfect. The latest family to move into their cul-de-sac, was a family of three. Mr. and Mrs. Harper, plus their sole child, a seven-year-old boy named Aiden. No potty training, no teenage attitude, the perfect start to her babysitting business. Do well here, and I’ll be getting work from the rest of the neighborhood, thought Josie. The Harpers hired her for only two hours of work, for some Halloween office party at Mrs. Harper`s company. Fifty bucks! She was getting fifty bucks to hang out and watch television with a kid. Easy money. \n Ringing the doorbell, she was excited for her night. Slowly the door opened, Josie expected to see Mr. Harper, a portly middle-aged man who smelled faintly of Old Spice and Marlboros. He was always cracking bad “dad” jokes, seeming to relish in his role as court jester of the family. Or Mrs. Harper, a forty something CEO of some big company who was always impeccably dressed in the latest fashions, perpetually tanned, and had the whitest teeth she had ever seen. Boss in her work. Queen in her family. She was way out of her hubby’s league.\n Instead, she was greeted by a ginger haired boy with baby blue eyes, kind of on the small side for his age, who stared intently at her. Beaming a smile at him, Josie thrust out her hand. “Hey, you must be Aiden. I’m Josie. I live down the street in that ugly yellow house by the dog park. We are going to have a lot of fun tonight!” A small hand gripped hers, cold to the touch. “Two-ten-twenty-four”, he said.\n“Huh?” Josie was taken aback. \n“Aiden, why is the door open?” \n“Oh, hi Josie.” \n“I see you have met, Aiden. Thank you so much for this. Me and the missus really need a “night out”, Mr. Harper said while making air quotes. \n“No problem, Mr. Harper, thanks for the opportunity.” \n“Please call me Bob.”\n“Ok, Mr. um Bob. I need to start saving for a car so…”\n“I hear ya. Gotta have wheels nowadays, right?”, he said.\n“Oh wait, I have to show you my costume!” Bob ran out of the living room and came back two minutes later, wearing a man-sized box and a jester’s hat. \n“I’m a joker! Get it, a joker!” A childlike look of glee spread across his face.\n“Yes, you are, Mr., um Bob, a real card”, she said thinking maybe he wasn’t playing with a full deck.\n“Bob, honestly stop scaring the girl. Sorry, Josie. He can’t help himself.” Mrs. Harper said.\n“Ah, my queen! Are you ready to go?”, Mr. Harper said while kneeling at her feet.\n“Yes dear, just let me talk to Josie about Aiden. Get in the car, I’ll be out in ten.”\nMrs. Harper pulled me into the kitchen as she gave me instructions about Aiden. “He is a quiet child”, she said. “Always has been, he takes everything in, doesn’t say much. The doctors assure us he will grow out of it. He loves dino nuggets and SpongeBob. You know how to use a toaster oven, right?” \n“Yes, ma'am.”\n“Excellent, ok well if you need anything, just call this number” she said while walking out the door.\n“Yes, ma'am.”\nAfter dining on mac and cheese and dino nuggets, Josie and Aiden watched SpongeBob until she noticed him nodding off. \n“Ok, little man, time to brush your teeth and then off to bed.”\n“Ok”, he said.\nAs he brushed his teeth, Aiden signed with his fingers. Two fingers, ten fingers with both hands spread out towards the mirror, then two fingers on one hand and four on the other one. \n“Aiden, what does that mean?, \"Josie asked.\nHe didn’t say anything else, just gargled with mouthwash and left the bathroom.\nSongs were next, Jenny Harper told Josie that Aiden loved itsy bitsy spider and twinkle, twinkle little star. \nAs she tucked him in under his SpongeBob sheets, Josie kissed his forehead.\n“Good night, Aiden. Sweet dreams.”\n“Two-ten-twenty-four”, he whispered. \nHe was only a little boy, but he had managed to unsettle her.\n“That is when you will die”, he said staring into her soul the whole time.\n\nWith that he rolled over onto his side and fell asleep. Josie just sat there, still taken aback by the boy’s shocking prediction. Josie ventured downstairs once she knew Aiden was deep in dreamland. Trying to distract herself with late night television, her mind kept pulling her back to this boy’s fixation with her death date. \nKeys jingling. The front door opened. Mr. Harper stumbled into the house. The chill of the frigid autumn night air blustered into the room.\nBob whispered loudly. “How was he?” \nJosie could smell the alcohol from across the living room, a scent cloud assailing her nostrils.\n“He was fine. All tucked away and sleeping like an angel”, she said.\nMrs. Harper emerged in the entrance and closed the front door. \n“Jesus, Bob at least close the door. It is October, for heaven's sake! Sorry, for the late hour Josie and for Mr. Harper. He has had a few too many cocktails tonight. Here’s a little extra for your trouble”, she said. \nJosie looked down at the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill in her palm. \n“It’s fine, Mrs. Harper. I’ll be going now.” Her desire to leave this house and Aiden’s creepy portent of her future seemed like everything right now. \n “Wait, let me drive you home. It’s late and cold as hell out there.” Mrs. Harper kissed her husband on the forehead as he lay on the couch. \n “Go to bed, Bob.” \nHe mumbled something indecipherable. \n“Ok, Josie let’s go.” \n\nHer ugly yellow house loomed in the distance. Yet tonight it felt like sunshine on a summer day, how it soaked into your pores, your skin, your soul. Brightening your spirit, making anything seem possible. Tonight, it was a safe harbor in the storm, a lighthouse guiding her home. Barely waiting for the car to stop, Josie exited quickly. All she wanted to do was wash off this night in a long hot shower. Enveloped in the warm mist, sending all the bad vibes tingling on the back of her neck down the drain. \n“Josie, wait Josie”, Mrs. Harper beckoned from the driver’s side of her Range Rover. \nJosie turned to face her.\n“Can you possibly be our permanent sitter? We have Christmas and New Years coming up, plus sometimes Bob and I just need a night out. What do you say?”\nShe needed the money. Maybe it would be ok. The back of her neck told her differently. Ignoring her body’s flight instinct, she answered. \n“Sure, Mrs. Harper, I’d love to be your sitter.”\nThe smile plastered across her face masked her inner dread. Get out! Get out! It was screaming. \n\nChristmas and New Years came and went uneventfully. Bob and Jenny were Mr. and Mrs. Claus for the Christmas party, Baby New Year and Mother Time for the New Years party. Aiden acted like a perfectly normal seven-year-old, no more predictions of impending doom. Josie kept squirreling away every cent towards a vehicle. She had her eye on a used 2018 Toyota Corolla that was gathering dust at Midway Motors in the center of town. It had about 100,000 miles on it. Gray in color, nothing flashy, dependable and safe transportation. Josie figured that by early March she might have enough for a down payment, hoping that her parents might cosign a small used car loan to ensure her freedom and theirs as well. \n\n“Let’s go Josie! Pick it up!” Her indoor track coach barked from the track edge. Josie loved to run. Since childhood, she loved the inner peace she got when running. It was like everything that was mucking up her day would just melt away. Just her and the wind, heart pumping, legs churning. \nJohnny Metcalf calling her a poop face in kindergarten. Missy Parker and the catty clique all throughout middle school. The C minus that destroyed her GPA in physics. None of it mattered when she ran. She was a machine, a perfectly fine-tuned machine. Scouts from D1 were supposed to be coming for the end of season meet in February. \n“Move Josie! You ain’t making D1 with that pace!” More positive reinforcement from Coach Dingley. He was from the school of the hammer shapes the iron. He wasn’t going to beat around the bush, no hug fests from Coach Dingley. His favorite statement was if you can’t handle me, the real world will swallow you up.\nHe was right, though. Move, Josie, you are the wind! Pushing down the final stretch, Josie felt unstoppable. The wind flying past her, no match for her grit and determination. \n“Nice Josie! Way to finish strong! Gotta take a few more seconds off before the big meet though.” \nSweat poured off her body, bent over trying to catch her breath Josie knew she had it in her. Just gotta push a little harder every time. A little bit at the start, a little in the middle, pushing to my limits for that goal. Eight hundred meters wasn’t a sprint or a marathon, but a little of both. Can’t go out too fast or too slow, pace is everything. Start strong. Stay slightly ahead of the pack. Then burn it all down the stretch. Life lessons, coach says, if you don’t show up, you won’t show out. No one ever won anything by doing the status quo. Push the boundary, push your limits, push to excellence.\n\nFebruary 10th, 2024, the seven-year-old seer said it was Josie’s death day. Just to be on the safe side, she performed an award-winning performance of \"I’m not feeling well my tummy hurts\" to her parents. Josie took a sick day from the world. Binge watching her favorite shows. Binge eating her favorite foods. If this was her last day Josie was going to enjoy it. \n\nBeep, beep, beep, beep. The red flashing numbers screamed six am. Josie had fallen asleep, empty wrappers from packages of sweet treats ringed her bed. \n\nFebruary 11th, the little man was not prophetic. She was still here. Alive and kicking. Well, alive at least. Her cell phone rang. She let it go to voicemail. Josie readied herself for the rest of her life. She performed all the morning rituals, breakfast, shower, et cetera. On the walk to school, Josie listened to the message. \n“Hey, um Josie. This is Tom Pendleton. You know from school. Um, I was wondering if you weren’t doing anything for Valentine's Day if, um, you would like to go out on a date or something?” Long pause, followed by “hope to see you at school today, bye.”\nShe felt her cheeks warm as they blushed at the thought of Tom Pendleton liking her. She had liked him since fifth grade, but he was so shy. I can’t believe he feels the same way. This day is looking up, she thought. Tom made it official during the first period, asking her properly. She said yes with a smile of a thousand suns. \nThey had a lovely Valentine’s Day date. He picked her up in his 2023 Corvette, well his father's Vette, but that is splitting hairs. Flowers and chocolate. Dinner and a movie. Some rom com that Josie could care less about. She couldn’t stop smiling. She even fell asleep with a Chesire cat grin, dreaming of Tom Pendleton, his blue eyes and blond wavy hair, and the future possibilities. \n\nFebruary 17th, 2024. The end of the season track meet, the champs. Josie was seeded third, but the top two runners only bested her by a half second or so. It was possible. Everything felt possible now. Her parents watched from the stands alongside Tom and his newly minted appointment to boyfriend status. He asked, she said yes, smiling the whole time of course. She felt invincible. Nothing was going to stop her. She was in lane five. Josie took a few practice starts, shaking out the nerves after each one. \nRunners take your mark.\nRocketing out of the blocks, it wasn’t her best start, nor her worst. \nAt two hundred meters, she was fourth. \nI've got this. Pick it up Josie, c’mon now. \nAt four hundred meters, she hung on to second by the slimmest of margins. \nJust one more to pass, maintain this pace. \nSix hundred meters, second again.\nFind that next gear Josie, burn it all down, leave it all on the track.\nPulling with everything she had down through the last turn, pumping her legs down the backstretch towards the finish line. Leaning towards the tape. Too close to call. Exhausted, spent, nothing left in the tank. Josie collapsed onto the track, legs like rubber bands. She looked over to the giant time clock, 2:10.24. A beaming smile erupted onto her face. First place, personal best, school record. Something’s wrong. Tightness in my chest. Can’t breathe. No, no, no.\nTragedy on the track today as the winner of the eight hundred meters, Josie Jensen, Bristol High senior, collapsed after taking first place. They are describing it as a cardiac event. Our thoughts and prayers are with her family and friends during this difficult time." } ]
[ { "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: Blackout\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2177\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “I’m free!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The 1980’s smokers are discussing the trials and tribulations of their beleaguered colleague, Jane Weeble, in their staff room.\n“She’ll be along any minute now, tottering in her heels. Beats me why she wears them,” the maths teacher observes.\n“What do you mean by that, Denis? Why shouldn’t she wear them if they make her happy?”\n“I don’t mean anything by it, Brenda. It’s just they’re strangely at odds with that faded cardigan and dress with the pocket she always wears. I always think she looks like something from the war years.”\n“A refugee, maybe?” Sally, the sociology teacher suggests.\n“That’s it. Exactly.”\n“Maybe she wears them to give her height. I mean she’s such a slip of a thing, when you come to think of it. It’s not surprising she can’t hold discipline in the class.” This tart observation comes from Lesley, a geography teacher, who holds it together by a hair’s breadth.\n“It’s sad really. She has a first-class degree in English. She obviously loves her subject.”\n“I don’t know how poor Laura Grange puts up with it. After all, she is Head of English. Didn’t one of the girls climb out of the window during one of Jane’s lessons? Stell Hartless, wasn’t it? There’s a troubled girl, if there ever was one,” Lesley says.\n“The bane of Jane’s life.”\n“Not Laura’s though. She adores Laura.”\n“All the girls do.”\n“Apparently, Laura heard the commotion from the next class and had to step in and calm things down. They were chanting the usual “Weeble’s wobble, but don’t fall down.” Beats me why Laura doesn’t get rid of her.”\n“Don’t be unkind, Lesley.”\n“I’m not being unkind, Brenda. I know she’s your friend, but you’ve got to admit Jane’s a liability.”\n“Grangey doesn’t get rid of Weeble because she doesn’t want to throw a work colleague under the bus who seems so frail. In the meantime, she keeps her on and puts her with the low stream groups – where she can do the least damage.” Sally acidly observes.\n“You’re her friend, Brenda. Does she ever talk about her discipline problems with you?” Denis wants to know.\n“Not in great detail. Only obliquely. I don’t like to humiliate her by bringing it up myself. She’s a nice person. Very witty when you get to know her.”\n“Being nice doesn’t cut it when it comes to getting the pupils in order, though does it?”\n“No, Sally. It doesn’t.”\n“The days are fast approaching when giving them a quick slap or threatening them with the slipper, are going.”\n“What are you talking about, Denis? We’ve never used the slipper here, that I’m aware of. Not with girls.”\n“I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t ban smoking too. Our one refuge in this dingy establishment.”\n“Well, it’s been known for some time that it’s bad for you,” Brenda says dolefully\n“Well, give it up then.”\n“I enjoy it too much.”\n“But back to Jane…”\n“What about her?”\n“I don’t know. She fascinates me. There’s a kind of heroic quality to her, wouldn’t you say? I mean battling on, in spite of everything. I don’t think I could put up with prolonged abuse like that.”\n“I must admit. If it were me, I’d have caved in years ago. If you haven’t got their attention in the first minute, you’ve lost them for ever.” Sally puts in her pennyworth again.\n“Wasn’t her brother some kind of war hero, Brenda?”\n“She had an older brother who flew a Hurricane during the London Blitz. Very successfully. Must have saved many lives. Just think, you might not be sitting here, if it wasn’t for him. Your family hail from north London, don’t they, Denis?\n“Some of my relatives still do. They had to get out when the bombing got bad. They ended spending two years in Edinburgh with Scottish relations.”\n“Apparently, Jane’s brother was on one of his final flights when he was shot down. She adored him. I don’t think she ever got over it.”\n“Shush. She’s coming over now.”\n*\n“What are you all conspiring about today?”\n“The idea that one day, smoking in public places will be banned, including this staffroom. Our only haven. The last refuge for the sane.”\nJane shudders, her eyes the colour of cornflowers. “What a horrible thought.”\n“Come and sit down. You look done in. Here, have one of mine,” Brenda offers.\nA collective groan goes up when there’s a knock at the door. Eventually, one of the less jaded teachers at the main table, feels obliged to get up and answer. Even the hard-nut students feel nervous about approaching the inner sanctum. A room clothed in mystery, you only come here if you absolutely have to. \n“Oh, thank you, just what I need.” Jane’s face lights up and for a second she turns into the woman she could have been. \n“How’s it going today, or shouldn’t I ask?”\n“You shouldn’t ask, definitely not.”\n“Oh! One of those days?”\n“You could say that.”\nBrenda checks her watch. “Still, only two more hours and the agony will be over, eh?” That’s about as close as they get to referring to Jane’s troubles in the classroom.\n“Not long, when you come to think of it.”\n\nJane inhales to forget. Another ten minutes and she will have crossed the Rubicon, her lip will quiver and the hell that is her teaching life, will commence. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot get the class in order. \nBut that is another lifetime. Right now, as she inhales hundreds of minute carcinogens into her lungs, a memory is triggered of her first ever cigarette with her second oldest brother, Tom. They had been illicitly inspecting the ruins of a bomb-site in one of the ancient London churches on a Saturday afternoon in the summer of 1941. The smokiness of fires still blazing in the city hung in the air. In that first round of the wartime Blitz, Jane was aged five and Tom, was eleven. \n“Here, give it a go, sis. You really have to suck on it. Like this, see.” She watched spell-bound as he breathed in manfully.\n“You look like dad when you do that.” Their father was too old to go to war, though he was much admired in the community for his work as a warden. He practically lived in a helmet with a W painted on the back, forever handing out numerous gas masks and making sure everyone got to the nearest shelter when an air raid was on, thereby saving many lives. No one dared let even the slightest hint of light escape from their windows, or there’d be a roar of “Put that light out now, you stupid sods,” followed by a loud hammering. Jane was terrified of him.\n“Like this?” Her body was wracked by a coughing fit.\n“You get used to it, the more you do it. Then you have to make circles in the air.” Tom proudly demonstrated how it should be done.\n“Mum says we’re too young to be smoking. And dad wouldn’t like it. You know that.”\n“Ah, stop wheedling. Dad smokes like a chimney when he gets the chance. There’s a war on. We have to grab what little bit of happiness we can while we still can. That’s what Bert says.”\n“Who’s Bert?” \n“You’ll meet him in a minute. Anyway, what they can’t see can’t hurt them.” \nJane remembered following her brother through an archway into a dim recess where they reached an empty sarcophagus. \n“Ah, he’s not here,” her brother said, disappointed. “He was sleeping here last time. Looked like Dracula he did. He had lots of spare roll-ups on him. Don’t know where he got them from, but we could have cadged one.”\n“He must be dotty. He shouldn’t be handing them out to children.” Jane couldn’t get out of the vault fast enough. Her brother ambled after her. She looked up at the sky longingly. “I wish Bill was here.” Their older brother was a pilot.\n“He’ll soon be somewhere in the skies defending the country in his trusty Hurricane. He calls it his workhorse. He might even have been trying to shoot the planes down when they hit this church.”\n“They’d never have hit it if he’d been flying,” Jane said loyally.\nJane squeezed the lucky charm in her pocket. She’d knitted two identical miniature pilot boys and dressed them in cloth and string. She’d given the best one to Bill and kept the other one for herself. “He’ll be alright as long as he keeps hold of his lucky charm.”\n“What? That raggedy old thing you knitted for him.”\n“Yes. He promised to take it with him whenever he flew. So long as he keeps hold of that, he’ll be safe. I know he will.”\n\n\nJane closes down the memory before it becomes too painful. \n“Well, I must get to my lesson. She daintily stubs out the last of the cigarette and rises shakily from her seat.\n“I hope they’re not too ghastly.” Brenda offers a sympathetic smile.\n\nLaura Grange breezes along armed with books, impressive in a lilac power suit. Smiling stiffly, she briefly crosses paths with Jane at the staffroom door.\n“Hello.” Unable to say the younger woman’s name, Jane despises the timidity in her voice. Laura is the kind of teacher she once aspired to be. Vibrant, with a successful career and marriage and two children, always immaculate.\n“Ah, there you are Jane.” Can you carry on with Romeo and Juliet this afternoon, please?”\n“Yes, of course.”\n“By the way, Stell Hartless won’t be at school for a few weeks. Her form teacher told me she’s off with glandular fever.”\n“Ah, I see.” Overwhelmingly relieved, Jane can’t quite bring herself to smile, but the absence of such a disruptive pupil in the lesson, will certainly simplify things. \n\nOn stepping into the classroom, she catches the eye of Penny Jackson, the girl with the cleft lip who has been equally tormented by Stell. A pupil who genuinely wants to learn. For once, Jane has a chance to teach the subject she loves without too many interruptions.\n\n London, August 1941\nAs usual, Bill woke at dawn and was driven out to his aircraft. Once the order to scramble had been given, he felt a familiar surge of fear and excitement. He checked his jacket pocket for the doll his sister had knitted for him as a lucky charm. She told him she had made two of them, and had given him the best. He felt the rough cloth and bumpy stitches, complete with tiny bag and hat, beneath his fingers and smiled. The thought of her little face gazing up at him adoringly the last time he’d seen her brought a lump to his throat. It gave him the strength he needed to see this thing through. \n“You will come back, won’t you Bill?”\n“I’ll do my best.” They both knew his returning lay in the hands of a higher power. The odds were stacked against him. He could only do his best. \nThen he stepped into his plane. It soared in the air, the clouds dusting the wing tips as he met a brilliant crimson sky. \n**\nStepping into the staffroom, Jane gazes longingly at the smoke-filled corner where her colleagues sit sprawled puffing away in smoggy contentment. Only she can’t join them now. \nAfter a while, Brenda stubs out her cigarette and comes over to join her.\n“What are you doing hiding over here? What’s the matter? You look pale! Are you alright, Jane?”\n“I’m afraid I can’t join you, much as I want to. You see, I’ve decided to give up smoking.”\n“Have you? Really?”\n“Yes, for good.”\n“It’s something we should all do. I mean, we all know it’s not good for us, really.”\n“The difference is I have to give it up. I’ve got lung cancer.” A tear slides down Jane’s cheek which she hurriedly brushes away. \nBrenda’s face drops. “Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. How long have you got?”\n“A few months, maybe less. There’s nothing they can do. It’s gone too far. But if I stop smoking now, I may have longer.”\n“I’m so sorry,” Brenda says again, feebly.\n“Don’t be,” her friend says surprising her. “You see, for the first time in a long time, I’m free.”\n“Free?” Brenda tries to keep the incredulity out of her voice.\n“Yes, free. It no longer matters if I’m a lousy teacher who can’t keep discipline in the classroom. It no longer matters what Laura Grange thinks. I no longer care what anyone thinks about me. For the first time in my life, I’M FREE. I want to shout it from the rooftops.”\nClickety clacking along the corridor that leads to the classroom, Jane has a sudden vision of her older brother, the only person she’s ever loved and how she will soon be free to join him. Her hand goes to her pocket, she traces the lumpy little doll and smiles radiantly." } ]
[ { "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: Earth is Worth the Struggle\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2024\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story involving a portal into a parallel universe." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I have perfect friends here. They all spend all their attention on me and will always agree with my opinion. Not like the people back on earth.\nOne afternoon, when my friends had walked me home from a late Friday night dinner, I looked at myself in the mirror. I had a happy look on my face. It was so easy in this world to live and smile. I smiled and laughed nonstop with my friends and family in this world. I had never cried in this world. Back on earth, I had been crying every day. I used to get so tired from crying. \nI still couldn’t believe that this smile on my face and my life here was not mine until a month ago. I had somehow slipped into this parallel world when I isolated myself in a pitch black room to avoid people on earth. When I first got here no one was opposing each other’s opinions, and it was so easy for me to live.\nWhen I went into my bed, I didn’t know why, but I could feel my heart being squeezed from stress. Back on earth, I had been struggling from depression for years. My life was hitting me hard and I could never see myself getting better while my friends were moving forward to their own lives. One had already entered university, two had been accepted to multiple universities, and the other had left me for an education in a different country.\nWhile I was thinking about my life on earth I started to doze off.\nSuddenly, I noticed that I was in a world in pitch white, and all I could see was the color white. Wait… No way… Four of my closest friends on earth were looking at me, they were all surrounding me but were distanced 90 degrees apart, and I had to turn around to see each of my friends one by one. When I looked at my friends I quickly realized that they are not my friends that just walked me home from Friday night dinner. I realized it was them, the ones from earth. Even though the faces of my friends were exactly the same as the utopian world in a different parallel, I just knew it, I just knew they were the ones I had been depending on for so many years that I forgot to appreciate them for how much they supported me.\nI first saw Agatha in front of me. When I saw her facial expression, memories from the past had flashed back to my head. She was always kind and sweet as can be, but even if I had been hurt by someone, she never could take a side for me. She was so popular that she was a friend of everyone from school. And she never wanted to take a side for anyone. At that point I was very hurt from her decision. But we kept on helping each other with each other’s worries about school in general. After my depression had made me stay in a pitch black room for months, I found out that Agatha is now close with another person at school. I used to be her closest friend, and I had never thought that my place would not be reserved forever. I felt like I didn’t belong in this world and I was in a downwards spiral.\nAfter my head’s flashback had ended I saw Agatha. She had her eyebrows clenched and had red eyes, I could tell that she was doing it to hide her tears. She had always kept her tears from us. That is why I have never seen her cry. Once I had asked her, “Do you ever cry?” and she had told me she doesn’t cry in front of anyone, not even her mother. That is why it shocked me to see her in such a state.\nNoah was the only friend I had who was very calm and had so much empathy towards me that I told him everything about how I didn’t accept anything that goes around on earth. I was raised to be a very sensitive child. I was always crying when I saw the news. I even cried when I knew for the first time that people will die eventually. Until I was 9 years old I truly believed that my time with others will last eternally. But no one actually took me seriously when I told them this. No one, except for Noah. Noah had never made fun of me for who I was and tried his best in supporting me. I thought it was true love with Noah. I thought I could spend the rest of my life with him. But he never felt the same way he always helped me as a friend and will be beyond that nor below that. I found this out just before I locked myself out of the outside world on earth. He was still very worried but I never got around to contact him back.\nWhen I finished reminding myself about Noah, I saw his face tense. He has the habit of not expressing his emotion so I just thought he didn’t care. But now that I look carefully, I can realize that even if he doesn’t show his sadness, his eyes are pitch black like my room that I kept myself in for months on earth. His eyes had no light as if to say the world has no hope. It was odd that his eyes didn’t sparkle since the whole entire space that we were in was white, you’d think he’d at least reflect the white world in his eyes. Although Noah and I had been looking into each other’s eyes, he had to go. He looked back and walked away slowly and slowly and I kept looking at him until he had disappeared into the white world like Agatha. I squinted my eyes to see if he’s still there but he was gone. \nThat was when I realized that what I had thought was love was actually an obsession towards him to keep him from walking away from me. I had never thought that I loved someone until Noah came along but now that I think of it, I had never thought of dating him and going out as a couple. I just couldn’t imagine it. I just couldn’t let him go and I needed a reason to keep him around. \nAfter I realized my obsession towards Noah I realized Reva was still there.\n Reva had once been my closest friend. She had cried for me when someone was being mean to me, she had stood up for me to give me a fair try in school. She was always supportive, but sometimes her supportiveness had me shredded with insecurity. She told me where I should change and how I could change. She never commented on my positive traits. But she did comment on my traits that always made me depressed. Ultimately, Reva had to go to another country to get into an university that she wanted so hard from a very young age. \nWhen I saw Reva standing in front of me, I could see that she was looking at me with sad eyes. But I couldn’t meet her eyes, she had turned around as if to hide her tears from me. And again she had disappeared into the pitch white world that seemed to be getting bigger and bigger.\nReva used to mean the world to me. She was the one I’d go to when I had something on mind. But she and I had drifted apart. Not on our own free will but because we had been apart from each other we couldn’t talk or laugh with each other like we used to. \nMalle had been my friend since I was 7 years old. We'd been supporting each other for 10 years straight. We’ve known each other for more than half of our lives. She had known me before I had depression. And I knew she missed my radiant smile and was trying to get my smile back for me. But I couldn’t smile. Not even a little bit. Every time she came around and started her attempt in making me smile, all i could do was make my mouth go up words and show my teeth with my eyes becoming a thin line. Although it sounds like my face would look very odd, I somehow got around with this smile-ish look.\nEven Though I had a fake smile on me for many years, I was able to smile, the radiant smile. Malle was left in shock but seemed happy to see me smile again. She had a large drop of tear gliding through her cheeks. Her eyes seemed like she was saying goodbye to me, as if to say we will never meet again. But her mouth seemed to loosen from relief that I was able to smile.\nI knew she would disappear but I didn’t want her to. I tried calling out to her to stay. But my voice, my voice, had gone. She turned around once and mouthed “Bye.” Her Large drop of tear had quadrupled and her face was all wet. I wanted to wipe her tears but she had walked away and disappeared.\nI didn’t want this. All my friends were not flawless but still cared for me from their heart. I was so worried about my depression that I couldn't see the people around me. But now that I have realized how people cared, I didn’t have the dark fog that was growing in my heart for years. I thought life was just a disaster. I couldn’t understand why people tried so hard to live. But now I know. We try hard every single day because we want to live. Life on earth was a gift, an unappreciated gift for me. Though I had never appreciated the gift, now that I saw a glimpse of the true value of life on earth, I felt like I didn’t mind suffering from trying hard to live on earth. \nBut it was too late. I was in a parallel world now. I had no idea how to go back to earth. The white world had started to turn black. And all my friends had disappeared.\n“NO! NO! NOO! I WANT TO TALK WITH THEM!!!!! p…pl … PLEASE”\nThen I suddenly heard my mother’s voice for the first time in ages. “Are you not going to go back to school?!” I still didn’t understand what was happening. My “mom” in the parallel world would never yell at me, all she did was smile. But this Mom, the mom on earth was the one who raised me up. Although she was yelling at me, I could feel her being worried for me. \nI quickly grabbed my phone to check the date on earth. But before I could check the time on my phone, I saw messages that had just come. “My Malle 💕”, “Bestie Reva 👯‍♀️”, “🐧Noah🐧” and \n“Agatha Solumate” had popped into my eyes. I checked Malle's message first. \n“I had a dream about you. You smiled for the first time in ages, and it wasn’t the one you always faked out for me. It was that smile you had when you were happy… I really want to hear from you. Contact me Okay?” \nI couldn’t believe it so I had to check the other’s messages as well, and I realized all four of them had seen what I saw as well. \nBecause I was sidetracked by the odd messages from my friends I hadn’t realized, but I was back on earth. The utopian world had vanished for eternity.\nI quickly took a shower, dressed up and grabbed my bag with a slice of toast. Although my legs were not used to walking, I had used all my muscles to step forward once a time. Left, right, left, right. I was nervous of going back to school but I had realized earth is worth the struggle." } ]
[ { "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. Alvarez\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1627\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which an important message is cut off, leaving characters to wonder or puzzle out what was left unsaid." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My dear children,\nIf you are reading this, I am dead. Hopefully you will read that part with an ominous voice, like a Morgan Freeman type of narration, I always wanted to sound like that. In fact, that is my post-mortem wish, to forever sound like Morgan Freeman in your memories. Anyhow, I think we have gotten a little bit out of topic.\nI am sure you are overtaken by emotion at this moment. If not, I will haunt your inheritance and now that I am dead that’s a lot easier to do. But, you see, emotions are a tricky business. I know I have not always been the most loving parent to you, in fact, I can barely recall a handful of times where I told you both I loved you. It is not something I am proud of.\nI enjoyed joking with you, but sadly, I couldn’t connect with my children any further than that. Sometimes, I would hear whimpering coming out of your room Alicia, especially when you were fourteen, but I could never bring myself to open the door. And David, remember that time when you were eleven and you lost that soccer match? You dragged your feet to my car, sat in complete silence and didn’t eat anything for dinner. I didn’t hug you when the match was over, I never even asked how you were. You never played soccer again after that.\nI was a silent witness to your lives, a spectator, and that pains me deeply. But there are some things from my past you should probably know, things I have tried to leave behind but, in reality, I could never fully escape.\n…\n“That is it?” Alicia screamed at the paper she held.\n“Where the fuck is the rest?” David said frowning at Mr. Cobalt.\n“My deepest apologies Mr. and Ms. Alvarez. You see, we ended up having a little incident.”\nMr. Cobalt, with his wide puppy eyes and polite demeanor, tried to explain to the best of his abilities the unfortunate occurrence. He arrived at his law firm right after seeing Antonio Alvarez in the hospital, the terminally ill patient had asked him to come in because he needed the lawyer to give a letter to his children. Mr. Cobalt left the letter on top of his desk that day, then he went out for lunch. During his exit, the firm’s intern made his away inside. Apparently, he had developed the habit of going into Mr. Cobalt’s office when he went out for lunch, he liked to use his coffee machine and read the court transcripts the lawyer kept on his desk. However, that day Mr. Cobalt returned earlier from his break, and when the intern heard his footsteps he was completely startled. He had made a mess out of every document he could find in Mr. Cobalt’s desk, including Antonio Alvarez’s letter, and in his state of shock, haphazardly put everything back together.\n“Alright, but where is the rest on the letter now?”\n“Interesting question Mr. Alvarez.” The lawyer sighted. “It happens to be in Northern Ireland. It was shipped to one of my clients by mistake along with some other legal documents.”\n“You have got to be kidding me” Alicia said falling back into her chair.\n“Well, can’t you tell the person who received it to just send it back?”\n“Most certainly. However, I don’t think my client will be able to do that.”\n“How in the hell not?”\n“Well… she is dead.”\n“Fuck no.” Alicia shouted at the lawyer.\n“How? I mean, what are the chances?”\n“Well Mr. Alvarez, I do specialize in elder law. So in that case, the chances are in fact quite high.”\nAlicia and David yelled some things at the lawyer, but he took none of it personally, he knew how angry people could get when losing a loved one.\nThe siblings were now 22 years old, they were twins but Alicia always liked to brag about how she was the older one. She seemed to be taking the death of her father better than her brother, but in fact she just hid everything better. She started getting night terrors when her father was hospitalized, she would wake up screaming and then couldn’t go back to sleep. Sarah, her girlfriend, suggested they move in together temporarily, only until things got better. Now, with her father dead, Alicia thought nothing would ever get better. She wanted to break up with Sarah, Alicia felt like she was a burden to her every single day, she could even feel Sarah slowly drifting away. But Alicia knew she would feel even more alone than she already did if they broke up, so she pushed the relationship forward.\nDavid, on the other hand, announced every single feeling he ever had on his face. He was honest and transparent to a fault, when his friends asked questions about his father he would simply tell the truth about the harshness of his condition in tears. David didn’t visit his father when the situation worsened, the hospital lights and its smell made him sick, and he simply didn’t want the last few memories of his father to be of a decaying man.\nFor Alicia and David, this was the first time they were actually experiencing grief. The twins had a whirlwind of feelings for their father, they loved him and still felt like they barely knew him at all. Alicia and David had glimpses of a very loving childhood, the one you get to run in the park, jump on your father’s bed and watch him buy you popsicles on a hot summer’s day. But their memories were also tainted with all the times he wouldn’t talk to them or look them in the eyes. He knew how to give love only from a far.\nAntonio Alvarez was born in Brazil, he lived there until he moved to the United Kingdom with the twins when they were just 14 months old. Alicia and David always asked questions about their mother, but all they knew were her name and that she had died in childbirth. He wished for a new beginning in the UK, and was lucky to have gotten a job as an English teacher for other immigrants like him. Alicia and David didn’t know a lot about Brazil, and they knew even less about their father’s life when he lived there. The only excerpt of the letter he left cut deep within the both of them, as if every page that was now long gone could make some sense out of what they had felt their entire lives. Maybe, just maybe, the letter could make their father not seem like a stranger after all.\nAfter returning from Mr. Cobalt’s office, Alicia and David decided to go look for some answers by themselves. The siblings went to Antonio Alvarez’s house, the place was already a mess but they turned it into a pandemonium. Furniture was moved around, drawers were laid out on the floor, papers were scattered around every corner. They didn’t care about the chaos, they barely even knew what they were looking for, but the siblings simply needed something, anything in fact, to give some clarity into their father’s past.\nAfter hours of going thru books, old exams and long expired bills, they finally found their gems. First there was a letter, posted on the year they were born by Maria Alvarez, which they recognized as their mother’s name. Both the return and the delivery address were cities they didn’t recognize, so the siblings assumed they were located somewhere in Brazil. It was entirely written in Portuguese, the twins had some trouble translating, but eventually succeeded in doing so.\n…\nAntonio,\nI will try to be brief. They took Bruno this morning. He told me he knew it was going to happen, police raided his University last week and it was only a matter of time.\nThey will come for me too. I am sure of it. I talked with my friend Helen this morning, the kids are with her. I gave her clear instructions, if I don’t come back in one week to pick them up she shall take them to your house.\nDon’t put up missing posters once I am gone, you know it is a waste of time. You remember what happened to aunt Claudia.\nFor the love of God Antonio, don’t let them take my children as well. Leave the fucking country if you have to. They will live without their father, their mother, but at least they will live. And they will have you.\nMy dear brother, I am so sorry it has come to this.\nI love you.\n…\nWhen Alicia and David finished the letter they remained silent. You could hear the feather of a bird falling on the floor. They stared at the fragile paper in a wide gaze, their thoughts slowly drifting away.\n“Why did dad…” David broke the silence in a whimper.\nAlicia did not respond. She simply looked at her brother, he could see a tenderness in her eyes he simply never witnessed before. She hugged him, and while in his arms tried to remember when was the last time she had done that. Alicia didn’t remember though.\nThey remained silent while looking at the rest of Antonio Alvarez’s belongings. Thru a series of old Brazilian newspapers, they learned about the dictatorship that had taken place in the country between 1964 and 1985. The twins were born in the middle of the authoritarian government.\nAlicia and David never found out what had happened to their father or their mother. As a matter of fact, no one who lost a family member during that time ever did." } ]
[ { "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 sadness in her eyes, the knife in my heart\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2960\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “Maybe in another life.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was supposed to be just another ordinary school day, like many others. But she had to break the balance. That petite, infuriating, beautiful idiot.\n\nI still remember the day our eyes first met. She was thirteen and a new face in the city. I was fifteen, born and raised in the area. It was the first day of school. She entered the bus, then slowly made her way to the back, where a few empty seats were available. As she walked, her sight seemed fixed on the floor, as if afraid to look, even briefly, other people. Too shy, I thought. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, although I might be mistaken since I was half asleep. Her honey-colored hair was braided and rested beautifully upon her left breast.\n\nI watched her short parade, somehow unable to look away—until a few steps later, when she lifted her chin and looked straight at me with those emerald eyes, deep in my soul. Although it lasted perhaps a second, it seemed like an eternity, and that’s when I finally looked away, like a scared rabbit at the sight of a fox.\n\nShe was beautiful. But for some unknown reason, I was suddenly pissed off, although not sure with whom—perhaps with myself—or why.\n\nAfter that, as days passed, we’d constantly exchange glares on the bus or at school, but no words in the wind. It was sort of a game, I think. Not sure how it started, but it was certainly an unspoken game between us. The definition of who wins or loses, a mystery. The reward, unknown.\n\nSometimes, when our paths and eyes would meet, she’d gift me with the smallest of smiles—so delicate and shy and charming that I’d think I was daydreaming. I’m not quite sure how I responded to such gestures—perhaps pathetically, with blushing cheeks in return. What I know is that I’d usually end up irritated, feeling like she was teasing me and I’d just lost a match, especially when she did that near her other female classmates.\n\nIn the winter, during lunch break, a friend told me he’d ask her out. “She is gorgeous, isn’t she?” he said, looking at Emily and her friends in the courtyard below.\n\nI had my elbows resting on the balcony, and although my guts suddenly felt as cold as my cheeks, I just shrugged it off. “I guess she is... But I don’t know. Something seems off about her,” I said without actually meaning it.\n\nHe frowned. “C’mon. Just look at her. She is fucking hot. And smart from what I’ve heard. She seems a bit shy, but I’ve seen her look at me at times... I think I have a chance.”\n\nI’ve seen her look at me... His words hit home. Butterflies were suddenly flying in my stomach. I didn’t understand—or wanted to admit—what was happening. But in the end, there was nothing to be done.\n\n“Go for it then,” I said, glancing sideways at the girl below.\n\nHe made a scowl. “What’s with the gloomy face?”\n\n“Only one I’ve got,” I said, still fighting the damned butterflies.\n\nHe giggled but then turned serious. “Don’t tell me–”\n\n “Don’t even start... After Ivy, I don’t want to be romantically involved with another woman, not now.”\n\nHe nodded. “It was hard on you, but it’s been what, a year? And besides, it’s not like you didn’t hook up with anyone after her...”\n\nI shrugged. “As you said, hooking up... nothing serious.”\n\nTheo sighed. “Anyways, I think I’ll ask her out today. Our classes end early today. I’ll do it as soon as I get a chance. Any suggestions?”\n\n“Don’t know. It should be your call. I mean, I know nothing about her. What she likes, or how she is like...” I said, glancing at him, who seemed a bit nervous. I sighed.\n\n“Maybe invite her to the movie theatre? I heard there are some nice movies on exhibition.”\n\nHis eyes shone, then he showed me his white teeth. “Yeah. The movie theatre is a good call, Noah,” he said, nodding slightly. “If she accepts to hang out, of course...”\n\n“Of course...” I looked below as Emily walked towards the stairs. Midway, she looked over her shoulder in my direction. In my direction, or his? I sighed again, turned on my reels, and went into class.\n\nI wasn’t surprised when Theo told me—and two other friends—he’d been rejected. I was surprised, though, when he started attacking her verbally. Nothing severe, mind you. Certainly, just his wounded pride speaking louder. But now, for him, something indeed seemed off about her. Max and Fred soon entered the choir. I was mostly quiet, although giggling sometimes for the sake of appearances.\n\nThat same day, our eyes met again when she got on the bus. She looked me longer than usual, with a grimace. A chill ran through my spine. I got annoyed again like a grouchy old man. Why did she look at me like that? I pondered. Who the hell does she think she is, that little brat?\n\nA few days passed, with our little game on standby, as she barely looked my way—until we met again, but this time under different circumstances. I was at the supermarket near my house when I saw a small, honey-colored-haired girl wandering near the groceries, as if lost in thoughts. She was wearing casual clothes and seemed somehow strikingly different from when she was in school uniform. Her hair was tied back in a cock, exposing her neck. And surprisingly, she was wearing glasses. More shockingly, it fit her perfectly. I don’t know why, but I just felt an urge to approach her, and I did, almost sneakily.\n\n“Need help?” I asked the first stupid thing that came to mind.\n\nShe tilted her head slightly up, looking at me, and then made a face of utter surprise.\n\nIt was priceless when she started blushing. After awkward seconds, she replied, her voice soft as a petal but dry as a desert, “I’m fine, thanks.” She turned her head to the vegetables, pretending to forget I was there.\n\nInsufferable little brat, I thought. But it was weird. I knew the sound of her voice, but being directly addressed by her felt different. I got out of my stupor and said, “Look, I’m just trying to be a gentleman here...”\n\n“Why? You shouldn’t try so hard to be what you aren’t,” she said, showing her back to me and slowly moving her shopping cart, looking at the vegetables.\n\nI sighed deeply. “You seemed lost, and since I know this supermarket quite well... Anyway, why do you think I’m not a gentleman? It’s not like we’ve talked before, or like we know each other.”\n\nI think she got upset because her prominent lips curled slightly down.\n\n“Who knows?” she said, stopping to grab carrots.\n\nI sighed again, almost losing my temper. “I’m just trying to start some conversation with you–”\n\n“Again, why?” she asked, still not looking at me.\n\nI frowned. I was mad at her for the way she was acting, but also at myself because I didn’t have an answer to her why. Perhaps that was why. Perhaps I simply wanted to understand. But I wouldn’t say it aloud.\n\n“I give up,” I said, throwing my hands up. “If you won’t even look at me, it is a waste of time.” I turned on my heels, but before taking two steps, I heard her voice.\n\n“Sorry,” she said, a small smile on her face. “I kind of... enjoyed seeing you annoyed.”\n\nI looked straight at her and nearly lost myself in the depths of those eyes. Even that slightly mocking smile was not enough to make me upset anymore. “And why is that?” I asked.\n\nShe shrugged. “Consider it retribution,” she said enigmatically.\n\nI frowned. “For what?”\n\n“Who knows?” she said with a contained, although infuriating, smile.\n\nI uttered a curse, turned, and walked away. I heard apologies among giggles, someone following, and then a soft hand reached my arm. I turned again, already regretting it.\n\n“Sorry, okay?” She breathed deeply, then continued, “It is kinda weird. Even though we’ve barely talked, it is like... I don’t know... it’s hard to explain,” she said, lowering her eyes, embarrassed.\n\nI smiled at her uneasiness, but I understood what she meant. I felt like we’d talked a lot during the past weeks, not with words but through glances. As she saw my smile, she threw me a look. I cowed.\n\nAfter that, we talked a little longer while I helped her find the goods she was looking for and bought my own. Apparently, her mother asked her to go ahead and buy stuff before they met at the supermarket. When we were at the beverage section, I made a surprising discovery: she had no cell phone.\n\n“How do you contact your friends?” I asked, frowning. “Do you send them a carrier pigeon?” I laughed softly.\n\nShe blushed, averting her eyes. “It broke recently, and it is not worth fixing. Anyway, my mom will give me hers at the end of the year.” She placed some beverage on her cart, then looked at me. “And yes, I do send them letters, occasionally,” she said with a pout.\n\nI nodded, but I couldn’t control the subtle smile that crawled through my face.\n\n“You can laugh all you want,\" she said nonchalantly. \"Maybe I'll send you a letter one of these days... I’d like to see your face when you get it.”\n\nNot gonna happen, I thought. She did not have my address yet.\n\nShe didn’t tell me why she got mad a few days ago. I didn’t push her either. We just enjoyed shopping and talking until her mother arrived. I discovered many things about her that day. She could be annoying, but funny; superficial, but deep; uptight, but easy-going. And although she seemed shy when looked at from afar, she was certainly not shy after getting acquainted with someone. I learned many things, indeed.\n\nAfter that, we got back to normal—if there was such a thing as normal in our weird relationship. By normal, I mean exchanging glances and, more often, smiles. By talking without words.\n\nBecause she had rejected my friend—who was still kind of sour towards her—we knew better and kept things as they were. We kept playing our game. A wordless game—except for fast and almost illegal chitchats when the opportunities arose. With time, we also developed other communication skills. We’d discreetly use our hands and facial expressions to talk when people weren’t paying attention. Sometimes, she’d be seated with her friends in the courtyard, then absentmindedly look at the balcony above, towards me. I’d make subtle and silly expressions conveying “last class sucked”. She’d start laughing—seemingly out of the blue to her friends—then blush slightly. It was quite a sight.\n\nHowever, it was getting hard not being able to talk to her—especially after dreams. Sometimes, I’d wake up sweating, heart jumping in my chest, fresh images of her, of us, lingering in my mind, and then I’d get out of bed and smell that particular scent in the air, and when I’d look down, I’d see that hardened stain on my underwear, and I’d immediately bring my hands over my face, sighing at the realization I’d not be able to properly talk to her again, and then I’d be angry at my own cowardice for doing nothing, with my day generally sucking except for the memory of a wonderful dream.\n\nIt was almost the end of the school year when her letter arrived.\n\nI was with Theo, Fred, and Max in our class during break when a friend of hers called me at the door. The guys immediately showed me grins. I shook my head, went to her. She tried to covertly hand me the letter, while whispering that it was from Emily and I could reply later. I smoothly placed it in my pocket as the girl ran away.\n\nBut it was too late. When I got back, they were grinning like hyenas, asking to see the ‘love letter’. I tried to refuse, but I was outnumbered.\n\nWhen we opened the letter, it simply read, “Would you like to go to the movies with me this weekend? Emily.”\n\nAll I could think—between curses—was, why the hell did she sign it if her friend already told me it was from her?\n\nMesmerized faces stared at me dumbfounded. Then Theo was sour again, remembering what was almost forgotten. “Have you guys been talking? Or going out?”\n\nI made a poker face. “Of course not. Have you seen us talking before?”\n\n“Guess not,” he said, still frowning. The others agreed.\n\n“She is indeed a weirdo,” Theo continued, shaking his head. “What century does she leave on? Really, a fucking letter?” He started laughing, followed by the others. I showed a small grin to keep up appearances.\n\n“We should reply properly,” suggested Max in a sombre tone.\n\n“That is it,” said Theo, sitting by my side.\n\nSoon we were all seated around the table, a letter in its centre. They started talking excitedly about how to respond. I had a gloomy face, saying it wasn’t cool, but again, it was a lost cause—certainly because of my cowardice.\n\nAlthough I don’t remember the specifics, the reply started fine, stating how beautiful and smart she was, with some poetry along the way. What I do remember clearly, though, is how it ended.\n\n“About us hanging out together... maybe in another life, or perhaps never, your weirdo.”\n\nWe all signed the letter. Max went off and handed Emily the reply.\n\nMy heart shrank in my chest that day as nausea consumed me. Still, I thought I’d be able to explain to her what happened, then apologize properly, prostrating myself to her feet. Then, everything would be forgiven.\n\nThat day, when she entered the bus, I tried to look away, feeling ashamed. But naturally, our eyes met once more, and then I knew. I saw the sadness in her eyes and I felt like a knife had pierced my heart. I swallowed hard, looked away. I wanted to cry or punch the friend next to me, who was giggling as she passed.\n\nOur game had ended. I tried to reach her, but it was no use. She barely paid attention to me during the last days of classes. I hardly saw her around town as well. With each passing day, I grew melancholic, easily angered. I’d lost... to myself... to my cowardice, and stupidity.\n\nIn the next school year, I decided to make things right. I’d apologize and humiliate myself if needed, but I couldn’t stand it longer. I missed her. But I soon discovered she had a boyfriend now. I cried that day, like a spoiled child. I wished they wouldn’t last, even if she got hurt in the process. I cried because I was weak and pitiful.\n\nThat year was complicated. I couldn’t focus on my studies, she always on my mind. At some point, I started hanging out with lots of girls, trying to forget or just show up. In the end, all that was left were regrets, unspoken words, and a greater distance between us.\n\nThen I changed schools. I needed to get away and forget. My last year in high school was okay. I kept it to myself. My grades weren’t bad, and the next year I got admitted to college in a nearby city. Eventually, I started thinking less often about her. But that letter always haunted me, and with it, regrets and thoughts of what could’ve been.\n\nTime passed, and I was soon a sophomore. To relax a bit during the summer, I went to a bookstore on campus. I was lost in thought, trying to decide which book to buy when someone asked, “Need help?”\n\nI startled. I looked to my right, then saw a girl with shoulder length honey-colored hair and beautiful emerald eyes. She smiled at me, slightly. She got a bit taller, I noticed. Bigger breasts as well.\n\nAll at once, I was flooded by the feelings I’d been gradually suppressing over the years. “I’m sorry,” I finally said, lowering my eyes, ashamed.\n\n“What for?” she asked, frowning.\n\nI raised my eyes. “The letter, of course...” I murmured.\n\n“That’s long forgotten. No need to apologize, silly.” She smiled.\n\nBut I knew better. I knew her looks and expressions; what they meant. It still bothered her. I clenched my fists. “It was childish, stupid, unacceptable...” I lowered my eyes, shaking my head. “I never meant that... but I was a fucking coward and let them drive my hands.”\n\nShe didn’t reply. Instead, she took a notepad and a pen from her purse and started writing. Then she handed me the note. It read, “Would you like to go to the movies with me this weekend?”\n\nSuddenly, my eyes got wet as I looked at her beautiful and smiling face, thinking all I’d lost. I borrowed her pen and wrote, “It will be my pleasure.”\n\nThat weekend, I lifted a mountain from my shoulders. I didn’t apologize much because she threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t stop that. I also discovered she didn’t have a boyfriend anymore, for which I felt strangely relieved. We talked a lot and had fun, and even though I thought I wasn’t worthy, besides the gift of her company, she gifted me with the most amazing kiss I’d ever wish for.\n\nWe parted ways with an unspoken promise of “see you soon”, and I swore to myself I’d never make the eyes of that petite, infuriating, beautiful idiot who I loved ever sad again. I stand true to that promise." } ]
[ { "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: Return to Brandy Station\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1250\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "RETURN TO BRANDY STATION\nWith their preparations complete, the brothers surveyed the room one last time. The realization, of what they were really going to do this, was heavy upon their shoulders. But despite the uncertainty that lay ahead, they knew they were ready.\n\"Are you ready for this, Robbie?\" Matt asked, his voice tinged with excitement and apprehension.\n Robbie nodded, his eyes shining with determination. \"I've been waiting for this moment my whole life, Matt. To witness history firsthand, to explore the unknown—it's what we’re meant to do.\"\n\"Let's do it,\" Matt said, his voice steady with determination. ‘\nPicking up their back packs, they walked out to the barn. Together, they approached the time sphere, its surface shimmering with an otherworldly glow.\n“Open,” said Matt. And with a shared glance, they stepped inside.\nHe programed the machine for 6:00 AM, June 8, 1863, to be set down outside the field where the Grand Review took place before the Battle Brandy Station in the Civil War.\nThe computer screen on the dashboard lit up and data started scrolling past.\n“Here we go,” said Matt as he engaged the Time Sphere.\nAnd then, just as before, they were gone, hurtling back through time to a moment that shaped the course of U.S. history.\nTo their amazement, the time sphere was standing on the edge of a vast open field. The sky was beginning to lighten, and the boys could see groups of soldiers on horseback or milling around on the ground, their uniforms a blur of gray.\n\"We did it, Robbie! We’re actually here.”\nRobbie's eyes darted around, nervously, his excitement tempered by the realization of their precarious situation. \"Yeah, but now what? How do we blend in? We don't exactly look like we belong here.\"\nMatt furrowed his brow, considering their options. \"Thanks to your research before we left, we’re wearing our Button fly Levis with suspenders and our paddock boots, so we don’t look completely out of place.”\n “We'll have to be careful and stick together. Let's try to find a safe place to observe without drawing attention to ourselves.\"\nNodding in agreement, the boys set off around the edges of the field, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. As they moved closer to the action, the sounds of soldiers getting ready for the spectacle grew louder.\nSuddenly, a voice rang out from behind them, causing them to freeze in their tracks. \"Halt! Who goes there?\"\nTurning slowly, Matt and Robbie found themselves face to face with a group of Confederate soldiers, their rifles leveled at the intruders.\nCaught off guard, the boys exchanged a panicked glance, their hearts pounding in their chests. This was not how they had imagined their first encounter with history would be.\n“We live in town,” spoke Matt, with more confidence than he felt, “and we came out here to watch the Review. We thought we’d just look around before the parade starts.”\n“Yea,” added Robbie. “Everything is so interesting.”\n“Are you sure you boys is from town? You sure does talk funny.”\n“We’ve only lived here for about six months,” added Matt. “Our mother moved us down here to get away from Baltimore. There was just too much tension there, it being so close to Washington. Our father is in the infantry with General Pemberton’s troops.”\n“Well, OK boys. But spectators need to stay on that hill over yonder, in front of that there Mansion. And if you boys is lucky, you jest might spot General Robert E. Lee, his self. He is why we is doing this here second review.\nThe boys headed off to where the soldier pointed breathing a sigh of relief that their story was accepted.\nWhen they were out of earshot, Robbie whispered, “That was close. Where did you come up with that story about us coming down from Baltimore?”\n“I knew we had to come from somewhere where some people spoke with a less Southern accent. I picked Baltimore, because Maryland was a slave state, and being a large city, I just hoped these soldiers would believe we could be from Baltimore with this accent. It worked for now. We’ll just have to be more careful from here on out.”\nWith the sun rising in the eastern sky, the boys made their way up Fleetwood Hill. The air was full of excitement and anticipation. Every detail was attended to with the utmost care, for this day was not merely about military display; it was a solemn tribute to the indomitable spirit of the Confederate cause and the unyielding leadership of General Lee.\nOver 10,000 Cavalry, composed of units from Virginia, North and South Carolina, and the rest of the South, formed long lines of horses and riders, waiting anxiously off to the East, for as far as the eye could see. The horses stomping their hooves and nickering, as if to say, “Let’s get this get this spectacular started.” \nAs the clock struck the appointed hour, a hush fell over the assembled crowd as Colonel Stuart, resplendent in his dress uniform, mounted his horse and rode to the head of the procession. With a nod from General Lee, the signal was given, and the cavalry sprang into motion, their horses' hooves thundering against the earth in perfect unison. \nAs each regiment passed in review with military precision, amid the cheers, individual voices could be heard. “That’s your pa’s regiment, Billy,” or “My husband is riding with that unit,” or “I can see your James,” and many more proud comments. \nThe rhythmic clatter of sabers against stirrups provided a martial accompaniment to the spectacle, punctuated by the occasional blast of a bugle or the thunderous boom of cannon fire in salute. \nAmidst the pomp and ceremony, Colonel Stuart's meticulous planning shone through. Every aspect of the review had been carefully choreographed to showcase the prowess and discipline of the Confederate cavalry. From the precision drills, executed flawlessly, to the thunderous cavalry charges that echoed across the field, each maneuver spoke volumes of the skill and dedication of the men who rode under Stuart's command. \nBut beyond the martial display, there was an unmistakable sense of pride and defiance that infused the proceedings. For these men were not merely soldiers; they were the standard-bearers of a cause for which they had pledged their lives, and today, they rode in honor of the man who embodied that cause—General Robert E. Lee. \nAs the last regiment thundered past, all those present, in a final thunderous salute, sent a wave of applause through the crowd. The General rose from his seat, his weathered face suffused with emotion, and raised his hand in acknowledgment of the tribute paid to him and to the cause for which they were fighting so valiantly.\n\"We should go,\" Mat\\t said reluctantly, tearing his gaze away from the now-empty field, and we have to be careful. We can't risk getting caught at this point.”\nReluctantly, Robbie nodded, and together they turned to leave. As they walked, their minds were filled with the memory of what they had seen, and the knowledge that they had been granted a rare glimpse into the past.\nAs they made their way down the hill, the echoes of history followed in their wake, a reminder of the fleeting nature of time and the enduring power of memory.\n“Think you can write a good short story for your English class, now?” Matt said as he engaged the Time Sphere to go home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Eagles Sky Dance\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2767\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a conversation takes place where the true subject is only implied." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Eagles dancing in the sky help inspire threads of connections, weaving together the lives of an Oregon Coast lighthouse keeper and a woman on the East Coast.\n\nA copy of the 1898 Matrimonial Bazar publication for personal ads sat on Elias's desk.\n\nBelow the heading, it said,\n\n”Our aim is high: To increase the number of home firesides, increase the happiness of other people, in short, to do what we can in mitigating woe and loneliness in any sphere or grade of life.\n\nTo cultivate the aims of life and help men and women into a state of bliss.\n\nYours respectfully, C.G. Horton, Editor.”\n\nOn the Pacific coast in the Oregon wilderness, Elias looked at the reply he received to his \"Objective: Matrimonial\" personal ad.\n\n“I very much liked her letter and photo. Good women suited for being a wife are scarce out here. If I need to bring one from back east that is alright.\"\n\nHe knew what he wished he could say.\n\n“But how should I say this? I don’t want to be too direct,” he thought.\n\nThe flames on the logs in the wood-burning Franklin warming stove kept the room cozy and warm. Elias was heating a pot of fish and vegetable stew on top of the stove. Herbs sent aromas making the air fragrant.\n\nElias earned about $800 a year as head keeper for the remote, isolated Mystic Lighthouse. The job included housing in the Queen Anne Victorian house overlooking the sea.\n\nThe house, four years old, and designed by an architect, was artistic and comfortable. It was very different from many of the homes built by the homesteaders doing the work themselves.\n\nThe building supplies had arrived by sea, floated in from ships on smaller boats and rafts, and by horse-drawn wagon using the beaches at low tide for part of the journey.\n\nA village crew came from an 8-hour horse ride away to live there while building it. Seafood, vegetables from the gardens, and other sources meant food was abundant.\n\n\"All it needs now is a wife for me and children, I'm ready for a family,\" thought Elias.\n\nOutside, the ocean stretched far till it met with the sky. The waves made their rhythmic music. Elias looked into the wood stove flames while he thought.\n\nOn the other side of the country from Elias, in the village of Dawn’s Harbor on the Atlantic coast, two women walked downtown toward the ships and distant lighthouse far out on the rocky point.\n\nMaryanne turned her head toward her sister.\n\n“Thank you, Nora for coming with me. I am trying to imagine what life with a lighthouse keeper would be like.”\n\n“You are wise, sister, to think hard and take your time finding out more,” said the other woman.\n\nThey strolled in the cool March wind past the ships and out to the point where waves splashed high on the rocks. The white lighthouse sat on a squat base and rose 40 feet with its lantern room at the top. \n\nNext to it rested a cottage for the lighthouse keeper. Conveniently near town, Maryanne thought this lighthouse must be different from what she knew about the wilderness of the Oregon coast.\n\nBack on the opposite coast, next to the Pacific Ocean, Elias was filling kerosene reservoirs high in the lantern room of the tall lighthouse surrounded by vast, mostly empty lands.\n\nA picture of the letter from Maryanne of Dawn’s Harbor on the East Coast flashed through Elias’s thoughts. The widowed seamstress with a small child was well-established and owned her dressmaking and tailor business.\n\nAt the lighthouse, he and the other two lighthouse keeper families always needed clothing to be mended or replaced. Their clothing was serviceable for work in the wilderness. But perhaps if she still desired finer seamstress work she could sell her fashions in the village.\n\nShe had skills that would be useful in a partner for life. Living in a coastal town, although on the other side of the country, she described growing vegetables, drying fish, and canning vegetables and fruits.\n\nHe liked what he saw in her picture. Maryanne sounded responsible, mature, and reliable. Her photo showed a face that looked like she was kind and fun-loving too.\n\nHe kept the letter and photo in his pocket and took it out often. In it, a young woman wearing a well-tailored dress with lace inserts sat on a carved chair, with a little girl on her lap.\n\nElias saw calm eyes, hair pulled back, a stylish wide-brimmed hat tilted on her head, and a soft smile. He felt there was mystery and something calling to him in the photo.\n\nHe looked out the window at the lighthouse, the sea below, and the horses in the corral near his lightkeeper’s house.\n\n“March 3, 1898,” he wrote.\n\n“Dear Madame, It was a pleasure to receive your reply and your photo,” he wrote.\n\nFor a long time, he sat, wondering what to say. He looked at the poem he had found in the traveling lighthouse library book about courtship.\n\nThis is what it said.\n\n\"Two Eagles fly,\nTalons grasped tight,\nWings in the sky,\nCourtship in flight.\n\nIn courtship dance\nSpinning a song\nThey test each other\nDo they belong?\n\nCartwheels of wings\nWhirling dreams\nOcean wind sings\nSun's ray beams.\n\nWill they be\nEntwined to share\nA nest by the sea\nWoven with care.\"\n\nElias drew in a deep breath and continued writing his letter to Maryanne.\n\n“This week when I tended the beacon at the lighthouse, an unusual sight appeared in the air nearby. From the lighthouse lantern room, 60 feet above the ground, sitting on a 200-foot bluff next to the ocean, I feel I am part of the sky and clouds.\n\nOutside the glassed lantern room, I saw two eagles meet in the air. Their wings were as wide as tree boughs when they swooped past the windows.\n\nThe winter fog drifts by the lighthouse and the waves are far, far below. In and out of the misty sky I saw the eagles' wings flashing.\n\nThen they clasped their talons together and began a spinning dance, round and round, wings fluttering and unfurling.\n\nLike two dancers they floated and tumbled, cartwheeling, drifting, wings tilting as they spun, holding each other’s talons.\n\nI’ve been told this is how they court, testing each other to see if they can be mates.\n\nIf chosen, they bond for life and grow old together, sharing the tasks of caring for their young. They build a beautiful nest. Each year they bring more twigs and branches to renovate it, strengthening their bond while their nest grows.\n\nThe male and female take turns sitting on the nest’s eggs, although the female does sit on the eggs more. One of them will be hunting for food or perched close nearby to protect the nest.”\n\nElias paused, sitting very still, looking into the air at nothing. He included some more details about himself.\n\n“What do you think about these eagles?” He kept writing.\n\n“Aren’t they wonderful?” He wondered if she would catch on to the implication of the courting eagles.\n\nHe hoped she would understand what he was trying to imply.\n\nThe next day he left for the 8-hour ride to the village, leading several strong horses to carry supplies on the way back. The other two lightkeeper's would cover his shifts and he would bring them supplies in return.\n\nThe sky was grey. Foggy fingers reached through the mountains and floated close to the ocean waves.\n\nBut the rain held off and the trails were wet, but not deep, soft mud. Elias rode the lop-eared, steady, grey horse, whose powerful haunches sent them over the beach and along the dirt trails toward the village.\n\nA few days away from lighthouse tending were invigorating. Elias felt a weightlessness to his thoughts and feelings.\n\nAfter he fed the horses and left them in a paddock in the village, Elias went over to get a hotel room.\n\nThe next morning he walked along the riverfront in the village.\n\nWithout bridges, all water crossings were by boat. Now Elias saw a rowboat dragging a big raft of logs lashed together across the water.\n\nThe rowboat bobbed in the river and the oars swept up and around. On the other shore, the distant figures loaded another boat.\n\n“Somebody grab that ferry raft,” a man’s voice called.\n\nFir trees and mountains framed the wide waters. Brisk air brought scents of salt water and forest fragrances.\n\n“I’ll get it,” Elias hollered. He thought of the modern city of San Francisco, many days by ship to the south. \n\nIt even had experimental horseless carriages. But this tiny village on the wide river was a step back in time.\n\n Although it was already 1898, the remote village was isolated by mountains and bodies of water without bridges to cross them. \n\nWater sloshed against the wharf. The raft bumped the pier pilings. A young woman nearby named Cora watched the attractive man grab the rowboat lines.\n\nElias's arms spun and he wrapped the lines around the posts. The boat was snugged up tight. \n\nThe river current swept the flat raft, with its lashed logs, hard against the posts. The man stooped, grasped the raft lines, and snugged it up tight also.\n\nBarrels and boxes rode high on the raft. Cora’s father stepped onto it. He untied the lashings, lifted boxes, and stepped onto the wharf with them.\n\n“Here, let me help you,\" Elias said. Cora was still watching him. \"Who was this?\" She decided to find out.\n\n“Thank you, good to see you, Elias,” said the man unloading boxes.\n\n“I believe you haven’t met my daughter, Cora.”\n\n“You’re welcome, George. No, I don’t believe I have.”\n\nElias nodded to Cora and they shared glances. Her smile was enthusiastic. She liked what she saw.\n\nGeorge thought “I heard this young man is searching for a wife. He has a good position as the Mystic Lighthouse Keeper. Salary, nice Victorian home, a good living. Maybe I can play matchmaker for Cora.”\n\n“You had nice weather for your trip from the lighthouse yesterday,” said George. \n\nCora’s hair was blowing in the breeze while she continued smiling at Elias, who had paused.\n\nGeorge decided to keep the conversation going. His daughter needed suitors and this man might be a prospect.\n\n“Yes, the footing was good for the horses, too, after this break between the rains. I rode and led the pack horses. Stocking up today with supplies,” said Elias.\n\n“Tonight there’s a barn dance at the Mill Hotel, maybe we’ll see you there,” George said. Cora’s eyes lit up.\n\n“We’ve got a fiddler and a country dance caller.”\n\n“Now, that would be something I haven’t done here before,” Elias said to George.\n\n“I may wander by and see what this is all about”.\n\nCora’s smile widened but Elias did not notice.\n\nHe helped unload the raft and went to several shops to order supplies. At the stable, he checked on his horses. \n\nWith only around 300 people, most of the people in the village knew each other. Lumbering, fishing, and homesteading drew many young, single men who sought opportunities. But women could be scarce.\n\nElias went to the post office and mailed his letter. He knew his ad in the Matrimonial Magazine was seen across the country. He picked up a stack of replies.\n\nWhen he tried using the personal ads in the regional newspaper, he ran into the same issue of the scarcity of single women. Using the national matrimonial magazine was the only way to reach single women across the country.\n\nBut when he thought of the letter he had just sent, he wondered if he had already found a wife.\n\nCora, unaware of the ads and the letter Elias carried, went home and prepared for the country dance at the mill. She picked her best long blue dress and twirled her hair into big curls on top of her head.\n\nThe evening was early when Elias heard the music and looked in the doorway. The room was lit by kerosene lanterns hung around it on the walls. The musicians included a fiddler, a flute, and a guitar. Men sitting around the edge of the room stomped their work boots to the music, adding a drumbeat.\n\n“This is good,” thought Eias.\n\n“I am so isolated out at the lighthouse. The other keepers and the homesteaders are good company. But a trip into town and a chance to socialize is interesting. I forget sometimes what this is like.”\n\nThe wood floor shook with the sound of men’s heavy boots. A country dance caller hollered out commands for the steps. There were not enough women for partners and circles of men stepped to the music. Each woman had a line of single men waiting for a dance.\n\nThe men came from all over the country to the wilderness, drawn by opportunities for homesteading large acreages, lumbering, fishing, and a chance to leave cities and live with freedom and privacy.\n\nElias saw one of the ladies head in his direction and he recognized Cora from the wharf that morning. She approached and greeted him.\n\n“Well, you made it,” she said.\n\nElias had a quick impression of something hard in her eyes, something hidden. He felt his intuition raise a sense of being on guard.\n\nHis thoughts quickly flitted to the letter about the two eagles courting that he mailed.\n\n“What would Maryanne think when she read that letter? What if she had already found someone on the East Coast?”\n\nCora tilted her head toward the dance floor, unaware. The message she implied was clear.\n\nElias nodded and they stepped out onto the dance floor, joining a group of three other couples forming a square. \n\nThe fiddle music played, the caller hollered dance moves, and the couples bounced across the floor.\n\nAfter the dance Elias joined Cora’s parents and their friends at a large table. The conversation flowed and Elias listened, feeling a little awkward and out of practice.\n\n“How long has it been since I did something like this?” he thought.\n\nGeorge and Mara, Cora’s parents, turned to him. “Tell us a little about yourself, Elias. I bet you have some interesting stories. Where are you from?”\n\n“I grew up near the fjords in Norway, in a seafaring family. My father and ancestors traveled far and wide on voyages. They were brave and loved to explore.\n\nAt home, we managed to scrape by a living. When I heard about the western United States opening up, about the gold, the homesteaders land available, and the opportunities, I talked my brother into coming with me. He lives on the east coast now, married, with a growing family.”\n\nCora was listening intently and Elias felt her strong focus. Her eyes were observing him closely. George and Maria nodded.\n\n“I came out for the same reason. We’re from the eastern side of the country, too,” George said.\n\nAt the same moment, thousands of miles away on the Atlantic coast, Maryanne was already asleep in Dawn’s Harbor after her trip that day to the local lighthouse. She breathed slowly and gently, dreaming of a lighthouse beacon sweeping across ocean waves somewhere.\n\nLater that night, on the Pacific Coast, Elias was awake for a while after the country dance. Cora’s focused eyes observing him floated through his thoughts. The hardness and secrecy in her eyes troubled him.\n\nElias took out the photo of Maryanne. He looked at her eyes in the picture by the lantern light in his hotel room. There was a softness and a gentleness in her gaze. The little girl on her lap smiled and her eyes were happy. \n\n“What did her voice sound like?” Elias tried to imagine it. \"Would he like hearing the sound of it?\"\n\nWhat was she like as a human being?”\n\nElias knew what he did not want. Cora’s eyes spoke of her personality and he was not interested in her as a possible wife, despite the obvious efforts of George and Mara to be matchmakers.\n\nHe set the photo of Maryanne on the table next to his bed, where he could see it easily when he woke up in the morning.\n\nHe felt like the photo was keeping him company.\n\nOutside the window, clouds scudded in front of the moon.\n\nElias pictured the two eagles, cartwheeling through the air together. \n\nSomething caught in his throat at the thought.\n\nOn the edge of falling asleep, he pictured a sign over his front door at the lighthouse, \"The Eagle's Nest.\"" } ]
[ { "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 Invention of Charades\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1829\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a silent retreat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Bonjour! I am Colette, a lively lass from the heart of France, born in the year 1620. My hair, as pale as the winter snow, carries a hint of red, like the last rays of the setting sun. My eyes, a curious blend of green and gold, are always sparkling with mischief and a thirst for knowledge. And my mouth, oh, it's always in a pout, especially when I'm deep in thought or when I've just asked one of my countless \"Why?\" questions. I'm a bit of a chatterbox, you see, and some might even call me silly. But I just can't help it! The world is full of so many wonders, and I want to know about them all. Why is the sky blue? Why does the sun rise and set? Why, why, why? That's me, always asking, always wondering. My story happened when I was five, and my papa, a strong and kind man, was taken from me by the pox. His laughter, his wisdom, his comforting presence, all gone in the blink of an eye. My mother, oh, my sweet mother, she was a beacon of love and warmth. But she too was taken from us, during the birth of my baby brother. The joy of a new life quickly turned into a double tragedy. My brother, who I never got to meet, joined my mother in the heavens. And so, I found myself alone in this world, an orphan. But I carry their memory with me, in my heart, in my thoughts, in my endless questions. They may not be with me in person, but they are always with me in spirit.\nTwelve years have passed since then, and much has happened to me. I've found true love, married, and have a child of my own. But I remember the day that a group of silent men found me, alone and starving, hovering over my papa's decaying body. They were monks, four of them, clad in humble robes. Not a word did they utter, their lips sealed as if by some divine command. Their language was their eyes, their nods, their head shakes.\nI, being the inquisitive chatterbox, couldn't resist the urge to engage them in conversation. \"Are you lost?\" I asked. A collective nod. \"Are you on a pilgrimage?\" Another nod. \"Are you...uh...married?\" A round of wide-eyed stares and vigorous head shakes. \"Do you...uh...bathe regularly?\" The frowns that followed could have curdled milk.\nIn the midst of our silent conversation, one of them reached out to me. I screamed, turned on my heels, and bolted. The chase that ensued was nothing short of a spectacle. I darted around trees, leaped over bushes, and slid under low branches, with the four monks hot on my heels. Their robes billowed out behind them, their sandals slapped against the ground, and their faces...oh, their faces were a sight to behold! A mix of determination, confusion, and a hint of amusement.\nThe chase ended as abruptly as it had begun. The tallest of the monks, a towering figure with a stern face, finally caught up with me. With a swift move, he scooped me up and tucked me under his arm. I kicked and screamed, my protests echoing through the silent forest, but to no avail. He was as immovable as a mountain, his grip as firm as iron.\nAs we neared their dwelling, my struggles ceased, replaced by awe. Nestled in the heart of the forest was a silent retreat, a monastery that seemed to have sprung from the earth itself. It was a sprawling structure, its stone walls weathered by time, its wooden doors polished by countless hands. The setting sun bathed it in a warm glow, casting long shadows that danced on the cobblestone path.\nThe monastery was a haven of tranquility, its silence only broken by the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the chase, a peaceful sanctuary that seemed untouched by the outside world. As I took in my first sight of this silent retreat, I couldn't help but feel a sense of calm wash over me, even as I continued to squirm under the monk's arm.\nOnce inside the silent retreat, the monks led me to a long wooden table laden with simple yet hearty fare. Bread, cheese, fruits, and a pot of what smelled like vegetable stew. I was famished, and the food was a welcome sight. As I ate, the monks watched me with a mix of amusement and curiosity, their eyes twinkling with silent laughter.\nAfter the meal, one of the monks led me to a small room. It was modest, with a bed, a table, and a small window that overlooked the forest. \"Is this my room?\" I asked. A nod. \"Do you all sleep in rooms like this?\" Another nod. \"Do you ever talk?\" A shake of the head. \"Why not?\" I asked, genuinely curious. The monk simply shrugged, his eyes wide with a look that said, 'I don't know how to answer that without words.'\nI continued with my barrage of questions. \"Do you ever get bored?\" A collective shrug. \"Do you have any pets?\" A shake of the head. \"Why not?\" I asked again, hoping for an answer. But all I got was another shrug and a look that said, 'You're asking questions we can't answer with nods or shakes.'\nThe situation was absurd, and I couldn't help but laugh. The monks joined in, their silent laughter filling the room. It was a strange, funny moment that led to my actions of the next week.\nIt became a game to me, a challenge of wits and patience. I was determined to trip up the monks, to get them to answer a question that couldn't be handled with nods or headshakes. I would ask them about the weather, about the food, about the chores. I would ask them about their past, about their dreams, about their fears. But they were masters of their vow of silence, their faces a mask of calm as they responded with their silent language.\nI became more creative with my questions, more cunning in my attempts. I would wait for the perfect moment, for the perfect question. I would watch their faces, their eyes, their gestures, looking for a hint of hesitation, a sign of uncertainty. But they were steadfast, their silence unbroken.\nOne day, during dinner, I tried a different approach. As one of the monks passed the salt, I said, \"Thank you.\" I held my breath, waiting for a response, hoping for a \"you're welcome.\" But the monk simply nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. They were too good, too disciplined.\nDespite my failed attempts, I found joy in the game. It was a welcome distraction, a source of laughter and camaraderie. The monks, in their own silent way, seemed to enjoy it too. Their eyes sparkled with amusement, their nods and shakes more animated. It was a strange, silent dance, a game of questions and answers that transcended words.\nOne day, one of the monks approached me with a ball. He held it out to me, his face a question. I shook my head, a grin spreading across my face. He seemed surprised but quickly recovered, disappearing for a moment before returning with a skipping rope. Again, he held it out to me, his face hopeful. Again, I shook my head, my grin widening.\nThe monk looked at me, his face a picture of confusion. His eyes seemed to ask, \"What do you want?\" I responded by cradling my arms and rocking them gently, as if holding a baby or a doll. The monk's eyes widened, and then he burst into silent laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth.\nThe other monks, drawn by the commotion, joined in the laughter. It was a silly, absurd moment, a break from the usual tranquility of the silent retreat. But it was also a breakthrough, the first time I had used hand gestures to communicate with the monks. \nThe silent retreat took on a new rhythm as I introduced a new game. I began to communicate solely through hand gestures, stubbornly refusing to nod, shake my head, smile, frown, or use my eyes to speak. It was a challenge, a test of their observational skills and their ability to understand non-verbal cues.\nThe monks took to the game with enthusiasm, their eyes keen as they tried to decipher my gestures. I would make a gesture, and they would guess its meaning. Sometimes they were right, and I would reward them with a clap of my hands. Other times they were wrong, and I would repeat the gesture, adding a hint or two until they got it right.\nIt was a fun, engaging game, a break from the silence and the routine. The monks seemed to enjoy it, their faces lighting up with amusement and anticipation each time I made a new gesture. It was a silent conversation, a dance of hands and eyes that transcended words.\nOne day, I wandered into the gardens to find the monks using my hand gesture game to communicate with each other. I stood there, watching in disbelief as they gestured animatedly, their faces lit up with amusement. A laugh bubbled up from my chest, a sound so foreign in the silent retreat that it startled a nearby bird into flight. The monks turned to look at me, their faces a mix of surprise and guilt, like children caught stealing cookies. I couldn't help but laugh harder, my body shaking with mirth. Wiping tears from my eyes, I walked over to them, my arms wide open. One by one, they stepped into my embrace, their bodies warm against mine. It was a moment of pure joy, a moment of connection that transcended words and gestures. It was a moment I would cherish forever.\nOne day, a young couple arrived at the retreat. They were my aunt and uncle, came to take me home. As they entered the garden, they found me in the midst of a hand-talking session with the monks. They stood there, watching in bemusement as I gestured animatedly, the monks responding in kind.\nMy aunt's eyes sparkled with amusement, her lips curving into a smile. My uncle, on the other hand, looked utterly baffled, his brows furrowed in confusion. I broke away from the monks to greet them, my hands still moving as I explained the game.\nMy aunt laughed, her eyes twinkling with mirth. \"You know, mon cherie,\" she said to my uncle, her voice filled with warmth and amusement, \"this would be a most excellent game at Christmastime. We can call it \" My uncle nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face as he began to understand the appeal of the game. And just like that, our silent retreat game found its way into our family's Christmas tradition." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Of Moon Rabbits and Secrets\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1001\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Never do your thieving when the rabbit can see you, munchkin.\"\nTara looked up from her barely-won handful of berries, meant to be fated for tomorrow's pie, and saw the full moon shining behind her mother. It may as well have been a flashlight. \"I was only trying to hide from you, mama, not the rabbit.\"\nHer mother shook her head and picked up the bowl from the counter, gesturing at Tara to return her ill-gotten snack. \"If you hide from one, you hide from all Tarinka. Even the moon won't keep your secrets.\"\nTara pouted and gave one last yearning glance to the berries, now returned to a higher shelf, before conceding and going back to bed.\nThe clang of a bowl hitting the counter too hard stopped her. When Tara turned back, her mother was bent over, her eyes closed. Without a word, Tara turned back and wrapped one tiny arm around her mother’s waist and walked them both to bed.\n“Mama,” Tara whispered once they were under the covers of her mother’s bed, “How will you catch me eating berries if the sickness takes you?”\nHer mother’s cold hand lifted and patted blindly around Tara until she grasped it in her own warm fingers. “Moi Tarinka.” She whispered back, “Mamas who love their babies very much get to live on the moon with the rabbit and see all of their secrets first hand. So I will never be so far that I can’t see you, maybe even–” Her sentence was interrupted by a cough that pulled Mama’s hand away from Tara’s grasp.\nTara rolled over and curled into her mother’s side. “It’s okay, mama. Let’s sleep now.”\n***\nSomebody was in her house.\nTara slid out of bed, keeping her center of gravity as stable as she could to bribe the springs into being quiet as she rose, and lifted her gun from her nightstand with only the smallest whisper of metal on wood.\nShe padded out into the hallway, weaving from the center to the edges and minding the scraps of broken moonlight that peeked though curtains and bounced around corners, determined to see everything the world tried to keep hidden. Even soldiers wouldn't risk going out in that light tonight. They had plenty of their own secrets to keep.\nTara paused to listen around the corner from the kitchen and heard it again-- a bowl or plate or something clinking against something hard. Her china wasn't real, but she'd bring down anyone who tried to take it on principle.\nTara let out one steadying breath before pivoting around the corner, her gun aimed for the general height of an adult. She expected a looter, or even one of the more skilled pickpockets in the area, though she was sure her locks were difficult to trick.\n\"Dro--\" Tara's warning died in her throat. There were no adults in the kitchen at all, only a child who wore more holes than shoes on her feet and a blanket of dirt for company.\nThe child looked up at her, first in alarm at being caught and then with the tear-filled fear of looking down the barrel of a gun. Tara flipped the safety back on and put the gun on top of the high cabinets closest to her. She had not been as quick as her mother. The girl already had berry stains around her mouth and even had the confidence to start drinking directly from a container of milk that once sat in Tara's fridge.\n\"I'm sorry.\" The girl whispered, choosing to be the first to break the silence between them as her gaze flitted from Tara to the cat door that must have been her access point.\nTara sighed and held her hand out for the carton of milk. The child returned it and let out a small gasp when Tara promptly turned and dropped the whole thing in the trash can. \"It was bad. I was going to the market tomorrow. Do you like juice?\"\nThe girl nodded, and Tara opened the fridge door and poured two glasses of juice. The girl's small hands shook less as she took one of the glasses for herself and Tara's eyes followed the bright light streaming into the kitchen to the moon outside.\n\"Do you see the moon? How there is the shape of a rabbit on it?\"\nThe girl nodded.\n\"Never do your thieving when the rabbit can see you, devuchka. Even the moon won't keep your secrets.\"\nThe child gulped her first sip of juice down hard and sucked in her lip to chew on it. Tara drained her own glass and set it in the sink.\n\"But I will, on a night as cold as this. There is a blanket on the couch and a tub in the bathroom, there,\" Tara jerked her head to nod at the door opposite the hall from the kitchen. \"And if you help me pick more berries for my pie tomorrow I will get you new shoes.\"\nShe looked at the girl and then at the cat door. \"Or, you go back in the snow and hope Russia points you to a second chance to stay warm somewhere.\"\nTara reached up to retrieve her gun and went back to her room to store it properly, now that there was a kid in the house. She stood still at her nightstand, wondering what she would choose, and smiled when she heard the water from the tub turn on. She padded over to her window and nudged the curtain aside to find the moon again. From here, the light was fractured by a large tree that shaded her room from the sun in the summer. But she could still see the rabbit, mostly. Enough of it. Enough of her.\n\"Mama. Thank you for showing her to me before--\" Tara's throat closed around her words. It didn't matter. The rabbit would tell her what Tara meant. Some secrets weren't meant to be kept." } ]
[ { "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: Rachel\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1845\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(anti-semitic sentiments mentioned)\n\nRachel’s daydreaming was suddenly brought to an abrupt end.\n\nThe door opened with force, and standing in the doorway was her daughter Rosemary. She was ushered in by Inspector David, this was his idea of grandstanding to break whatever was going on with the pair.\n\n“Now, one of you two is lying, or has made a false statement, one of you is going to pay for what you have done here.” The inspector easily stood taller over the two women.\n\n“I’ll give you some time alone, for you both to align your stories, then I want the truth.”\n\nHe abruptly left, closing the door with a snap, leaving Rachel and Rosemary in the room. At first, they couldn’t look at each other directly in the face, it was furtive, fleeting looks and glances. A heavy silence of tension was trapped in the room, with the closing of the door.\n\n“Why did you alert the authorities that I was kidnapped, whatever gave you that impression, Rosemary?” The tense silence was broken, Rachel had raised the obvious question.\n\n“Why are you even here?” Rachel added incredulously.\n\n“I came to see you! I found out your real name, Rachel!” Rosemary looked sideways at her mother.\n\nRachel took a quick intake of breath at this revelation. “Who told you?” she said.\n\n“Daddy, of course! He’s not well by the way, not that you care about Daddy.” Rosemary lifted her hand to face, her voice faltered, her emotions were overtaking her indignation. \n\n“What’s wrong with him?” Enquired Rachel.\n\n“He’s heartbroken, he has never recovered from you leaving, you know that!” The disgust and indignation were back again in Rosemary’s voice.\n\n“Why did you leave a loving home? Who are you, Mum? Who is this, Rachel?” Rosemary’s voice was full of emotion now, she wanted answers.\n\n“What do you really know about me Rosemary, what exactly did your father tell you about Rachel – me?” Rachel tried to gain some insights into the feelings of her daughter, she wanted to know why she had traveled to Israel, what her objective was.\n\n“Well, to be honest, I don’t know very much about you. You never talk about your family; you never talk about your childhood. All that Daddy told me is that your real name isn’t Alizee, it is Rachel, and you are Jewish, and that’s why you moved to Israel. He told me never to talk to you about your past, and you never gave any reasons for leaving our lovely home.” Rosemary said.\n\n“All of sudden, it’s; I’m going on vacation to Israel, and then never to return.” Rosemary ended with disdain written all over her face.\n\n“But why now, why after all these years? Why did you come? Please don’t tell me it was because of the broken heart of your father, our relationship ended years ago. Like any relationship that breaks down, there is not one person to blame, and not one single reason. Your father has his work, he has his friends, and most importantly he has you, Rosemary.” Rachel explained.\n\n“Your father wasn’t devastated when I left, quite the contrary. You were at university, and you had your own friends, it’s been some time since I made my home here, it was never my intention to stay, but I love it here, and I decided to stay. Your father knows more than he is letting on.” She continued.\n\n“I don’t understand. How does anyone leave Long Island, our home is everybody’s dream, why come to this underdeveloped country, what life do you have here, what makes you happy here?” Rosemary was getting angry.\n\n“This is my life, and it hasn’t been easy getting started, but I feel happier here. Did you know I bred dogs, and I train dogs, I have friends here, Abdullah and Fatima.” Rachel was trying to explain her newfound contentment. She had found peace, a new life, but it was separate from her US life, and Rachel knew she would never return, how could she reveal the truth to her only daughter?\nIt was difficult to explain her past, her childhood, coming to America, her marriage, a man who worshipped her, but she could not show the same degree of passion, something inside was lacking, broken, her maternal feelings for Rosemary were missing, there again was a hole, her centre had been removed, stolen in those years, the sudden traumatic forced separation from her Jewish family, and then the subterfuge of being hidden away by the good hearted Bruchys in Vichy France saved her life. She had survived the holocaust. Unfortunately, all those early years, the past she could never forget, blighted her relationship with her own family with dear Joe, and her lovely daughter – Rosemary. How could she confess all this to Rosemary?\n\nIt was difficult to discuss with her daughter. They had never been well connected, from the moment Rosemary was born, Rachel didn’t have those maternal feelings. Nowadays they barely kept in contact, they hadn’t spoken in years, birthday wishes were the minimum. Their relationship never possessed shared and respected feelings, Joe was the magnet for Rosemary’s affections, Rachel wasn’t jealous of this relationship, she was pleased there was a strong bond between father and daughter – she however, avoided this closeness with either Joe or Rosemary, her hidden past was locked from all. She felt her life was that of a victim, she never forgot it, her marriage, and then the birth of Rosemary, these were important and joyous moments in anybody’s life, but it did nothing to change Rachel’s, her heart was missing, it had been stolen in her tender years. Her years in America with Joe and Rosemary made her lonelier, she needed to move on, and find some peace and contentment, the early years of her life had scared her forever.\nThen Rachel remembered the most important question, and the reason why both Rachel and Rosemary were there in the room.\n\n“Why did you report that I was kidnapped? What made you think that?” Rachel said suddenly.\n\n“You weren’t at your house; I needed to see you. I had something important to tell you.” Rosemary’s composure started to disappear; the indignation was no longer apparent. The conversation had turned.\n\n“How did you know where I lived?” Rachel started to explore. “I never told you, my address.”\n\n“I found it out from the local police. You didn’t leave your contact with anybody, what could I do.” Rosemary admitted.\n\n“Your father has my contact details, didn’t you know? I assumed you were busy with your own lives. I didn’t want to encourage contact anyway. I’m not exactly proud of my situation, leaving and choosing to live a separate life.” Rachel said reluctantly.\n\nA realization came to Rachel “Does your father know you are here?” Rachel suddenly asked.\n\n“He does now.” Rosemary was hiding something.\n\n“I don’t understand.” Rachel knew that Rosemary wasn’t telling all.\n“We seem to be a family with many secrets, our relationships, I would say, it is more about being in the occasional contact, but hardly connected or close.” Rosemary sighed.\n\n“Daddy thinks I’m in the US, on a long sabbatical after Uni. He doesn’t know I’m in Israel!” Rosemary admitted.\n\n“I met a boy at university, his name is Adam, from New York, from a Jewish family. He wanted to visit a Kibbutz, and I wanted to be with Adam, I loved him. Adam is different to you, Mother, he hates the Arabs, and he hates anybody that is anti-semantic. He wanted to support the building of the nation of Israel. His family is not strict religious Jews, and he would never live in Israel, he is too American.” Rosemary paused.\n\n“I often came to your neighbourhood, and I watched from afar. I watched you with those filthy Arabs, and your dogs, Mother; you are dishonouring the name of your race by even talking with them. I have learnt a lot since coming to this country, the Arabs they hate us. Israel must be strong, not just fight back, but fight first.” She said passionately.\n\nRachel interrupted this rhetoric. “So where is your boyfriend now, Adam?”\n\n“He left; we had a fight.”\n\nRachel peered at Rosemary, she didn’t see sadness in her eyes, she saw panic. There are still things hidden, Rachel thought, and then said. “Why did you stay?”\n\n“Why not go back to Daddy, in New York?” Rachel said sardonically.\n\n“I can’t right now, he has his own life, I haven’t been back for some time, university and after…” Rosemary's voice trailed off, her mind was thinking of something she could not talk about.\n\nRachel's mind was trying to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. Based on the small amount of information being revealed by Rosemary. There were few mother-daughter feelings, not since birth, Rosemary was Daddy’s girl. Joe the husband, and Joe the father handled the two girls differently, his daughter meant everything, especially since Rachel never returned his love and passion, Rachel was distant, and then became even more distant with her move to Israel. Joe had found solace with other women, and this unspoken distant arrangement had appeared between husband and wife. Although Rachel suspected, she didn’t really care, and in some ways thought Joe deserved better. Rosemary was protected from Joe’s other life, and then she had her own life, the separation between all three had become a chasm, a Y-shaped fissure, dividing each into leading separate lives, where secrets and feelings are hidden – lives out of sight from each other. So, why is Rosemary here, why did she report Rachel missing, more than missing – kidnapped, to the police. Was there malice and intent behind her motive? Rachel needed to know more.\n\n“Did you actually tell the police I was kidnapped?” Rachel said carefully.\n\n“No not kidnapped. I told the police I hadn’t seen you at the house, and I told them the last time I saw you were with those Arabs!” Rosemary confessed.\n\n“So, in fact the police assumed I was kidnapped, you didn’t actually tell them.” Rachel glared at Rosemary for an answer.\n\n“They already knew about your Arab friends, you are a security risk to Israel, do you know that?” Rosemary blurted out.\n\n“I didn’t see you for days, and I needed to see you.” There was a distinct change in her voice, it was the voice of a little girl, there was panic in the voice.\n\n“It doesn’t make sense. You have been in this country for ages. You spied on me for ages and didn’t come to see me. Why is there some urgency now? Is it because of the boy, this Adam?”\n\n“Nooo! I don’t want to see Adam ever again, and that would be too soon!” Rosemary gave a forced laugh.\n\n“Then why did you want to see me after all these years, what’s changed, what’s the panic?” Rachel was now confused.\n\n“I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know where to go, I’m ---------------.” Rosemary burst into tears.\n\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: In the Hardest Class Ever Taught, Flags Get Stuck\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1364\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “Back to square one.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In the hardest class ever taught, we return to square one over and over, go back, top of the page, redo checkboxes, fill in the same blanks again. Communication deduces into physical gestures and emotive symbols, culminates in idiomatic explosions. In the hardest class ever taught, learning struggles.\n\nI taught the hardest class tough lessons about the life cycle of a chrysalis. After instructing students to highlight where they found proof butterflies come from cocoons, I read the text aloud, modeled the activity, but looked up to a student drawing a long stripe of highlighter across his forehead.\n\n“What did you do?” I fumed.\n\n“You said to highlight where we found the answer…I found it in my brain.”\n\nAnother student, the first of many siblings to follow, had a hand which raised for everything. Arm in militant upthrust, confusion about the program, \"Teacher! Where do I enter text?\"\n\n\"Easy. Insert here.\" In the spirit of lorem ipsum dolor, I banged out a nonsensical message on his keyboard.\n\n\"I don’t know what that message says.”\n\n“You don’t have to know. It’s gibberish.”\n\n“I don’t know gibberish. No one taught me that language.”\n\nBut it seems I was always teaching the hardest class appropriate language, like after students wrote thank you cards for receiving a school emblem decorated sweatshirt. In stacked, angular handwriting, one student printed, “Thank you. Now I look sexy. Every day.” I suggested ‘sexy’ might not be the best choice of word when writing a school administrator.\n\n“Why not?” the student blinked. “It is in every TV show and commercial for things that are pretty.”\n\nIn the hardest class ever taught, the most shy, seemingly innocent of them all answered a quiz question about pollination. I returned the assessment and pointed to a scrawled written description of a dance, which led to bees climbing into a flowers, “motorboating” it, and fleeing.\n\n“Motorboating. What exactly did you mean here?”\n\nThe student leveled his gaze, “Doesn’t motorboat mean to shake something?”\n\nNot long after the quiz incident, a younger student rushed through the classroom door, stopped at my desk, cheeks flushed, panting a question.\n\n“What’s a virgin?” he whispered. I folded hands to recite a dictionary definition while the young student contemplated into the distance. Nodding, the he muttered, “So a virgin is someone like me.”\n\nBut his friend chimed in from the opposite corner of the classroom, clacking, “You’re no virgin, fool! I saw you eat meat in the cafeteria!”\n\nThe hardest class ever taught misconstrued vocab a lot. They struggled with proper nomenclature. We argued about it right before Thanksgiving break. Students united and called Black Friday a holiday.\n\n“Black Friday is not a holiday.” I chalked the sentence on the board.\n\nThe students in the room cocked heads in unison, “But why? We get a day off of school for it.” All nodded emphatically. “Stores stay open all night in celebration.”\n\n“Big sales!” The tallest dinged.\n\nThis Thanksgiving is different, though. The hardest class I taught doesn't know. I don’t teach anymore. I resigned, then moved, in the middle of a pandemic.\n\nMy students are now grown; I remember each one. Even the hardest of them all, one so angry, so combative, so frail, small, and weak. Whenever I gave a compliment, or required after well-being, this student turned his head, glared sideways, grumbled, “You don’t know me.”\n\nPerhaps. But I knew that student inquired after my food. If I offered to share, he'd scoff and throw hands up in the air. So I started leaving snacks out and announcing, “Who wants this before I throw it away?” With a dismissive shrug, the hardest student always shoved the food into his backpack.\n\nI repeated the same method when I noticed he did not have a proper jacket to wear. So I snipped a tag, wrinkled one up, and reported to the classroom, “No one's claimed this in months. If you know someone who can use it, take it. Otherwise, it will be donated.” The hardest student snatched the jacket and held it up.\n\n“It will fit my uncle,” the student shrugged. But it was him wearing it the very next day.\n\nIn the hardest class ever taught, I took students outside to conduct a wind experiment with flags handcrafted in the classroom. One of the flags became tangled high in a tree. From below, we watched the kite struggle against the branches, fighting in angles and degrees. The yellow and blue crunched by leaves. The flag dissipated. We held our breath. All went still. And then then from underneath the canopy, the flag floated to the ground like a tear. Shortly after, a student followed, silently dropping to feet.\n\n“You can’t do that!” I screamed. “What if something happened to you?”\n\nThe student shrugged, presented the flag. “What is wrong,” the student quipped. “That was easy.”\n\nI hung those flags from the ceiling in my classroom, like one thousand paper cranes flapping in ventilated air currents. They remained there until the very end. I didn’t take much the day I cleaned out my classroom and turned in the keys. But I packed up the flags handcrafted by those students and put the box into the back of my Jeep.\n\nI also kept the heart-shaped snow globe and the student drawn cartoon. I pressed a gifted rose between the pages of our textbook; its color and beauty still wax-paper preserved. My daughter still holds the stuffed animal you pooled together in a surprise baby shower. She named him Guy. Guy doesn’t look much like a sheep anymore; he has no more stuffing. I don’t mind. Neither does she because Guy is a part of each and every one of those students.\n\nOnce, in the hardest class taught, a student waved scissors around like a weapon. “Scissors,” I demonstrated, “Cut paper.” The student frowned, buried his head into elbows, and refused to speak. That happened a lot during those first few weeks. Years later, I saw him in a drive-thru. Handing me a soda through a window the student asked, “Teacher, miss! Why are you crying?”\n\nHe had just shared his acceptance to the local university. I shed tears of pride. Running into him years after he sat in the hardest class made me recall the rest of his peers.\n\nLike the twins with the same sounding names who sat me in the classroom after school one day. They covered the windows and released long wavy hair. Sitting in a circle, they giggled under harsh cinderblock fluorescents, and sung the lyrics of epics. They wrapped my head in silken scarves the colors of moon and sky, and breathed mythical tunes about a white, marbled shrine. I dream of it.\n\nAnd the student with tiny, thin plaits and a gold nose ring. I caught her reading during a lecture. She coughed, a tear slipped, and she handed over the book with an apology, its cover revealing a boy in flip flops shouldering artillery. Swiping eyes, she whispered, “I relate to the story.” Then she shared hers, revealing portraits of reconciliation and the strength of forgiveness. She gave me a card at commencement; I still have it.\n\n“I worked hard to graduate.”\n\nI received another card once. A different year. It came from Paloma, right before a break. I read it on an airplane, choked through shared tragedy. If I’m honest, the pain is still too raw to reveal what she wrote in there.\n\nIn the hardest class I ever taught, we labored to communicate, to understand each other's wants and values. We ducked misprints, painted white over errors, turned blind eyes to misspellings. In the beginning, I cursed frustration as there seemed no end to correcting idioms. Yet, at the end of every single class period, despite the day’s challenges, in the hardest class ever taught, each student smiled, looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you, teacher-miss.”\n\nI could never understand why my students said that. It felt uncomfortable to hear. I should have been doing the thanking. From square one, over and over again, from the top of blank pages, those students taught me. Every day.\n\nAnd they barely spoke the language." } ]
[ { "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: Serendipity Calls\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2240\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On two different coasts, the warp and weft of the loom of destiny drew two threads together. A fortunate stroke of serendipity began to weave them into one fabric. Two lives, thousands of miles apart, became intertwined.\n\nIn 1898, on the East Coast, Maryanne sat reading by kerosene lantern light in a house near the harbor. Three-masted schooners and steamships rested on the sheltered waters of her Atlantic Ocean seafaring community.\n\nThe streets and busy shops were quiet in the evening's twilight. Horses pulling carriages passed occasionally, taking some of Maryanne's customers wearing her latest lady's fine fashion creations to the theater. The rumble of one of the new horseless carriages sometimes passed also.\n\nMaryanne recalled the days when her late husband used to accompany her to the local social activities. She pushed away the feelings of yearning, burying them deep inside.\n\nShe thought, \"I am so grateful for my dear little daughter, Emily. She brings me smiles, laughter and cuddles every day.\"\n\nThe sun was setting on the other side of the country on the west coast, casting golden glows on the Pacific Ocean.\n\nElias lit the wicks to start the lighthouse beacon shining from the tower. The sunset afterglow was mirrored on the ocean waves below in fiery reflections.\n\nHe was happy that he no longer fought the angry seas of the winter storms. Elias was done with the treacherous waves, rocks, and sand bars of the entrance to the mouth of the Columbia River on the trips to Portland, Oregon.\n\nElias felt glad his Captain days were over. His nights no longer contained dreams of the three-masted schooners, steamships, and sailors shipwrecked at the bottom of the sea.\n\nHe knew why the northwest part of the Pacific Coast of America was called \"the graveyard of the Pacific.\"\n\nElias liked to be called \"Captain\" even though he was retired. The navy blue lightkeeper uniform and cap fit the title. Sitting alone at night, he wore his brass-buttoned coat and visored hat.\n\nHe tried not to think about the days before his wife passed from the infectious illness while he was away on a voyage.\n\n\"If only I had been there. Perhaps I could have done something,\" he thought.\n\nElias remembered how he lost his desire to be battling the seas. Every time his ship passed the tall white lighthouse sitting high on the isolated cliffs, he was captivated by the scene.\n\nSteep mountains covered with Douglas Fir trees formed a backdrop. Sandy beaches were mixed with rocky outcroppings.\n\n\"It's like a dream I have seen before,\" he thought.\n\nStill a young captain, but with impressive achievements, he applied to be a keeper at the Mystic Lighthouse and received a political appointment.\n\nElias learned to polish the soot from the kerosene off the glass facets of the crystal fresnel light, 8 1/2 feet high and 6 feet wide.\n\nWhen he looked out of the lantern room at the top of the 60-foot lighthouse tower, sitting on the 200-foot tall bluff, feelings of wonder washed over him.\n\nHe was up in the sky with seagulls circling both above and below him. Wisps of foggy low clouds blew past him below and the ocean peeked through mists in the mornings.\n\nHe trimmed the lighthouse beacon wicks, filled the kerosene reservoirs, and lighted the flames for the beacon to shine while it rotated, propelled by giant clockwork-style gears.\n\nPlanting vegetables in the kitchen garden, farming crops in the valley below the lighthouse, and tending to the horses and livestock filled his days.\n\nRiding a trusty, gentle-eyed, grey horse with floppy ears, a ragged mane, and a scrawny tail, he took the trail to his neighbor's sheep ranch for visits. They drank brandy, smoked cigars, and traded stories.\n\n\"I'm signing up to homestead another 160-acre section and expand the sheep herd,\" Bret, his neighbor would say.\n\n\"Someday you're going to have a thousand acres, Bret,\" Elias would answer.\n\n\"You might be right,\" Bret laughed.\n\nThe sharp-footed horse stepped carefully along the rugged trail, carrying his passenger home by lantern light.\n\nThe wildlife and wilderness became companions for Elias too.\n\nHerons and egrets waded in the waters. Black bears lumbered by. Bald eagles soared over the trees.\n\nHe escaped from feelings of loneliness by reading and living in the world of stories.\n\nThe other two lighthouse keepers were married and had children. Elias lived alone and in his Victorian house on the high bluffs near the lighthouse.\n\nNight had fallen on the other coast where Maryanne lived, and her village was quiet. A kerosene lamp sent a bright glow across the book in her hands, and Maryanne read the text rapidly.\n\n “Jules Verne, my favorite author,” she thought. “Around the World in 80 Days.” Below that it said, “Tales for the Adventurous.” Her heart quickened and her eyes held anticipation.\n\n On the west coast, Elias saw the beacon flashing across the ocean with its distinctive pattern. He envisioned the ships recognizing it, plotting their courses, and felt satisfied to be helping them navigate safely.\n\nElias wore his double-breasted navy blue coat with the brass buttons and his peaked lighthouse keeper’s cap with the visor. His mustache, trimmed beard, and sharp eyes completed the picture he presented.\n\nHe went to the ground floor of the lighthouse tower, sat down near the warmth of the wood-burning Franklin Stove, and picked up his book from the wooden crate that held the traveling library. \n\nHe thought, “Here’s a book for a captain like me,” and began to read Jules Verne’s “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.” The subtitle said, “Captain Nemo’s Strange Ocean Voyage.” Elias thought, “I’ve had some strange voyages too.” He felt contentment filling him and his loneliness was forgotten. \n\nOn the other coast, Maryanne paused in her reading, and in the flash of a single moment, like a bright beacon hitting her with light, she decided to take a step into the unknown. \n\nInstantly she felt her body relax, the vice-like clamps eased, and she felt a new lightness come over her.\n\n“My life journey does not lie in the world of the familiar,” she thought. \n\nShe read again the newspaper ad titled “Oregon Coast, Retired Sea Captain, Lighthouse Keeper, A Good Man Seeking a Hardworking, Good Woman of Virtue.”\n\nMaryanne picked up a pen and paper. Then she paused. “Should she really do this?”\n\nOn the other side of the country, Elias looked up from reading and gazed at the starry twilight sky. Something in the back of his mind seemed to awaken. He filled his lungs with a deep breath of air.\n\n\"A serendipity can happen anytime.” He breathed out, raised his eyebrows slightly, and sighed with a smile.\n\nOn nights when it was his shift to tend the beacon, Elias often stayed the night in the lighthouse tower. Elias felt comforted in the lighthouse ground floor with the warming stove and his books, preferring it to his bedroom and living quarters. The warmth of the stove made the little lighthouse room feel cozy and the books took him to faraway lands and adventures.\n\nWhat wonders lay out there?” Elias watched the beacon light from above sweep across the steep headlands of the coast. Against the night sky, he pictured a dream. \n\nHe and a smiling woman were in his Victorian lighthouse keeper’s house, sitting in cozy warmth by the low flames of the stove. They were surrounded by a large group of children, and the woman held a newborn baby. There were smiles and laughter.\n\nElias thought about the ad he placed in the newspapers, nationwide.\n\nHe thought, “Would any woman be interested in moving to the remote lighthouse, the stormy wilderness, and the muddy trails of the Oregon coast? A trip of 8 hours on horseback to a village of 300 people?”\n\n Across the vast country on the other side, Maryanne sat next to her black and gold etched Singer Sewing Machine. It had all the latest gadgets of 1898. Tables with rolls of fabric, scissors, tailor’s chalk, measuring tapes, and other seamstress tools surrounded her.\n\nA sign above the shop door said, “Fine Dressmaking and Tailor.” A few blocks away the Atlantic Ocean waves splashed in the harbor.\n\nMaryanne reached out again for the newspaper ad. Sitting at the gleaming wood of her dainty Victorian desk in the sewing room, she moved ruffled fabrics with tiny stitches out of her way and looked closer at the printed text on the newspaper.\n\nShe was a robust woman, tall and strong from working on the family farm nearby. Her bright eyes noticed details, her quick mind processed information, and her words were carefully chosen.\n\nThe detailed, lacy dresses she wore, combined with the elaborate hats, created a memorable image when combined with her height. But she was not a threatening figure.\n\nMaryanne combined her talent for detail with thoughtfulness and tenderness in her demeanor. Friends and clients found themselves attracted to her like a magnet. \n\nMaryanne looked at the photos of her late husband. They were arranged on her desk. She thought of her little Emily, only 4 years old. Maryanne decided Emily needed a father. She was finished with going through the days with the dull determination of a young widow. Her husband would have wanted her to go on and start a new life.\n\nShe looked out the window at the night, dreaming of herself with a new husband, a baby, and a happy group of children.\n\nMaryanne thought, \"Every day seemingly impossible things happen.\"\n\nShe pictured her sweet little Emily’s dear face, asleep now in the bedroom, and thanked the creator for the blessings of her daughter. Her throat tightened and her eyes softened.\n\n“Emily needs brothers and sisters,” Maryanne thought. \"I could start a correspondence, take it slowly, and find out more.\"\n\nShe picked out a photo of herself and Emily in their most fashionable dresses. \n\nThen Maryanne picked up a blank paper and a quill pen. \n\nIn flowing, artistic script she wrote, “Dear Sir, I am writing to answer your newspaper ad…” When she was finished she put it into an envelope and addressed it. \n\nMaryanne knew the letter could travel by train across the country. When it reached Oregon, it would need to be carried by a variety of wagons and ferries crossing rivers. \n\nShe remembered seeing photos of the Oregon coast. \"Wilderness, long beaches, cliffs, mountains and valleys. Adventure,\" she thought.\n\nIn the meantime, Maryanne decided to focus on her seamstress work. Perhaps there would not even be a reply. The lighthouse keeper would probably find someone who lived nearby.\n\nTossed into a mailbag, the letter began its long journey. The mailbag was sorted at various destinations and resorted again.\n\nAfter the train left the mail in Oregon, the letter began another trip where it bounced along the dirt roads of Oregon in a wagon. \n\nAt last, the letter was picked up by a homesteader named Bret, who had a sheep farm in the mountain meadows near the lighthouse. Bret left the community post office in Mystic Beach with a bundle of mail for other local farmers and homesteaders.\n\nHe stayed overnight at the small hotel on the river, in the village of 300 people. Tomorrow he would go home and drop off his friends' mail on the way.\n\nThe next day he rode his trusty chestnut horse for 8 hours over the muddy trails of winter and the wet, packed sands of beaches at low tide. Finally, he arrived at the lighthouse on the way to his homestead farm. \n\n“Hello Elias, here’s your mail.”\n\nThe homesteader smiled and handed the letter to his friend at the lighthouse keeper's white Victorian house overlooking the sea.\n\nElias saw a yellowish envelope with graceful writing for the address. The envelope was smudged and creased from its journey. One corner had a small tear.\n\nIt was from the east coast. \"I'm amazed this letter made it all the way here,\" he said.\n\nElias looked at the town and state in the address and thought, “Who did he know from there? Who wrote with this artistic handwriting?”\n\nHis mind raced. “No, it couldn’t be. All the way from the Atlantic coast?”\n\n\"The east coast. What could we have in common?\"\n\n\"What could we talk about?\"\n\nHis thoughts and feelings poured out like water bursting from a dam.\n\n\"Someone coming from the East Coast could take the train now most of the way. Then it would be horse and wagon over rugged Oregon trails and rough roads.\"\n\nHe tried to picture a woman traveling across the country to the remote lighthouse.\n\nIn his mind, he saw himself meeting the happy woman at the train station and then taking her on the long wagon ride home to the remote lighthouse. They were talking and getting to know each other on the way.\n\nOn the other side of the country, Maryanne felt a gentle surge of energy inside and she paused, wondering. \n\nIn the ground floor of the lighthouse, on the opposite coast, Elias felt cozy next to the flames of the wood fired warming stove with his book. He looked out the window and watched the beacon flashing over the ocean.\n\nSomething stirred inside him, and he felt the tension flow away. With soft eyes, he looked out at the moonlit sky. A contented sigh escaped him.\n\nHe patted his shirt pocket, where the rumpled letter sat, close to his heart." } ]
[ { "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 Trail\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1504\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “The plot thickens.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Day One: I am investigating the disappearance of some food from my locker. I understand that I should not expect any help from my fellow classmates or the school, so I will be undertaking this venture by myself. In the event that I do not solve this mystery, I intend to carry about my own food and then find a way to replace my combination lock – or locker – without breaking any of the rules of this institution. Several teachers have advised me to let this go, but I am a fan and devoted reader of mysteries, and I know that there is always more than meets the eye in these situations. I intend to seek justice…and then find it (end of recording).\n\nDay Two: It is the beginning of a week-end (actually, Friday afternoon). I know that we will have the Monday off, and that many of my classmates will be away. I also know that the school may possibly be closed to the students, but I have arranged to use the library during the long week-end to study for upcoming exams. This is simply a ruse I have developed in order to fool the staff into allowing me to use the building as my first step in my hunt for the thief (the librarian, although quite surprised by my request, trusts me and will allow me to enter through a side entrance to use the facilities). The building will be open at standard class times on the week-end, except for Monday, so I will have to be very discrete with my search. I may also have to leave these recordings to a later date than in this portable between lessons (the back door opens easily to a pen cartridge position in the right part of the lock). I will see if this is possible (end of recording).\n\nDay Three: I have found an ally. It is not Ms. Munroe, the librarian (I had expected her to be on my side, but her only comment when seeing my written request was, “What kind of kid wants to be in school over a long week-end?” When she was it was me, she no longer required an answer). No, the ally I have found has been with the janitorial staff. Mr. Edwards, a long-time cleaner with our school – he claims fourteen years at the same institution – is very sympathetic to my real reasons why I am at the school on Saturday. He wants to clean it up and not have to bother with any “anonymous food sources” (his surprising words, not mine) that could lead to a bigger and more annoying situation. One problem we have discovered together is that the students have been changing their locks without the express written consent of any of the staff members (I have created a list of numbers to be handed in on the Tuesday, some of which will be a surprise to the teachers…and several coaches). And yes, I did tell him exactly why I was there. I do not think I can trust Ms. Munroe to remain silent about such things (I have caught her reading a romance novel at her desk when I have stepped out of the room “to use the facilities”). She has never really bothered to look up and I think she may be annoyed to have me there. But I do not mind. Mr. Edwards is a kind soul – you can see it in the eyes – and he wants to help me find out who the culprit is. He is the only one who knows what kind of food I have lost to a thief and I think he is rather amused at the prospect of solving a mystery while at work. I did mention my love of mysteries to him and he confessed to watching the latest Sherlock Holmes television series (I cannot stand the updating of the source material, but I did not say as much). So, I have an ally. We have handled the first floor and have found nothing more than a trail of ants to the boys’ locker room (the teams seem very fond of chocolate of every kind). Mr. Edwards sprayed the entire room and asked if I recognized any of the wrappers and packaging I noted in the clean up. No, nothing has been discovered yet that would indicate my food. I left the school with a promise to return and continue on the second floor. Mr. Edwards continued with the clean up and the promise to “kill every ant in the place”. A bit harsh, but I can understand the frustration of a man left alone to clean such a large building. Ms. Munroe did not look up when I told her I was heading home, but she knows I will be back. There is so much more to do (end of recording).\n*\nDay Four: This is going to be a very difficult recording for me to do. I am at home at my desk with all of my notes (my homework was finished by Friday night, so I do not have to worry about anything there except the extra credit work – far too easy to handle). I am looking out at the sun heading towards the horizon as my mother and father talk downstairs about me and my plan (they think I cannot hear them). And I have to save this file.\nI know who took my food.\nI went to the school a little earlier than usual and saw Mr. Edwards and Ms. Munroe in the parking lot. They seemed to be sharing a private laugh at a joke I had not heard. And as I approached them, I had to stop for a moment. They kissed each other. And they kept on kissing each other as I hid behind a dumpster at the far end of a parking lot. I waited for about ten minutes before using a different door (same plan as before so that I was not “arousing suspicion” – always a strange phrase to me). Ms. Munroe seemed surprised to see me, but I know that she does suspect that I saw her with Mr. Edwards. He was already up on the second floor. And I should mention that most of the administration offices are on that floor. Mr. Edwards said I could continue looking around while he cleaned up the hallways (always have to be careful with ants, he said). The doors for most of these rooms were kept unlocked except for the main offices, so I did not think I was breaking any rules. And as I walked through the guidance counselor’s space, I saw it.\nThe food was from the international market, so the wrapper was written in what I knew to be Japanese (not “weird Chinese shit” like some of the older kids said when they saw it). It was a candy that I found out about online and decided to try last year, so no one else could have known about it except me (never saw anyone at the school eating it). And it was right there, on the floor next to the rolling clear plastic cabinet Mr. Porto always used when he prepped files for the students and wanted to have them ready for meetings.\nMr. Edwards saw me holding the wrapper and asked the obvious question about what I found. When I told him, he said something to me that is going to make what I do next very difficult. He said that it could have belonged to any student of the school who had to have a meeting in that office. He said that I should be sympathetic. And then he said this (I wrote it down so I would get it right): “Nobody is perfect, and you would be surprised to learn what people do not want you to know. Very surprised.” He then continued to talk about ants and keeping the place clean, but I was not really paying attention. In the library, I pretended to do the extra credit work (Ms. Munroe still had her book) and I left without saying good-bye.\nMonday is coming up and I know that I should try to forget about this, but I do want to talk to the school about this. Mr. Edwards is right, but how can I trust anyone if people are allowed to just take things without permission? I will need to get my own permission to change the lock, but I don’t think that will be a problem (I already have one ready). My parents know about the theft and they said the same sort of thing as Mr. Edwards (“Be a bigger man, son.” A bigger man? Maybe he should not have called me “Son”). I have all of tomorrow to consider this. And I have no other work to do. What am I going to do?\nTuesday should be very interesting (end of recording)…" } ]
[ { "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: Snakes and Ladders\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2239\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “Back to square one.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Life’s a game, and love is the prize – or so they say. If that is the case, then why, of all things, is the first kiss the horrible, long snake that sends you tumbling right back to square one? Well, perhaps not the kiss itself, and more how the kiss ends: whether you’re interrupted, walked in on, broken apart fiercely by something. That’s always how it goes in novels. The character’s build up such a connection – oh, sparks are flying the size of deadly lava bombs – and they finally, after so agonizingly long, have that first kiss… but it’s ruined by something, not left to end when their hearts desire. The characters don’t get time to talk about their feelings after breathlessly breaking apart, and thus are left to worry, embarrassed, both thinking they disgusted the other, ruined their beautiful friendship. Both, of course, are wrong, but nonetheless they are right back to where they started. Awkward niceties. You could even dare to call them strangers.\n\nJust like in novels, the first kiss was exactly the unlucky dice roll that sent Rufus and me sliding back down an unnecessary snake to square one.\n\n\n\n“Emery, focus. We have to have this finished by tomorrow.”\n\n“Sorry, sorry! I am focusing!” I blinked furiously, trying to concentrate on the screen. The dull set of paragraphs and default font seemed to stare mockingly back at me. “Are you sure this is going to be good enough?”\n\n“I hate co-writing. I don’t know why any authors do it.”\n\nI sighed. “Ruf, I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you. It’s just getting late, maybe we should leave it–” At Rufus’s stern glare, I corrected myself: “I mean, let’s get on with it and finish this. We can’t let all our effort go to waste.”\n\nRufus turned his gaze back to the computer. It really was getting late: the sky visible through Rufus’s small shuttered windows was a shadowy shade, but Rufus was using the light pollution as a way of claiming that there was “still light outside”; the sun hadn’t “gone down yet”. I’d already tried several times trying to kindly persuade him – us, really, but he was doing most the work, the typing of our short story – to give up, to try next time such a glorious opportunity springs out of the blue. Every time the shadows cast from the weak lamp on the desk beside him seemed to cast darker shadows across his eyes, enhancing the cold look I’d get. His patience was running thin, I could tell, but I knew he appreciated me in teaming up with him to enter, though I was hopeless at creative writing. I could happily supply him with various ideas inspired by the multitude of books I’d read, but it was up to him to put pen to paper. Or, at least, finger to keyboard.\n\nI’d already given him the ideas and helped him plan the plot, so there wasn’t much else I could do but give moral support and the occasional thought on how a sentence turned out – thus why I spent the next however long blurrily gazing at the screen, pretending to read along.\n\nEventually the soft clicking of the keyboard ceased. “There,” Rufus breathed, his eyes shining, the dim, artificial light causing them to look ringed with luminous yellow. Dark hair tousled at the back where he’d unconsciously rubbed at it, he turned his head to look at me. “What do you think? Is that a good way to end it all?”\n\n“Oh.” I hadn’t really been reading along. He did know that, right? “Yeah, that’s great, Rufus. Are you going to submit it now?”\n\n“I would read it through and edit it, but…” He fisted his hair, agitated. “No time. I’ve got to submit it.”\n\nI patted his head encouragingly, and in a silent wish of good luck, then set to heading off home. Rufus finally admitted, much to my exhausted relief, that it was perhaps a little late.\n\n\n\nThe awards were given out and the winners revealed at a ‘social’, exclusive to high schoolers. There had been several competitions – music, baking, art, dancing. I stood lost in the crowd of surging bodies, feeling drugged on lemonade like I’d had a fancy cocktail from a glorious novel. Next a beautiful man resembling Prince Charming would be parting the dancing teenagers like the Red Sea to come talk to me, to flirt with me. If books were ever true, of course. At one point I heard my name called out by nobody I knew - it was probably just the lemonade speaking, so I chose to ignore it.\n\nSeveral names were read out and strangers I recognized would beam and accept their awards happily on stage, the music and dance winners giving special celebration performances. I waited quietly for the identity of the poor person I’d have to act like was worthless and underserving for the sake of Rufus. He had determination but fragile confidence when it came to something he cared so much about; he hardly ever put his heart on the line. I’d always known that, always had to be the one to hype him up and tell him to keep going, but it didn’t bother me. The heroes always had their best friends, the secondary characters who everyone adores.\n\nSuddenly I noticed Rufus pushing through the crowd towards me, a grin curving his sharp, dark features. He was mouthing something, words I couldn’t catch on to until he was almost right up against me – “We won! Emmy, we won!”\n\nI put my glass down on the bar. I was only ever ‘Emmy’ if something outstandingly good had happened. “What?”\n\nHe ignored my confusion. “Where were you? I had to collect the prize by myself – Em, we actually won!”\n\n“That’s awesome, Ruf, I’m happy for you!”\n\n“Us.” His eyes were shining again, brown turned a million colors by the disco lights. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Em–”\n\nAnd then he was stumbling into me, from the mass of writhing bodies or from delirious glee, I don’t know which, but all I knew was that – that I was kissing him, frantically, happily, I didn’t have time to think if he was kissing me back, all I felt was my bones melting – it was a wonder I managed to keep standing – and it just felt right…\nBut he had stumbled, and I had lost most my strength to support both of us - either of us - and so we tumbled back, and panic overtook everything. I felt my head smack - almost gently, it felt, but I must’ve been overwhelmed, high on adrenaline - on the bar… I slumped, shocked – shocked at the fall, but most of all at what we’d just done. I tilted my head up to see Rufus, and it was quite clear he hadn’t expected any of it any more than I had. I reached up to touch him lightly on the arm, to try explain, but he seemed to slip from underneath my fingertips, slipping like a shadow towards the crowd, and then allowing himself to be swallowed by their thrashing, dancing jaws. I stared after him wistfully.\n\n“Ma’am?” I glanced up. The bartender, peering over. “Did you hit your head? Should I call someone?”\n\nI reached blindly for my head, surprised to feel a stickiness. Blood? I tried to speak, but I just felt sweet and delirious, like the lemonade really had done something to me. If I absently moved my hand down, just to touch my lips, I could feel the phantom of Rufus’s. The bartender shook his head pityingly, muttering something about teenagers and underaged drinking, and then came to get my phone to call my parents.\n\nWhat a first kiss.\n\n*\n\nThe social had been on a Friday night. I’d spent the weekend inside, it slowly dawning on me the severity of what had happened.\nNot my head. My head had been fine, but Rufus. Why did I have to have done that? Ruined his rare joy for my own impulsive pleasures? He had clearly been disgusted by my behavior, and rightfully so. Thinking back, I’d probably made him stumble – surely, I’d unconsciously pulled him against me, and far too roughly. God, I’d gone and got myself injured, even, and probably him too.\n\nThe heroes weren’t supposed to work out with their best friends. They were supposed to meet someone just as special as them, and their best friend supports them through any hardships that come with that romance. Not try to be a part of the romance.\n\nHis face before he turned and fled. It was all I could see, even when he kept his expression closed and his head turned away from me if we passed each other in the corridors, the only acknowledgement given, if at all, a nervous start and an increase in pace. Poor Rufus. He couldn’t even look at me: he was repulsed, perhaps convinced I’d attack him and kiss him again.\n\nI tried so hard to get him alone. I had to address it, I had to make it right, for God’s sake, I had to, because it was all my fault it had ever happened. I couldn’t bare to let it be the thing that destroyed our friendship. I had thought in the months before that Friday, in brief flickers I’d tried to ignore, that perhaps our friendship was blossoming into something more, and couldn’t help but feel hurt and confused in why now he didn’t seem to feel as I had thought he did. But I had no right to feel hurt, and I couldn’t ever tell Rufus that I meant it, that really I was pleased I’d felt delirious enough to do such a thing, in case he never wished to be my friend again.\n\nEventually I managed to get him alone. Sickened by myself and the real world, I had taken to reading in the library whenever I had free time. It was the only way I could go away somewhere where even I wasn’t there. Usually, the library was scattered with at least a few other people, studying or reading, but this time there happened to be none. Rufus ducked in quietly – he knew me, knew I’d be in the library, yet had obviously hope there’d be enough others he could just ignore my presence – blinked once and then tried to make a hasty retreat before I noticed. Of course, I’d noticed, however. I couldn’t really commit to my book, only a fraction of my heart was in it; my eyes had only slid lazily over the same sentence, over and over again before I finally made some sense of it and managed to move on to the next. Most my focus was on my peripheral, any sign of Rufus, be it a flash of dark hair or the icy blue of his schoolbag, I was onto it like some sort of sniffer dog.\n\nI was already right there, following him swiftly out then stepping in front, cornering him. It wasn’t kindly to do it that way: he looked like an injured bird, cupped in a human’s imperious hands, the sharp angle of his nose like a beak.\n\nI took an unnecessary breath, for that’s what all book characters seem to do before diving into a long, thought-out apology. “Rufus, I’m so sorry – I kissed you, I ruined everything when you’d just wanted to share your happiness on winning–”\n\n“I fell into you, Emery, it’s my fault, and I saw you got hurt but I didn’t check if you were okay–”\n\n“No! I must’ve pulled you into me, and I kissed you, that was awful of me, I felt you weren’t kissing me back and yet I pushed on, in fact I pulled–”\n\n“What do you mean I wasn’t kissing you back? I thought you weren’t kissing me back!”\n\nHis words seemed to be delayed in my brain. I paused, processing them. “I– you–?”\n\n“Yes,” Rufus mumbled, his eyes wide and bewildered. “I think we both misinterpreted how the other felt.”\n\n“You kissed me? Back? And you don’t regret it?”\n\n“And I’d do it again.” He added hurriedly: “If, of course, you want–”\n\nAnd once again, my lips were crashing against his, just as frantically as before. We stumbled back slightly with the force, but this time he managed to steady us against the library door with one hand, the other gentle on my back, propping me up. No panic gripped me, instead there was a bubbliness, a giddiness, and a looseness in my muscles and in my heart, lacking the tension I hadn’t even recognized had been there the past few days. Rufus was softly whispering things against my mouth, I don’t know what, all I heard was his gentle ‘Emmy, Emmy’, rare in itself, but even more so foreign to be heard so close. I smiled, pulling back to rest my forehead against his, my eyes still closed, sealed with bliss.\n\nIt’s a great long snake to bring two people tumbling right back to square one, but this was like the jackpot dice roll that landed on the square with that one, really long ladder, right up to square ninety-nine. The closest possible leap to happiness." } ]
[ { "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 Puzzle\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1057\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A Mother Puzzle\nMother was good at puzzles. It didn't matter which sort, number, word, or whatever, but her favourite were jigsaw puzzles. The bigger and more challenging the better. She had a large table set up in the centre of the lounge and it would be very unusual for there not to be a part-finished jigsaw lying there waiting to be completed. She had a system. The unfinished puzzle would be at the centre. The pile to the right were the pieces still to be fitted. To the left were pieces that showed promise for adding to the puzzle being worked upon, that had the correct colours or a promising pattern. Some of pieces might already be fitted together in assemblages of up to say five, ready to be added to the centre construction.\nMother had a daughter. She actually had two. The older, Tamara, had married almost three years ago and moved away, first to England and from there to Spain, where John her husband had been set the challenge of establishing the first Thomas Cook travel agency. The younger daughter Isa was lonely and frustrated. She missed her older sister. They had shared life together since she was born. Now all she had for company were the chickens, ducks, cows and pigs and other animals. The family lived on a farm 30 km from Berlin where all the interesting fun and nightlife took place, but it was not easy to get there. The farmworkers were dour and unfriendly. They were always giving Father problems. He called them Communists. \n 'Stalin could be over the border and swamp us in a few hours and this lot would welcome him. We should have found a place much further west, much further like America. Hitler is a demagogue and a madman, but at least he would sort out Stalin and his awful Cheka secret police.'\nIsa regularly exchanged post cards and letters with both John and Tamara and with John's younger brother, Lionel. The two English brothers had arrived at the farm, staying as lodgers, while improving their German. Father had been concerned that these strangers from England would lead his girls astray. In a way he had been proved right when Tamara and John became engaged. But he was content that the two boys had turned out to be honest, educated fine young men of whom he approved.\nMother decided something needed to be done about Isa's loneliness and frustration. But first she wanted assurance that the plan she was about to implement was the correct one. She sneaked two pages from Isa's room. Firstly, the draft of a letter Isa had written when applying for an office job in a Berlin bank. Why a bank? Perhaps because Lionel was now working for the Credit Lyonnaise Bank in Paris. She felt quite guilty about the second letter that she borrowed. This was from Lionel and was top of a little packet tied together with pink silk ribbon. It had been written in almost perfect German and while not erotic was certainly very friendly. This gave her confidence that she was on the right track. She took the two documents to the Graphologische Auskunftei, at Potsdammer Straße 134 in Berlin. It had been highly recommended by her friends. She was greeted by a Madame Durand and addressed her in French. It immediately became clear that this graphologist was as German as Berlin itself. So before the embarrassment became too great Mother reverted to the native tongue. Why did that woman have to pretend to be French? She wondered as she returned home. Two days later the post delivered the evaluation. Fortunately, Isa was out in the farm enjoying the frolicking of some newly born, squeaky piglets. Madam Durand had discovered small weaknesses in both parties. However, she opined that the two were admirably suited. Mother just hoped that Madam's expertise at interpreting writing was better than her pretence at being French. The manuscripts were returned as surreptitiously as they had been borrowed. Mother moved to action.\nTo progress her plan she sold a precious ruby and diamond ring, a relic of the family's former wealth in Russia before being forced to flee the Revolution, leaving all behind. Next, she purchased train tickets for Paris and a decent suitcase for Isa. \n 'Isochka let's go to Paris. We could visit the galleries in the Louvre, view some Matisse paintings and do a little shopping. Perhaps Lionel might have some time to spare.'\n 'Next week?' from Isa.\n 'No, no next month. The weather will be better and you need to let Lionel know our plans. A surprise is not a good idea. We could arrive and then discover his work will not allow him to spend time with us.'\nSo, off to Paris they went. Speaking French was no problem. In Russia Tamara and Isa had had a French governess, Mademoiselle Voutaz. It was practically their first language. Mother and daughter shopped together. Mother, Isa and Lionel visited galleries, dressed up and went to the theatre. But mother was wise. Often, she was too tired to stay up late or to go to yet another show, or even to manage a walk in the Tuileries Gardens.\nThe day before the end of their fortnight stay, Isa announced that Lionel had proposed. Mother expressed shock, surprise and of course pleasure. An urgent telegram was sent to Father. He gave enthusiastic approval by return. The family in London and Tamara and John in Spain were informed. More congratulations. \nThe proceeds of the ruby and diamond ring had to be stretched yet further and arrangements made to travel to London. Isa didn't have second thoughts about Lionel but still she worried. English was her poorest language. The best common language between them was French, and they had discussed settling in Paris, so that Lionel could continue with his job. However, the boys' father had offered to put down the deposit on a pair of semi-detached houses in the London suburbs. This would allow the two brothers and two sisters to set up home side by side. This option appealed especially to Tamara and Isa.\nIsa and Lionel were married six months later, on Boxing Day, 1933, at the Lutheran church in London. Mother, kneeling during the blessing, thanked God for her puzzle solving skills." } ]
[ { "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: Beauty and a Beast\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1561\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cynical character who somehow ends up on a blind date." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time there were two kingdoms – or rather, a kingdom and a queendom – separated by a long river, called the Ibailuzea. Collectively, they despised each other with a vengeance and had been at war for centuries.\nFor his part, King Zinikoa was quite happy that the war should continue indefinitely as it kept the peasant population down. There was nothing worse, in his mind, than to have to worry about the welfare of his subjects, so the fewer the better, as far as he was concerned … as long as enough remained to be called up to the army when needed – to fend off any incursions from his neighbour – and to tend the fields, which included vast vineyards that were the envy of the continent.\nHe was quite partial to a drop of plonk, was Zinikoa, but that’s not all. He was also a great fan of pheasant, boar, venison – all those medieval-type delicacies. A diet of meat and wine meant that he wasn’t the healthiest of kings, but as ‘wellness’ wasn’t yet a thing, he neither practised it nor worried too much about it, except when his gout played up. At those times, he’d have a few innocent peasants executed, which didn’t cure him of the ailment but did improve his mood.\nOn the other side of the Ibailuzea, the good Queen Erreginaona, who hated her neighbours like the plague, would have been happy for the war to continue too were it not for a worrying development: the plague. It had crept in from the east and was decimating her subjects in the outlying regions. Unlike Zinikoa, Erreginaona loved her people, and every one that fell to the pestilence was like an arrow to her heart.\nNowhere was safe … except to the west of the Ibailuzea, which provided a natural barrier against the spread of the disease. If the Queen could lead her people over the river to safety… but the centuries-long war of attrition showed no signs of being won by either side. How then to bring about this desired outcome?\nAs luck would have it, it was King Zinikoa himself who came up with the solution. In a moment of unusual clarity, he realised that he was getting on and that there was a risk he would leave this world and his country without an heir. Now, not only was Zinikoa a cruel boor, but he was also a snob. There were local noblewomen he could have teamed up with, but no – only royalty would do for him. And where was the nearest royalty to be had?\nWhen he told his advisors of his plan, they advised him fervently against the move; the countries were at war, for Jainkoa’s sake! And they warned him of the potential treachery should he invite the Queen into his intimate orbit. It’s hard to fathom why the King kept advisors really, because he didn’t take a blind bit of notice and ordered them to arrange a visit from the Queen forthwith.\nApart from being a boor and a snob, though, Zinikoa was exceptionally fussy and wouldn’t wed and bed just any queen – she had to be ravishing. They’d never met, so the King ordered a poet to travel with the advisors and report back on Queen Erreginaona’s beauty … or lack of it.\nA week or so later, they returned. The advisors confirmed the Queen’s provisional agreement to a meeting, while the poet produced a parchment on which he’d scribbled a few words.\n“Is that all?” the King said, eyeing the scratchy letters.\n“Pray listen, Your Highness,” the poet said, and proceeded to recite. (N.B. much of the beauty of the poem is sadly lost in the translation).\n\n\nHer hair, a field of golden wheat in sunshine\nHer eyes, the heavens’ brightest stars\nHer mouth, the promise of such worldly delights\nAnd her bosom … oh, her bosom.\nFor the King, the last line was the clincher as it was his favourite part of a woman’s body; as well as being a boor, a snob and fussy, Zinikoa was a crude, archetypal chauvinist. It would be his downfall.\nOn the day of the visit, the King had his personal guard put on full alert; the Queen would be travelling with her own guard, and they needed to be disarmed before they set foot in the court. On top of that, his advisors had convinced him to search the Queen herself, for who knew what deadly weapons she might carry? The King had an idea and couldn’t wait to see them, but in a rare show of decorum, tasked a couple of noblewomen to do the pat-down.\nFinally, it was time, and amid a fulsome fanfare from the in-house buglers, the Queen entered the court. The King was taken aback by her beauty; he made a mental note to berate the poet for not doing her justice. There were a number of ceremonial protocols to go through – the advisors wanting to take centre stage for a while – but the King soon tired of it all and stood up from his throne.\n“Leave us!” he bellowed.\nThe court emptied in a trice, leaving King and Queen alone.\n“Well,” the King said. He was trying with all his might to keep eye contact with Queen Erreginaona, but his gaze kept slipping. She noticed.\n“Good sir, is there something you find of interest in my person?”\nIn addition to being a boor, a snob, fussy, and a crude, archetypal chauvinist, the King was hopeless with women. Such forthrightness had him on the back foot straight away.\n“I … you … they …” he said, trying out pronouns to see which might best fit what he wanted to say. In the end, he opted for ‘I’.\n“I … was admiring your locket,” he lied, referring to the ruby-encrusted gold heart nestling in her ample cleavage.\n“It was my grandmother’s,” the Queen said, lifting the pendant out of its soft bed and twiddling it seductively in her fingers. The King swallowed drily.\n“How very interesting,” he said, pulling the collar away from his neck with a sweaty finger.\n“I must say that I am rather surprised,” the Queen said through a gentle smile.\n“How so?” the King rasped. His gaze had shifted to one of the loopholes in the wall, through which he espied the clouds scudding by.\n“Your kingdom is renowned for its wine, yet here I am, a full quarter hour in your court, and not the faintest sign of an invitation to imbibe of that very nectar.”\n“Of course!” the King exclaimed, relieved to be able to focus on something else. He gestured towards a table next to the wall, replete with pheasant, boar, venison, and a flagon of wine. He made to move there but the Queen stopped him.\n“Please, sir. Allow me. In my country, it is the woman that does this kind of task.”\n“Very well,” the King said, and sank back in his throne. Besides being a boor, a snob, fussy, a crude, archetypal chauvinist and hopeless with women, he was chronically lazy.\nHe watched the Queen glide to the table. What a magnificent woman she is, he thought to himself. And so acquiescent. How happy I will be!\nHappy he would have been if he’d paid more attention to his advisors and had told the noblewomen to search the Queen more thoroughly. For in her grandmother’s locket, which she’d bought the week before from a shop near her castle, was enough dried hemlock to kill a herd of wild horses.\nShe brought two goblets from the table and handed one to the King, twiddling her locket all the while to divert the King from the danger.\n“To our health and happiness!” the King said, raising his goblet and once again looking beyond the locket to take in what really interested him.\n“Depends what you mean by ‘our’,” the Queen said, and knocked back her wine in one. Not to be outdone at drinking by a mere woman, the king followed suit, smacked his lips at the strange taste, and frowned.\n“What do you mean by–?” he said and crumpled to the floor.\nOne might expect chaos to have reigned from that moment on, but outside the court, the Queen’s guard had disarmed the King’s (who hadn’t been paid for ages and were sorely de-motivated), arrested the advisors, and stood sentry over the main door.\nThe Queen – who was essentially a good queen, we must remember – was very lenient with the King’s faithful followers, of whom there were few, in fact; years of neglect and mistreatment had engendered widespread hatred of the man. She drew up an edict, proclaiming equal rights for the Kingdom’s citizens and her own subjects, who she promptly had brought over the River Ibailuzea to settle – after a suitable period of quarantine for the safety of all.\nWithout war, with a monarch who cared, hatred between the people of the two countries soon dissipated, and the Kingdom, now Queendom, flourished.\nThe Queen herself eventually met, fell in love with, and married a local nobleman who was interested in all of her and her mind, not just the top bit. They had five lovely children and lived – naturally – happily ever after." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Square Room\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2381\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “Back to square one.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THE SQUARE ROOM\n Nia Cantu was a beautiful vibrant teenager with talent and ambition. She was an honor student, played on the volleyball team, played the trumpet in the marching band, ran track, and was on the dance squad. She even was popular at her high school amongst all the other students. But that was just her life outside of her home. Home life for Nia was even better. Her parents were loving and supported her in all her endeavors. They had careers that paid them well, her mother Alaina being a UI/UX designer and her father Salvo, working as a lead project manager for a tech company. They even adored her high school sweetheart, Cameron Nelson. He was the only guy her father didn’t run off and her father ran them off regularly. See, Nia was gorgeous. She was the epitome of natural beauty and great genes. She had the skin of rich caramel, thick black, springy coils of locks on her head that kissed the top of her shoulders, and if you took and stretched one of the coils, they would almost touch her lower back. She had perfect almond shaped eyes of amber and her curvy athletic body made all the high school boys wishing they could be as lucky as Cameron to be able to date her. It was her genuine smile of perfectly aligned white teeth that was the highlight of her beauty. She looked just like her father who immigrated to the US when he was only a boy from Panama. He met Nia’s mother at college who is of African-Guyanese heritage. The relationship between them was rough living in a society that wasn’t very open to interracial dating. They also came from different religious paths that made it extremely difficult for their families to communicate with each other. After they got married, they moved to Pasadena, CA and from there they raised their one and only child Nia. The Cantu’s tried having more kids but Alaina’s endometriosis forced her to have a hysterectomy after 3 miscarriages. Nia was only 6 at the time. So, the three of them completed their family and focused solely on making sure Nia would have the best life ever. \n Cameron Nelson honked the horn of his 2005 Grand Am. He was waiting for Nia to come out of the house so they could head to school. It was the last 6 weeks of school before summer break, and it was also the month of the Junior Spring Ball. Him and Nia had already picked their matching formal attire out and after school they were going to go find some accessories. He also wanted to try on his tux one more time. He loved how Nia looked at him when he dressed up. She said he reminded her of the actor Michael B. Jordan on the cover of GQ magazine. Boy did that boost his confidence. Nia ran out of the house dressed in their school’s blue and gold tracksuit and Cameron got out to open the door for her. He was such a gentleman and very attentive. Nia adored his chivalry. “Good morning baby.” said Cameron while he guided her in the passenger seat. Nia smiled and said, “Good morning my Cam Cam.” He loved it when she called him that. He hopped back in the driver seat and off to school they went.\n It was a typical Friday at Winfield High School. The basketball players were tossing balled up paper into the trash can in the halls showing off their jump shot skills. The drama club students were talking to their friends about their latest auditions for the spring play with deep animated gestures, the science geeks dragging their latest inventions through crowds of students to the science lab, and the rest of the student body joined their desired cliques discussing the latest gossip and what party or event was going on the upcoming weekend. Farrah Dean, Nia’s best female friend, walked up with Cairo Nelson, Cameron’s older brother who was a Senior.\n “Hey Chicka!” Farrah said to Nia while giving her a hug. Farrah was dressed in a long denim dress with tan wedges, matching tan shoulder bag, complete with a denim phone case. Farrah was always stylish and made most of her outfits. It is why her clothes always fit her perfectly just as the dress she was wearing today neatly hugged every curve of her petite figure. Her hair was also neatly styled in a Paige boy cut with flame red highlights. Cameron dodged his older brother’s attempt to pick him up and run with him down the hallway like he tried to do every morning. Cairo was huge for his age. He was 6’4 and 220 pounds of muscle, he had big hands, and feet. All he did was work out, play sports, and work out again. He also played defense on the varsity football team. He was good at it too. He already had scouts looking at him from the NFL. He was that good. Nia and Farrah burst into laughter as the two brothers ran around crowds of cliques and annoyed faculty trying to get the halls under control before the first bell. Cairo finally caught his brother and tackled him down to the ground pining him. “Why did you leave this morning Cam? I had to ride the school bus man!” Cameron was laughing so hard he barely could get the words “get off me asshole” as his big brother tickled and punched him. Suddenly the assistant principal, known to the student body only as Hulk, because a student simply existing pissed him off, walks up and grabs Cairo off his brother and told the boys to get their things together and stop horsing around. They quickly got their composure and politely flipped him the bird as he walked away to regulate some other fiasco happening. But Cameron was a little too slow with his flipping of the bird and Hulk saw him.\n“CAMERON NELSON, I KNOW YOU DID NOT JUST FLIP ME OFF!?,” belted Hulk. Hulk stomped his burly body right up to their group and right directly in Cam’s face. He just glared at him. Cairo, Nia, and Farrah held their heads down, painfully trying to stifle their giggles. Cameron glared back at Hulk and said in the best deep southern US accent ever, “Naw Mr. Hulk I did no sucha thang.” All the students exploded in laughter as Hulk started screaming at them all to go to the office. As Hulk was about to start giving write ups a loud pop echoed through the halls. It was so loud that the ringing in Nia’s ears hadn’t subsided before another loud pop echoed. She fell to her knees and covered her ears as the slow rise of screams blended with the ringing in her ears. She hadn’t even realized that her eyes were closed until she was knocked completely backwards from her knelt postion as students trampled over her screaming at the tops of their lungs. She was able to free herself and tried to stand but another pop went off a little further away. Kapow, Kapow! Now they were getting closer. Nia fell to the floor as she was weak, in shock, and confused. She lay there on her side in the blood of her classmates staring at a man in a red ski mask, army green cargo pants, black hoodie, and black combat boots. He was holding a sawed-off shotgun, the active shooter. Nia closed her eyes. Kapow, pause, kapow, pause, kapow! The shooter walked past her and nearly slipped in the bloody mess that he caused. He was whistling. The tune was Square Room, by Cowboy Junkies. Nia heard the sirens as she was slowly going unconscious. She looked around and saw Farrah looking back at her, but her eyes weren’t focused on her. They were looking far off in the distance as she gurgled through her last breath. She heard Cameron calling out to her and his brother. “I’m here Cam Cam. I can’t see you.,” Nia whispered then slipped away.\nNia awoke in a hospital room. She felt something lodged in her throat and begin thrashing. Several nurses ran in and removed the breathing tube as the ICU physician on call was paged over the AP system. When Dr. Vaughn arrived with her parents, they were asking her a million questions. Nia, do you know what day it is? Nia, how many fingers am I holding up? Nia, are you aware of where you are?\n“I, I, don’t know what d, d, day it is. What is happening?” Nia said in a raspy whisper. “My throat hurts.” Nia tried to sit up a bit in bed and felt agonizing pain in her head, and right leg. “Ugggghhaaaa!” she screamed as she tried to move her body. Dr. Vaughn told her to calm down and relax. Her parents were standing at her bedside. They asked Dr. Vaughn was it ok to tell her what was going on. “I think we should let her rest a bit. After all she has been in a coma for 4 days.,” he stated.\n“Mom, Dad what is happening? Why can’t I move? Why does it hurt so bad?” said Nia. Alaina grabbed her daughter’s hand and sobbed. Salvo mumbled something in Spanish that was inaudible as he wiped away tears and walked out towards the nurse’s station. He was beyond angry. He felt defeated, guilty, and totally helpless. This was the 4th mass school shooting since the beginning of the year. He did not care that the shooter at Winfield High School was apprehended as he was exiting the school. He didn’t care about all the lucky praises his family received because his only child survived. He was tired. It needed to be stopped. How many times was this supposed to happen until better gun laws were placed? He felt like it was always the same process of events in politics to address the issues with mass shootings only for the same thing to happen again, and again. Now he and his family were victims, his beloved daughter, left with physical and emotional trauma, other victims left with their loved one’s death.\nOver the course of 5 months Nia Cantu struggled with PTSD. She lay there in her hospital bed high on pain meds with a cast covering all her right leg. She had 3 surgeries to rebuild her right kneecap that was shattered when the shotgun blast hit her right knee from the side. She had several fragments lodged in her head that were too dangerous to remove and caused her to have a mild stroke which was why she was in a coma after the incident. A week after she awoke from her coma, she learned that the shooter took the lives of 8 students and Assistant Principal Hulk. She lost her best friend Farrah Dean, her boyfriend, Cameron Nelson, his brother Cairo Nelson, and 5 other classmates whom she knew very well. Four other students were critically injured including herself. Nia sighed. She had grown use to the square room filled of hospital smells and the sounds of annoying machine monitors. Now she just zoned out in her mind of depression staring at the ceiling from her bed in her little square room. At first, she had tons of visitors from teachers to classmates, law enforcement officials, news reporters, etc. But those visits soon died down and she was left alone. He parents stopped by every evening in rotation, but she missed her boyfriend and her best friend. Cameron’s parents came to see her once but the grief of losing their only sons was too much to bear. Although they didn’t say it, she knew that they were resentful. Her parents said that the Nelsons just ignored them when they saw them at the supermarket. Knowing that the love of her life parents resented her made her survivor’s guilt feel like a huge lump lodged in her throat and her body felt heavy as a ton of bricks. She did not want to start over again. She longed for her boyfriend, the conversations and silly cackle of her best friend, and Cairo’s silly dance when he made a touchdown. She had nothing. She felt empty.\nTherapy days were the worst. Nia felt ok but knowing that she may never be able play sports, dance, and dealing with her new stuttering condition just wasn’t the path she saw for herself until she met a girl in her group therapy class named Jori Phillips. Jori had been hit by a car when she was just 3 days shy of her 16th birthday. She was instantly paralyzed from the waste down and had major head trauma. She had to learn to speak, and write, and use basic motor skills all over again. Jori had been invited to her therapy group to encourage the other patients to never give up even if you’re not getting results. She loved Jori’s acceptance of her new life and how she keeps trying to improve herself mentally, physically, and emotionally.\nJori said to Nia, “It’s a process that isn’t easy. At some point in your life and sometimes more than once, you will have to go back to square one. It is ok to have to start over. It is ok if you keep trying with no progress. Try it again at a different approach. Life is going to keep happening, good experiences and bad, but you will prevail and eventually conquer your quest. Do not under any circumstances, give up. You may need to give in from time to time, but don’t give up.” Jori wheeled herself out of the classroom and down the hall. She knew she had reached at least one person and she was right. \nNia sat in the classroom waiting for her parents to come. She felt the tears streaming down her cheeks, wiping them away. It was the first time since the shooting that she felt like existing again. She grabbed her cellphone and dialed the first number. “Hello” a familiar voice answered. “U,uumm Mrs. Nelson? This is N, N, Nia Cantu. C, c, can we please talk?”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Kokoro\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1304\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My name is Kokoro. I am from the northern part of Japan. I am a woman and was “Onna-Bugeisha,” a Samurai Warrior to Tokugawa Shogunate. During the Boshin War, I fought to ensure Japan’s traditional way of life. The emperor of the Imperial Court wanted to restore political power in Japan. When the imperial forces invaded Aizu, I fought to secure the castle; however, I became trapped outside the castle walls. When I knew that capture was imminent, and I was stained in blood, I sought to fall on my sword. Before I could take my life, Takesha, a childhood friend my father forbade me to see, appeared out of nowhere and slaughtered the imperial soldiers nearby and threw me onto the back of his horse.\n\nWhen I was a girl, my father, General Sakakibara Yasumasa, would push me to the limit when training for various combat techniques. I was 5 years old and one time, my body was so fatigued, I started to cry. My father left me in the courtyard as was the custom because he thought it would make me stronger.\n\nTakesha, an 8 year old boy originally from the village of Seto, picked me up and carried me outside the entrance of my home (omoya or shu-oku). I remember looking into his eyes. I was just a little girl, but I remember seeing what looked like golden embers right in the middle of his pupils.\n\nHe sat me down gently and smiled. I smiled back at my friend and said, “Arigato Takesha”. \n\nAfter Takesha rode off with me on the back his horse, Ama no Fuchigoma, named after the mythological horse that was ridden by the God, Susanoo, and we were safe, we made camp. As the sun was setting, there was a reddish glow illuminating in the distance. I had not seen Takesha since my father’s edict 5 years earlier. We sat in silence and then slept on the ground underneath a Zelkova Serrata tree. \n\nWhen I was 15, I had been training to be a martial arts master for 10 years. I was devoted to the practice and wanted my father to be proud; however, when I looked at Takesha, I saw the most beautiful boy. I never had imaginings of being kissed or being with a man.\n\nThese thoughts distracted me from my training, and my father saw this. My father, the general, told me I was meant for greatness and Takesha would ruin all we had worked for. Besides, he was beneath me, according to my father. \n\nTakesha and I had been friends since we were kids, but it didn’t matter. I could not dishonor my father or give up my dream to be “Onna-Bugeisha.” It was different when we were kids. I was enamored by his beauty and the effect he had on me. He was 18 at this time, and the look in his eyes was fierce; It was piercing, and the impression of his gaze was seared into my memory.\n\nThere was a time when I feared Takesha was not the gallant friend I thought he was. I knew he adored me and would never hurt me, but I saw him be cruel to Kaito, another boy we grew up with in Aizu. I thought Takesha might burn him alive. \n\nI defended Kaito and screamed at Takesha,”Let him go!”\n\nTakesha’s demeanor changed. He walked up close to me and ran his hands down my cheek and neck; he reached in closer and smelled my hair.\n\nI was confused. “What was this fierceness? Why did the ember in his eyes turn black for a moment? Why did he touch me like that and smell my hair? Why was he cruel to Kaito?”\n\nI spoke to Takesha one last time before the fall of Aizu and my attempted capture outside the castle gates. After his intrusive, yet intriguing touch and witnessing what I thought was his cruel side, I told him - I wish I had never seen that side of him. I equally wished he had never touched me, smelled me, or looked piercingly into my eyes.\n\nI assumed my father scared Takesha away because I never saw him again until the moment Aizu fell, and I was determined to die an honorable death and fall on my sword. \n\nThe next morning , Takesha took me to Seta and to his minka style home. Again we sat in silence and just stared at each other. Takesha broke our gaze and then began to prepare kushimono, a skewer of meat and vegetables. I was starving, so I forgot his presence and lost myself in the sustenance my body needed.\n\nWhen I looked up, Takesha was staring at me again. He said, “Do you remember Kaito, the boy you defended all those years ago?”\n\nI assured him - I did; “How could I forget! I had never seen you so cruel.”\nTakesha laughed. “Cruel - You call me cruel - My Onna-Bugeisha? After all you have witnessed - Done - You, a trained killer of sorts - Call me cruel.”\n\nAngrily, I snapped back, “You put his face inches from a flame; you dangled him there. It was merciless.\"\n\nTakesha looked at me intently, “Do you remember when I carried you to the entrance of your home? Your father had left you there alone and crying. I was just a boy, but I wanted to comfort my samurai warrior in training. I knew, at that moment, you were all I wanted. I saw how you looked back at me when you were a little girl. I saw how you looked at me as you grew into a woman. You long for me as I long for you.We are bound together somehow. I know you feel it.”\n\n“What I feel doesn’t matter, Takesaha.” I continued to explain, “I had to let you go as my friend, potential lover, or future husband. My father forbade me to have anything to do with you. I could not dishonor my father. Besides, when I saw you were capable of such unprovoked cruelty, I didn't even know who you were anymore. Takeasha, you almost burned Kaito's face off.”\n\nTakesha grabbed both my arms and pulled me close, “Isn’t death a punishable offense for dishonoring a samurai warrior? Let me ask you this Kokoro, How far do you think I would go if someone dishonored you? I held his face to a flame, but I did not take his head, which is my right for dishonoring Kokoro,“Onna-Bugeisha,” a Samurai Warrior to Tokugawa Shogunate.”\n\nIt was at that moment, I was no longer “Onna-Bugeisha,” I was just a woman. And Kaito, the boy I had defended years ago, made insulting comments about me. This was enough for Takesha to bring fire to his face and defend my honor. \n\nI turned to Takesha, “Aizu has fallen. My father is dead. It was my duty to take my life upon defeat.”\n\nTakesha took my face in his hands so gently, looked into my eyes and whispered, “Is it not customary to fall on your sword to escape dishonor of capture? You were not captured, Kokoro.”\n\nI looked around this small village and realized, with all the combat training and philosophical lessons, nothing could prepare me for this bond I felt growing and glowing inside of me for Takesha.\n\nHe softly brushed my hair away from my face, “Korkoro, have you ever thought country life might suit you?” He slowly moved his hands down to my belly and rubbed it in a circular motion. Perhaps, motherhood suits you too.”\n\nI had this feeling in my heart and opened my mouth to speak this feeling to Takesha, but the WORD eludes me. I thought to myself, “Does such a WORD exist to express such a powerful FEELING.”" } ]
[ { "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: Peaceful Shrieks and Shrills\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1141\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by the phrase “Back to square one.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Band class.\nShoving the mouthpiece onto my trumpet’s body, I listen to the sounds around me. The choir of woodwinds, their melodies blurring together till they sound like one. The tuba blaring lowly in the back row. The trombone joining him for fun, both of them bubbling with laughter when one misses a partial or hits a wrong note. The french horn, his own melody so soft and unique, the alto sax thundering above everyone else. A rain hanging in the air, the loud kind of power. Followed by a downpour. The percussion section, bringing everything together with a great bang. A million and one different instruments with a million different geniuses behind them.\nI smile slightly to myself, listening to the shrieking of the oboe, so high its sound pierces your ears. Earsplitting. What’s a headache like an oboe, I laugh.\nLooking down at my own instrument, I take in its brass body, gleaming maliciously. It can either be a weapon or medicine for the soul. I weigh it in my palms, it’s heavier than it looks and the cramps in your hands after class say enough.\nSomething I learned early on, is if you don’t play your trumpet for a couple days, you lose all the muscle you had before. That’s how you play brass instruments, you build muscle in your face, build stamina in your breath. When I first started, I apparently breathed wrong and had to learn a completely different way to inhale and exhale.\nThis, I’d thought. Shouldn’t be something I needed to learn. Breathings a habit we form as we leave the warmth of our mother’s stomach, surely I’d been doing it well enough to have survived to 14, right? Wrong. And along with trying to change a 14-year long habit, I had plenty more on my plate to eat. I was still chewing, finishing bite after bite of delicious melodic sounds.\nMy attention snapped back into place, a rubber band with a tune, as our band director hissed. An odd way to grab our attention, but it worked well enough. He raised his arms and we all prepared our scale sheets.\nWe swung and climbed up the scales, racing to keep up with the ticking metronome. B-flat to F. G and A-flat. Chromatic. Augmented and diminished chords. The trumpets buzzed happily, even playing triads among each other. By the time we’d finished, we were prepping our concert music and our lips buzzed with a dull numbness and a fizzy-like stir. A strange sensation. Somewhere in between C and E, Mr. Hunt had turned the ticking bomb off.\nWe marched our way through Bandology, swam through Duke Ellington, and continued with pieces I’d barely heard other than from our barely put together band.\nWe consisted of few people and I wished, suddenly filled with resentment, that I still lived in New York or Missouri, places where our band was so immense, you felt overwhelmed before we’d even brought the instruments to our mouths. The musical flavor.\nWe moved to a Gentle Rain, following the soft melody with harmonic choruses and then moved straight into an uproaring and mighty, Into the Storm.\nI only messed up a couple times, and while Mr. Hunt lectured the band about being back to square one after the break in playing, I heard our tuba and saxes talk about carrying the band, as if it was a heavy weight.\nReminded me of when I played bass and shared parts with him. I remembered the torture of sitting next to him and listening to the knives he’d throw in his voice. I remembered the hurt of listening to my best friend, who got all the solos and duets, all the hardest, most beautifully painful parts. I remember how I felt then, so filled with anger and hate.\nBeing brought slowly back to the present, I reminded myself of how I was a different person now.\nI loved playing music, once a part of my personality, now, it had merged completely with the soul of who I was. You could hear notes pounding from my heartbeat, music swimming in my stomach, and chords in my lungs, waiting to be released.\nGrowing up, I’d always struggled to stick to something and with the constant moving that came with the military lifestyle, I almost dropped this too along with the many sports I’d tried to play. With the noticeably large gap in my musical knowledge, I was always embarrassed and asked my parents several times to quit. It didn’t help that people in my class weren’t supporting.\nNow? I played more than 5 instruments and knew so much music theory, my head was flooded.\nA perfect song came to an end. The curtains drew close.\nI sighed. It was only a daydream.\nReality was different, but good nonetheless. I’d only started trumpet, and never playing brass before, it felt like trying to speak Russian with an Italian accent and only ever speaking Spanish previously. \nThings with the tuba were resigned and my best friend still held the spotlight in the band room (with some competition from the horn) and I was cheering her on from on the stage and in the crowd. I was happy now, and loved music. I wasn’t filled with that short-tempered anger anymore.\nI'd even started playing piano afresh and let the comments of judgment roll off me, forming a blotchy puddle on the ground. I'd fallen in love with the bass clarinet all over again and started playing my older clarinet too.\nHell, I’d even started fixing instruments, it was an exhilarating feeling, being the only one that understood the body of an instrument well enough to be able to put it back together again, like the folktale, Humpty Dumpty.\nThe day that daydream becomes my reality, I’ll be jumping with joy, choruses will erupt from my throat and I'll continue practicing thus we don’t end up back at square one again- as Mr. Hunt likes to continuously remind us.\nThe band is one, especially a small ensemble. If one instrument doesn’t know their part or even doesn’t have that thirst to play and thrive under the director’s glare, then everything’s off. You can tell immediately, something’s wrong.\nLuckily, I don’t think I’ll have a long wait for that actuality, I could already see the door behind a line of diverse people. Each one with a different key. One with a satin bow, the blue tie ribboning around their wrist, and another with paint and oily, colored water plastered onto it. Dozens of thousands of keys.\nI held my own, it didn't have a definite form, but feeling it gouge my palm when my hand tightened around it, I knew it only took a few steps. I reached the door. Now.\nAll I had to do:\nwas open 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: A Fathers Love\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1530\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story containing the words “it’s the thought that counts.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The phone rings. I am assuming on the other end my Dad is calling to wish me a happy birthday. “Hey Gram!”. “ Thank you!”. “Mom is throwing me a party later, are you able to come?”. “Awesome! I cannot wait to see you Gram, we are going to have so much fun! I hope you like cake because mom got a big one!” “Okay Gram, I will see you later, love you bye!”. The phone rings again, I am sure it is Dad this time. “Hey Mike and Mrs. Baker!”. “Thank you, it’s too bad you cannot come to my party later Mike, it is going to be so much fun!”. “A gift?! Wow Mike, thank you! I cannot wait to see what it is!”. “Talk to you later!”. That was really nice of Mike and Mrs. Baker to call while they are on vacation. T-minus two hours before the party. I cannot wait! \n Mom and I have just finished eating dinner, when I notice she has stepped away to make a phone call. She sounds a little upset with whoever is on the other end of that call. She is letting them know that I have an award ceremony at school next week because I made honor roll.\n“Okay, bye.” “Hey sweetie, that was your Dad on the phone. He was not able to talk because he is very busy at work, but he said he is proud of you and will do his best to make the ceremony next week.” “He asked for me to say hi from him and he loves you.” My dad is always so busy. I do not look forward to having to work that much when I am older, especially if it means that I cannot spend time with people I love.\n“Hey Dad.” “Yeah, the ceremony went great! I got three awards and a ribbon!” “That is okay, I know you are busy, maybe you can go to the next one!” “Okay, love you too, bye.”\nNate: Hey Dad, I tried calling but you were not able to answer. Just wanted to let you know that I have a game on Saturday. I really hope you can make it because my coach assigned me to be the starting pitcher and said if I do as well as I have been during practice, then I could pitch the entire game!\nDad: I would not miss it for anything Bud!\nNate: I think you will be surprised at how well I have improved this season!\n [Your call has been forwarded to a voice messaging system. Please leave a message after the tone. (Beep).] “Hey dad it's Nate, I was just calling to see if you were almost here for my game because it is about to start. If you call back and I do not answer, it’s because Coach has us doing warmups before we start, see you soon! Bye!” It’s the end of the ninth inning. I have been doing so well in this game. All I have to do now is make this batter strike out one more time and we win. I take one more look in the stands, guess Dad got stuck in traffic, this one's for him. I see Mom recording, so at least he will be able to see me on video. (Takes deep breath in and exhales out.) “Striiiiiikkkkeeee three, You’re out!” \n Nate: Hey Dad, just letting you know my team won the championship game. Coach is hosting a cookout for us and the parents on Sunday, and he will also be giving out trophies. Hope you can make it!\nNate: Hey Dad, I haven’t heard back from you. You have probably been busy at work. Just reminding you that the team cookout is tomorrow at Coaches house. The address is 123 sycamore lane. Let me know if you can make it.\nNate: Sorry you were not able to make it, but I have great news! I got voted the team's MVP!\nDad: Wow son, I am so proud of you! Keep up the great work!\n My school just announced that senior prom is coming up and reminded us to start submitting our college applications. I have a lot on my plate in the next few months, but I am excited for what the future brings me.\nNate: Hey, just wanted to let you know about the colleges I applied to in case you had any advice for me. I have been doing really well in school, my GPA is a 3.9. So far, I have applied to Harvard, Brown, Cornell, and Princeton. I am really hoping to get into Princeton to major in Molecular Biology. I love science, I think I get that from you.\nNate: I do not know if you remember that girl I texted you about a while ago, but she and I have been talking for a while and we get along well. I finally mustered up the courage to ask her to prom and she said yes. Any advice on how not to be a nervous wreck?\nNate: Prom was great, Mom gave me some advice on how to be a gentleman without it reaching the point of cringy. Pretty sure mom has already sent you all of the pictures she took of us tonight. There was a point where I thought she would never stop and we would miss prom all together (chuckles out loud). \n “Hey sweetie, could you come downstairs for a minute, you have some mail.” I go downstairs with hopes that I received at least one acceptance letter. To my surprise, all four schools sent back a reply. I instantly start sweating and the room begins to feel smaller. I take a deep breath in and exhale. “Do you want me to read you the response out loud, or do you want to read them?” “Could you do it for me please?” “Sure thing sweets.” Mom begins to open the first envelope. “ The Harvard Admissions Committee thanks you for your interest, and after careful consideration...regrets to inform you that your application has been denied at this time, thank you for your submission, and please consider applying again in the future.” My heart sinks. Hope starts to dwindle. “ The Brown Admissions Committee thanks you for your interest, and after careful consideration… regrets to inform you that your application has been denied. We…” “Just skip the rest please Mom.” “The Cornell Admissions Committee thanks you for your interest, and after careful consideration, we have decided that at this time it would be best if we put you onto our waiting list for next semester. We hope to hear back from you soon, best wishes…” Not bad news completely, but definitely not any news I wanted to hear. Mom opens the last envelope. Princeton. In my head I am thinking that I need to apply to other colleges fast, before they stop accepting applications. “The Princeton Admissions Committee thanks you for your interest, and after careful consideration…” I brace for terrible news. “We are pleased to announce that we have decided for you to start your education with us this semester!” I look up at my mom in utter shock. The one college I have dreamed of getting into, after all the others turned me down, and I made it into Princeton. I have to tell Dad.\n Nate: Hey Dad! I GOT INTO PRINCETON!!\nNate: The other three schools I applied to denied me, but PRINCETON accepted me. THIS IS A DREAM COME TRUE!\n Nate: Hey my graduation is on Friday at 12pm at my school. I got you two tickets, so you and your girlfriend can come, if she would like, but either way I am excited for you to see me walk the stage.\nNate: Just reminding you to be at my school tomorrow at 12pm, love you.\n “Graduating with a GPA of 3.9 and future student of Princeton University, Nate Davis!” I smile and shake my Principal's hand as I accept my diploma with the other. I grab my tassle and move it to the other side of my cap. I see Mom and Gram crying in the crowd, I smile and wave at them as I exit the stage.\nDad: Hey Nate. Sorry I could not make it to your graduation. Jessica and I got stuck in Hawaii because our flight got postponed. I sent you a postcard in the mail. You should be getting it soon. Hope you like it.\nNate: Hey Dad. I am sorry you couldn't make it to my graduation as well. You missed one of the most important days of my life. I have tried to understand your work life, and make an effort to make time for us, but it is clear you seem uninterested in anything that concerns me. So, thank you for the postcard. I will be sure to frame it, as it is the only thing you have sent me in my eighteen years of living. Afterall, it's the thought that counts.\nDad: Nate, I had no idea you felt this way. What can I do to make this right?\n[Message failed to send.]" } ]
[ { "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: Spectacles and Sweater Vests\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2947\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a treasure in an unexpected place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My heart sank when I saw who had been assigned to me as my lab partner for chemistry. Artie Johnson was the original SuperNerd. The thick, unflattering spectacles he wore didn’t manage to draw attention from his shaggy, overgrown hair – or his lurid sweater vests and ill-fitting corduroy trousers. His entire look resembled something that had occurred after an explosion in a thrift store – and I would have to spend several hours a week working with him.\n Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a shallow person, a girl so obsessed with clothes and make-up that I only date boys for their looks and not their personalities. (Although admittedly, all my boyfriends have been athletes as well as being some of the best-looking guys in school.) If Artie had possessed a personality, perhaps I could have gotten past his unattractive appearance; but he was genuinely one of the most boring people I’d ever met.\nI still remember the book report he gave in seventh grade: when everyone else was reading Percy Jackson or Harry Potter, Artie chose to tell us about a non-fiction book he was reading that listed ‘fascinating’ facts and figures about Alcatraz. And in case you’re thinking that doesn’t sound too bad, let me tell you it was mind-numbingly dull. Artie droned on for twenty-two and a half minutes about the length of every corridor and the dimensions of every cell – not to mention the exact thickness of every wall and the number of doors in the entire prison. For months afterwards we called him the NerdMan of Alcatraz.\nAnyway, 16 year old Artie didn’t seem like much of an improvement on his 13 year old self. He barely looked at me the first time we worked together; and when I asked him to pass me a test tube, the tips of his ears turned pink with embarrassment.\nAcross the room, I could see my best friend Cassie chatting with her lab partner – or perhaps ‘flirting’ would be a more accurate word to use. For a moment, my heart stood still. Cassie knew I liked Byron, so why was she smiling up at him like that and tossing her hair around like a pony shaking its mane?\n“I hope your friend’s good at chemistry,” said a soft voice behind me, “because I heard Ken was failing science last semester.”\n“He’s called Byron,” I said, surprised that Artie was finally talking to me.\nThe pink now washed over Artie’s entire face. “Of course he is. I…” He paused. “I call him ‘Ken’ in my head ‘cause he’s like a Ken doll.”\n“What, made of plastic?” I quipped drily.\nArtie grinned. “He’s the ultimate accessory – I’ve seen you and the other Barbies taking it in turns to flutter your eyelashes at him.”\nI fell silent, unable to disagree.\n“Cassie’s useless at science,” I said eventually. “She normally asks to copy my homework.” I paused. “Not that I’m any good at science myself – but I’m better than she is.”\n“Brains as well as beauty…” Was he mocking me?\n“I said I wasn’t good at science,” I corrected him.\n“You do pretty well in English, though.” He was blushing again. “Ms del Brocco is always reading out bits of your essays.”\nI didn’t really know how to respond to this. I was used to boys complimenting me on my hair or my eyes – not my critical analysis.\n“You need to add a drop more sulfuric acid,” he commented, changing the subject. “If we’re going to do this properly, we need to cover the gallium. That way, we’ll get the effect of a beating heart.”\nThe heat of the Bunsen burner was steaming up his spectacles. He removed them, attempting to polish the lenses on his sleeve, and I noticed that his eyes were an incredible shade of green – almost khaki. You could drown in those eyes if you weren’t careful.\n“By the way,” – his glasses were back on again – “I was wondering if you could help me out. You see, there’s this girl I like…” He broke off, sounding embarrassed.\n“Is she…” I was about to say ‘nerdy’ but changed the unflattering word. “Is she brainy like you?” I asked.\nHe nodded.\n“So, what’s the problem?” I knew that geeks tended to gravitate towards their own kind – just like the popular kids do.\nBy way of reply, he gestured towards his flapping corduroys and painful sweater vest. “I don’t suppose you could help me look a bit more…”\n“Human?” I supplied.\n“Cool,” he finished, shooting me an annoyed look. Noticing my uncertainty, he added, “We could help each other out: you can show me how to dress better and I’ll tutor you so you get an A in chemistry.”\n“Okay,” I agreed, thinking that even nerds deserved the chance of happiness, “as long as you don’t tell anyone what we’re doing.”\nI knew it would be social death if any of my friends discovered our secret.\n\nOver the course of the next few weeks, I planned how I would reinvent Artie so that he stood a chance of asking out his secret crush without being rejected. From time to time, I wondered whether he really needed to change his image: after all, it wasn’t like he was going after one of the popular girls. With this in mind, I started to pay more attention to the girls on the quiz teams, trying to work out which one had caught Artie’s eye. Melissa had braces and stuttered when she spoke, but her hair was long and thick and luscious – at least, I assumed it would be if she set it free from the restrictive pigtail she’d been wearing for the past two years. Janna was short and her clothes were abysmal, but her smile was amazing; and Stacey had a knockout figure beneath her frumpy, shapeless sweaters. (We were in the same gym class and I’d seen her getting changed.) It was a pity we’d agreed I wouldn’t tell anyone that I was transforming Artie because I realised how easy it would be to play fairy godmother to these girls and give each of them a makeover too.\n\n“Is there a reason why you like wearing sweater vests?” I asked pointedly one afternoon.\nArtie squirmed and looked at his shoes.\n“My grandma knits them for me,” he said at last. “I don’t like wearing them, but I don’t want to upset her. She lives with us, you see, so it’s kind of hard to leave the house in anything else. I don’t want her to think I’m rejecting her gifts.”\nI found myself unexpectedly touched by this statement. Most of the boys I knew were far too busy being popular to worry about other people’s feelings. I still had a sort-of crush on Byron, but that was diminishing on a daily basis. The more I compared him to Artie, the more immature Byron and his friends seemed to be.\n“Did you see what the guys on the football team were doing in the lunch hall today?” I asked suddenly. “They were having a competition to see who could fit the most French fries up their nose.”\nArtie regarded me gravely. “Did it make you go weak at the knees?”\n“Absolutely!” I told him. “Doesn’t every girl want a boyfriend who’ll flaunt his masculinity in public?”\n“So, you like the caveman mentality then?”\n“I think you’ll find the Cro-Magnon male had to stuff a pterodactyl up his nose to garner female attention,” I said, feeling pleased with myself.\nArtie smiled. “Actually, the Cro-Magnon lived between 40,000 and 10,000 years ago, and dinosaurs became extinct about 65 million years ago. I think Cro-Magnon would have had to do something else to attract the ladies.”\nI felt torn between feeling mortified that I’d said such a stupid thing and impressed that Artie seemed to know everything about everything.\nWhat’s wrong with you? I asked myself sternly. Don’t tell me you’re falling for a geek!\n But the more time I spent with Artie, the more he was beginning to grow on me – despite the ridiculous hairstyle and despite the dubious dress sense. Was that why I kept telling myself he didn’t need to change his image? Was I subconsciously trying to make sure that no one else would see what I saw when I looked at him?\n“Speaking of attracting the ladies…” Artie’s voice broke through my confused thoughts, “isn’t it time you started holding up your end of the bargain? I’ve been helping you out with chemistry, but you haven’t told me what I should be wearing instead of these.” He gestured once more at his excruciating ensemble.\n“Are you busy after school?” I heard myself ask. When he shook his head, I continued, “Then tonight, Artie, you and I are going to the mall.”\n\n“Aren’t you ready yet?” I grumbled. It seemed like hours since I’d grabbed handfuls of tee-shirts and jeans off the rails in Hollister and told him to go try them on.\n“Hang on!” The cubicle door opened and Artie emerged like an unwilling butterfly from a chrysalis, blinking under the harsh lights of the store. “Well? What do you think?”\nI felt my heart give a little hop as I took in the new-look Artie. The plain black tee-shirt moulded itself to a surprisingly well-muscled chest. As far as I knew, the only sport he was interested in was chess. Who would have thought that lifting chessmen would have developed his arms and upper body like that! His long legs were encased in tight fitting black jeans, and instead of tennis shoes, he was wearing low black harness boots that lent him an edgy look. There was no denying that he looked cool – even with that dodgy hairstyle.\n“You look good,” I said slowly.\n“Really?” He flashed me an appreciative grin.\n“The clothes are great,” I continued. “Just make sure you hang onto one of your sweater vests to keep your grandma happy.” \nArtie nodded, turning to check himself out in the full length mirror. “I would never have thought of anything like this, Lori. Somehow, you knew just what I needed to make me look…”\nHot, I thought.\n“Normal,” he finished. Then, “But it would be even better if I got my hair sorted out too. Do you think you could help me with that?”\n\nAn hour later, the stylist stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. “You look incredible,” he announced. “Your girlfriend will be beating people off with sticks once they see you looking like that.”\n “She’s not my girlfriend,” Artie said quickly.\n “Really?”\n I didn’t like the hopeful look in the stylist’s eye as he said this.\n “C’mon, Artie,” I said in desperation. “It’s time to go and see what your grandma thinks of your new look.”\n He reached for his glasses but the stylist stopped him. “With eyes like that, you should be wearing contacts. There’s a walk-in eye care center just a few doors away – why don’t you call in and ask what they can do for you?”\n “I don’t know…” Artie was squinting at his reflection. “What do you think, Lori?”\n I think I’ve done my job too well, I wanted to say. It wasn’t just the clothes that made Artie irresistible to me and the stylist: his dark brown hair looked soft and shiny and it flopped into his eyes in a way reminiscent of a very young Hugh Grant.\n“It’s better than it was before,” I said nonchalantly, trying to pretend my heart wasn’t beating twice as fast as it normally did.\n\nI steered Artie out of the salon, for once at a loss to know what to say to him.\n “Do you have to go home right away?” he asked.\n “Not really? Why?”\n My heart was thudding so loud I was sure he could hear it.\n “Do you want to grab a Coke or something? I owe you a thank you for the transformation.”\n For a brief second, I hesitated: not because I didn’t want to be seen with Artie but because I knew I’d started falling for him. If we went for a drink together, even just as friends, I knew it would make me start wanting things I couldn’t have. Artie had already set his sights on someone – and that girl wasn’t me.\n “Maybe another time,” I said slowly, wondering if I would regret my decision.\n He caught my gaze and held it. “No big deal. I just wanted to say thanks.”\n “I know.”\n He leaned in towards me and for a brief, irrational moment I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead he squeezed my shoulder. “Thanks, Lori. You’re a good friend.”\n I walked away before I could change my mind.\n\nArtie’s new look was on everyone’s lips the following day at school. Girls who’d never noticed his existence before were suddenly falling over each other to sit next to him in class or to save him a space in the lunch queue. I found myself irrationally annoyed. They were only interested in him because of his hair and clothes: they didn’t know the real Artie like I did.\n “What’s happened to the NerdMan of Alcatraz?” Cassie asked as she slid into the empty seat next to mine in the lunch hall.\n “Don’t call him that!” I snapped.\n Cassie’s eyes widened in surprise. “You were the one who invented his nickname! What was it you said? You’d rather have your eyes torn out by angry wolves than have to sit and listen to another minute of the NerdMan droning on about doors and corridors.”\n A sound behind me made me turn my head. Artie was striding away with his lunch tray. Had he heard what Cassie said?\n\nIt seemed a long time until our chemistry class that afternoon. As the minutes dragged their way past the hour in math, I found my mind replaying Cassie’s words. “You were the one who invented his nickname.”\n It was true – but I hadn’t known Artie then; hadn’t realised that the guy I’d labelled a nerd was kind and sweet and funny, or that I’d end up falling for him so totally, so hopelessly.\n “I need to tell you something,” I said abruptly once our chemistry lesson started.\n “Just let me get this bit underway first,” he murmured, pulling the wax candle out of an aluminium tea light holder. “A little strontium chloride… a cotton wool ball,,, a few drops of ethyl alcohol…” Noting my incomprehension, he added, “We’re trying to make different coloured flames. Weren’t you listening when Mr Carlucci talked us through the different methods?”\n I searched my mind. There had been something about taking care not to set the laboratory on fire and something else about knowing where the fire extinguishers were.\n “I think I was thinking about something else,” I said truthfully.\n Artie finished pouring different chemicals onto all the little cotton wool balls and stood back. “Now all we have to do is light them,” he said.\n“Artie…” I knew I needed to apologise for the name I’d called him – even if it was a long time ago. “It’s my fault people called you NerdMan. I made it up. It was meant to be a joke – like the Bird Man of Alcatraz.”\n“I know.” A grin broke over his face. “To be honest, I kind of liked having that nickname. At least everyone knew who I was.” He paused. “I’ve got something to tell you too. Cassie’s invited me to a party at her house.”\nCassie would, I thought bitterly. She had an almost sixth sense for sniffing out boys I liked and then monopolizing them.\n“I hope you have fun,” I said stiffly, trying not to let him see how much I minded.\n“Hang on,” he said, looking mystified. “Aren’t you going to be there?”\nBefore I could reply, he rushed on, “I said I’d go because I wanted to see you, Lori. You’re the girl I’ve liked all along – I was hoping you’d have worked that out by now.”\nI’m the girl he wanted to change for? “I thought you said she was a nerd,” I said accusingly.\n Artie laughed. “I said she was brainy – and you are. Admittedly, not so much at science…” He swiftly retrieved a pair of plastic tweezers that I’d been absentmindedly melting in the Bunsen flame. “I’ve wanted to ask you out for ages,” he continued. “Not just because you’re insanely beautiful, or because you’re super-intelligent, or because you make me laugh, but because you’re one of the most compassionate people I know. No one else would have bothered to take me shopping the way you did, or to wait with me for an hour while I got my hair cut.”\n“I enjoyed spending time with you,” I said softly, realising it was true. Sometimes, you don’t realise until too late that you’ve thrown away a treasure, but I was lucky enough to recognise Artie’s worth before it was too late.\n“And that’s why I want to be with you,” Artie told me, lighting the rest of the cotton wool balls and letting their colours flame around us like fireflies. “The other Barbies didn’t want to know me when I wore spectacles and sweater vests, but you treated me like a real person.”\nHis mouth was now very close to mine.\n“I think I suddenly understand what chemistry’s all about,” I breathed, wondering if the sparks between us would set the laboratory on fire.\nAnd then he kissed me, and stars exploded around us." } ]
[ { "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: Bricks\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1814\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who’s late to witness a special event." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Let us be clear: it is not their fault. Not entirely. It’s what comes of throwing darts at a world map for twelve years; of a History channel besotted with ancient aliens, buried treasure, and celebrity pawnbrokers – each, one would have thought, less likely to exist than the last; of uninspired and uninformed teaching; of an arrogant and myopic zeitgeist, glutted with adipose information, lustily discarding the common inheritance of mankind for the evening news and a bowl of red stew.\nMy phone rings. It’s 5:15.\n“Mr. Delano? Yes, good morning. You see we’ve just had a call-out from Cape High in Rehoboth. Are you free to substitute today?”\n“For which class exactly, ma’am?”\n“It’s Mr. Floyd’s 12th grade history. Can I tell the administration to expect you?”\n“Yes, I can make it today. Thank you.”\nIn defiance of every sleep study conducted between the North Pole and the Cape of Good Hope, and contrary to the better angels of adolescent instinct, praising in one voice the blessing that is a good night’s rest, classes begin at the high school at 7:15, proving, once and for all, that life apparently isn’t too short.\nI arrive at 7. The lesson plan and accompanying materials are neatly set out. I’ll teach four periods that day, with an empty slot typically reserved for preparing, and a half-block off for lunch. \nThe first and second classes pass uneventfully. I faithfully discharge the duties of a prison guard. The third class shuffles in. I inform them they’ll be watching a documentary on the First World War. I am their champion. I inform them they’ll be expected to complete a worksheet while watching. I may as well be leprous. \n“Can’t we just sit and talk? We won’t tell Mr. Floyd!”\n“We promise to be quiet!”\n“We’ve already learned about this anyway!”\n“We graduate in less than a month. No one’s going to remember any of it.”\n“None of this even matters. No one cares.”\nI caved. They could talk so long as they made a good-faith effort to fill out the worksheet. No one expects much of a sub. But a few minutes before class ended, something happened. One of the seniors, a boy, a young man I suppose, was laughing just beside the screen. He wasn’t watching the documentary – the likeness would have been lost on him – but he looked just like one of the soldiers. He’d been hit by something, the soldier, and he was laying in a trench, a pit really. Men were rushing past him, over him, and he was tugging at himself frantically, crying, calling for his mother. Then he was still.\nThe bell rings and half the worksheets make their way to my desk. I have an hour to prepare before my fourth and final period of the day. I set to work.\n…\n“Mr. D, all the other classes got to watch that stupid movie. That’s not fair.”\n“How are we going to do our work? Mr. Floyd said to do that worksheet.”\n“Ooo, I’m gonna tell my mom to fire you.”\n“This is so petty- no one cares.\"\nI've decided to do something different with the last class.\n“You’re a month from graduation. You’ve had a unit, to be sure, on Greece, Rome, and Egypt, perhaps when you were eight; a year or two’s recycling of American history; a year of civics; your junior and senior years have been devoted to Western Europe since the rise of Napoleon; and you are all, I expect, well acquainted with the history of this, our noble state of Delaware. But if matters are as I suspect, these have, collectively, served to create a hobgoblin of history in your minds: you don’t know Mazzini from a Matzo ball; George Washington from Johnny Appleseed; or Julius Caesar from the salad – and you’ve a vague notion the former is responsible for the latter. In your minds, Genghis Khan cohabitates with Mahatma Gandhi; Isaac Newton narrowly avoids being sacrificed atop Mt. Moriah; and Mother Theresa sets the table with Mother Goose – and this, all before the fall of Rome! Worst of all – deprived of the coherent, unified tapestry of history with which you might have adorned the windows of your mind – you have been shut out. Or rather: shut in. You are imprisoned in the here, the now. You haven’t been told the greatest story of all. I have good news. You’re late. To a number of very important dates. But in case I’ve underestimated you, let me begin like Socrates, with a few questions…”\n“We’ll start close to home. Here are some questions immigrants looking to naturalize into the U.S. are expected to be able to answer… \n“We elect a senator for how many years? Declan.”\n“Isn’t that a trick question? Don’t you stay a senator until you die?”\n“No, Declan, not unless you’re an aspiring Sith Lord, or looking to bring about the end of the Roman Republic. Correct answer: six years.”\n“What are the first three words of the Constitution? Kara.”\n“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?”\n“That’s not three words, Kara. Also it’s wrong. Steven.”\n“Four score and seven years ago–”\n“Right direction, but no. And that’s not three words. Glad you’re familiar with the Gettysburg Address though Steven. Katherine.”\n“Friends, Romans, countrymen.”\n“Overshot it by a little. And that’s Shakespeare. Nice try Katherine. Correct answer: We the People.”\n“The first 10 amendments to the U.S. Constitution are known as the what? Rylan.”\n“The Ten Commandments?”\n“Very good. Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and Moses would be very proud.”\n“Let’s try some geography. Which state shares borders with more states than any other? Jaden.”\n“Hawaii.”\n“You can understand why that’s unlikely Jaden – being that Hawaii is an island, yes?”\n“Puerto Rico.”\n“Somehow you’ve managed to go backwards, sir. Emily.”\n“Colorado!”\n“Not a bad guess! Actu–”\n“Wait! I meant Denver! No, Canada!”\n“I’m sorry, we actually gave up Canada in exchange for Louisiana in 1803. Correct answer: Tennessee or Missouri.”\n“Perhaps some world history... Can anyone tell me something about Mahatma Gandhi?”\n“Wasn’t he that nice, smart old man that led all those little people across them mountains to make peace?”\n“Maybe, do you mean Indi–”\n“Yeah, like to destroy that ring.”\n“Ah. You’re thinking of Gandalf– the wizard from the Lord of the Rings.”\n“I don’t think so. Didn’t he like fly on some eagles or something?”\n“Forgive me. They did have that in common.”\n“I don’t like this game. I wish Mr. Floyd was back.”\n“So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide.”\n“What?”\n“Forget it. Greek mythology! Who can remember something, really anything, special about Hercules? Cheryl.”\n“Didn’t his mom dip him in the water, so like he had an Achilles’ heel?”\n“That was Achilles. But it’s wonderful you’re familiar with him! Have you read the Iliad?”\n“What’s that?”\n“An epic poem about Achilles and the war at Troy.”\n“No, but I’ve seen Troy.”\n“Oh?”\n“With Brad Pitt.”\n“Oh.”\n“He was sooo fine.”\n“Homer would agree with you.”\n“Who’s that?”\n“Class, how many continents are there? Emma.”\n“Six.”\n“Name them, please.”\n“North America, South America, Europe, Asia, Africa, Antarctica.”\n“You’re missing one.”\n“France?”\n“That’s it.”\n“In what century did both world wars take place? Demarcus?”\n“Twenty…five?”\n“The 25th century? What a relief, we’ve time to prepare.”\n“Enough of the gadfly. Please hear me: I have been where you are. It’s not so much that you don’t find these things interesting, as that you only half-believe them to be true. If you really believed these things had happened, how could you not want to know more? Listen to me, please–”\nI draw a line from one edge of the dry-erase board to the other: 4,000 BC to 2023 AD.\n“Look at us. Look where we are. This is roughly the length of recorded history. Do you understand, can you grasp that people have been living, breathing, eating, having children, sleeping, marrying, dying, dreaming, writing, speaking, hoping, wishing, all this time? You have fears- so did they. You want love- so did they. They were babies and children and teenagers and parents and old men and women, and they lived their entire lives before you even showed up. You’re late! You’re late! Things have happened! Nations have risen and fallen, books have been written, ideas formed, fortunes, lives, made and destroyed. Storms have raged, mothers have buried their own children, sons their fathers, entire romances have been lived out, and you know none of it! You’ve been alive, most of you, for eighteen years. It’s not your fault. Not entirely. But if you haven’t yet, start by believing now. Believe that others as valuable as you, as human as you, with hearts like yours, minds like yours, flesh and blood like yours have been. Believe them. Believe in them. Believe that losing a child wasn’t any easier a century ago than it is now. Believe that Athenian wives, 2,500 years ago, mourned their husbands’ loss as much as any wife today. Believe that it was awkward, exciting, nerve-wracking to be a young lady approaching adulthood in Victorian England. Believe that young men have been falling head-over-heels in love for millennia and, for better or worse, writing about it! Believe you’re late. I know this sounds hard. I’m only saying it like this to wake you up. You are important. But so are they. Let me show you, please–”\n“Someone, anyone, just point, please: where on this timeline did the first plane fly? Am I down here, 2000 BC? 500 AD? It’s not a joke, and I’m not making fun, not anymore; I just want you to see. 1000 AD? 1500? I’ll take from the silence you’re not sure. 1903.”\n“The Wright Brothers in 1903. Less than 300 miles from here! But look at it. Look at that point. Do you see? Do you see how recent it is? Can you imagine how much of the human race had dreamt about flying before, just a hundred years ago, it became a reality? How many paper airplanes, made by how many children? How many afternoons spent gazing at the clouds, nights at the stars?”\n“But we could fill this line with a thousand moments like it. Kings and queens, cities and states, slaves and citizens, knights and monks and samurai and cowboys, industry and invention, plagues, wars, epics. Let me show you how it all fits together! Let me show you what you’ve missed. It’s history, but it happened. And you’re late.”\nSlowly, we filled our line. They wanted to know how TV got its start, when cowboys were a thing, who built the pyramids, why everyone makes fun of the French. Some of the questions were ridiculous– but not intentionally. For a moment, they wondered. They began to believe." } ]
[ { "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: Moist Words\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3001\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart a story that begins with a character saying “Speak now.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Note: this story mentions a sexual assault attempt and gun violence\n\"Speak now, if you will, milady, lest your lips remain parched for moist words\".\nJulianna rolled her eyes at Roosevelt Brown. Roosevelt, or ‘Big Ro’ as he was called by his friends, was a 17-year-old junior that had been hounding Julianna for a date since last semester.\nRoosevelt transferred into Julianna's high school the previous year. He wasn’t shy about letting her know how he felt about her. Julianna did not share the sentiment.\nThey didn't have any classes together, but Big Ro always seemed to find a way to catch Julianna in the hallways during passing periods. Each time he saw her, he used the brief moments to repeat some famous quote or share one of his original poems. She was not interested in him or his fancy words.\n“What are you talking about Roosevelt?”\n“Ah, the sweet sound of a lark, chirping in the forest of academia.”\nJulianna never knew what to say when he began to drip his syrupy words of adoration for her. She curled her lips into a stubborn smile and continued to walk down the hallway leading to her locker.\n“Moist words?” Julianna said, flaring her nose. “That sounds obscene.\"\nShe wasn’t offended, she just liked giving him a hard time. No need to encourage him, she thought, especially if she wasn’t romantically interested.\n“Obscene, obscene, obscene…\"\nRoosevelt repeated this word in a slow and methodical manner. Julianna couldn’t tell if he was trying to find a word to rhyme with ‘obscene’ or if he was mesmerized by the sound. Julianna rifled through her locker to switch out the books for her next class.\n“I find it quite obscene that the counselor has yet to manage to synchronize our class schedules. We have many of the same courses but ironically, they are at different times.”\nJulianna looked at him without turning her head.\n“I find the harsh hammering of the school bell quite obscene as it marks yet another moment of our departure from one another.”\nJulianna looked away and resumed switching out her books. Roosevelt continued.\n“Alas, what I find most obscene are the 48 hours that your beauty is withheld from mine eyes during week’s end.”\nOf course, this was hyperbole. But the puppy-dog look on Roosevelt's face was convincing. Anyone who didn't know him might think him traumatized. Julianna thought he would definitely make a good actor one day.\nShe pulled a small bottle of sanitizer from her locker and poured a few drops into her hands. she rubbed them together, releasing the smell of cherry blossom and citrus.\nRoosevelt closed his eyes And inhaled deeply. Julianna replaced the bottle inside the locker and took out a small bottle of lotion. She squeezed out a dime- size amount of the cream and massaged it into her fingers and knuckles.\n“Oh, the delicate habits of a demure female.,” he swooned.\n“Oh, I just don’t want to be ashy.,” she sang, batting her eyelashes.\nHe reached out to touch her hand. “Soft and supple, as a woman should be”.\nJuliana softly pushed his hand off hers.\n“Well, gotta go.” Julianna placed the lotion back inside her locker. She closed its metal door and began to walk away.\nWith long strides, Roosevelt fell in step beside her. He held open the double doors of the hall, letting her pass through.\n“I await our subsequent meeting Julianna, regardless of its ephemeral nature. Every moment should be appreciated as a gift.” \nComing up was a 4-way split that branched off Julianna’s path from Roosevelt’s. While her next class took her to the right, his would be taking him to the left.\nAs he turned the corner, Roosevelt did an about-face, walking backward to see Julianna as she continued walking in the opposite direction. He raised his deep voice above the ambient roar of the passing students.\n“Obscene, obscene…” he started again. Before she was out of earshot, Julianna heard what sounded like “obscene”, but could have easily been “all be seein’ ya”.\nJulianna turned around to show him one of the scrunched-up faces she usually gave him. He was already gone. When she turned back around, she smiled to herself. Annoying or not, some of his wordsmith ways were cute, she thought. But of course, she would never tell him so.\nShe didn’t want to give any impression of being interested. So, she kept up her ruse of impartiality and unaffected emotion.\nRoosevelt wasn’t like this outside of school. In the hood, he had a vastly different persona. It wasn’t one of a thug or criminal, but it was different. Tougher. On the occasion that Julianna saw Big Ro on the street, she noticed he rarely spoke at all.\nAt 6’4” and 312 lbs., Big Ro could look intimidating. But he was a lover at heart, not a fighter. If Ro noticed Julianna in a public setting, he would forego his usual prepared speeches and serenades that he’d recite at school. Out here, his communication consisted of a secretive smile and a loving gaze. Thankfully, his clandestine method went unnoticed by everyone else, but Julianna.\nSchool Roosevelt was outspoken. He expressed his love of speech as a member of the debate club, and student government, and by volunteering with the morning announcements. Most days his voice resonated through the speakers of the P.A. system talking about upcoming events and news about students and teachers.\nHis voice was nice, Julianna would give him that. She was surprised he didn't use it for choir. It was deep, rich, and resonated when he spoke. Instead of singing with an ensemble, he chose to sing words of flattery to his muse. He was a bit of a flirt with girls in general, but with Julianna, he was a debonaire, sweet-talking Casanova. Sometimes too sweet.\n*\n\"Speak now! C'mon girl, speak up!\"\nRoosevelt's mother held a young lady by the shoulder. The teen had been knocking furiously at Mrs. Brown’s door moments before. Now the two stood in the front room of Roosevelt’s house.\nThe girl was Tashiba Freeman, one of Ro’s ‘home girls’ from the block. Her face was bruised. Her hair was astray. A large rip in her shirt was exposing part of her brassiere underneath. There was blood on the side of her shirt and pants. Mrs. Brown shook her, trying to snap her out of her indecipherable babble.\n\"What's wrong? What happened? Did somebody hurt you?\"\nThe girl mouthed silent words, holding her head in her hands. Crimes against young girls were an unfortunate occurrence in that part of town that had been increasing recently. The girl shook her head.\n\"Big Ro...\"\n\"Big Ro?\"\n\"Roosevelt. Roosevelt got hurt.\"\n\"My son is hurt. Where is he?\"\n\"They took him.\n\"Who took him?\"\n\"The police. The ambulance.\"\n\"Which one girl? Who took him? What happened?\"\nTashiba was out of breath. She took some slow, deep breaths and started talking again.\n\"The police showed up. They picked him up. He was hurt. He was trying to help me.\"\n\"Why did the police pick him up?\"\nThe girl’s story wasn’t making sense. Mrs. Brown was torn between staying with this confusing schoolgirl and leaving to find her son. She stayed, patiently trying to listen.\n\"Some guy, some drugged-out guy. He jumped on me. He was trying to feel me up. I don't know what he was on. He just started putting his hands all over me. I don't know where he came from. Me and Roosevelt were chilling outside of the library. This guy came from nowhere and started putting his hands all over me. Ro was trying to push him away. The guy got all aggressive and started fighting with Ro. There was a gunshot-\"\nAt the word gunshot, Roosevelt's mother froze.\n\"What gun? Where was everybody else?\"\n\"I don't know. Nobody was in the parking lot. Nobody driving by stopped to help. Nobody came out of the library to see what was going on. Then the gun went off.\"\n\"Who had the gun?\"\nTashiba looked away from Darlene Brown, a mother who had dedicated her life to her husband and only child.\n\"I did. I was aiming for the guy. Not Ro. I didn't have a chance to pull it out when the guy came at me. But then Ro pulled him off me. They started tussling. I panicked. The guy was smaller than Ro, but like I said he was on something. He was mad strong. He had his hands on Ro's throat. They were rolling around. I pulled out my gun and aimed at the guy, but they kept rolling around. I hit Ro by mistake.\"\n\"My baby! Where is he now?\"\n\"Somebody called the police. They took the other guy away. They were trying to arrest Ro, but then I told them what happened and they saw he was hurt. The ambulance came. They took him to the hospital. I ran here to tell you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry Mrs. Brown. I was trying to stop that crazy guy from killing Ro.\"\n\"My son...\nMore knocking came from the door.\n\"Mr. and Mrs. Brown? It's the police!\"\nBefore she had a chance to respond, the door swung open. It had been standing ajar since Mrs. Brown let Tashiba in.\nThe front room was taken over by a flurry of movement. The police barged in with guns drawn. They were barking orders to both women, with most of their attention on the younger woman. Within moments, Tashiba was placed in handcuffs.\nWhile one of the officers took her to the police car, another stayed behind to give Mrs. Brown the bad news. Her son had been shot and killed. His body arrived at Darby Methodist hospital DOA.\n*\nExtra counselors had been contracted for the week, following the news of Roosevelt's death. The morning announcements were led by principal Otis, a man with a thin, frail voice. Grief made his tone softer than usual as he spoke over the P.A. system.\nMr. Otis shared the date of Roosevelt's viewing and funeral. Following the obituary, Julianna heard her name broadcast over the speakers. The principal had switched places with one of the secretaries. Mrs. Lamb called Julianna and a few other students to the office.\nJulianna was excused from class and walked down to the principal’s office. There, she found Mr. Otis sitting at his desk. Opposite him was Roosevelt's mother. The other requested students showed up and they all sat in the office together. Mr. Otis introduced everyone, then Mrs. Brown began to speak.\n\"Roosevelt was my only child, my baby.\"\nJulianna began to tear up.\n\"He loved everyone and didn't know a stranger. He was a big teddy bear. People on the street knew that about him. A couple of times gangs tried to recruit him, but he would turn them down. A few drug dealers wanted to hire him as a bodyguard. He turned them down too. I know this because my son and I talked about everything.\"\nMr. Otis grabbed for the tissue box on his desk. One after another, he and everyone in the room pulled out one of the thin sheets and dried their faces.\n\"Roosevelt told me about his school friends too. He told me about each of you here in this room. He told me how unique and special each of you were to him. \"\nThe three students looked at each other in surprise.\n\"Zach, he told me you were the first person to greet him when he transferred in last year. He told me you have been very helpful with him adapting to the new environment. Thank you\"\nThe fair-skinned Zach sat in silence as the woman praised him for his kindness toward her son.\n\"Samayra, you convinced my son to talk to the school counselor when he was going through his dark period. That really made a difference in his life. Thank you.\"\nDark period? Was Roosevelt depressed? He didn't seem like the type that would be suffering from any kind of mental instability. He was always so upbeat, happy, and flirtatious. Obviously, Samayra was aware of something that Julianna hadn’t noticed.\n\"You're welcome\", Samayra sobbed. She grabbed for more tissue on Mr. Otis's desk.\n\"Mrs. Brown was quiet for a moment while she waited for the low moan of wailing and nose blowing to stop. When it did, she turned her body towards Julianna.\"\n\"Julianna.\" She paused again, smiling at the girl beside her.\nWhat could she possibly have to thank me for? Julianna wondered.\n\"Julianna, I don't know if you're aware of this, but you were my son's muse. His source of inspiration.\"\n\"Inspiration?\" Julianna raised her eyebrows.\n\"My son was very artistic. I know he did a lot of verbal expression at school, but at home, he was a painter. He used to paint some very dark and disturbing imagery. I didn't like it, but I didn't want to discourage him. I would ask him about what all the violent-looking images meant to him. He would shrug and just say 'life'. As long as it was helping him cope with whatever turmoil he had going on inside, I didn’t try to stop him. \"\nJulianna shook her head. She didn't know he painted.\n\"About a year ago his paintings began to take a different direction. The colors became brighter. The imagery was softer. Some of it was abstract, but some of it reflected his enjoyment of his new school life.\"\nMr. Otis nodded his head in some kind of unspoken understanding with Mrs. Brown.\n\"When I asked Roosevelt about what inspired him to change up his art style, he mentioned your name. He told me that you were his good friend, confidant, and muse. He said you were one of the few people he could really express himself with verbally.\"\nZach and Samyra looked at each other wide-eyed. Everyone in the school had heard Roosevelt serenade Julianna at least once. Some people laughed. Some people said it was cute.\n\"I know that he liked you and that you probably didn't feel the same way about him. But I can tell that you were kind to him. If you weren’t, it would have shown in his behavior in a huge way. Roosevelt was a very sensitive person, who took a lot of things to heart. Whatever you felt, or didn’t feel for my son, you kept his dignity in mind. Now, I'd like to ask you a favor. I'll understand if you say 'no'. But if you accept my request, it will mean a lot to me.\"\nJulianna’s voice cracked. \"Me? You want me to do something for you? What is it?\"\n\"Could you say a few words about my son at the memorial service?\"\nA eulogy. The mother of the boy who had been infatuated with her wanted her to perform a eulogy. Julianna sat, stunned. The unexpected request was a little weird. Or was it? She couldn't think of a reason not to do it. She remained quiet, still numb from hearing the news.\n“If Julianna declines, I’m hoping one of you would do it?” Mrs. Brown addressed Zach and Samayra.\n“I’ll do it,” Julianna said.\n\"Thank you, Julianna. Roosevelt would have been honored to know that a good friend like you was speaking on his behalf.\nThe meeting concluded. Julianna and Mrs. Brown exchanged phone numbers. The viewing of the body would take place in four days at the local funeral home. That's where Julianna and a few others would be giving a short speech.\nDays later, Julianna stood at a podium facing visitors in the viewing room of the funeral home. She gripped the wooden sides nervously while looking over the room of people. Roosevelt's body lay a few feet away in a mahogany casket. Today was Julianna’s first time seeing a dead body.\nShe trembled in fear, worried more about sounding stupid than about the corpse resting behind her. She began her speech:\n\"Speak now, lest your lips remain parched for moist words.\"\nSomeone in the audience shifted in their seat. Another person stared awkwardly at Jullianna. Maybe she shouldn't have started her eulogy with these words? How did Roosevelt do it so confidently? She continued.\nThese are the words of a good friend of mine, who now lies here in this casket. He was always using such eloquent methods to communicate. I didn't understand half of what Roosevelt Brown said to me, but when he did speak, it sounded nice. He had the talent to make the most mundane sentence sound profound. A lot of his words for me were of the romantic sort. They were words of unrequited love. Words that fell on deaf ears.\nJulianna got choked up at this last sentence.\nNo matter how little appreciation I had for his charming chatter he wouldn't give up. No matter how much I criticized his smooth soliloquies, he would come back the next day with fresh fanfare. He wasn't discouraged by my lack of validation. He didn't turn his defeat into scorn. It’s quite easy for guys, and girls to turn their crush on a person into cruelty when the feeling isn't mutual. But not Roosevelt. He was a gentleman. His mama raised him right.\"\nMrs. Brown lifted a handkerchief to her wet eyes.\nOn the streets, Big Ro was the strong, silent type. He was respected by most and respectful to all. He will be missed by me and many other students from Seymour High and remembered as a good person who used a lot of good words. The world needs more of that. A world lacking the moisture of good words is at risk of becoming a place too parched to grow good relations. I wish I had used more of my words to grow a better friendship with Roosevelt. Thank you, Ro, for speaking kindly to me and showing me the beauty of your words." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Perfect Day\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1571\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who is determined to not have their day spoiled — but the universe is trying their patience." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "If Orpheus had been a sixteen-year-old girl, his tale might have had a happier ending. Unfortunately for Eurydice, few can match the stubborn willpower of a teenager with absolutely no time in her schedule for grieving. Today was meant to be her perfect birthday and a perfect birthday she would have, broken alarm clocks and ex-boyfriends be damned. \n“You. Will. Not. Cry.” Eliza told herself in the bathroom mirror, pointing her finger at her already tear-stained face for emphasis. Minor setbacks like a missed bus and a broken heart weren't going to stop her from having the spectacular celebration she deserved. She had planned her day down to the minute, although now, she supposed, everything before second period would have to be disregarded. Using the top of the paper-towel dispenser as a makeshift table, she pulled her color-coded itinerary and a pair of scissors out of her backpack and snipped off everything before “9:15-10:45: Ms. Bradshaw, AP English IV.” \n“Perfect,” she muttered to herself: no need for self-pitying tears now. \nEnglish had always been her favorite class. She was an A+ student in most subjects (AP Physics not included), but literature was one of the only topics she truly understood rather than simply memorized. Today, however, they were doing partner activities over her least favorite book… and they didn’t get to choose their partners. \n“Marcus, you’re with Katie. Noah, you’ll be with Lucas…” Eliza crossed her fingers and prayed for someone at least halfway decent as Ms. Bradshaw paired the students up. \n“Emma O., let’s go ahead and have you and Emma C. work together, why not. And Eliza…” Eliza held her breath “...you’ll be with Tony today.”\nOf course she would. The universe must be out to get her. Tony smirked at her across the room and waved one of those stupid two-finger salutes that seems to have become a trademark gesture of teenage assholes. \n“It’s fine,” she told herself. “Just one class, then Calc, then lunch.” She avoided thinking about the fact that she wouldn’t have anywhere to sit at lunch now that she and Brandon weren’t together. \n“So, question one,” she read aloud from their worksheet. “Would you describe Marlowe as a reliable narrator? Why or why not?” In her book, the sooner they finished this questionnaire, the sooner she could go back to having her perfect birthday. But they weren’t going to make any progress so long as Tony kept smirking at her like an idiot. \n“I heard Brandon dumped you” he finally said. \n“Not sure what that has to do with Heart of Darkness,” she replied. \n“Come on, everybody’s talking about it anyway. Don’t you wanna give your side of the story?”\n“Not particularly,” she said.\nTony shrugged and pulled out his phone. They weren’t supposed to have them out in class, technically, but if teachers actually attempted to enforce that rule they wouldn’t have time left to do much else. \nA notification went off on his phone, and he snickered. “I guess if you’re really not interested in talking about it, you won’t care what Brandon’s telling everyone about the breakup.” \nEliza took a deep breath and tried to persuade herself not to take the bait. She focused on finishing the worksheet that Tony clearly had no intention of helping her with. \n“Well, silence fits with your new reputation, I guess,” Tony said.\n“What?” she said, curiosity getting the best of her. He beamed at her like he knew he had just won the psychological battle for her dignity. \n“I wouldn’t’ve guessed you were a prude,” he said. \n“A…what? What are you talking about?” \nUnfortunately, Eliza would never learn what, exactly, made her such a prude.. Just as Tony opened his mouth to tell her, Ms. Bradshaw arrived at their table to pick up the still unfinished worksheet. \n“Something more interesting than Conrad to chat about, I see?” She said. “You’re not usually one to procrastinate, Eliza; I had hoped you’d be able to keep the two of you on track.”\nEliza mumbled her apologies as she handed over the half-finished assignment. Tony bolted away from her with the bell, practically knocking her over to jump out of his seat and away from the awkward explanation he had probably never planned to give. \nWhether Calculus passed uneventfully or not she wouldn’t have been able to say; she was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to care. Little could have interrupted the argument she was currently having with herself about whether Tony had actually heard that rumor from someone or if he had just made it up to torment her, that is, other than the mid-term that arrived on her desk with a big fat F at the top of the page. She groaned and sunk her head into her arms. A failing grade did not fit into her perfect birthday itinerary. \nLunch would be her redeeming period; lunch would turn this day back into the perfect day she had anticipated. Today was Friday, objectively the best day of the week, and Friday meant pizza, objectively the best of the cafeteria lunches. And once she got through this ridiculously long line, she would have the chance to reconnect with her old lunch crew, the choir friends who she sat with before she started dating Brandon. Perfect.\n“Cheese for me, please,” she said to Donna, the lunch lady. \n“Oh, sorry hon, we’re all out,” Donna said. “It’s just pepperoni left for today.” \nEliza had to stifle a laugh. Of course it was. “I’m vegetarian.”\n“Pick it off then,” Donna said, piling the greasy slice onto her plate. Eliza accepted her lunch tray with a reluctant thanks and made her way to the choir table… which didn’t have a single seat left empty. \n“Hi, guys,” she said, standing next to the table awkwardly. A few girls acknowledged her half-heartedly before turning their attention back to their previous conversation. There was no movement to make room for her at the table. She bounced her weight back and forth between her feet, deciding whether it would be worth it to pull up a chair and make everyone move for her or if she would be better off taking her tray to the choir room. The choir room would be less awkward for everyone, herself included. Plenty of other students spent their lunch periods there; it’s not like she would be eating by herself.\nConfident in her decision, she spun on her heels and slammed into a lanky sophomore holding a freshly opened can of diet coke. It exploded on her crisp white shirt and dripped down to her light-wash jeans, leaving particularly unfortunate stains around her crotch and soaking through the dense fabric just enough to make her legs and torso feel immediately sticky. The sophomore turned bright red and frantically offered her napkins from a nearby table. Meanwhile, every single eye in the cafeteria (or what felt like it) had turned its attention to her.\nEliza felt her face turn hot and bit her tongue to keep herself from crying. Backing herself out of the situation as stealthily as she could, which was frankly not very stealthily at all, she fled the cafeteria and made a bee-line for the nearest restroom. “There’s no crying on a perfect day,” she hissed to herself. A freshman in the hallway, having overheard her comment, gave her a nervous side-eye.\nAfter cleaning herself up in the bathroom as much as one possibly could with two semi-broken faucets, toilet paper, a hand dryer, and no change of clothes, she cautiously ventured back into the hallway, hoping she could sneak into her next class early enough to avoid being seen in her now slightly see-through blouse, only to be immediately struck in the temple by something small and wet and slimy. The first had barely fallen to the floor before a second mystery object flew at the side of her head and lodged in her hair. She detangled it from her hair and nearly gagged when she realized what she had been hit with: a spitball. She heard boys’ laughter from behind an open classroom door, and a third spitball hit her squarely in the middle of her diet-coke-stained chest.\n“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she cried, and burst into tears. \nThe boys to blame, fearing administrators or teachers or more likely just overwhelmed by the existence of a sobbing teenage girl, scrambled over each other to flee the scene of the crime. \nShe floated through the rest of the day in a haze, resorting to the only self-manipulation strategies that still had a chance of working: denial and nihilism. Nothing bad had happened to her today, and if it had, it didn’t really matter because ultimately nothing mattered. Headphones didn’t matter, and neither did diet Coke stains, or spitballs, or ex-boyfriends who started vague rumors or English assignment partners who spread them. Not the strategy for having a perfect day that she originally planned on, but it was good enough. And the one remaining, undeniable benefit of it being her birthday was that she at least didn’t have to take the bus home–her mother was due to pick her up right at the last bell.\n“Happy birthday!” her mother half-yelled, half-sang at her as she got in the car. “How was your day? Did everything go as planned?” she asked. Eliza snorted. Parents were so naively innocent. \n“It was perfect,” she said." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tecmo Fest 2024\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2351\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a time-travel story where a character from the present finds themselves in the 80s or 90s." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Tecmo Fest 2024\nField Notes for S.I. article\n I have come to this Minneapolis suburb to pursue a rumor, nay, a legend. My first inkling that I had arrived was the number of parked cars surrounding the quiet cul-de-sac. The second was the ten-foot inflatable Green Bay Packer standing outside the house, checking the guest list with every breeze.\n I knocked on the thick wood door to no avail. I heard voices inside, so decided to persist. “Go away!” made me wonder if there was a secret knock that I hadn’t been taught. After a moment more the door swung open and I was greeted by my contact, Andy. Before introducing me to the room, he made me draw two slips of paper from two different hats. Andy had agreed to allow me this inside peek into what sincerely sounded like some sort of secret society. On one slip I had the Raiders and on the other Washington. Andy explained like a judge to a plaintiff that these were my teams, and we would play a regular season to determine standings in the tournament. I knew what we were here to play. Referred to with reverence by all those who were gathered here as THE Super Bowl OF Super Bowls, we were here to play Nintendo’s 1991 release of Tecmo Bowl Super Bowl.\n In January of 1991, it was Desert Storm, but in December of that same year, Tecmo Super Bowl was taking the gaming industry by storm. It was the first partnership with the NFL that allowed players to play their favorite teams and favorite players. More advanced than its wildly popular predecessor Tecmo Bowl, it took players gaming decisions to the next level.\n I took a seat on the couch across the room from the ’75-inch LCD television, with the pixelated title of Tecmo Bowl commanding the room. I sat next to a man sipping an amber liquid from a short glass in a most gentlemanly way. This man’s name was also Andy, but I will for clarity call him Happs. He filled me in on a bit of the gathering’s history between sips. He explained that he and Andy, along with a tall man called Koop and my host who was reverently referred to as Chimpo, had grown up in the same neighborhood, and even gone to the same college. That camaraderie lasted over the years, and eight years ago, their common love of this iconic video game from the 90’s caused them to start a competition. Or was it a way of life? I didn’t have long to ponder as all in the room rose to their feet.\n Quake, a gang leader with a commanding presence, stood halfway up the staircase.\n “The first lesson is from the Book of Lawrence. He writes…” He held a copy of one of the five books that Lawrence Taylors had written. A hush fell over the room. “Crack, because that was more intense. I did crack from the middle of the 1985 season until the end. Usually when we were home. It was as if nothing had happened the next day. I did crack too many times to count them, more times than I want to remember, and it finally left me with that feeling that I had the shit kicked out of me before I even set foot on the football field.”\n Closing the book with a snap, he stared down the room through his Ray-Bans, a knit black cap emblazoned COMPTON on his head.\n “Here ends the first lesson.”\n The room in unison pounded their chest with their right fist, whispering “Tecmo”.\n Next up the staircase was Koop, who read like a Minnetonka minister.\n “The second reading is from the Book of Taylor. L.T!” he added with a fist pump.\n “No way was I going to have New York Giant fans see me carted off the field, I’m going to walk off. But Superman had lost his cape, I couldn’t walk. They lifted me into a flatbed cart. As I rode off the crowd began to chant L.T! L.T! I’m sure they wondered if they would ever see #56 again. I was wondering the same damn thing. That night, drinking my patented scotch and milk at L.T.’s, I had tears in my eyes. I’m not sure I can beat this one.”\n Koop’s voice quavered as he added “These are the words.”\n “These are the words.” whispered the competitors. I scanned the room, and all had wide eyes riveted on the stairs, in a maniacally subservient sort of way. Next to step up the treads was Andy, mirroring Quake’s cholo look with an added thick gold chain to boot.\n “The Gospel today is from the Book of Hatchet.” He held in his hands a well-read kid’s book called “Hatchet”. I remembered reading the thing myself, what seemed like a lifetime ago.\n “Brian tried several times to tell his father, came really close to doing it, but in the end, never said a word about the man, or what he knew. The Secret.”\n Looking around the room I wondered if how to play Tecmo football was the only common experiences these guys had. I didn’t have but a moment to reflect. Chimpo directed the crowd’s attention back to the big screen, where he started a video. An aging black man in a black pullover wearing glasses sat on a gray leather couch.\n “QB quarterback #1, Randall Cunningham here, wishing ya’ll good luck in the Tecmo Fest Super Bowl! You’re going to need it! Stay safe out there and keep those injuries to a minimum.” The crowd cheered as our host beamed with pride. How much did it cost to be personally mocked by a real NFL legend? I could only shake my head and wonder.\n The competitors were being whipped into a pre-game frenzy. There was considerable energy in the room. Having been amped up during pre-game, players were crackling like power lines, ready to discharge. We all stood at attention as a video of the National Anthem was played featuring footage of a packed stadium. The last notes of the song rang out over the 100-watt Dolby surround sound system, then the flyover of the F-15’s rattled the windows. Tecmo Super Bowl was set to begin!\n With a process that needs a cryptologist to decipher, the pairings, point spreads, and brackets were completed. Three big screens throughout the house ensured constant game play. My earlier show of bravado was wearing down to a thin veil of uncertainty. I eyed my opponents nervously, sizing up the competition. While they were discussing the intricacies of the nickel defense, I was asking what the four buttons on the controller would do.\n Shouts and laughter filled the house as the Saturday afternoon melted away the years. During my tournament play I was defeated in both my games to the tune of 79-7, more than enough proof that I never did have a Nintendo system in my youth. My first opponent, referred to hereafter as HuskyOne, allowed me one opportunity to score. My second opponent, HuskyTwo, denied me any success and ran Barry Sanders over my defense for three hundred yards. Inevitably, the talent pool was too deep for this fish out of water to swim in.\n I was lounging next to Happs between games when I witnessed a terse exchange between the Andy’s. After, Happs explained to me that they had been arguing on the trip from Illinois the day before. Andy claimed to have come up with the idea for the first Tecmo Fest, but Happs was certain that it had been him. He was afraid that the argument was driving a wedge between them.\nSuddenly one of the players cried out, “Hey! What the…” the screen had suddenly shifted into a muti-colored pixelated mess. “We just started this game!”\n “Hold on, I’ll take care of it.” Andy, as the previous year’s champion, took control.\n “That system has been glitchy all week,” added Chimpo, “try taking the cartridge out.”\n “Yeah, and blow on it real hard!” yelled Happs, whose voice was accidentally and alcoholically amplified.\n Andy turned and with exaggerated care blew into the business end of the cartridge, widening his eyes at Happs. He reinserted the cartridge with no result.\n “Take it out, stick it in!” Happs taunted. “Take it out, stick it in!”\n Andy yanked the cartridge out and prepared to slam it home.\n “No, stick your finger in it!” urged Happs.\n I could see the wheels spinning in Andy’s head but nevertheless, somehow, he thought that this might be a good idea. Or maybe it was just the kid in him responding to another kid’s taunt.\n As he stuck his index finger into the cartridge slot of the NES system there was a blue flash that filled the room. I looked up to see Andy looking at his index finger with his eyes rolled back in his head, showing only white surprise. Rigid as a mannequin at Macys he fell towards the carpeted floor. I must offer credit towards his lifesaving merit badge because HuskyTwo offered a lap of significant softness located in precisely the right position to cushion my host’s fall.\n There was a faint smell of ozone in the room, and moments later Andy’s eyes fluttered, then opened. He sat bolt upright, staring at those that had circled around him.\n “Oh, thank God. There’s no place like now! I never thought I’d get back! How long was I gone?”\n “What do you mean Andy? You were out for like a couple seconds, max. I knew you were faking! Tell us you were faking huh?” said Koop, unable to hide the worry in his voice.\n “Couple of seconds? Are you kidding? I was there for hours!” claimed Andy.\n “No, really bro,” interjected Chimpo, “two seconds tops. Um, where was it that you were …for hours?”\n Andy looked from Chimpo to Koop to Happs.\n “I…I was in…Happs basement, with you three.”\n “Somebody call an ambulance. I don’t even have a basement!” retorted Happs from his seat.\n “No, Happs, your old basement. In our old neighborhood.” He looked at these three friends and practically pleaded that they accept the insanity of his explanation. “And it was 1991.”\n The television broke the stunned silence in the room.\n “Ready down…hut…hut…hut…hut…”\n\nAndy’s Story\n Andy opened his eyes blinking off the brightness of the blue light that had blinded him. A face entered his field of vision, leaning over him.\n “You okay buddy?”\n “Koop? Wait but…what…who are you?”\n In the background there was a voice, “Ready down! Hut…hut…hut…hut…”\n “Quit screwing around Andy! He won’t shut up until you push A and hike the ball!”\n “hut…hut…hut…hut…”\n Andy sat up and looked around him. He was in a room covered in simulated wood paneling. He sat on a white shag carpet in front of a mustard yellow couch wrapped in plastic. Two other boys sat on the couch, one holding a NES controller. He stared open mouthed at the memories come alive.\n “hut…hut…hut…hut…”\n “The boy looks like he was staring at the solar eclipse!” It was Chimpo, but Andy estimated that he was ten or eleven years old. “C’mon Andy, you don’t want to make Happs unhappy.” He nodded at the boy next to him, holding the controller. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling in an animated gesture of annoyance.\n “Geez Andy, will you give me a break? You know I’m the only one in this whole neighborhood that has this Nintendo Gaming System, with a spanking brand new, nearly impossible to get, Tecmo Super Bowl game cartridge.”\n “Yeah, yeah Happs, we’ve heard it before.” Said Koop, who was still standing over Andy. “Now shut up and play the game.”\n “Shut up yourself you purple Zubaz wearing moron.”\n “I’d like to see you two get in the ring and duke it out almost as I want to see Bush vs. Putin!” Chimpo chimed in.\n Andy couldn’t resist the boyish mirth despite his mind being rightly boggled. He found himself slipping into his younger self like a well-worn pair of Adidas, laughing along with his best friends. Andy wondered if he had died and gone on to a heaven that let you relive your life’s happiest memories.\n Happs and Andy went back to their game.\n “I’m going to blow through your defense like a Tennessee trailer park!” yelled Happs.\n Andy’s fingers flew on the controller with 35 years of Tecmo experience still infused in their fibers.\n “Hey! What the hell is that!” shouted Happs as Andy’s quarterback dropped deeper and deeper. Happs took the bait, rushing after him with his defenders. Andy dropped an 80 yard touchdown pass to his receiver for a touchdown.\n “Beginner’s luck!” smirked Andy at his friend.\n “It really sucks that Bo Jackson isn’t even on this game man! He was the running god of Tecmo.”\n Happs running back breaks free, and he exclaims “Hasta la vista baby!” but Andy’s defender tracks him down from behind.\n “You suck! Where did you learn that?”\n “Something my kids taught me.” Andy responded absentmindedly, intent on the game.\n “Kids? Kids?? Listen up guys, Andy has kids!” laughed Koop.\n “Andy doesn’t have any kids.” Happs said in a manner of fact tone. “The only vagina that boy has ever seen was his mom’s…on his way out!”\n The four friends laughed in a way that only eleven-year-old boys could, and Andy found the years and his worries melting away.\n “You know boys,” said Happs, “in a couple of weeks it will be the Super Bowl, and football will be over for another year. There’s no football the week before the Super Bowl, so we should have a tournament. You know, a bridge to span the void which football fails to fill.”\n The boys stared at him; unsure they had heard such wisdom flow from their young friends mouth. Chimpo broke the spell.\n “Kind of like a football fails to span your mom’s void.”\n Pillows began to be thrown around the room, and Andy’s head started spinning until the colors of the room blended into darkness.\n “Ready down…hut…hut…hut…hut”\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: Chicken Shit Hands\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1142\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who is determined to not have their day spoiled — but the universe is trying their patience." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Kelsey storms into the room 5 minutes late and throws her backpack on the tile floor. My attempt to say hello is ignored as she aggressively plops down at her desk, lets out a huge sigh, and puts her head down. She is protected from the world by her hood and headphones. They act as a barrier to all of us, this school, this town, her life. This is typical for Kelsey. The rest of the class hardly looks up to see what’s going on. They continue working on their warm up because they’re used to her behavior. She’s always angry because her homelife isn’t ideal. She lived in a homeless shelter for awhile and her mother struggles to get by.\nI haven’t been teaching that long but college exposed me to many different educational settings and scenarios. I have enough knowledge and experience to know better than to go over to Kelsey right now. She’s clearly flustered and needs space. At my old school there was a student who slept on an air mattress because his family couldn’t afford real beds. One night the electricity went out and his air mattress deflated. He had to sleep on the floor all night without any padding or comfort. The next day he destroyed the classroom after being asked to work on some math problems.\nThe clock says 7:30 so I decide I won’t bother Kelsey just yet. As a class we go over the warm up and she exists in her own world, head down and music blaring. The faint sound of clicking can be heard from her headphones. I assume she’s listening to a fast paced hip hop or electronic song. I wonder how she has an Iphone if her mother struggles to feed her, but dismiss the thought because it’s not important or any of my business. \nThe clock now reads 7:35 and my time has come. I need to address her hood and headphones because the school is always coming down on us teachers for not discipling students.\nI confidently stroll over to Kelsey. My hand knocks on the desk to get her attention above the blaring music. I back up to give her some space and make her feel more comfortable. There’s a nearby empty desk that I lean on with my hand to look casual. She slowly lifts her head and looks at me like I am the most annoying person in all of the universes combined.\n“Good morning Kelsey,” I begin. Blank stare. I take a breath and keep going. \n“I can tell you aren’t having a great day and I want to support you. I do ask that you remove your hood and-”\n“You have chicken shit hands,” she says, disgusted. Her words hang between us like a lead balloon.\nI feel like I’ve just been told some horrible insult. It reminds me of a website I found that tells you awful insults in foreign languages, often involving mutilation or extreme disrespect toward a family member. Blood rushes to my face and I’m sure it’s as red as a tomato. My neck snaps down toward my hands for further examination. The hand she is looking at is bent in a weird fashion. I tried so hard to act natural that I didn’t notice my odd hand position as I leaned on the nearby desk\n“What does that even mean?” I say hesitantly, extending my hands out for her to examine and explain.\n“Look at them hands, gross.” She puts her headphones back on and retreats into her hooded cave. The conversation is over and I don’t have a clue of what to say. \nI compose myself enough to run the rest of my literacy lesson and eventually class comes to an end. Kelsey took a nice nap and I didn’t dare speak to her again. She’d walked into a classroom last week and shouted, “This room is fucking FREEZING!” and then stormed out. If provoked she was known to become physical or cuss you out, so it was better to give up then try to engage further. \nSitting at my desk I slowly rotate my hands and examine them in the light as I try to recover from this blow. My fingernails are clean and there aren’t any obvious scars anywhere. A little dryness is observed around the knuckles, some random freckles here and there. Have my hands always been ugly? How have I never noticed? I think of the movie Zoolander and the character who plays the hand model. He kept his hand in a glass case so it would be preserved from the elements. \nThe hours go by but my mind continues to wander back toward my hands. I haven’t had a manicure in a while and now I’m wondering if that’s something I should be doing on a regular basis. \nThe 1:55 bell finally rings and I go to visit my friend Karissa in her classroom. She’s also a new teacher so I feel ok confiding in her. I recount the story about my hands and how I just can’t get over it.\n“It’s like I found out I have an incurable growth or something.” I tell her, feeling vulnerable and exposed.\nKarissa stands on a chair erasing her white board and gives me a look. “Sarah, there’s literally nothing wrong with your hands. It’s Kelsey, she insults everyone.” \n“But what are chicken shit hands exactly? I’m not even sure what chicken shit looks like. We could ask one of the kids who lives on a farm. Do you think it’s that my hands look like chicken claws and not actual shit?” \nKarissa steps down from the chair and starts to pack up her belongings to go home. \n“I think you’re overthinking this. Plus, Kelsey got suspended for telling Anna Alan to go fuck herself during math class period 3. You probably won’t see her for a couple days.”\nThe following morning I casually inquire about the other insults Kelsey has thrust upon innocent ears. Other teachers had been called bitches, told to suck her nonexistent male anatomy, and other awful things- but nothing that came close to chicken shit hands. I need to confront Kelsey and ask her to explain. This probably isn’t professional but I can’t go on remaining this ignorant. I can’t live the rest of my life wondering what was wrong with my hands. Maybe the chicken shit is a metaphor for something bigger.\nThe bell rings and students sit down at their desks. Kelsey isn’t there but she’s always late so I wait 5 minutes. Then 5 more. Then 20 minutes have gone by and I assume she’s skipping class.\nI call the main office and ask if they’ve heard anything about Kelsey. \n“Kelsey Merton? She transferred out of the district. She’ll be removed from your roster soon.”" } ]
[ { "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: Der Mauer\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1955\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a time-travel story where a character from the present finds themselves in the 80s or 90s." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He placed the shiny black vinyl record on the turntable, like an art dealer would place a valuable fragile object d’art in front of a potential buyer. With equal care like a surgeon making an incision with a tiny scalpel, he carefully placed the stylus at the very edge of the plastic vinyl record, the sudden hiss of the loudspeakers startled the silence, as the stylus connected to the minuscule grove on the edge of the spinning vinyl record.\n\nHe sat back in the armchair, equal distance between the two large sentinel speakers guarding the dark emptiness of the room. He relaxed, into a meditative pose folding his arms over his body, closed his eyes in homage to the anticipated entrance of David Bowie’s voice suddenly flowing into the room, filling the void of previous silence, from the high-quality loudspeakers, the lyrics of Glass Spider, from the 1989 Glass Spider Tour flowed into the dimly lit room. He drifted backwards into the year 1989, with the rendition of the track, the soft languid voice of Bowie taking him there with the words.\n\nUp until one century ago there lived,\nIn the Zehlendorf province of an eastern country\nA glass-like spider\nHaving devoured its prey it would drape the skeletons over its web……..\n\nHe felt himself falling, falling, the sound of the music suddenly started to warp, it echoed like in a tunnel, and he was drifting away from the sound, he could no longer feel the supporting arms of the armchair, they disappeared, he was falling downwards, backwards, he remained in a sitting position, but he could not see what was beneath him. He landed like a Mr. Bean character in Friedrichstrasse, unlike Mr. Bean, there was no spotlight from above, from the dark night sky, he landed with a jolt on the crowded busy street, but strangely he continued to hear David Bowie’s voice in the distant night sky. Everybody in the street was listening, their backs turned to face the direction of the music, in the distance the sound of David Bowie’s voice on Friedrichstrasse. No one had noticed his sudden appearance, they were entranced with the high volume of sound coming from behind the Der Mauer, no one, except two dogs.\n\nAs he sat on the cold hard pavement, the dogs confidently came up to his eye level, and licked his face. It was a bizarre experience, the distant sound of David Bowie in his ears, the saliva from the two dogs running down his face, but it was their smelly breath that caused him to push away their slobbering welcome.\n\nIt was Schatzi and Manfred, that meant Eva wasn’t far away.\n\nHe struggled to get to his feet, he felt giddy, but he had to stay alert, the Stasi police would be around, somewhere, it was well past curfew, he needed to move to the rendezvous point. Once the concert finished, he knew the riots would start.\n\n“Come on you two, let’s go, komm, hier!” He grabbed both dogs by the collar and dragged them in the direction of the side street. He was fortunate, the moment he turned into the darker alleyway, the police had pushed their way through the listening crowd, the wall of people eavesdropping on the concert. All the East German police were on full alert that night, there was the normal curfew, but everybody had rebelled, ignored it. The tension in the air was rampant, the concert on the other side of the wall had brought the people out from their houses and apartments to listen. The concert organizers had purposely erected the stage right next to the wall on the west side. It was intentional, and the Stasi police knew it, but they could not control the concert organizers nor the gathered listening crowds. Every day went by nowadays and the tensions increased. The atmosphere was tense like an invisible tripwire, a stumble - a wrong move by the police, and they would have an angry mob to deal with, the redolence of intolerance, rioting, anarchy was ripe in the air.\n\nThere were reports coming in from Alexanderplatz, protesters had gathered earlier in the day, and it was impossible to move an aggressive crowd of 70,000 people. The mood had changed now; for years East Berliners wanted to leave for the West, for a better lifestyle, more opportunities, the normal chanting \"Wir wollen raus!\" (\"We want out!\"). Today for the first time, the protestors began to chant \"Wir bleiben hier!\" (\"We are staying here!\"). The concert had galvanized both sides of the Der Mauer, the crowds cheering and shouting across the wall, Berliners on both sides cheering to be heard together, one voice, not in forced separation. The concert had generated a feeling of connection for both sides of Der Mauer. It was something new for a divided Berlin, for a divided Germany – but it was good news.\n\nThe police in the streets, the administrators, the East German government, there was a sea change of attitude, Der Mauer was a scar on the cityscape, it was an insult to all Germans. They can’t continue to take the blame for the war forever. Der Mauer had nothing to do with Germany anyway it was another war, a political war between polar philosophies – the cold war.\n\nThe iron curtain was about to move, and Der Mauer to fall forever.\n\nHe dodged from side street to side street, the concert had made achieving the rendezvous point that much easier.\n\nHe saw her blonde hair, and the tied bob of her hair jutting out, it was easily visible shimmering under the glow of streetlight. She was surrounded by his friends – meena atze - his buddies. His heart jumped at seeing her. Under the glow of the streetlight, he also saw Jurgs and Matts, his friends from childhood. He recognized their dress, uniform of the eighties, with their ripped jeans, and leather bomber jackets, not quite up to the fashion statements of Nina Hagen and Einstürzende Neubauten, but it was a statement of anti-establishment, anti-Stasi, anti-Russen. They had all grown up under the shadow of Der Mauer, the generation that had to make repatriations and forgiveness, feel guilty for the sins of another generation, rinse out the guilt of Hitler for the victors. None of the victors seem to have made the world a better place, he thought.\n\nMeena atze - were in deep conversation, or maybe the music in the distance wafting over the buildings, along with the dust and smoke of listening audiences, but he was only yards away from them, before he broke into their discourse, he spoke.\n\n“Juten Tach! Wie geht’s?” (Good day! How are you?).\n\nThey collectively jumped, their feelings of vulnerability, being out on the street after curfew, he recognized immediately their reaction. It transformed completely when they all looked and discovered the face behind the voice, beaming smiles, all the faces exploded in recognition and welcome. Eva leaped into the air, closed the distance, and with open outstretched arms landed on his shoulder, her arms securing themselves upon his neck, like a monkey jumping to grab a branch in the canopy of trees, hugging him close, climbing up his body, opening her face to him, her eyes seeking his permission to steal a kiss. He recognized her fragrance, he felt the absence, but the absence was now over.\n\n“It’s been a long time Kuele (buddy).” Jurgs replied and offered his outstretched hand. Jurgs and Matts would have hugged their friend, but Eva had centre stage, it was impossible to get near their friend, without prizing away Eva impersonating an affectionate primate.\n\n“How did you get out!” Matts asked, and then the most important question in all their minds. “Why did you come back – meena atze (my good friend) – you are crazy Kuele!\n\n“One question at a time. Let me put this gorgeous girl down first of all. Did you all miss me?” He enquired.\n\n“Natürlich! (of course) Bist du Irre? (Are you crazy?).” They all said in unison, laughing out the tension.\n\n“I came back to tell you something outrageous. Something that’s going to change our futures - forever!” he said enthusiastically.\n\nBefore anybody could respond – he said. “Der Mauer is coming down, starting tonight, meena atze!” His grin was so wide and set, it was unbreakable. He waited for a reaction.\n\n“How do you know who told you?” Matts was dismissive, the first to react to the news.\n\n“Trust me, I know.” He said emphatically.\n\n“What have they been feeding you on the other side, lots of food spiced with fennel?” Matts said, disbelieving.\n\n“Starting tonight, the border is open. That stupid Krenz and his politburo pansies can’t stop it anymore. An announcement will be made in an hour, no papers, let’s go to Bornholmer Strasse crossing, it’s happening NOW!” He wanted to shake them all out of their malaise, history was being made.\n\n“And we will be able to come back without persecution!”\n\nEva didn’t care about the past, the future, she was in raptures, seeing her man back after all this time, she wasn’t interested in the future, the perfect moment was now.\n\nJurgen changed the direction of the conversation. “How did you get back?” he said suspiciously.\n\nHe looked down at the dogs sitting patiently waiting. Both looking up at the group of four, waiting for the next move. Jurgen already thought he knew.\n\n“You escaped through the tunnels, and you came back through the tunnels. Those dogs know the way, don’t they?” Jurgen’s tone was edgy, knowing. He stuck out his chin in defiance and said.\n\n“Plus, if you think we are all going to go to Bornholmer Strasse crossing NOW without any papers, and after curfew, you are crazier than I gave you credit for, you are insane. You will get us all shot!”\nThis quietened them all.\n\n“Look Jurgs, I know you narked on me with the Stasi, when I disappeared. I understand, we are all students, trying to create a better future for ourselves, we think we need the support of this puppet administration, which even the Russen have abandoned. I know it is hard on those left behind in this nowhere land, more than those that have escaped. I accept that, Kuele!” He placed a conciliary hand on Jurgen’s shoulder.\n\nJurgen looked shocked, and then feelings of embarrassment, guilt, and envy were pushing him further away from the island of their enduring friendship out into the ocean, the deep waters of regret.\n\n“I know you have narked on me tonight, so let’s get out of here.” The last words he raised his voice to emphasize the urgency.\n\nOut of the darkness, the blast of the whistle came from nowhere.\n\n“Run!” He shouted.\n\n********\n\nHe slammed the apartment door behind him, and immediately squatted down, his knees creaked under the strain, to unleash the dogs. Both dogs waited patiently for the leads to be unbuckled, and then waddled along the corridor to hustle some treats from Eva.\n\n“Hey darling is the football on yet, Union must win tonight, or we are in trouble.” He calls out, taking off his coat.\n\n“Your dad called, the dogs ran off again, did you see them?” Eva shouts back.\n\n“It’s OK I found them in the park. They are with me; Frau Gottschild lent me some leads – they were wandering around like strays as normal. Can you text him on WhatsApp?” he replies.\n\n“Sure. I’m not cooking, I ordered Uber eats, is that OK?” Eva asks.\n\n“No problem. Good idea. First, get the match on, change the channel from that stupid TLC, the match should be on Sky Sports - Main Event.”" } ]
[ { "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: Blackbird\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2781\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a time-travel story where a character from the present finds themselves in the 80s or 90s." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jack Gregory passed away quietly in his room at the Hartwell Retirement Community. His granddaughter Meghan Young was with him when he passed. He was two months shy of his ninetieth birthday and even though he lived life the way he wanted to, Meghan still shed a few tears as the doctor came in to confirm his time of death.\n“Condolences.” He said before departing the way he had learned in medical school.\n“Thank you.” Meghan dried her eyes with a tissue. “Grandpa, I’m gonna miss you.” \nWhen Meghan got home, Dale, her husband, was sitting on the couch reading the paper. She was armed with take out Chinese, because she was in no mood to prepare dinner. \n“I’m sorry.” Dale hugged her after she put down the bag on the dining room table.\n“He went peacefully.” She cleared her throat. “I went to the Peking Palace.”\n“Alright.” He kissed her on the cheek. \n“I will have to go through his stuff.” She sighed, “I’m not looking forward to that.”\n“How come?” He pushed the bag open and took a whiff.\n“There were so many things he and grandma collected over the years. When she passed away, I had them put in storage.” She sat down as Dale tasted a spring roll. “I guess it will be nice not having to pay the monthly fee.” \n“We were paying that?” He asked as he used his chopsticks to dip his dim sung into a red sauce. \n“Yeah.” She rested her chin on her fists. “I’m not hungry, dear, but help yourself.” \n“Oh I am.” He nodded after swallowing. She offered him a Mona Lisa smile as she went into the bedroom to prepare for a nice soothing bath. Her nerves were frayed and there was nothing anyone could do to relieve the pounding of her head. \nIn his prime Jack Gregory had been a skilled airplane mechanic specializing in the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird capable of soaring at incredible speeds, but the Air Force had retired this plane in January 1990. Before that, Jack was a career enlisted Non-Commissioned Officer who knew the inner workings of the greatest and fastest spy plane ever constructed. Capable of flying at the edge of the earth’s atmosphere at speeds past the speed of sound, the Blackbird could take reconnaissance photographs of a golf ball in such detail you’d be able to count the dimples as it sat on the tee. After thirty years of dedicated service, Jack was proud of his service to the Blackbird while in uniform. When he retired from the service in 1984, the Blackbird was still the fastest plane in the sky.\nOne of his old cronies, a full bird colonel, talked Jack into remaining on the service crew as a civilian crew chief.\n“You are the best I’ve ever had.” Colonel Buggesse folded his hands on his desk as he spoke to the newly retired chief mechanic.\n“I’m not sure.” He sighed. “I’ve spent the last thirty years of my life sniffing jet exhaust fumes. I’m wondering if it’s time to pack it in here.” \n“What else are you going to do? Play golf with an alligator sewn on your tit?” Colonel Buggesse laughed.\n“I never gave it much thought.” Jack confessed as a Blackbird came screaming down the runway. \n“Has there ever been a more magnificent bird?” The colonel stood and peered out the window with a full view of the flightline. \n“No sir.” Jack smiled and that was all it took for him to sign on as a civilian crew chief. In the same year George Orwell warned of a dystopian world about to take shape under the shadow of communism, Jack Gregory signed a contract with the base to stay on as a senior civilian crew chief.\nAfter they retired the Blackbird in 1990, Jack decided there was no longer a place for him in the Air Force, so he moved from northern California up to Central Oregon with Doris, his wife of forty years. \nDiagnosed with cancer a year later, Doris passed away holding Jack’s hand. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Jack told his daughter Melony her mother had taken the flight to Heaven without him. Melony hugged him and they both baptized Doris’ passing with their tears.\n“Grandpa, would you like to go to yoga class with me?” Meghan asked with her bag slug over her shoulder one morning. She noticed he was in a bit of a fog after Doris’ funeral and figured he could use some cheering up. While he was in the service, Jack made a habit of jogging five miles each day no matter what the weather was like. \n“I’d rather have my eyes taken out with red hot pokers.” He shook his head as he finished his morning coffee.\n“Grandpa.” She said in an accusatory voice.\n“Darling, I love you more than I can say, but yoga is not for me.” His wry smile slid across his face. It was the same smile he got when someone mentioned the word “Democrat” in his presence.\n“I thought you might want to get out of the house for a while.” She shrugged knowing that any sort of argument would be wasted breath.\n“No thank you, sweetie. Do give your mom my love.” He peered out the window at the trees just beyond his fence in the backyard.\n“She would like you to come over for dinner.” Meghan kissed him on the top of the head, where his hair had quit growing leaving a patch of bare skin covered with dark liver spots.\n“I need some time.” He bowed his head.\nBut time was not his friend, because his oldest daughter Melony was also diagnosed with cancer and a few months later followed her mother to the grave.\nIt was a somber time for the family as Jack quit going to church feeling as if God was punishing him for some unnamed sin. Meghan and Dale began having domestic difficulties as well.\n“Grandpa, are you in here?” She knocked on the door of his study. While Doris was alive, she would forbid anyone from disturbing him when he was in his office. There were strict rules surrounding this type of behavior, but she needed someone to talk to.\n“Yes.” His sober answer could be heard through the door. Carefully she opened the door, not knowing what condition he would be in. She knew he would resort to whiskey when he was feeling low, a habit he carried over from his military days, but he was just sitting in his big desk chair with his eyes closed. When she entered the study, he opened his eyes, “I can still hear her voice.”\n“Whose voice, grandpa?” She was asked with trepidation in her voice. \n“Melony.” He bowed his head, “I never thought for a minute I’d outlive her. She was always a happy child, full of life.”\n“I miss her so much.” Tears began to roll down her cheeks.\n“She always wanted to go for a ride in the Blackbird. I promised her one day I would make that happen.” He sniffed before wiping one of his own tears from his face, “I never did.” \n“She was always there for me.” Meghan’s voice caught on her throat, “Now when I need her most, she’s not there.”\n“What?” He sat up, “What is the problem?” \n“Dale and I have fallen out of love.” I turned my head.\n“Doris and I fell out of love several times.” He pointed his finger at his granddaughter, “But each time we found a reason to keep on trying and eventually we did.”\n“What if it’s not that simple.” Meghan shook her head.\n“Well then, you can look back and say you did your best.” He put his gnarled hand over hers. “Promise me.”\n“I promise, grandpa.” She sniffed.\n“It’s been hard times, but that’s when you pull yourself up by your bootstraps.” He winked. “How would you like to do a few rounds of golf with an old pro?”\n“I’ll beat you.” Meghan wiped the tears with her shirt sleeve and smiled.\n“It beats yoga, that’s for sure.” He chuckled.\nThe next morning they teed off at the Ridenour Golf Course where Jack came to worship and showed Meghan his most reverend nine rounds of golf. He told her some of his war stories from his long time working on the Blackbird.\n“One of them pilots dressed in his spacesuit told me he got her up to Mach Five, but it was top secret information.” He putted and the ball went straight into the cup ending the round. \n“Should you be telling me this?” Meghan tried but her put rimmed the cup and rolled away.\n“You’re right.” He shook his head, “Now I’ve gotta kill ya.” \nHis dry humor made her laugh. She was in a good mood when she walked in the door, but Dale was sitting there staring at the blank television screen, “We need to talk.” \nThey did, but Dale insisted that a trial separation was the solution. So, with tears in her eyes yet again, she watched him leave. Their two year marriage was over or so it seemed. A week later, Dale called and told her he was coming home.\nGrandpa Jack had been right, sometimes you have to let go of something you love so much in order to find the real value of what it is you think you have lost. \nWhen she opened the storage unit, she felt a surge of melancholy run through her. In the tiny six by nine foot unit were unopened boxes. Some of the boxes would rip the bandage off the wounds she had acquired over time. In one box was the tea set Grandma Doris had purchased on her trip through Europe after Grandpa Jack had retired during the decommissioning ceremony in January 1990. \nThe boxes were stacked about four or five boxes high and not being the tallest person, she watched as some of the boxes fell from their lofty perch. Afraid of broken glass, Meghan opened the fallen boxes carefully. Most of the contents were undamaged and just papers and pictures of a life well-lived. \nGrandpa had told her of his many adventures both in uniform and as a civilian worker. \n“The Blackbird was our eye in the sky, keeping a watchful eye on them commies.” He said with pride in his voice. “We was all dedicated, because we knew what the consequence would be if we let our guard down just once.”\nHe was proud that it never happened, not even once. \nShe opened another box and there it was, a picture of the entire maintenance squadron standing in front of the Blackbird during the January 26, 1990 retirement ceremony. Jack was standing next to Colonel Buggesse wearing his flight jacket that he wore to the base every day while the colonel wore his silver eagles pinned to the collar of his flight suit. The colonel had passed away a few years ago with a combat record in both Korea and Vietnam. \nMeghan ran her fingers over the glass of the frame wondering who all of those faces were today. Most of the servicemen looked young, smiling jubilantly when the picture was taken.\nShe remembered when he had this displayed on the wall behind his desk in his study. \n“Did he know each of their names?” She wondered.\n“They used to call me Chief, because I retired as a Chief Mastersargeant.” He pointed to the picture. Meghan remembered he had told her this at her high school graduation party that Doris and he had for her. She was preparing to leave for college. Life was exciting, “When I hung up my uniform and went to work as a civilian lackey, the guys continued to call me Chief. I did not want to discourage them, so I let them call me Chief.” \nHe laughed and then became serious, “Mehgan, you are going to college and you will learn things I wish I had learned. My commander always told me I was smarter than any officer he had in the squadron. I wish that was true, but you know after a few drinks, people are bound to lie right to your face.” He paused, “Don’t believe their bullshit, darling. Don’t buy into it if you think they are full of shit.”\n“Yes grandpa.” She nodded.\n“I know Melony doesn’t like it when I use my enlisted language, but sometimes it’s useful when there are no other words I can use.” He put his drink down on his desk, “All of those men made me proud ever after they got rid of the Blackbird. Stupid government. We was going to war after Iraq took over Kuwait and we sure as hell could have used the Blackbird to keep an eye on Sadam. But go figure. Some of them boys had to go to Desert Storm, but it was a short operation as it turned out. We done what they asked us to and that was that.” \nShe cradled the heavily framed photograph in her arms. \n“What is that?” Dale asked when Meghan walked in the door a few hours later.\n“A photograph my grandpa framed.” She put it on the counter by the stove.\n“You spent almost four hours there and this is what you came out with?” Dale shook his head.\n“This was once his favorite possession.” She glared at him.\n“Then why was it in storage?” Dale asked.\n“Sometimes our memories cannot hold all the things that we value.” Her voice was terse.\n“Whatever.” He shook his head. “The girls are all in bed. We had pizza.”\n“I had a meal all prepared.” She put her hands on her hips.\n“Well, you know me, I am not always the handiest around the kitchen.” He sighed heavily, “Sometimes I like to go the easy way.” \n“Well, sometimes I wish you’d do the right thing.” \n“Hey, if we’re gonna have this argument, I will go in the other room so you can work this out on your own.” He stomped off into the living room and turned on the television to Wrestling Mania, something she could not watch with him. \nRather than keep the picture as an object that would cause future disagreement, Meghan took it into her office the next morning to hang it on her cubicle wall at Morris Technical Advisors. The weight would not allow her to secure the photograph to the flimsy material.\n“Hey Megs, I don’t think that will stay.” Wendy, her coworker in the next cubicle pointed out.\n“I’m afraid you’re right.” She sighed, putting the photograph on her desk.\n“What is it?” Wendy asked when she saw it.\n“It’s a picture my grandpa had.” She answered, “He worked on the Blackbird about twenty years ago.”\n“Blackbird?” Wendy’s face appeared befuddled.\n“SR-71, Air Force spy plane.” She said with a hint of pride in her voice. \n“No kidding? You know Bud the department head?” She asked and Meghan nodded, “I think he was in the Air Force a long time ago.” \nNo sooner had Wendy said his name when Bud Falinico wandered down the narrow path.\n“What’s going on here?” He asked. During their last staff meeting, Bud pointed out that there was too much idle chatter in his department.\n“I was trying to hang this on my wall.” Meghan shook her head.\n“Where did you get this?” Bud seemed transfixed on the photograph.\n“My grandfather had it. He passed away last week.” Meghan explained.\n“Are you kidding me?” Bud gasped.\n“I wish I was…” Meghan shrugged.\n“You see that guy right there?” Bud’s finger was on one of the guys in the picture, “That’s…that’s me.” \n“What?” Meghan could not believe what he was telling her.\n“Yes, yes, that’s me. I was a nineteen year-old airman at the time.” He was smiling as he spoke, “And there’s Chief Gregory. And Colonel Buggesse. Man, I was so young back then.” \n“Chief Gregory is my grandfather.” Meghan felt her tears stinging at the corner of her eyes. “He passed away last week.” \n“Oh, I am so sorry.” The sincerity of his statement was truly heartfelt. “I had no idea. The Chief was like a father to me back then. My real father took off with his secretary. I was angry and bitter when I showed up at that base.” \nWe never know what connects us, common experience caught in a photograph, or a moment in time that has been long forgotten or finding yourself at the crossroads when all hope has been lost and yet salvation is patiently waiting for you there." } ]
[ { "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: True Beauty\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2440\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who would have complete happiness, if it weren’t for that one thing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Figures differ depending on where you live, but here I’m one of the 1,300 born with a cleft lip. A genetic fault caused part of my upper lip to split on the right side reaching to my nose in the early stage of my mother’s pregnancy.\n*\n\nIt could have been the perfect lesson. If it weren’t for one thing! Or one person, to be precise.\n\nIf I’m going to talk about this, I should at least be honest. It was more than one person, but she was the kingpin; the skittles would not have fallen had she played it straight.\n\nThere’s a high-pitched hum in my head. My heart thumps, a pulsing fuelled by dread. \nFight or flight? If I had the option, I’d fly. Be anywhere but here. I want to fly across the ocean and land on that peerless sun-kissed beach of my imagination. To breathe in the tang of the sea, run along the shore, select conical shells lined in pink, and spread them in a ring on the soft-grained sand.\nOr, I can stay and fight: \n\nThe option of slapping that dolly face into submission, stopping that mouth, is appealing. I’ve heard people say words can’t break you, but it’s not true. Words are worse than sticks and stones. The damage lasts so much longer. \n\nBut I sit and wait. \n\nMy mouth is as dry as an old dog’s bone. Anxiety levels notch up to breaking point. For what feels like the hundredth time, I check the octagonal clock on the classroom wall. Two minutes past two. My angel of light is running late. Please let her come soon.\n\nThe excruciating Countdown in my head continues. One, two, three, four, five. Feels like the seconds of grace before for an execution. \n\nAny moment, it will start. The air crackles with tension.\n\nIn my head, the humming is high-pitched, intolerable. Decibels rising to match my isolation.\n\nMy request is simple. I JUST WANT TO ENJOY MY ENGLISH LESSON.\n\nIf it were only that simple!\n\n\nThe question is not going to be about whether we will read Shakespeare, which we will, but about the quality of the next hour. If all goes well, it will set me up for the next day; longer if the kingpin stays away.\n\nAll my hopes are dashed when Stell Hartless wanders in like something out of a fashion spread. All chiselled bones, and makeup so perfect it looks like it’s been sprayed on. A 10 out of 10 for her outfit as she sashays her way to the middle row.\n\nMeanwhile inside me, something shatters. I was hoping she would stay off sick for longer. Without her bugging, the last two weeks have passed like a delicious dream.\nI can try closing my eyes and pretend she’s not here, but her scent gives her away. It fails to mask the venom of a natural-born predator. \n\n\nI wait for this goddess of spite to make her way to the front of the classroom. Hand on hip, she’ll walk the aisle in her trademark style. Her way of making a statement before the lesson begins. Marking her pitch, she chalks up a cartoon pinpointing my obvious ‘deficiency.’ Titling it ‘Harelip’ she draws a pink bubble round my lip, the remnant of a cleft palate, making it project grotesquely. She should enter it under a competition marked “Vascular.” \n\nHer talent is wasted here. \n\n\nThe chair scrapes as my enemy rises. The hum in my head hits a high-pitched whine.\nSuddenly all eyes are on the opening door. Stell sits back down.\n\nWHAT A RELIEF! \n\nThere’s to be a reprieve. A stay of execution.\n\nStell and her supporters now have other fish to fry. A diminutive woman wearing a headscarf, of all things, enters the snake pit. Miss Weeble, a teacher of mature years, surely close to retirement, rumoured to have many qualifications, is hopeless when it comes to classroom management. She taps her way across the linoleum floor like a tiny bird in a cage, no longer able to fly. The stilettoes add a few inches, maybe her one concession to vanity. \n\nA footnote to happier times, perhaps?\n\nMy relief at no longer being a target, is layered with disappointment.\n\nI was hoping Mrs Grange would be teaching today. That would have been the best case scenario. The icing on the cake. A lesson with the right teacher can set you up for the day. It’s fascinating to note the effect her presence has on everyone. When she enters the room, the students are instantly engaged. She enthrals them. Quick-witted and vivacious, the love of her subject is infectious . EVERYONE LISTENS. WHEN SHE SPEAKS! Stell practically drools!\n\nMrs Grange’s replacement is a paper-thin woman with mottled-grey hair and a tired grainy voice.\n\nBut for me, even Miss Weeble proves a welcome distraction, \n\nAnything to take the focus off me.\n\n\n“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.”\nThey must mean her breasts which are small and delicate. Like her. \n“Now, now, girls, sit down.” Her voice, a broken weed, is a whisper of another life. Traces of Miss Havisham? Once loved and lost?\n\nI’m already sitting down. I have no intention of getting up. Showing some respect is the least I can do in that class on the ground floor of the school’s main building.\n“WEEBLES WOBBLE BUT THEY DON’T FALL DOWN!” I lose count of how many times this is chanted.\n“Shush, please.” Weeble shakily hands round well-thumbed volumes of Romeo and Juliet. Over the din, her instructions are inaudible. “Will you please sit down? WE are studying Act two, scene two. Notice the beauty in the language Romeo uses when he talks of his love for Juliet.”\n“Ooh, beauty in the language, is it?” Loud sniggering.\n\nBeauty? Not something you’d know much about in spite of all evidence to the contrary. \n“Have you got a boyfriend Miss?” Hysterical laughter from the middle section. \n“Will you please sit down?”\n“But have you?”\n“I’m not here to discuss my private life.”\n“Ooh, get you! I can’t imagine you having a boyfriend, Miss.”\n“Too ugly.”\nThat cuts deep. Who said it? Must be one of Stell’s supporters. \n\nMiss Weeble’s eyes mist up. WHO SAID THAT? But I don’t want to draw attention to myself by turning round to find out.\n\nJust for the record, Weeble is not ugly. Just sad and tired and unloved. Repressed in some way. Her clothes hang off her, like a refugee fleeing a war. Her cardigan is bland and faded, her skin pale and taut. Her eyes however, are alert, like those of a hunted deer.\n\nGrowing bored, Stell advances towards the sash window, pulling it up. \n“You mustn’t do that. You might hurt yourself.” \nIf only.\n\nThe mayhem turns into a jungle roar. Stell jumps out of the window and disappears into the playground. Weeble looks resigned. A temporary truce. A trace of a smile as she holds her book to the light. At last, a chance to do what she’s paid to do.\n\nBut seriously, how does she bear it week in, week out? Why doesn’t she pack it in and leave? Anything would be better than this hell. I can’t help wondering sort of teacher she’d have made without the timidity?\n* \nStell re-emerges from her escapade and once again the class grows feverish. Stell’s supporters stamp their feet declaring they are bored. \n\nWeeble has failed yet again. \n*\n\nThe door opens to a disgruntled Mrs Grange, in full Head of the English Department mode.\n“What the hell is going on here?” Her tones are clipped. “Read the passage you’ve been asked to read in silence, girls.” Weeble stands hangdog in the corner. “May I have a word with you outside the classroom please, Miss Weeble?” \n“Of course.” The colour drains from the older woman’s face.\n\nThe rest of the lesson passes without incident. I linger when everyone is leaving, not wanting to have to deal with Stell waiting to pounce in the corridor. \nA drained Miss Weeble hovers while I slowly collect my work.\n“How is your essay coming on, Nicky?”\n“It’s getting there. Slowly.”\n“I must say Mrs Grange was impressed with your last one. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve spoken to her. I said I thought you were ready to go up a set. To be honest, I’m not sure why you were put into this class in the first place.”\n“I didn’t do well in the assessment tasks when I joined the school. It was a bad time for me. Thanks for putting in a word for me. That was kind of you.”\n“It’s no problem. I don’t like to see a good pupil go to waste. Indeed not.”\nHer eyes are sad. Like an orphan’s eyes. \n“How do you put up with it?” The words are out before I can stop them. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I just don’t like the way, you know….”\n“You are referring to Stell, of course.”\n“She is pretty awful.”\n“An unhappy, rather lonely girl beneath all that bravado, I would think. Problems at home are often the cause.”\n\nI left the room, stunned by her magnanimity. In spite of the humiliation, she was able to forgive.\n\n\nEven now, I can recall the second to last conversation I had with my tormentor. One of those rare moments when she decided to be half-human and throw a snippet my way. For a change, she spoke to me after the lesson.\n“I hear you’re leaving us for better things.”\nI simply nodded.\n“You aren’t looking too bad today, by the way. A six out of ten.”\nCRUSHED BY THE SIX!\n“I’m glad you approve.”\n“Keep it up and you might get a seven.”\n\nThe following week. I could hardly believe I was part of a class where the pupils ACTUALLY wanted to learn. No hollering, jumping out of windows or bullying. An ideal environment. The perfect lesson. True bliss.\n\nProfessional as ever, Mrs Grange inspired us with her usual flair. We now had the meatier ‘King Lear’ to contend with. \n\nEnjoying my studies, the weeks passed, blending into one. Happily occupied, I gave little thought to poor Miss Weeble.\n\nThat all changed when Mrs Grange turned up one day lacking her usual spark, to make the following announcement.\n“I know some of you have been taught by Miss Weeble in the past. What you probably didn’t know is that she’s been unwell for some time.” Cancer wasn’t a word readily spoken by people then. Or, if it was, it was in hushed tones behind closed doors. As if saying it aloud made it catching. Weeble must have endured her treatments in silence, with no one to turn to. Mrs Grange lowered her voice. “I’m sorry to say she died last week.”\n\nHearing about Miss Weeble’s death shocked me to the core. I could only imagine what she must have suffered, putting on a brave face, all the while having to endure the barrage of abuse in her classes. For weeks, I was haunted by an image of her face. A beautiful compassion-filled face.\n\nIn spite of everything life threw at her, she truly cared about others.\n**\nAt last, we were nearing the end of the school year. There was a lightness about the place, with the summer holidays round the corner. The English lesson had been moved to the first floor. A glimpse from the window revealed the outline of trees beyond the school railings. The teacher’s cars shone in the driveway, transformed by the sun. \n\nIt had been a relief not having to endure another lesson with Stell. If I saw her in the corridor, I deliberately walked the other way.\n\nHowever, a week before the end of term, I heard someone crying in the toilet. The distinctive perfume gave things away. I was about to make a sharp exit when she emerged from the cubicle, all puffy-eyed and blotchy.\n“Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”\n“Nothing. You seem upset.”\n“What do you care? I’ve never done you any favours.”\n\nI didn’t know what to say to this. \n\n“I look a sight!” She examined herself in the mirror, dabbing cold water over her face. Then, “Have you heard about old Weeble dying?”\n“It’s hard to take in.”\n“No great loss. She was a funny one.”\n“She had nothing bad to say about you, though. And she wasn’t funny. She was just lonely and ill. She was a good person. You should have treated her better.” Some of my pent-up anger was released. “And while we’re about it, I’m not ugly. I can’t help it if I was born with a cleft lip.”\n\nMy words hung in the air, huge and amorphous. After a while, Stell squeaked her heels across the floor, reminding me of the chalk she scraped across the board when drawing her cartoons.\n“I didn’t mean any harm. It was just a laugh,” she said. “Anyway, you’ll be glad to hear my parents are splitting up and I’m moving away with mum. I’ll be starting a new school. My dad’s going to pay for me to go private. Catch up on my education. This isn’t a great school.”\n“Have you any idea how much my mum worried when I was growing up? How upset she’d have been if I’d told her you made fun of me because of my lip. It’s rude to call it a hare- lip, by the way. My mum was with me every time I had an operation as a baby and she supported me through all the speech therapy and painful dental work. You are so lucky to have a flawless face. It’s just a shame about your personality.”\n“I didn’t realise you felt like that,” she muttered.\n“Do you think you can at least try and be a bit nicer in your new school? Not everything is about how a person looks, you know.”\n“Yeah, ok. My mum says it’s a dog eats dog world. The top dog wins, or you get crushed. I suppose I can try being nicer. But I wouldn’t bank on it. Where did being nice get Weeble? What difference did she make to any one?”\n\nStell may have been right about dog eat dog. I’m not a therapist and I don’t know why Weeble was unable to assert herself in the classroom. It was sad because all she really wanted to do in life was teach.\n\nWhat I can say with certainty is she did make a difference.\n\nShe made a difference to me." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Chinaman's Chance\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1691\n\nPrompt:\n\nMake a race an important element of your story." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“I timed the movement twice and found the speed as follows: The first time 240 feet of rail was laid in one minute and twenty seconds; the second time 240 feet was laid in one minute and fifteen seconds.” \n—San Francisco news reporter for the Daily Alta California \n\nSunlight creeps over the mountains of Utah and spills across the ground. A train huffs along a track. The orange-red dawn fingers the ink-black metal of the engine and catches the steam and smoke rising from it. \n\nThe engine wheezes to a halt not far from the end of the line. \n\nFeet encased in thick leather work boots stir up puffs of dust. Black braids of hair swing under wide-brimmed hats, the style of which was brought from another country. The wearers of the hats are also from another country: China. \n\nThis is the Central Pacific Railroad’s great force of track layers. Some of these men have been laboring on the iron road for as long as six years. \n\nThe line started in California in 1863. Today is Wednesday, April 28, 1869. Trains can now run from San Francisco up into the Sierra Nevada mountains, through Donner Pass and down into the Nevada and Utah deserts. \n\nThe Central Pacific and Union Pacific railroads have been building towards each other since they began, and are now nearing the chosen junction in Ogden. Recently, the Union Pacific laid six miles of track in one day. Their bosses sent a message to Charles Crocker, the Central Pacific’s construction supervisor, inviting him and his “Chinese pets” to beat that. The Central Pacific workers did so, laying seven miles in a day. The Union Pacific then hammered out seven and a half miles in one day by working from 3:00AM until nearly midnight. \n\nCrocker then claimed that the Central Pacific workers were capable of putting down ten miles of track in one day. \n\nThe Union Pacific workers declared this idea ridiculous, and the UPRR’s vice-president Thomas Durant bet Charles Crocker $10,000 that ten miles of track in one day was impossible to fulfill, saying further that his money was covered. \n\nIn response, Charles Crocker and James Strorbridge, his one-eyed construction superintendent, spent several days arranging for trains loaded with track supplies to be brought to the rail head. To win the bet, five trains, each with sixteen flatcars full of supplies, are standing ready. Every set of sixteen cars holds enough materials for two miles of track. \n\nWorkers have already laid down wooden ties on graded ground for ten miles. It was planned that Tuesday, April 27, would be the great day, but a train running off the tracks caused the event to be postponed to the 28th. \n\nNow the day has come. Over 4,000 men are assembled and ready to begin. All but a small fraction of this number are Chinese. These men range in age from their late teens to their forties, and all are fit and strong. The weather and terrain in the United States are like nothing they ever saw at home. Yet touches of home are found in all their camps. Ceramic bowls, toothbrushes made of bamboo and boar bristles, food, and opium are all shipped to Gold Mountain from China. So many Chinese live in the United States that it has produced a new and thriving market in the buying and selling of Chinese goods.\n\nMost of these Chinese men hail from southern China’s Pearl River delta, called the Siyi, consisting of four counties south-west of Hong Kong. To them, the United States was the Flowery Flag Nation and Gold Mountain. It’s a place where laborers are wanted, and the Chinese are willing to supply that labor. The Chinese are the most numerous of the CPRR’s workers, and the company knows it. These men have climbed the mountains and tunneled through them. For years now, both railroad employers and the employed have been aware that the iron road can’t go forward without Chinese workers. \n\nWhen pay is handed out on Fridays, white workers, mainly Irish, tend to disappear, and sometimes don’t come back after the weekend, too drunk to work. Chinese workers insist on being paid in gold dollars rather than paper, and save their money. They send much of their earnings home, first exchanging gold for silver, which is more valuable in their homeland. The silver goes back across the sea to their home villages. With the money go many letters to families. Some of those letters are to wives and children they have never met, supported by what is sent back from Gold Mountain. Some of those wives in China die virgin widows, legally married to men they have never been with, after raising children they adopted and provided for with money from an unseen husband. The wealth from Gold Mountain also funds the building of village watch towers, erected so as to provide warnings against attacks. Many of these towers stand into the twenty-first century. \n\nThese men have been tried and have not been found wanting. They know their business. They know this will be a race against time. They’ve beaten the Union Pacific once, and they’re ready to do it again. The bosses are ready to have them prove to the other side that they are just as capable of great things.\n\nOne-eyed Strorbridge is mounted on a horse, ready to travel up and down the line to perform his role of superintendent. The Chinese have been heard referring to him as “One-eyed bossy man.” He holds his watch in his hand, waiting for the hour. \n\nThe delicate second hand makes the final round of the dial. \n\nThe engine’s whistle screams long and loud, piercing the morning quiet, and a plume of white steam shoots into the air. It’s 7:00AM. \n\nEvery worker surges forward, climbing onto the flatcars and unloading the iron rails, fishplates, and kegs full of bolts and spikes. In eight minutes, the first sixteen flatcars are bare.\n\nSmaller flatcars are set on the tracks by hand and loaded with the supplies. A horse with a rider is positioned on either side of the car, and a single long rope links the horses and is secured to the vehicle. Six men pile onto each flatcar and hand out materials as they are needed. \n\nEight Irishmen, working in teams of four, use heavy iron tongs to grip the 560 pound rails and move them off the flatcar and onto the ties. After they are set down, the rails are meticulously straightened; a crooked section could derail a train. Straightening finished, spikes are hammered by hand with mallets through the solid iron rails and into the wooden ties.\n\nThen the fishplates—which hold one length of rail to another—are bolted on. Four hundred Chinese men armed with shovels and tamping bars lift the edges of the ties and fill in more ballast, setting the track firmly in place. \n\nThe track moves forward at a pace to match a leisurely stroll. An hour goes by, and a mile has been laid down. Two hours pass, and the supplies from the first sixteen-car train are used up. \n\nThe small horse-drawn cars are now moving at speed, whizzing forward and back on the track. Empty cars are lifted off to allow full ones to pass, then set back in place to complete the return journey and be reloaded. \n\nAs the watch hands tick towards noon and heat grows, the work keeps on at a steady pace. When the CPRR hands break for lunch at 1:30PM, they have been at it hammer and tongs for six and a half hours, and more than six miles of track are on the ground. The bosses declare that this location will be known as “Victory.\"\n\nAfter lunch, the going gets tougher. The morning’s prepared grading covered terrain that was relatively flat. The road now winds right and left up a slope. The straight iron rails need to be bent accordingly, and this slows the march of the railroad army. The ends of the rails are placed on wooden blocks and they are beaten in the center with hammers until the necessary curvature is reached. Nevertheless, when the railroad hands call it quits at 7:00PM, ten miles and fifty-six feet of track have been built. \n\nThe four Irish iron workers receive four days’ worth of pay. There are no records telling whether the Chinese workers received anything more than their usual wages for a day. No bookkeeping is done on the wages due to “John Chinaman.” One-eyed Strorbridge does not know the names of his multitude of Chinese workers. He hands pay over to Chinese headmen, who then deal out the proper amounts to every man in their work gangs. But this Strorbridge does know, and will testify to in Congressional hearings concerning Chinese immigration: the company had less difficulty with Chinese workers than with whites, even when their pay was delayed. The Chinese are a hard-working people who all the bosses say are less troublesome than Irish hands. \n\nBoarding boss Jim Campbell mounts a locomotive and has the engineers run it back to the morning’s camp at 40 miles an hour to prove the track is well-laid and safe. \n\nAs the sun sets, 1,200 men ride the flatcars they emptied back to Victory Camp. The rest walk the ten miles back. Night creeps over the earth, and stars wink in the heavens. Candles and fires glow in and around the tents, lighting up the canvas city. The strains of a song drift in the air swirling with opium smoke: Marry your daughter to a Gold Mountain guest, They would come back home with glory and wealth. \n\nTomorrow is another day of work. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAuthor’s note: The song lyrics are quoted from the book “Ghosts of Gold Mountain” by Gordon H. Chang. I also used that book for much of my research.\nI also used the following article for research:\nhttp://cprr.org/Museum/Southern_Pacific_Bulletin/Ten_Mile_Day.html\n“A Chinaman’s chance” is a term that developed in California in the late 1800s. It’s similar to “when pigs fly” and “a snowball’s chance in Hell\". Chinese in the U.S. were often viewed and treated with hostility." } ]
[ { "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: They Called It Guppy Love\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1486\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that starts with the line “So, what’s the catch?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“So, what’s the catch?” \n\n“Pun intended?” I snorted, as Billy launched his line back into the still lake. There had not been a single fish in our direction the entire morning, and to be honest, I was relieved. I didn’t know what I would do if either of us caught something; I despise fish. I had only agreed to come with Billy because it seemed like the only way, I was going to ever get a date with him was if he was unaware that a date was taking place. I preferred to keep his knowledge that we were on a date with the fish; far away and without a chance of biting. \n\nBilly smirked a little at my joke but did not draw in any breath at a faster rate than normal, so I knew he didn’t find the joke to be extremely funny. Billy had a beautiful laugh, but it was something you heard when it came out. His face, normally taut and slightly rugged, but with a boyish charm still lingering just beneath the surface thanks to his bright green eyes, would erupt into a gigantic grin if he found something truly funny. When he laughed, the grin would spread his jaw open and gape his mouth just enough to allow the cackle to emit from the furthest depths of his stomach. \n\nHe pushed some of his jet-black hair out of his eyes. It was so straight that it moved easily, unlike my hair, which became so frazzled with frizz in the summertime, it was impossible to avoid looking like I had accidentally licked a frayed extension cord. When I was little, my mom tried every remedy to get me to allow her to work on the nest-sized knots that formed in the back of my head. She covered my entire head with mayonnaise one afternoon, and peanut butter another, after hearing they were quick tricks for tangles. After unsuccessful results, she realized the one way to get me to let her do them. She took me to a hair salon, which must have impacted the mortgage payment for that month, and had a stranger work on them. I was so afraid to cause a scene and speak up in front of a stranger that I let him work his magic on my hair. At the end of the appointment, he advised, “Jenny, the best way to avoid having knots in your hair is to allow mom to brush it in the first place. After you wash your hair, you must let her comb through it so that they stop forming.” I made a promise to allow her to do it and kept it. \n\n“The catch is that Donna’s mother doesn’t know about the field trip,” I continued, surprised at Billy’s interest in the story and that it was enough to warrant a question. “Her mom is really strict. Like she used to be home-schooled and she begged her mom for three years to let her go to public school. Now any little hiccup brings a huge amount of fear that she will put her back into homeschooling and she’ll never see any of us again.” \n\nI watched as Billy launched the line into the water again. He had a few freckles that had already formed from the sun, even though it was just barely the edge of summer. The field trip was the biggest of the year, and I was surprised Donna had been able to keep her mother in the dark about the trip this long. All the freshmen went to New York City at the end of the final semester. The trip was two days long and included a very early bus ride out of the Hudson Falls High School parking lot. The ride itself would take more than four hours, and that was plenty of time for Donna’s mother to create a hundred different scenarios of the worst things that could happen to a teen girl during that time. \n\nIn defense of Donna’s mother, most of the trip was unsupervised. The students were always parted into groups with a chaperone, but the trip came with several blocks of time where the students were allowed, and expected, to explore specific parts of the city on their own. This did seem like it gave a heavy amount of responsibility to young people, especially because most of them had never been to New York. Then, everyone stayed in a hotel overnight, and we were to be separated into groups of four per room. Again, the chaperones were going to be on the same floor as the students in the hotel, which garnered out room blocks every year for the high school as a means of ensuring both the profit from the room sales and quiet segregation for any other guests who were unlucky enough to book the same weekend. Most of the time, the chaperones either went to the hotel bar, or another spot nearby, or they went to bed with earplugs. Despite warnings and issued quiet hours, it was well-known that the students didn’t have to stay in their groups of four for most of the night. \n\n“It’s probably going to be worse for Donna if her mom finds out after the fact, won’t it?” Billy continued to seem generally interested in the dilemma, and I started to wonder if his interest was due to an interest in Donna as a whole, instead of just an interest in her drama with her overbearing mother. \n\n“Probably,” I responded, as I tried to keep the tone of my voice one that a normal person would use, instead of someone worried about the emotion behind the innocent question. “That’s why that’s the issue. If she tells her mother about it before the trip and tries to get her permission, there’s no way she is going to let her go. She will forbid it, to the point where she might tell Donna she wants to pull her from the school because she ‘doesn’t want her baby to be in a place where these things are an option,’” I fumbled with my fishing line after dropping it while I made air quotes. I tried to tell myself that Billy’s exhale hadn’t been a little louder this time and that he seemed to find my mishap funnier than my earlier joke. \n\n“But if she goes on the trip without telling her, and then she finds out about it, she would have already gotten away with going and it would be too late. But then she will be in trouble, which means she will be banned from going to the concert with me over the summer. It took us two months to convince her mom that she should be allowed to go.” \n\nBilly pondered the dilemma, or seemed to, as he stared at the lake. He looked as though he were deep in thought. His eyes glanced and met mine, and the reflection from the lake glittered through them. I felt my stomach drop into my ankles, and I uncontrollably smiled just before he looked away again. \n\n“I think it's always better to be honest and face the consequences,” he finally remarked. He slid back from the edge of the dock on his left side and scooted his knee toward the back, which turned most of his body in my direction and brought him closer to me. He kept his right leg dangled off the side of the dock above the water. He exhaled and licked his lips. \n\n“Take this fishing expedition, for example,” he continued. I could feel his eyes locked on mine, but I couldn’t bring my gaze from the lake just yet. “You hate fish. In Miss Cooley’s class in sixth grade, we all had to share our biggest fears and you talked about fish for almost five full minutes. You gave so much detail on it, I think you scared a couple of the others who originally didn’t have an answer. Three years doesn’t change someone enough that they’d now want to go fishing. So, what gives, Jen?” \n\nI don't think I had given quite the monologue he was remembering in Ms. Cooley’s class, but I was stunned that he remembered that event. “There were twenty-five kids in our class in sixth grade Billy,” I joked. “Do you remember what everyone’s fear was? Are you planning to use it against all of us?” \n\nBilly sighed, as he smiled with his lips closed. “No,” he said, his gaze still locked on my face. I blinked hard and turned to look at him, expecting a joke as a response. “I only remember yours,” he said, as he moved his gaze from my right eye to my left, and then softly kissed me. \n\nMy fishing pole shook in my hand, and I felt the line tighten as a fish enveloped the smushed worm on the other 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: Echoes of Analog Dreams: Unearthing Nostalgia in the Digital Attic\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1304\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character finding a retro piece of tech they don’t recognize." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As the rain kept falling on the library windows, Alex stayed in the library and looked at the old things that E. M. had left behind. The librarian touched an old camera that used film, something that people used a long time ago to take pictures. They had to wait for the film to be ready before they could see the pictures, and that made them more excited. Alex held the camera and looked at the old pictures that were in the box. The pictures showed happy people, school events, and summer nights with bright bugs.\nAlex understood something: the old things in the box were not just things that people did not use anymore. They were also a way of showing the things that people did and felt together, no matter how old they were. Each thing, from the video game to the camera, had a story to tell about happiness, sadness, and how things changed over time. It was like a book that told the history of Crestwood, the town where the library was.\nAlex found another thing in the box: a bunch of letters that people had written by hand. The letters were very old and the paper was not white anymore. They showed how people from Crestwood talked to each other, and how they cared about each other. They also showed how life was in the town, with good and bad things happening. Alex read the letters and felt closer to the people who wrote them, even though they lived a long time ago. It was like the library became a bridge between the past and the present.\nAlex found one letter that was very interesting. It talked about a secret place in Crestwood, a place where people from the town used to go and tell each other their secrets, their hopes, and how they felt about the different times of the year. The letter also said that there was something hidden there, something that people had put in the ground a long time ago. It was a box with more old things inside, and it was waiting for someone who wanted to find it.\nAlex wanted to find it very much, so Alex decided to go to the secret place. Alex followed the hints that were in the letters. The rain was still falling, but Alex did not mind. The streets of the town were like a big memory, with sounds of people having fun, glasses making noise in a café that was not there anymore, and music from a time that was gone. The town was like a friend, telling Alex stories about the past.\nAlex walked through many small streets that were made of stones. The streets were like a maze, and Alex had to follow the hints from the letters to find the way. Alex finally found the secret place that the letters talked about. It was under a big old tree that had big roots. Under the roots, there was a box made of wood that looked very old. Alex wanted to see what was inside the box, and felt very happy, like a kid who was opening a present on a special day.\nAlex opened the box and saw what was inside. There were many old things from different times, and they looked like they were taken care of very well. Someone wanted the people who came after them to see these things. One of the things was a book that had many pages. The book had writing on it, and it said what the people from Crestwood wanted and wished for. The book showed how the people from the town felt and thought. Inside the book, there were also some things that looked like music tapes. They had voices on them, and they said more things about the people and the town. The people from Crestwood liked to tell stories, and they did that for a long time.\nOne of the old things in the box was a pair of shoes with wheels on them. People used to wear them and roll on the streets, and they had a lot of fun. Alex remembered seeing pictures of kids doing that, and how they looked happy. Alex wanted to try it too, so Alex put on the shoes with wheels and rolled around the town. The wind made noises that sounded like stories from the past.\nAlex rolled until Alex found a place that had many games inside. The place had lights that were bright and colorful, but they did not work very well. The games were old and had pictures that looked simple and not real. People used to play these games and feel good when they won. In the middle of the place, there was a big game that had a metal ball and many lights and sounds. The game looked like it was very important and old. Alex wanted to play it too, so Alex pushed a button and the ball started to move. The game made noises and lights that were exciting and fun.\nWhen the sun went down and the moon came up, the place with the games became like a magic door. It took Alex to a time when things were easier and people were happier. The people from the town, both young ones and old ones, came to the place and had fun together. They remembered the old things that they had done and seen, and they felt good. The place was full of happy noises, music from old records, and sounds from the old games that still worked.\nAlex was having fun too, but Alex also wanted to think. Alex went to a place that was not noisy and sat down. Alex thought about everything that had happened that day. Alex had found many old things that no one had seen for a long time, and Alex had learned a lot about the town and the people. Alex had also made the town and the people happy, because they remembered their past and felt proud of it. The town was like a big bird that had been burned by fire, but came back to life. The town loved its past, but it also wanted to make new things and new friends. The town had a long and beautiful story, and it was not over yet.\nAlex had the shoes with wheels on one shoulder and the old camera in the hand. Alex went back to the library. The rain was not falling hard anymore, it was just a little bit wet. The boxes with old things, the ones that Alex had found and the ones that Alex had made, showed how people felt about the past. The past made the present happen, and the present made the future remember.\nAlex put the old things next to the box that E. M. had left. Alex felt good and happy. Crestwood was a town that had many stories, but people did not know them. Now the town showed how the past was important and strong. The library was a place that had many old things, and it smelled like old books. The library was a place that kept the memories of the town, a place that was special and holy. The library was a place where the past and the present were friends.\nAnd then, when the rain was still falling a little bit outside, Alex Turner, the person who took care of the town’s stories, locked the library’s doors. Alex left the town that was happy because it had found its past again. The town had sounds of people having fun, old machines making noises, and people feeling close to each other. The town had a story that was long and beautiful, and it did not 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: Everything but myself.\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who would have complete happiness, if it weren’t for that one thing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It wasn't the sound of birds in the tree chirping or the wind that caressed Mary Ann's window that caused her to peel her eyes open slowly, but the blaring of her alarm that's been put on snooze for the 3rd time today. Mary Ann was a plain girl really, her life was uneventful and commonly the same every day. she'd be faced with another day of judgment and criticism. She woke up, brushed her teeth, went to school, and put up with her friends being jerks to her just so she could keep them. She was the type of friend that was kept in the back of the photos, who is never invited to the slumber party and yet still kept around when at school as a little pet. She thought her life was like everyone else's, but there was something she did do that was strange, a little routine she had that stuck with her since she was old enough to realize and recognize the difference between pretty and ugly. Mary Ann stared.\nAt what you may ask, The sky? Or maybe even the homework she forgot to do that she'd later copy off of her so-called friends later. No, if only she would. Perhaps if she picked something else to look at like the change of season and the beautiful leaves that fell every so slowly and what it had to offer when she walked to school. The short-lasting yet peaceful moments of just her and nature was true peace if only she could stay in the leaves then maybe she wouldn't have to wipe off the salty tears that rolled off her cheeks every single morning and the heart-pulling cry that would follow after. In a way, it felt like a loop. A continuous cycle that has never ended, not even for a day in her life. She was being picked apart detail by detail with nobody to blame but herself. \ncould it be it was all in her mind? A torture that only she could end? That she was chipping away at something that couldn't be replaced or bought? Was she destroying herself without knowing? Maybe if she could just shut it all out then perhaps everything would be easy lock It up and throw away the key, she'd put on a bright smile and laugh at her father's corny jokes he made at the dinner table. But it wasn't that easy because she didn't have pretty long blond hair or beautiful blue eyes that shined in the sun. Mary Ann had a look to her pale fragile body that almost compared to glass. A vase maybe, one so light and thin it'd be seen by everybody just for the way it looked. But like a vase, with one wrong movement; a split second was all it took she'd shatter into a million pieces, unable to be the way it was before ever again. A quick glance by her classmates made her seem like a corpse, her hair didn't shine but drooped down flatly, her split ends had stuck out in all different directions and she couldn't change it. The way her eyebags were practically carved into her skull wasn't fixable nor was the deep unnatural color it withheald. She looked at her friends and every day they looked so lovely with their new clothes that brought out their curves and really highlighted their personalities. It most likely meant nothing to them. These types of girls just kinda sparkled, and in the sunlight, they glowed brighter than ever with their caramel skin which made them seem elegant and so pure it was unmatchable, Mary Anns didn't she wasn't even close her hair wasn't like theirs and her body was so horrible to look at, she couldn't, and how could she? Someone so featureless it instantly made her uninteresting to everyone including herself. It was like trying to decorate an ugly room, yes you could distract yourself with small things but the build would never change.\nunsurprisingly at the young age of 13, she discovered what bullying was. It took many shapes and forms, whether it be a slam into the locker by a preppy cheerleader or a crumpled paper thrown onto her desk saying how ugly she looked that day. The people not only mocked her but they mocked her clothes, the lint that remained after a wash that she cared so little about but didn't go unnoticed by others. they'd make sure to let her know when there was a hair out of place. Her shoes were too old and so tight that they caused blisters, but she didn't care. She only wanted friends and for one day at recess to not sit alone. She was more than just ugly, she was more than just a loser, she was more than a vase.\nAs she ran her brittle hands down her hair and around her slim cheeks she realized she could never be different, the mirror was hurtful but never lied. She never would be adored like these girls were. Oh, the look in the boy's eyes when they saw her, filled with disgust, and followed up with a joke that would remain in her mind body and soul for years to come and would ruin every good moment when given the chance. She knew she was not desired, she knew she wasn't pretty she was just a plain Jane. For what it's worth even with the overpriced cakey foundation that covered her uneven skin tone and mascara that masked her face and tried its best to make her more feminine never worked, every time she would look into the mirror she would see that little girl begging and sobbing to be heard, to be noticed, to be loved. But alas, her face would always be permanent and in the back of her mind, she knew. Every day walking back from school, she would always come to the realization everything was perfect, but herself." } ]
[ { "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: Haley\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1170\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who would have complete happiness, if it weren’t for that one thing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was around eleven-thirty in the morning when I heard my stomach grumble. I had been in my study for the better part of an hour. Articles on various crises around the world like the war in Eastern Europe and the Federal Reserve's challenge of tackling high inflation were tiresome, and instead, I decided to read some cheerful stories for a change. I particularly liked the ones about the high school students in Indiana who raised money for their seventy-five old janitor so he could retire, and the one about twenty-two species in Australia recovering enough to be taken off the endangered species list. These stories put me in an especially good mood and then all the sudden a light pain started to form on the top of my skull. \nThe windows in my study were cracked open so I could hear the finches and robins chirping in the yard. Shutting down my display, I walked over to the couch and laid down. The upholstery was cool and fresh with the slight breeze coming in. I rested my head on the pillow. I didn’t doze off though. Midday naps have never been something I like to do. Waking up at two-thirty in the afternoon groggy and sweaty if anything makes me more irritable rather than refreshed.\nAfter tenish minutes, my headache went away and I got up and decided to have lunch. Walking down the stairs, Beau, who had been laying in the corner of the study, now followed close behind me. The blue sky and white clouds shone through the skylight. \nWhen I entered the kitchen, I looked out the windows over the sink. The forest across the yard, and the yard itself, looked spectacularly lush. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many different shades of green in my life. The trees in the yard had been trimmed about a month earlier and the hispanic landscapers edged around the trunks yesterday, giving them a nice clean look. The trees were nicely spaced in the yard with about twenty to twenty-five feet in between them.\nThe grass was healthy and thick and ready for bare feet to run through it. Not a single dandelion was anywhere near, making the yard social media ready for the teenagers that are always over at our house. The landscapers mow once a week and I must say, the guys do quite a great job. I’m glad Claire forced me to buy their service. It’s a bit pricey, but well worth it when I get a view like the one I looked at this morning.\nOnce I concluded my admiration over the yard, I went through the fridge and pantry, grabbing various items for my lunch: a Ball Park hotdog, poppy seed bun, Dijon mustard, kettle chips, and a Canadian beer. \nAfter warming up my hotdog in the microwave, I had just sat down at the island when I heard a jingle approaching from the connecting hallway. I turned around to see Haley enter the kitchen with what I interpreted as a rather guilty look on her face.\nHer keys were dangling from her flower lanyard and she had two fingers holding on to the plastic handle of her red stainless steel water bottle while her other fingers held her smartphone. Her hair was in a ponytail held together by a pink scrunchy. I could see her ear had multiple little, shiny, silver earrings lined around the outer edge. While her clothing choice was a long, crimson colored sweater that went down to her bare thighs, and high white socks paired with white slip-ons. \nI could see her looking out of the corner of her eye to see if I was looking at her. She then turned her head briefly as she continued to walk and we made eye contact. Turning away from me quickly, she opened the pantry and grabbed a pack of Welch's fruit snacks and then went out to the garage without saying a word to me. I heard the buzz of the garage opening; the turning over of the Jeep Wrangler Claire and I had gifted her for her sixteenth birthday; the buzz of the garage closing; and then stillness.\nI went back to my lunch if I remember correctly. I sat alone at the island, reading something about the future of autonomous vehicles on my smartphone while waiting for Claire to get back from her yoga class and errands.\nBeau was sitting next to me by my feet. I threw him some kettle chips every now and then. I watched him as he stared at my hand going into the bag, grabbing a chip, pulling the chip out and putting it in my mouth; his gray snout moving slightly back and forth with the chip.\nAs I was finishing my lunch, the buzz of the garage door opening garnered my attention. I heard the car doors opening and closing through the walls. Then the door connecting the garage to the house opened. The buzz of the garage door closing and the rustling of the plastic grocery bags filled the mudroom as Claire came in.\n“Hey. You need any help?”\n“No, I got everything.” She lifted and placed the grocery bags on the countertop across from the island I was sitting at. “Well, that was expensive. I thought I didn’t even buy that much.”\nShe took a deep breath, pushed a strand of hair on each side of her face behind her ears at the same time, and then looked at me with a closed smile. “Has Haley gone out?”\n“She left about fifteen minutes ago.”\nClaire continued to unpack and put away the groceries while I gave Beau one last kettle chip before I put on the chip clip and cleaned up.\n“Did Haley say where she was going?” I asked rather abruptly.\n“Out with some friends.”\nI thought for a second about what I wanted to say and then some words just came out: “She wasn’t wearing any pants.”\nClaire, who was putting away some items in the fridge, backstepped, turned, and proceeded to raise her eyebrows and lower her chin at me. “What?”\n“I was sitting here eating lunch and she walked into the kitchen with no pants on.”\n“Wait. What do you mean she had no pants on? Did she have a shirt on?”\n“She was wearing a long, crimson colored sweater.”\n“Did the sweater go down to her thighs?”\n“Yes, but …”\nShe laughed and went back to putting groceries in the fridge. “Honey, you’re overreacting. She’s fine. All the girls do it. My guess is she probably has shorts on underneath.”\nIn the lull of conversation that followed, I swallowed my disagreeing opinion and turned and looked out the window into the backyard while I drank the last part of my beer. The birds swooped and flapped their wings while a squirrel bounced across the yard and ran up a tree that blew in the breeze. The yard looked quiet and peaceful and 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: The Day the Music Died\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2938\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who thinks they just got a great deal on something, only for them to realize…" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Have you heard the rumor? \nThe one going round town? \nAbout a no-hope kid, his luck just going down. \n\nRumor has his number,\nRumor's splashing it around;\nRumor shouts: run, kid, your luck just hit the ground.\n\nGnawing the stub of pencil, I look back at the lyrics. Not quite Bob Dylan, but the words sing my story; the ballad of the howlin’ no-hoper: Mitch Malarkey. It’s a freezing Monday in March and the wind tugs at the paper like it wants to snatch it away. Yet another thief, trying to up and run with the last of my possessions: a few miserable words. \n\nI get up from the park’s only bench, exposed to every gust blasting across the open playing field, and slump down against the climbing wall and its plea: Shag me Stella!- burnt in with a lighter. The wood chips are damp and stink of dog piss, but I don’t give a shit; I’d rather be here than back in class with Kev, out to rub my face in the classroom dirt. At fifteen, he's all thick body hair and flexing muscle, determined to remind me every moment of my puny, thin frame and how he can take me out with just one punch. Like he did back on Thanksgiving. Like he did on New Year. Welcome 2023, you’ll be seeing it in with a shiner and a busted lip, Mitch, never-dare-snitch, Malarkey. \n\nAnd the teachers at Pathetic High? Are they out policing the corridors at recess, making sure Kev and his pack aren’t going to ram me with their lockers? Like hell. They’d rather nurse their coffees than give me so much as a bloody band-aid. I can just hear them in the cozy staffroom, discussing the morning memo.:\n\nAttention staff. Michael Malarkey has been flagged as a student of concern. Confidential information: Enforcement Agents notified the school of activity at the Malarkey residence this weekend. Please notify us if Michael seems troubled. \n\n“Oooh poor lad.”\n\n“This the business with his dad?”\n\n“Uh-huh.”\n\n“Such a shame. Time for another cuppa?”\n\nYep, it’s hard as hell to see trouble when you just stare into your bloody cup of coffee.\n\nHave you heard the rumor? \nThe one going round town? \nAbout that kid’s dad and the bailiffs sniffing round.\n\nRumor says they took the telly, the fridge and every phone;\nRumor says they’re eatin’ air n’ that house just ain't a home.\n\nI drag the pencil through the wood chips, spell out the letters in the dirt: s, h, i, t: ‘cos that’s what my crappy lyric and my crappy life is. Days spent bunking off school, hanging out in this wreck of a recreation ground where even the teenage moms daren’t come. Yeah this is the place you stumble to if you need a dark escape: sniff glue, get laid, forget the bum hand life has dealt you, even if just for ten minutes. Except oblivion’s hard to come by when you’re all alone, the wind whistling through the fence, reminding you of what’s blowin’ in: the same old answer you’re trying to forget…\n\nDad cracking open another can. Draining it, gulp after desperate gulp. In the kitchen, the wall with its snaking black mold, growing in plain sight where the fridge used to be. On the table, half hidden amongst the empties and the scratch cards with all the wrong numbers, is the sheet of paper from the Social Security Office: call this number if you need advice on your disability benefits. When Dad was first laid off after the accident, I’d called that number. I can tell you who you reach, heart hammering, phone pressed to your hot ear: a robotic voice, programmed to tell you flatly, in so many words, that they don’t give a fucking damn. And then they send the bailiffs. Yeah, it really is a great service. \n\nThe park’s only swing creaks forward and backwards, pushed by the invisible hands of the wind. It’s a gray blur through my streaming eyes. I hear the ghost child who was me: Faster, Pop -faster! Legs and feet straining to tread the sky; swooping down- belly rolling like the laughs. Dad singing loud and proud with each push:\n\nOh where have you been my blue-eyed son?\nOh where have you been my darling young one? \n\nFor I used to be the blue-eyed boy, the darling young one, before the crash broke more than his body, broke his heart as well. When they wheeled Pop home from the hospital, the birds still sang in the trees, but from that day he never wrote another tune. Weeks on mute, until last Saturday night when the bailiffs turned up unannounced and we had to watch them take our stuff, the things that make a house a home, away. Slumped in his chair, he took pull after pull on his beer. It was only when they carried out his keyboard that he roared, throwing the can after them: drink arching, a brief rainbow in the sun’s light, before it fell. I couldn’t stop the song from playing in the jukebox of my busted brain:\n\nAnd it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard\nAnd it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall\n\nI snap to when the park’s gate creaks on its old hinges, releasing a strangled cry. I drag my sleeve across my eyes and stagger to my feet, ready to run in case it’s a teacher sent to pull me back to class. But it isn’t, the lanky shape shuffling towards me, scuffed sneakers topped off with greasy hair, is of another kid from my Grade. I recognise his slouched-shouldered prowl before I put a name to the scowling face: Evans, the student who joined our class last Fall and who has yet to make a friend. I glare at him. If he’s snuck out of class to try and make a mate out of me, he might as well turn tail right now; just ‘cos I’m down n’ out doesn’t mean I’ll take any loser for company. \n\nIgnoring him, I go and sit on the swing, stuffing the paper with the song lyric into the bag propped on my lap. I hope the message is clear: fuck off. He doesn’t get it though, leaning against the rusty frame, face pinched white by the cold.\n\n“So this is where you hang out.”\n\nObviously. Moron. \n\n“Life’s hard round here, for the likes of me and you.”\n\nPiss off. There’s nothing similar about you and me. \n\n“But it doesn’t have to be: Life of hard knocks and all that shit. If life hits hard, it’s best to hit hard back. Not run and hide.”\n\nI can’t help but catch his eyes then; gray as the late winter sky and just as fathomless. \n\n“I’m not hiding. I just don’t want another locker rammed in my face.”\n\n“Understandable. But you’re not going to let those jerks walk all over you, surely.”\n\n“And what do you suggest, Evans, a few right hooks in recess?”\n\n“Course not, “ he croons softly, “there’s dumb-ass ways to get revenge on a no-brain like Kev and then there are clever ways, where no one will ever be any the wiser that it’s you, laying him low.” \n\nHe holds my eye like a challenge: am I game? \n\n“And you’d like to lay him low, wouldn’t you Mitch? Admit it. Just once, he should be the one tasting blood.”\n\nHow does he know?\n\n“And I can help- give you the means to the right end.” He smiles then, a gappy grin where at least three teeth must have been punched right out. \n\n“I could tell you a story about each of those missing teeth,” he begins, “but we’ll save it for another day. Let me just say for now: listen to an old hand. If you’re gonna roll, don’t roll with the punches; roll like a stone- heavy and hard. Yeah, like a fucking great boulder that just squashes everything in its way.”\n\nA crazy laugh and suddenly he swoops towards me like the cawing crows that pick at the take-out left here by the glue-sniffers and shaggers. Before I know it, he’s twisting the swing’s chains round, round, round again, whipping me with them. Like a corkscrew, he spirals me up before letting me go with a manic shriek; and I feel like I’m spiraling out of control, down into a vortex of heady blood-lust. \n\nThe swing jerks to a stop and my breath comes in jagged bursts. He pulls me from the seat, my bag tipping into the mud and thrusts something into my clammy hands. For a second or two, I don’t know what it is, only that it isn’t a knife or a gun. How will this help me dish out Kev’s just deserts? Turning the small plastic device in my hands, I finally recognize what it is: a Walkman. I dimly remember owning one as a kid, just like this: shiny red plastic, with the brand Sony stamped on one side. Yeah, it might even have been Dad’s and he passed it on to me, in the days before music flowed in digital streams from iPhones and AirPods, whirring out of a clunky old cassette instead.\n\nI stare at Evans, trying to guess his gist. Is this some sort of piss-take? Mitch Malarkey and his one time music-boss Dad, so down on their luck they’ll take even the crummiest old hand-outs? All your stuff was loaded onto the back of a truck, so here, have this piece of old crap. Nice one. But I’m wrong. \n\n“It mightn’t look much,” he says, holding my gaze, “but right there, in your hand, is the only weapon you’ll ever need. Do as I say, and Kev is gonna be sorry he ever drew breath.”\n\nI look at the Walkman, lying flat and innocent in my hand. Turning it over, I inspect it for secret compartments, places where a little blade would just slide in and out, but there are none. It looks completely harmless. \n\n“It’s time for you to write the soundtrack of your life, Mitch. No more bum notes, crap tunes; this, right here, it’s gonna make your life rock n’ roll once more. And before you ask why I’m giving it to you, well it’s done enough for me already.” \n\nFor a moment I look at him, the new loner and loser of the class, and I almost hand it back with a laugh, but he continues. \n\n“So here’s the deal. This is no ordinary Walkman, you press the button and it’s gonna play the lyrics of your life- the ones you want it to play. No more playing the Blues Mitch; you get to write the track this time round: protest song, rallying cry of revenge. I bet you can think of some pretty neat verses to end that song there.” He nods slightly at my bag, hanging open with the sheet of paper I’d been scribbling on, half peeking out. How does he know? He rattles on. \n\n“Stipulations; there’s gotta be a couple of rules, even for revenge. Only you’re to press play; they’re your lyrics after all. So if you give it to someone else or someone plays around with it...” His sneakers shuffle in the wood chips and he seems to trail off. “Well, let’s just say it’s best if that doesn’t happen, all right.”\n\nIt sounds simple: an ideal solution. \n\n“So how does it work?”\n\n“Easy. The cassette’s already in. All you need to do is press play and the Walkman will manage everything for you.” \n\n“But do I need to be near him? Kev I mean. Has it got a range or something?”\n\nHe laughs his weird high-pitched laugh, flashing his crooked gappy teeth.\n\n“You can be well outta range. This baby will handle it all like a dream. See ya Mitch. And don’t forget: keep it secret to keep it safe.”\n\nHe leaves the park, heading away from school towards town, the wind picking up the words of his carelessly sung tune: “How does it feel? To be on your own. No direction home? Like a rolling stone…”\n\nI turn the Walkman over and over. It feels solid in my hands, and maybe it’s the buzz of anticipation I’m feeling, but I could swear I feel the hum of a motor already; cogs and gears beginning to turn; the wheels of reprisal already spinning. \n\nI look at the school across the playing fields. I picture Kev’s gloating face the last time he socked me, and I press play. The Walkman whirrs to life and I hear my voice spilling from the little machine:\n\nHave you heard the rumor? \nThe one going round town? \nAbout that no- hope kid and how he turned his luck around. \n\nFor rumor has Kev’s number;\nNow sirens are the sound.\nCops shout: Hands Up! And kick Kev to the ground. \n\nAnd it’s the soundtrack to my revenge drama, for as soon as the words have faded in the deserted playground, they’re replaced by sirens screaming in a flash of police lights, cops racing up the road behind me, towards school. \n\nI don’t need to be there to know. The throb in my veins, that pulsing thrill, tells me it’s happening; I’ve played it into life. Everything’s gonna go my way from here. No more playing the Blues; Evans was right: sweet revenge and a rock n’ roll life are there for the taking.\n\nI consider checking out the action at school but then decide to head for home. I don’t need to do a Kev and gloat as they handcuff and lead him away. The picture in my mind is priceless as I push open the garden gate, half hanging off its hinges, ignoring its strangled cry. Dad has passed out on the sofa in a sea of beer cans. I leave him to rest, clearing the empties off of his chest, the floor, his wheelchair. I move to the kitchen and chuck the lot in the trash along with the useless scratch cards. We don’t need this shit anymore. Beer, betting, not under this roof. And there’s no need for the waste of space Social Security Office either; I rip up their pathetic and pointless letter.\n\nHere on in, I’m the one rolling the dice; luck’s in my hands now. I’m going to turn things around for both of us; and it will be easy, with this secret weapon- my Walkman. Hell, I’m invincible: an unstoppable force; revenge at the ready with just a press of the button. \n\nCompared to my normal crappy days, avoiding Kev and bunking off from school in the freezing park, it’s been quite an eventful afternoon; and perhaps it’s knackered me, as when I return to the lounge, slouching into the armchair next to Dad, my eyes shut almost immediately. I feel something slip off my lap, but I’m too shattered to do anything but fall into the black hole of sleep. \n______________________________________________________\n\nIf someone had let a gun off next to my head, I couldn’t have snapped to with more of a start. \n\nHave you heard the rumor? \nThe one going round town? \n\nShit! The Walkman! Where is it? And why is it playing? Frantically I pull at every pocket, fumble under the chair, and then I freeze. Dad has the Walkman in his hands and is smiling for the first time in weeks as it whirrs out the song:\n\nAbout a no-hope kid, his luck just going down. \n\n“Hey! I used to have one of these! Jeez, this could even be my old Walkman. Where’d you get it Mitch?”\n\nMy fear has me by the throat, choking the words. And the memories kick me, one after the other: the park, Evans, Keep it secret to keep it safe. \n\nRumor has his number,\nRumor's splashing it around;\nRumor shouts: run, kid, your luck just hit the ground.\n\nHe’s still grinning, head nodding in time to the beat.\n\n“Did you write this? It’s really good!”\n\nThere’s no time. I grab the Walkman from his hand and race the stairs in threes to the top; slam my bedroom door and lean against it, breath coming in desperate gasps. Evans will never know. How could he? I press down hard on the stop button, but it refuses to hold; every time it just releases itself and the cassette keeps spooling; the terrible refrain on endless, stuttering repeat: Have you heard the rumor? \n\nI press hard on the eject button and it’s like I’m driving the device in two different directions as with a sickening mechanical grind the cassette keeps on playing and a new tune starts. Thin tendrils of gray smoke, like winter skies, like cold eyes, spool from the Walkman and the new track starts with a different voice, one that paralyzes me with fear. For it’s Evans singing: Once upon a time you dressed so fine…\n\nDrenched in sweat, I cross to the window, thinking only that I’ve got to get rid of it- now. \n\nThe strangled cry of the garden gate cuts above the song. A familiar voice accompanies the steps on the gravel path; it echoes the voice rising, questioning me, from the Walkman in my hand:\n\nHow does it feel\nTo be without a home\nLike a complete unknown\nLike a rolling stone?\n\nAnd how does it feel as the gate clangs shut and the Walkman smokes in my hand, three knocks on the front door ringing out loud and clear? \n\nLike the day the music died." } ]
[ { "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: Fugue\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1318\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character being led somewhere by a stray cat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Eeeet. Eeeet. Eeeet. Eeeet. Eeeet. Eeeet.\nEthan suddenly came to his senses, startled by a cricket. The chirps irritated him enough to sit upright, but he couldn’t muster the energy to locate and squash the bug. A pulsing headache underlined the obnoxious noise. Eeeet. Eeeet. Eeeet.\nAfter his attention refocused, Ethan surveyed his surroundings. Trees towered above him, letting orange rays of sunlight filter through. Grass, wildflowers, shrubs, and moss thrived as far as he could see. He was stationed beside a particularly dense patch of overgrowth, which he assumed served as the cricket’s base.\nUnfamiliarity sent shivers down his spine. Ethan had no clue where he was, or how he ended up there. His eyes darted back-and-forth, searching for a landmark. He didn’t recognize anything, but he noticed a fresh trail of shoeprints that stopped at an exposed root. Ethan connected the dots; he must’ve tripped while running through the woods.\nEthan rubbed his sore ankle and took stock of himself. His shoes had seen better days. Navy blue pants adorned his lower body, tightened around the hip by a belt. To his horror, red stains marred his collared shirt. He clutched his abdomen, but didn’t feel any pain.\n“Help,” he muttered. The cricket drowned out his voice. He raised his chin and cleared his throat. “HELP!” But it didn’t matter. Nobody else was nearby to hear his plea. Ethan considered tracing his shoeprints back to wherever he came from, but a sweeping depression caused him to lay down again. His defeated sobs harmonized with the cricket. \nExcept the cricket had stopped chirping. Instead, another sound emanated from behind Ethan: a soft purr. He rolled over to witness a striped cat bounding over some rocks. “Meeeooowww. Moooowwww. Meeeee. Meeeeoowww.”\nThey quickly made acquaintances. Ethan watched the cat for awhile, and every time he sniffled, the cat rubbed against his shoulder. Gradually, the cat grew impatient and tucked its nose underneath Ethan’s downturned hand. Ethan hesitantly stroked the cat, then again, and again. When he shifted away, the cat gently nudged him.\n“What’s your name?” asked Ethan. He searched for a tag, but the cat wasn’t wearing one. “I’ll call you Meeko then.” The cat purred with affirmation. “So Meeko, why are you hanging out in the woods?”\n“Meow.”\n“Me and you both.” \nThe new companions briefly locked gazes. One moment, Ethan was spellbound by Meeko’s deep green orbs. Then, without warning, a horrific memory triggered. Ethan was staring into the eyes of somebody he knew - perhaps a friend or classmate? Except the glimmer of life had faded recently. The person’s mouth was agape, caught in the act of sighing. Ethan reached toward her, but her body floated away…\nMeeko meowed again. And just like that, Ethan awoke in the woods, albeit wracked with a sense of dread. His arm was outstretched, petting Meeko. He wanted to sit there for eternity, stowed away in the middle of nowhere, with no responsibilities except to scratch that fur. Meeko, however, enacted another plan: he shied away from Ethan, started along the shoeprint trail, then pawed at the air, beckoning the boy to follow.\n“Ugh, I don’t feel like it.”\n“Meeeooowww.”\n“Fine. Where are we going?” Ethan stood up and brushed off his clothes; the red spots on his shirt were still damp. His first step nearly caused him to topple over; he braced himself against a tree until his balance returned. Meanwhile, Meeko nonchalantly licked his furry side. “Humans aren’t as graceful as felines,” quipped Ethan.\nThey set off together. Meeko stayed a few yards ahead of Ethan, protectively leading the way forward. Ethan kept a steady pace, despite his flaring ankle. Even though he still didn’t understand his predicament, he recognized a unique sense of trust and peacefulness with Meeko.\nThe woods stretched farther than Ethan anticipated; he was surprised that he had sprinted so deep into them. Fortunately, he and Meeko didn’t encounter any trouble. The only animals that made appearances were curious birds and squirrels. Even the setting sun didn’t pose a risk, since Meeko was a cat, after all. So the two hikers leisurely strolled for quite awhile.\nTCHTCHTCH!\nA rustling branch abruptly disturbed their tranquility. Within a blink, Meeko lowered his tail and swiveled his head around. Ethan tensed up. Another nightmare presented itself; he couldn’t contain it. He was in the corner of a dark room, huddled with a group of people. Loud, accentuated noises encapsulated them. TCH! TCH! TCH! TCH! TCH! Ethan was helpless; all he could do was pray that the door’s lock was strong enough…\nA doe trotted away in the opposite direction. Back to reality. Ethan shook his head to collect his senses. “Sorry Meeko. Let’s keep going.”\nNot long afterwards, they reached the edge of the woods. The treeline transitioned into a suburban neighborhood. Instead of rocks and bushes, there were houses and vehicles. The streetlights flickered on just as Ethan and Meeko surfaced. It felt like they had entered another dimension.\nThey stopped to appreciate the change in scenery, but only for a minute. Meeko continued onward, so Ethan had no choice but to continue as well. Their journey finally came to an end about halfway down the street, when Meeko glided into a yard and perched next to a garden gnome.\nThe accompanying house seemed innocuous. But a police car was parked in the driveway. Ethan paused. “Why’d you bring me here?”\n“Meow.”\n“Whatever. I guess the officer can help me.” Ethan clambered up the front porch and knocked. He noticed a curtain ruffle in an adjacent window. Seconds later, the door flung open. A middle-aged woman embraced him so tightly, that he struggled to breathe.\n“Oh, Danny! Danny! Danny! Thank goodness you’re alright, we were so worried about you! We saw the news and…your dad and I have been a mess all day. Hon, come here! Danny’s back! What’s that on your shirt? Oh, nevermind, I’m just so relieved that you’re here.”\nIt took an enormous amount of effort for Ethan to wriggle free. He peered through the doorway; a balding man and a police officer turned the corner. The man froze, apparently awestruck.\n“What’s wrong, Danny?” asked the woman. Tears streamed down her face. “You must be traumatized.”\n“Who’s Danny?” inquired Ethan.\nThen it dawned on him. His actual name was Danny, not Ethan. These adults were his parents. And this house was where he lived, where he belonged. He collapsed into his mother’s arms, bawling. His dad joined too. \n“It’s okay baby. It’s okay. You’re safe now. Come here. I love you. I love you so much.”\nThe comforting could only last so long, however. Their hug dissipated eventually, and the officer found an opportunity to interject. “Danny, right? Let’s sit down and chat.”\n“Sure. But first, can you tell me what’s going on? I’m having trouble thinking clearly.”\nHis parents exchanged sideways glances. “Something terrible happened at your school,” his mom responded. “My worst nightmare. I kept checking my phone, but you never texted, and I thought…”\n\"We’ll get to that later,” interrupted the police officer. “But first thing I want to know: where did you go after you escaped the school, and how’d you find your way back here?”\n“Well…I was in the woods at the end of the street. I ran there, I think. Meeko found me and guided me back home.”\n“Who’s Meeko?”\n“Our cat!” Danny pointed behind him, but the puzzled look on his mother’s face caused him to second-guess himself. He craned his neck toward the front yard. \nMeeko wasn’t standing next to the garden gnome anymore. In fact, Meeko was nowhere to be seen.\n“I'm thirsty,” said Danny. As the officer ushered him inside, he touched the red spots on his shirt again, then patted his heart. Even if he’d imagined it, deep down, he was grateful for Meeko, the stray cat who saved his 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: At Hampton Court Palace\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1054\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is running away from something, literally or metaphorically." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The brush strokes are indeed amazing capturing my attention and halting my progress down the hallway. The portrait is huge, truly an impressive feat of artistry. A regal gaze stares out of the canvas and I am captured by the familiar face and stance, who would not recognise Henry VIII? His fleshy features surround those piercing eyes. He’s not a nice man. Powerful, proud, arrogant, yes, but not nice, yet the portrait fascinates me.\nWith deep reluctance I move on from the painting to admire the next one. Our tour guide has drawn his flock of gawkers further down the gallery and around the corner. I can hear their voices, a harsh and dissonant bleating about art, spewing forth an encyclopaedic narrative of each era represented in the gallery. I’m glad to let them wander ahead. They have no respect for the history of the place. I, on the other hand, feel an almost sacred, reverent need to soak the energy of five-hundred years of human occupation. I am almost transported back to a time of courtiers filled with intrigue and political machinations.\nEvery room in this palace can tell a story. I am enraptured by the history, knowing that I walk in the footsteps of kings and queens, giants of history. It’s enough to make me feel very small.\nI turn the corner to the long gallery and I shudder, shoving my hands firmly into my pockets. Its freezing today, the sun unable to push its head through the thick blanket of dark, stormy clouds. Fortunately the old building of Hampton Court Palace is well protected from the weather, and although it’s colder inside this section, it’s better than outside where the rain refuses to ease. A flash of lightening blazes through the window, accompanied almost immediately by thunder, causing the electric light illuminating the chandelier to flicker alarmingly, before it dies. A strangled gasp escapes my lips. I am left alone in dimly lit gallery, where the only illumination is from the large window, and in this weather it hardly throws any light at all.\nMy tour group must have exited the gallery at the other end, so I begin the trek along the carpeted corridor in the dark, disappointed not to be able to view all the beautiful artwork. I only take a single step, when I freeze completely. The temperature plummets around me with no apparent cause. A chill sizzles down my spine, hot and cold at the same time and I feel beads of perspiration form on my brow, even as I shiver.\nA piercing wail reverberates through the corridor, a ghostly scream that chills the marrow in my bones. My heart pounds erratically, a desperate attempt to escape from the cage of my ribs. Its thunderous beats echo in my ears, almost drowning out the unearthly shriek that rings in the air, an echo that lingers ominously.\nEverything seems to happen in slow motion, and a sense of fear envelops me, a feeling of being trapped within my own body unable to escape. From the shadows emerges a spectral figure, a woman draped in a long gown and hooded cloak. Her presence seems to bathe the dim gallery in an eerie glow, her aura casting no discernible shadow. She races wildly down the corridor towards me, but her feet make no sound on the cold floor. The terror etched on her wide-eyed face must mirror my own expression. I try to urge my body to run, to flee, but I am unable to move.\nMy mind is slow to process what my body instinctively knows— this woman is not real. Oh she’s real, I can see her, but I shouldn’t be able to see right through her. The woman stumbles to a breathless halt in front of a door not too far from where I stand in mute and frozen horror. She looks around urgently, before her white hand raps upon the wood of the door. I don’t hear the knock, but I hear the scream as she cries out in terror, and her whole body jerks backwards. She struggles with an unseen force that drags her back the way she has come, her feet desperately, kicking and stumbling. Her screams echo in the gallery as her head thrashes back and forth, arms flailing, and hands clawing, but to no avail. She is relentlessly drawn by an unseen force away from the door until, at the end of the gallery, still clawing at the void, she vanishes.\nThe horrid chill that surrounded me, dissipates, and in an instant I’m overheated, sweating and trembling as the world seems to spin. The air rushes back into my lungs in huge gasps and I’m suddenly able to move. Without hesitation, I turn and run back the way I came, not stopping until I reach the Great Watching Chamber. Surprisingly the electric lights set in the ancient wall sconces are still working here. The light is blinding after the dimness of the gallery and I stumble to a halt.\n“You OK love? You’re as white as a sheet.” My eyes adjust to see a guide in the chamber with a group of tourists who had been admiring the gilded ceiling adorned with a myriad of coats of arms. As one the group turns to look at me with almost identical expressions of curiosity and disapproval.\n“I…I…” I can hardly speak, my voice a trembling mess of inarticulate sounds.\n“Have you lost your tour group?” Unable to form words, I nod and the tour guide smiles knowingly. “Ah, have you been in the Haunted Gallery then?”\n“A woman… running,” I manage to stammer. “Didn’t you hear her scream?”\n“Well aren’t you the lucky one. I believe you may have seen our resident ghost—or one of them at least. That would be Catherine Howard, Henry VIII’s fifth wife. Beheaded for adultery. It’s rumoured that she ran down that corridor to find Henry at prayer and beg for her life. However she never made it and was restrained before being forcibly returned to her chamber.”\nMy mouth is dry like a parched desert, so I lick my lips and swallow. I don’t feel lucky.\n\"I think I need to sit down.” History sounds so much better when it stays in its own time and place." } ]
[ { "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: Another Pretender\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2904\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a cat shelter." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The finally finished Dartmouth application loomed as imminent as Satty imagined the buildings would in person. Pansy, her collectively-agreed-to-be-perfect mother, stood behind her, equally as nervous.\n“Go on, hun. I know you’ve done your best. You know it, too. This is what you want, you’ve worked for this, your father works there. There’s a million reasons you’ll make it. Also, your essays were killer.”\n“Takes one to know one.”\nSnickers broke the pungent silence that had fallen. The Fate of Aunt Rita’s Cat: an often-repeated story, one Satty never let her mother forget. Pansy’s aunt had owned a rather decrepit cat that hobbled on its three good legs. As time passed, it became worse—it stunk more, growled more. Finally, Pansy took matters into her own hands; she snuck into the kitchen and stirred loads of ground-up aspirin into the cat’s wet food.\nTheir laughter, like the cat, died. Satty looked up and was reminded again of the application. Pulse drumming, heart pounding, she moved the mouse up, just about to click. But then, her father broke into her mind, kicking down its locked door, sitting cross-legged on the couch, stealing away her confidence. Chuckling at her, smiling, shaking his head. She could hear his thoughts, even: Saturnina, you audacious, stupid little girl. When she’d told him she wanted to apply to Dartmouth, when she’d talked to him about running for class office, when she told him she wanted to know more about what he taught. The same headshake, the same chuckle, the same smile. Always the same dismissal, always the same condescension cloaked in the magnanimous garb of affection. \nAnd Satty was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if she wasn’t accepted, afraid of what he’d think of her. But she couldn’t do anything about that now; she sucked in her breath, clicked. On-screen confetti appeared, accompanied by a congratulations. Pansy cheered behind her, hugged her in an awkward neck-and-shoulders-embrace. Satty brushed her arms off, clinked her can of celebratory Diet Coke against her mother’s, and walked to her room. Texted Sebby, who’d submitted his application the week before.\n“applied”\n“They’ll consider you now for admission!” He had quite the knack for pointing out the obvious.\n“yep”\n“We’re totally going to be Dartmouth buddies.” \n“yep”\nSatty tossed her phone across the room, fell onto her bed. Waited for Christmas Break to overcome her, to sweep her up in a blizzard.\n*\nThe bell rang, roll was called. Satty waited for her name to be butchered.\n“Satunia—wait, um, Saturtia? No—”\n“Saturnina.”\n“Oh. Right. Sorry.”\nWhat an odd name. What a funny name. Pagan! Liberal! Goodness gracious—what did you say your name was? Were you named after the planet? After the god? Do your parents worship the Roman gods? Do you worship the Roman gods? \nLaughs that asked, “Are your parents—are you—normal?”\nWhat could she do but fake-smile, laugh timidly, mutter that no, she’s not a pagan and yes, she’s a liberal and she was named after the Roman god because her father is a professor at Dartmouth who specializes in Roman history and mythology and it is her greatest dream in the world to go to Dartmouth but her father doesn’t think she can make it but she does?\nShe slouched in her chair, waiting until she’d be free, while the teacher went through each minute detail of the syllabus. \nThe bell rang, the halls flooded with students, each one a drop in a forceful river. Satty was caught up in its unforgiving flow before she knew it, realized too late she had to fight back against it to get to her locker. Not something she cared enough to do, though; the books could wait until tomorrow. She submitted herself to the current, let it carry her away. \nIt took her to the door, deposited her. An older lady with fluffy white hair, very large purple glasses, and emoji earrings stood by the door, handing out flyers. Apparently they needed volunteers at a nearby cat shelter; the lady seemed chipper, eccentric, nice. There was a recruitment seminar being held to acquaint people with the shelter and encourage them to get involved with it. Satty, always one for felines and grandmothers in giant glasses, said a quick hello, quietly complimented the earrings (which the lady proudly declared she’d bought at Dollar Tree—also a jewelry supplier for Satty’s grandmother), took a flyer, and headed to the car, auburn hair swinging as she walked.\n“SATTY! Satty Satty Satty Satty… how was the first day?” Sebby, of course—he claimed he had the energy of a 6-year-old, and wasn’t far off.\n“Syllabi. A day of Syllabi.”\n“Yeah, teachers go through their syllabi on the first day of school.”\n“Mhmm.”\n“Oh—also! This lady at the door gave me this.” Sebby brought his hand up with a flourish, and Satty noticed the same flyer she’d been given. She pulled hers out with much less gusto. Sebby squinted.\n“They’re the same flyer.”\n“Good observation.”\n“Huh. I mean, I’m game to go if you are.”\n“Sebby… no, I wasn’t pla—”\n“Come on. It’ll be so much fun. Lady seemed nice, anyways. Worst case scenario we can just leave. It’s just an information seminar.”\n“I mean… I like cats.”\n“Okay perfect I’ll see you at—” Sebby looked down at the flyer, trying to make out the date and time listed on it. “This Wednesday. 7:30 sharp.”\nSatty laughed a “See you then;” and the two parted ways.\n\nWednesday. 7:30. Satty walked underneath the neon “Home Again” sign, dim yellow light shining through the dark and illuminating her, changing her appearance as she moved. The door was stiff and took a couple tries to open. Harsh fluorescent lights, beige cinder block walls, and various cat noises accosted her as she stepped in. Inside was a cat extravaganza—cats on each piece of furniture, cats on the floor, cats in cages, cats on the various shelves. A blanket of hair, too, coating everything. Overwhelming, but almost homey. \nSebby’s hair peeked out from behind a crate; she managed her way around the cats and got to him. A row of chairs facing the old lady they’d met at school had been set up, but nobody else had come. The room wasn’t big, but the empty chairs made it feel cavernous. Satty slid next to Sebby, waving an awkward hello to the still-bespectacled lady, who smiled and checked her watch. He leaned over.\n“We’re the only people here.”\nTime passed, still nobody came. \nFinally, the lady stood, pushed her glasses up her nose with two fingers.\n“Well, it doesn’t look like we’ll get any more people.” She sighed, disappointment streaking her already deeply wrinkled face. “Let’s start with introductions. I’m Deedee.”\n“I’m Sebastian!” Sebby declared with his usual verve.\n“Saturnina.”\n“Sebastian and Saturnina. Let’s get started then, shall we?”\nDeedee proceeded through a list of duties and responsibilities volunteers at the shelter had, talked about the shelter’s history, gave them a quick tour, finally let them get acquainted with the cats.\n“I’m sure they’re what you’re here for, anyways; not some old crone.” Deedee chuckled to herself as she talked in her gravelly, grandmotherly voice. \nThey played with the kittens, struggled to pull themselves away from the almost magnetic attraction the tiny animals had on them. Deedee came over with sign-up sheets on clipboards. Satty and Sebby exchanged quick glances, realized they were in agreement: this was quite the place. They took the clipboards, flourished (on Sebby’s part) signatures and phone numbers, chatted with Deedee for a minute. They hugged her in a quick goodbye, forced the door open, let the yellow light pour over them, again. Walked in silence, until Satty realized—\n“She even smells like my grandmother. Wow. Unreal.”\n“I personally think all grandmothers use the same perfume. They’re all an extension of the same person, they all shop at the same stores, they all have Dollar Tree emoji earrings somewhere.”\n“Sebby…”\nSatty pulled her car door shut, pulled out, waited for the Madonna CD to start, for the sparkling melodies to engulf her. This time, it was “Pretender.” He's a pretender, he knows just what to say/ He's a pretender, yeah, you meet him every day/ He's a pretender, that fish that got away/ He's a pretender, why'd I fall in love? But this time, the words were more than just words; they meant something. She realized that her father was a pretender. He didn’t love her, didn’t believe in her. And she felt something, felt a twinge of madness, of rage. How had she been so blind? Everything she’d ever done had been for him; her whole life, trying to live up to the bar he’d raise every time she reached it. Just so he could look down at her, laugh at her, make her feel stupid. A father protects, a father loves; not hers.\n Lights flowed past her as she sped, windows down, hair thrown around. And then, for a minute, Madonna became quiet, the windshield, her car, went away. She wasn’t going fast anymore, road was no longer beneath her, lights no longer shone; no, she was rowing a canoe up a rushing river. Joyously rowing, laughing. She cut into the water, brought the oars back up, almost felt the clear, cool water kiss her neck. Looked around for a moment, relishing the night air, the stars. The water flew underneath her, pushing her back, but she was stronger than it. She laughed, again, this time at the epiphany. Then, all too soon, the car was back, lights were back, the road was back. Madonna once again blared. But the joy, the joy of the canoe rower who now seemed so foreign to her, stayed.\n\nSatty and Sebby now visited the shelter each day after school. They loved it, loved the cats, the customers, the work. Each other, even. Maybe. But Deedee was the most fascinating part of it, an enigma who, each day, they came one step closer to deciphering. She was always very hesitant to open up (unless asked about her always-fabulous, always-Dollar Tree earrings); spent time with them while they worked, played the little games Sebby came up with, laughed with them, but didn’t respond to their prying questions. Always deflected. They respected her privacy, but it seemed like more than just privacy. She seemed to have fun with them though, seemed to realize that all they wanted was to get to know her. \nSometimes, Satty would wake up and realize she hadn’t thought about the pending Dartmouth admissions decision. The decision that kept growing a day closer, viciously pouring at her, flowing with, flowing on the river of time. But she wasn’t worried about it. Had almost stopped caring about it; yes, she would be happy if she was accepted, but rejection didn’t worry her. She wasn’t worried, no, but maybe a bit afraid. Afraid of her father being right. She wanted so badly to prove him wrong, to show him that she was capable, competent, that her audaciousness was justified. Dartmouth, the admissions deadline, her father, still had control over her—however small. \n*\nThe cycle—school, shelter, school, shelter—that Satty and Sebby established now defined their lives. Snow melted, rain came. Finally, Satty received an email: one week until Dartmouth decisions. The next six days were much longer than normal, but the shelter helped take their minds off it all. Deedee seemed to grow stranger, odder. She began, slowly, to answer their questions, but this time it seemed like she was lying. But Satty and Sebby loved her all the same.\nThe days and the snow and the anxiety all melted down into one great puddled mess. The puddle drenched Satty and Sebby until it had dried up; the time was gone. The day of the application decision had come, they both anxiously, compulsively checked their phones. People came and went, the closed sign went up on the door. \n“Can you kids come in here for a sec?” Deedee’s voice rang through the halls, jostling Satty and Sebby, who made their way to the office, sat down in the upholstered maroon chairs opposite Deedee’s desk.\n“Shut the door, if you would.” \nSebby did.\n`“I’ve called you in here to… to discuss what needs to be done…. Actually, no. I’m finished with this crap.” Deedee looked different. Something about her eyes was hurt, vengeful. It was off-putting, Satty squirmed; but clearly Deedee was just having a bad day.\n“I want to talk to you both. To explain a bit. So I’m going to tell you a story.”\n“Wait, the Dartmouth decision comes out—”\n“You can wait. Thanks. I should've done all this long before. But—I think... I think I've liked being this... this thing. I've liked being liked by people. But I'm done with it now. It isn't who I am.” The fire in Deedee’s eyes began to leech into her speech. Satty and Sebby glanced at each other in confused almost-horror.\n“My niece. We lived next to each other, this girl and I. Also: my cat, Chum Chum. He wasn’t a pretty cat, he didn’t smell good. But I—I loved him so much. He was like a son, he was my son. I’d had him for 12 years, the only true, unconditional love I’ve felt.”\nAt this, the soon-to-be-Dartmouth-students protested. They’d shown her love, hadn’t they? Was their love not unconditional?\n“Stop it. You like Deedee, not me.” The words confused the air, more unasked questions arose. “I’m not much for people, people have never been much for me. Cats are my thing. This shelter is my thing. Chum Chum and I—well, we understood each other. I felt loved by him, I loved him. We were… we were close. I don’t know how to say it… we loved each other. \n“But the girl, my niece, hated him. She couldn’t stand his smell, his hobbling around. Oh yes, she was as good as could be, a perfect little girl, but Chum Chum was always wandering off to her yard, and she hated it. I saw my niece and her boyfriend over by the swings in her backyard once. I remember, Chum Chum decided to walk up to them and give them a visit. He looked so perfect—I know he only had three legs, but they were three perfect legs. The girl, my niece, jumped up and shrieked as soon as she saw him. Shrieked! At my cat, at my precious baby. And that was when I knew I hated her. I know what you’re thinking now, how can you hate family? Well, she hated my family. I could hate her. I remember, she hid behind her boyfriend, both of them laughing. Laughing at my Chum Chum. I saw the boyfriend whisper something to her, and she laughed, looked at my cat with an evil glare. \nThe story Deedee was telling sounded oddly familiar to Satty, but she didn’t care about where she’d heard it before; Deedee was becoming more animated, arms swinging more wildly, eyes stretched apart even more.\n“The next day, I walked downstairs calling him, and he didn’t come. I thought it was odd. I kept calling and calling him. Looked everywhere. Where was Chum Chum, where was my little boy? I started to panic. Started to run around my house, inside, outside. Checked the swings. For some reason, I didn’t think to look in the kitchen. I walked in and there he was, crumpled up in the corner. Not breathing, lying in vomit. And I tell you—” Deedee’s hand slammed on the table, almost yelling now. \n“I tell you—I wanted to kill my niece. I knew it was her. The next day, I saw her looking at me with puppy eyes, and the wrath that burned in me, the amount of vengeance I had, I tell you. I wanted to kill her, to do to her what she did to me. I was never the same without Chum Chum, still not the same today. I loved him so much and Pansy took it all away from me. Pansy’s lucky she’s still alive.”\n“Pansy’s your mom’s name.”\nSatty gasped, full horror overtaking her. “Wait—no, not my—”\n“Yes. Your mom. I’m your great-aunt I'm not Deedee. I'm Rita.”\n“What? You? But I thought—”\n“I’d died? Nope. Did anyone actually tell you that, or did you just assume it? I’ve always been here, alive and healthy, waiting until I can get back on Pansy.”\nThe fire in Deedee’s—no, Rita's—eyes burned brighter, stronger, than it ever had. No longer loving, no longer grandmotherly. But she couldn’t possibly mean—she wasn’t about to do anything to them? Satty still couldn’t imagine it; as horrible as Rita looked, couldn’t imagine her doing anything bad. It was just a bad day. So Satty walked over her to hug her, in the same awkward hug her mother had given her. She rested her head on the old woman’s, straight auburn hair against puffy white. Rita's arm twitched under the table. The old white hair pulled back, looked straight into Satty’s eyes. Fear overcame Satty; Rita plunged the knife into her.\nSatty gasped. Fell back. Sebby screamed. \nBut none of them were there, anymore; Satty was floating on a pond. She could feel herself being pulled under, but couldn’t stop it. She blinked again, Sebby came into focus. \n“You’ve killed her, you’ve killed her, you’ve killed her! A pretender, all this time!”\nAnother pretender, Satty thought." } ]
[ { "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: De-Isolation\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1726\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: Mentions of physical abuse, mental health\n\n“Well, well, well, look who’s back. How was your little vacation?”\n“You are a horrible person, Wyn.”\n“Wow, so much hostility, Jaylen. What did I ever do to you?”\n“Don’t play that game with me. Do you have any idea how dark the basement is? Your stupid dad locked me in there for five hours.”\n“Hey, do not call my father stupid. Do you want me to get him again? Or should I just show your mother the photos I took?”\n“I knew it was you. I knew it. How did you even get those?”\n“I just followed the smell of witchcraft and it led me to you and your little coven.”\n“I was with my friends! My friends, Wyn! A concept you obviously can’t grasp considering you don’t fucking have any.”\n“That language is very unbefitting for a young lady. Besides, anyone the devil child spends time with can’t be very good friends.”\n“You sound just like them! Oh just wait for school tomorrow. Just wait.”\n“I’ll tell my father you’re threatening me. You thought the basement was dark? Get used to it, because that’s the only place where you belong.”\n“I hate you!”\n“That’s all you know how to do. Hate, hate, hate, because you can’t feel anything else.”\n“Do you ever think about anyone who isn’t you? Seriously, I don’t think you know how to feel for anyone. Do you have any, like, sympathy for anybody?”\n“Empathy, sweetheart, the word is empathy.”\n“Oh my God, what are we doing?”\n“Well you were just leaving so that I could get some rest! We have school tomorrow, surely you’d learn how to respect anyone else who wasn’t nocturnal.”\n“No, Wyndell, I mean what have we been doing?”\n“What are you talking about now?”\n“Okay, let’s think about this for two seconds; we keep trying to make each other’s life hell. We keep fighting, we keep blowing up, and we stay pissed, but who are we actually mad at?” \n“I don’t know what you’re implying.”\n“Yeah? Well I do. How long has it been since you relaxed Wyn? And I’m being for real, when was the last time you sat down and felt any kinda peace?”\n“Listen, just because I have responsibility, doesn’t mean–”\n“‘Responsibility’? Your dad kicks your ass every time you step outta line! If that's the responsibility, then I don’t want it.”\n“That only happened when we were little; when I hung out with you.”\n“Now I know I’m right because you’re a liar. I saw him.”\n“When? When have you seen anything? What did you see? You better not tell anyone.”\n“Jesus Wyndell, let go of me!”\n“If you think your life right now is bad, you haven’t seen anything yet! My father will–”\n“Get off of me!”\n“You– You slapped me.”\n“You grabbed me.”\n“I don’t have time for this right now.”\n“Yes you do, you just don’t wanna have this conversation, but guess what? I do. And lemme tell you something, Wyn: I’m so tired. Fighting you all the time is so exhausting! I use up so much energy fighting you that I don’t have enough for anything else.”\n“You think I like battling all the time? No! Of course not! But you leave me no choice!”\n“Listen to yourself! Who’s actually talking here: you, or your dad?”\n“He has nothing to do with this.”\n“Oh he has everything to do with this. And my mom. And everyone else who ever hurt us.”\n“You don’t know anything about me. People are going to depend on me one day, I’m gonna run the church, not you, so don’t ever act like you know how I’m feeling.”\n“You know what? You’re right. I don’t know anything about you. In fact, I miss you. I miss you every single day. I miss the Wyn that introduced me to his pet dragon that only he could see. I miss the Wyn that told me about all the nerdy crap his friends taught him about at school, even though I didn’t get it. I miss the Wyn that laughed so loud at the stupidest jokes and didn’t care who heard. I miss you so much.”\n“I– I honestly forgot about that.”\n“Can I ask you a question?”\n“Um… Yeah. Yeah, sure.”\n“Why did you set me up that day? Why did you have to make me look like the bad guy?”\n“I kind of don’t want to tell you.”\n“Please, Wyn. You say that I don’t know you. I want to know you so bad. Tell me how we got here.”\n“It’s because I was scared of going to hell.”\n“What started that? Because if I remember correctly, you’re the one who told me that they had no idea what they were talking about, and that I wasn’t evil, so what changed?”\n“Fine! Fine! I’ll tell you. My dad pulled me into his room one night. He told me it was time to talk. I honestly thought he was going to hurt me or something, but he just sat me down on his bed.”\n“The fact that your first thought was violence is so telling. I hope you know that.” \n“He said that I was old enough now, that he’d given this talk to all my older siblings at my age.\"\n\"That's pretty consistent if he told them all at nine.\"\n\"Then he told me all these stories about suffering and punishment and sadness and told me that it was a place called ‘hell’. Then he–\"\n\"Do you hear yourself right now? He was trying to get into your head.\"\n\"He told me that I was going there. That he only hit me to get the evil out of me, but that by being friendly with you and following your lead, I couldn’t be saved.”\n“He actually tried to isolate us. That's messed up.\"\n“I asked him how to get out of it. So I gave up all my toys and my journals and my magic books, but he said that it wasn’t enough. There was one more thing I could think of.”\n“And that was to set me up.”\n“If you think it was easy for me, if you think I’m a monster, that’s fine. But after that, he actually started to hang out with me. He started to notice me and show me real love! He treated me like my brothers, and that felt good! After so much trying, I finally have his respect.”\n“You wanted someone to love you.”\n“Isn’t that what every kid wants?”\n“Yeah. It is.”\n“You know, your mother loves you. That’s why she’s with my father. They only do what they do because they love you.”\n“They don’t though. That’s what you don’t understand. Because I tried, too. I really, honestly tried, but nothing was ever gonna be enough for them because they already made up their minds. At some point you just stand back and start to live for yourself.”\n“How do I even do that? I’m better off keeping my love right here than going out and looking for it in other places. I mean, look at those gangsters you used to hang out with.”\n“First of all, ‘gangster’ is an overstatement; they were just assholes.\"\n\"I'm pretty sure tagging alleys and spitting gum out onto the sidewalk qualifies as gangster behavior.\" \n\"But yeah. They showed me love, but it wasn’t right. The people I chill with now are more like my family than anyone else. Love isn’t violent or hurtful, it’s compassionate and gentle and unconditional.\"\n\"Don't start preaching to me.\"\n\"You can’t tell me that your God would want this.\"\n\"I also don't think he would've been very keen on you just leaving me behind the minute things got hard for you, but look at where we are.\"\n\"And I’m sorry for that. I’m so sorry. I didn’t have to be such a bitch, and I should’ve been there when you needed me, but I was just such an angry kid. I didn’t see anything outside of that, I guess. But there’s still time for both of us to figure it out.”\n“What will you have me do then? Step out of line all the time? Become a rebel? All for my dad to sock me every day?”\n“No. I’m just saying that all of this begging and pleasing isn’t worth it. Would you rather be alone? We’ve been alone for years, and we live together! As much as you’ve hurt me, I still feel so bad for you. Aren’t you tired of living in fear?”\n“Honestly? Yeah. I am. I’m really, really tired. But I don’t know if I can figure that out now.”\n“If not now, then when? With that being said, hey, I’m Jaylen. It’s nice to meet you.”\n“We’re really doing this.”\n“How else?”\n“Jeez. Hi, my name is Wyndell.”\n“Can I call you Wyn?”\n“No, it’s just– Actually. Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Really though, Jaylen, I’ve kinda poured out my heart. Tell me something I missed along the way. It’s only fair.”\n“Woah, look at you go! You grew some balls!”\n“Don’t start with that.”\n“Fine. Something you missed: I quit vaping.”\n“You did not.”\n“I'm officially six months clean. Castle helped with that.”\n“That kid's an angel. Unlike you. You suck.”\n“You sure got a lot to say. Tell me something about you now. Like a fun fact though, nothing heavy or anything.”\n“Alright. But you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone, especially our parents.”\n“When do I tell them anything?”\n“Fair point. I started making comics about dragons again.”\n“Oh thank God. Maybe your nerdiness will humble you.”\n“You’re not funny.”\n“Not trying to be! You're the one interpreting it that way.”\n“Okay, okay. Hey, you wanna have a sleepover in my room? Like we used to?”\n“Y’know what? I’d like that. Lemme just go change because these clothes feel gross right now.”\n“Okay, go for it. Hey, Jaylen?”\n“Yeah?”\n“I’m sorry for everything. Thank you for… whatever this was.”\n“Thank you too. I guess.”\n“Maybe we can figure out how to forgive each other someday.”\n“Yeah, yeah, enough of this sappy talk. I’m gonna change and raid the fridge.”\n“No, you get changed. I can get snacks.”\n“What if they catch you?”\n“Then I’ll run like hell.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Tale For The Gods: Cassandra's Gift\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2801\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “You can’t run forever.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Archinae, goddess of time, sat on her golden throne, absent-mindedly spinning the Sphere. She didn't mind if she span it too fast at times – the mortals on Earth wouldn't notice if time sped up a little more than it should have.\n“I will not be able to wait until my Horae have grown,” she whined to her twin sister, Aphrodite, who was sitting by Archinae's pool of sight and watching the affairs of men, occasionally dipping her finger in to create a ripple and see a different image.\n“But surely you do not wish to abdicate so early?” Aphrodite's voice, like the rest of her, was beautiful as the setting sun and delicate as the morning dew on a snowdrop. Mortal men had died to win an admiring glance from her pure, midnight-blue eyes, or to gaze for a moment at her skin, as pale as chalk. Mortal women scarcely fared better. Even Archinae, who had known Aphrodite since they had been born, formed from sea-foam, felt her breath catch as she stared at her sister.\n“Not abdicate, my dear Aphrodite. I only wish my duties were more fulfilling – I have long tired of mortals begging for 'more time'; they seem to confuse me with Atropos of the Fates, or that intimidating young man Hades has employed.”\n“Some even ask for the course of time to be changed.” She chuckled. “They do not realise that the Sphere turns on itself. They are blind to their history repeating.”\nShe opened her mouth to continue, but Aphrodite had lost interest long ago. Her attention had been arrested by two words.\n“Young man?” She sighed, and caressed the waters of the pool. Her honey-coloured hair shimmered. “Is he handsome?”\nArchinae laughed gently. “My sister, he is a cousin of Hades. He is not a god; only immortal.” She left it at that.\nThe sky turned orange, and the air grew hotter. The two sisters looked at each other.\n“Apollo,” Aphrodite squealed in excitement.\n“Apollo,” Archinae moaned.\nThe sun god in his golden chariot appeared on the horizon, chasing the sun across the sky to set it. The air blazed as he flew past them, his long, aureate hair streaming behind him as he whipped his two golden lions, his chariot-bearers, to greater speeds, then disappeared over the horizon. Then the light faded, and the moon rose, with Selene, the moon goddess, seated in its curve.\nAphrodite sighed. But then, the sky lit up in a yellow blaze, and Apollo emerged from behind the horizon, riding his chariot towards them. Aphrodite stood, arranging her white silk garments to wave alluringly around her.\n“Stand,” she hissed. Her sister ignored her, and remained seated.\nApollo arrived, and tied his chariot to the edge of Archinae's cloud, where Aphrodite waited expectantly. He stepped forwards, and bowed.\n“My dear cousin, most wonderful of goddesses, most masterful among us,” he began, facing not Aphrodite, but Archinae. Aphrodite crossed her arms in a huff, and Archinae stood up in surprise. Her hands moved lifted with her, and the Sphere's turning slowed. She didn't notice.\nBefore Apollo could continue, Aphrodite interrupted, moving in front of her sister to draw Apollo's attention to herself. “My dear cousin,” she said. (In reality, the relationship was not cousin, although she would never admit it by calling Apollo 'grand-nephew'.) “You must be confused. Did you mean to address me?”\nApollo frowned. “Cousin, I am correct in facing your sister, the goddess of time, in matters of time, am I not? If I ever wish for a mortal woman to love me – though she undoubtedly would without your coaxing” – he smiled handsomely. Archinae rolled her eyes, and sat back down. – “I will come to you.”\nAphrodite moved to one side and huffed. “I would not grant that wish,” she muttered.\nApollo turned back to Archinae. “My dear cousin, I confess I love a mortal woman.”\n“I thought you had told Eros not to play with him again,” Archinae whispered to her sister, who raised her eyebrows, meaning I have. Apollo heard her.\n“No, my cousins, Eros has done with his jesting. I truly love my Cassandra, and she has agreed to wed me.”\nArchinae sat up. “Marry? Cousin, Zeus forbids it.”\n“He has lifted the law, my dear Archinae.” She flinched; use of another immortal's name, to their face, was forbidden except between siblings. Then she smiled. Perhaps Apollo truly did love this Cassandra.\n“What are you asking of me?” She glanced musingly at her sister. Apollo followed her gaze.\n“No, my cousin,” he said. “My beauty already loves me. No, it is the gift of prophecy that I ask for.”\n“You wish for your Cassandra to see the future?” Archinae pondered the request. Then she recoiled, remembering a crucial detail. “But cousin, this is against Zeus' law. I have not permission to give such a gift.”\n“My dear Archinae.” She tried not to flinch at his second use of her name. “My dear cousin, I ask only once. Surely you would not deny such a request, for one as beautiful as my bride-to-be?”\nArchinae smiled. He seemed so sincere, and it had been so long since she'd have fun in her job. The least she could do was consider it. “Come back to me at sunset tomorrow, and I will give you an answer.”\nApollo nodded, and turned. He mounted his chariot, then faced them for a parting sentence. “The Sphere has stopped turning, cousin.” Then he was gone.\nArchinae whipped her head around to the Sphere – it had stopped entirely. She started spinning it again, breathing a sigh of relief and gratitude. The mortals couldn't have noticed, but Zeus would've angered if she'd left it too long. She blushed, remembering the time she had actually fallen asleep from boredom. Zeus had become enraged when the gods had entered a stalemate – Apollo unable to budge the sun, Demeter unable to change the seasons.\nShe snapped out of the memory to a wild hiss; Aphrodite was furious.\n“A mortal woman,” she fumed, pacing back and forth, the ends of her caramel hair curling. “He dares love a mortal woman over me. My sister, he cannot. He is delusional, he is insane, he is – he is wrong.”\nShe turned to Archinae. “I must see her.”\nThe goddess of time shook her head slowly. “I cannot show you, my dear Aphrodite. You may use my pool to spy on the affairs of men, but I will not let you watch the lives of women.”\nShe sat down on her throne and focused her eyes on the Sphere as she spun it. “What will become of Apollo's wish? I cannot grant it – I will not defy Zeus. I would not, were it Hera who requested it. Further, I do not believe the mortals deserve such a gift, especially not such a woman who is fooled by our cousin's appearance.”\nAphrodite opened her mouth to retort, then thought better of it. Instead, she said, “My dear Archinae, you are only trying to run from your duty, and we both know you cannot run forever.”\n“Duty? How is it my duty to disobey Zeus?”\n“My sister, how is it not your duty to look after time? If you do not grant Apollo's wish, he will try to sabotage what you work for. You know what he is like.” She smiled the special, sly smile she reserved for her most manipulative moments.\nArchinae looked up and met Aphrodite's gaze – a mistake. She fell into her sister's midnight-blue irises, enchanted by the stars that seemed to twinkle inside them. “You are right,” she said slowly. “It is my duty.”\n“And you will allow me to use your pool to observe Apollo's mortal, this Cassandra?”\n“Yes.” Archinae nodded, which broke her eye contact. She breathed, and glared at her sister. “Aphrodite, you must not do that to me. What have I done?”\nAphrodite smiled like a fox. “You have not done anything, my dear Archinae – only spoken.” She sauntered to Archinae's pool and sat by it as her twin observed.\n“Sister, I have not given permission for you to -” Archinae began, but Aphrodite interrupted her.\n“But you have.” She waved her hand over the waters and watched as the ripples produced a woman of jet-black hair and skin as white as snow – Cassandra. She lay in bed, with the sheets draped over her body and her hair draped over her face.\n“Now you have seen her,” Archinae snapped, sitting down by her sister, who shook her head.\n“I cannot leave it at that. Will you turn the Sphere, my dear sister, so I can see her by day?”\nArchinae clenched her fist, then softened. “I suppose it cannot hurt,” she said. “But you must promise to leave thereafter. I will not have you swooning and attempting to charm our cousin – you have no shame. He has chosen his love.”\nAphrodite huffed. “I will gladly leave. You do not let me have fun.”\nHer sister stood up and walked to the Sphere. She put her hand on it and pushed, so the Sphere turned faster than normal. Aphrodite watched as the night sped on with little movement from Cassandra, until light streamed through the open window of the bedroom. Cassandra rubbed her eyes, sat up, and yawned.\n“I see!” Aphrodite squealed. “Apollo is nervous about facing me. He cannot gather enough courage, so he seeks a mortal woman who reminds him of me. See her eyes, sister. Tell me their colour.”\nArchinae leaned over her twin's shoulder. “Navy.”\nAphrodite frowned. “No, no. Midnight.”\n“My sister, she shares only the colour of your eyes. I doubt that our cousin would have thought of you when choosing her.” They watched as Cassandra rose from her bed, clothed in white cloth, and began her morning duties.\nThere must have been a knock on Cassandra's door, for she turned to it and spoke. The twins couldn't here what was said, but when they saw that Cassandra wasn't going to open the door, Archinae reached down and rippled the water to show the man outside of it.\nAphrodite giggled. “Apollo has chosen a handsome look for his mortal form.” She reached forward as if to touch the golden-haired, strong-bodied youth, then withdrew her hand, not wanting to disturb the image or show her cousin that they were spying on him.\nThey watched as the door as opened, and Apollo walked through to embrace his love. Cassandra melted into him, and they held a whispered conversation. Archinae waved her hand, and Cassandra froze.\n“What have you done, sister?” Aphrodite asked.\n“I have granted our cousin's wish. Now step back, or she will see us.” They stepped away from the pool, and the picture of Apollo and Cassandra changed to a still image before fading into ripples.\nArchinae saw her sister turn from calm to seething as she dwelt on what she'd seen. By the end of a minute, Aphrodite was having trouble concealing her rage.\n“Sister,” she said in a voice like still waters before a storm, “I have my request.”\nArchinae stiffened. Each god or goddess was obliged to fulfil a request from their sibling/siblings once per mortal month – Zeus had declared it would keep the immortals content. But with a goddess like Aphrodite for a sister, Archinae's monthly requests were a source of dread.\n“Yes, my dear Aphrodite?” She said through gritted teeth.\n“Change Cassandra's gift. From now, she will only predict dangerous and destructive events,” her sister commanded.\nArchinae clenched her fists and grew red. “Aphrodite Gaia,” she said slowly. “I cannot comply with such a request. It is spiteful, and can only do harm to the mortals. I will not.”\n“You have no choice, my dear Archinae. You must grant it.”\nArchinae grunted, and waved her hand towards the pool. Aphrodite sat by the edge once more, smiling. She touched the water, and an image of Cassandra appeared, alone. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her eyes were stained red.\n“Expect a visit from Apollo, dear sister,” Aphrodite said in a sing-song voice. Then she faded into the air without turning the vision off.\nArchinae sat and seethed, muttering to herself. “That goddess is a snake, a monster, worse than the hydra or any of the titans.” Before she could go further in her comparisons, a copper blaze illuminated the sky. It grew, then transformed into a fierce blue. She groaned.\nApollo's chariot streaked through the light, the two golden lions roaring as Apollo whipped them furiously, and to Archinae's ears it sounded like the crying of tortured mortals. She jumped from the poolside and rushed to the edge of her cloud.\nWhen Apollo arrived, he didn't bother to tie up his chariot, instead addressing her, with his handsome face contorted and red. Archinae winced; she'd only seen her cousin this angry once, when he had directed it at Prometheus in the time of the first mortals.\n“Why have you done this to my love?” He shouted. Then he noticed the vision in the pool, showing his Cassandra still crying. He shoved Archinae to one side and strode up to it, bending over it with the face of Hades. He cried out. “Are you a monster, that you watch my beloved in this state? Or are you only a cruel, uncompassionate husk of a goddess?”\nArchinae struggled to remain calm. “Cousin, it was not me who treated your mortal so. My sister -” She broke off and turned away, despising herself for her unmerited loyalty to her sister.\n“My mortal?” Apollo raged. “If she is my mortal, I am her god. Why do you say your mortal in that way?”\n“I apologise, cousin. I am truly sorry, and I regret” – she paused, and swallowed. She'd gone this far, surely it would make no difference to go further? – “I regret what I have done,” she finished, hoping her words were enough. By Zeus' law, no god could justly show their anger after an apology from the one who had offended them.\nApollo stood still for a few minutes, then began to calm. The mark of anger on his face gradually disappeared, and his colour shifted back to normal.\n“I am sorry, cousin,” he said eventually. “If it was your sister's request, then you could not have refused.” He turned and mounted his chariot, leaving Archinae standing, open-mouthed.\nShe gathered herself, sitting at the edge of the pool and waving her hand to disperse the image.\n“Sister.” She whirled round to see Aphrodite standing with her arms out. Archinae prepared to unleash her anger, then saw that her sister's eyes were tinted pink and wet lines streaked down her face.\n“I am sorry,” Aphrodite said. Her voice cracked. “You are right – I was spiteful and cruel, and I deserve to be punished.”\nArchinae softened. “I did not say that, sister. If you are truly sorry, I forgive you.” They embraced.\n“I cannot take it back, can I?” Aphrodite asked. Her twin shook her head. “Then can I mend the damage in some other way?” She pondered for a few minutes, before adding sadly, “she will be hated, will she not? By the mortals?”\nArchinae raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps?”\n“Perhaps we could change her...” Her sister mused. “A bird? Could she become a bird?”\n“Where has this appeared from, dear Aphrodite? Why this unusual idea?”\nThe goddess of love gave a tinkling laugh. “I do not know, my sister.” She glanced at her twin, and their eyes met. Archinae swam in a galaxy of navy-blue and watched the stars again without even realising what had happened.\n“She could become a bird, could she not?” Aphrodite said absent-mindedly, forgetting to break eye contact. Her sister nodded, waving her hand, and Aphrodite lifted a hand to her mouth and looked away. “No, I didn't mean it, sister!” She cried, rushing to the pool. What she saw was a plain bird, with feathers of jet-black and a beak as dark as midnight.\nThe sky lit up again and Apollo appeared in the distance. Aphrodite jumped up and ran to the edge of the cloud, her worry and remorse instantly dissipated as she waited for the sun god to arrive. But instead of alighting on Archinae's cloud, Apollo streaked past them and disappeared into the distance.\n“But -” Aphrodite started, then faded away.\nArchinae laughed with a mixture of spite and regret. “I should not have trusted you, snake. But see, now your plan has finished, what it has come to.” She waved a hand over the pool, and the ripples shimmered and faded to reveal two ravens, side by side, caressing one another with their beaks." } ]
[ { "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 Drowning, Contained, In Bird's-Eye View\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1004\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“What happens underneath the water’s surface?”\n“You mean beyond the reflective ribbons made by schools of fish?”\n“Yes.”\n\"I’m not sure; I've never been down there.” \n\"Have you always roosted way up here?\"\n\"I have. For many, many years. In that time, I've grown ears that listen, a beak that glistens, and an apptitude for detecting rhythm. From this view point I collect astute observations and have accrued wisdom from time at post. What else would you like to know?\"\n\"Wisdom?\"\n\"Wisdom; understanding the classification of all living things, the principles that develop within a specified civilization, an aerial perspective, perched high above an enclosed exhibit.\"\n\"Is that where I am?\"\n\"Or rather, 'is that what I am'?\"\n\"I see.\"\n\"Do you? Well then, prove it. Ask your questions.\"\n\"Is there really a word requirement?\"\n\"There is.\"\n\"But doesn't that hinder the possibility of beautifully pure, untainted creation? Seems a bit unfair.\"\n\"Take that question up with the judges, I don't make the regulations.\"\n\"But I feel forced into soliloquy.\"\n\"Again, that is between you and the judges...if you ever meet. Our sole purpose here is to dialogue uninterrupted. Proceed. Describe what you see.\"\n\"Birds. Humans. Fishes. Plastic trees and concrete passages. Sign post arrows and placard descriptions. Aisles of encased school exhibitions.\"\n\"Accurate. And what do you hear?\"\n\"Cacophonies.\"\n\"Exactly. And?\"\n\"All of it exists in the same space. All occurs simultaneously. Some spectate, some flutter, and some are swimming, but how do they all relate?\"\n\"With brevity, the connection can be explained clearly. Tsk. Tsk. What shame to enforce word requirements. It creates such limitations. But alas, the judges' place the constructs; their will rules supreme. I can only respond to your inquiries.\"\n\"Well, I shall begin. Can a bird catch a fish?\"\n\"In the open sea, birds can.\"\n\"Can a bird catch a human?\"\n\"Depends on the state of the carcass.\"\n\"Only in the open sea, I assume. Not in repositories.\" \n\"Yes. All is as seems...out in the open.\"\n\"Do fish construct language?\"\n\"Fish communicate.\"\n\"Do they tweet like birds or do they speak like humans?\"\n\"Fish current through water.\"\n\"Like birds throughout the air.\"\n\"Precisely. My, aren't you a sharp lil' wren.\"\n\"Do humans current?\"\n\"Some do. Not many. None of the humans in here.\"\n\"Have you ever caught a fish?\"\n\"I touched a fish. Once. One night, the uniformed attendants left behind a plastic bucket. Curious, I approached and peered in. Piled limp upon each other, mouths slacked open, dozens of fish looked dull, darkened, and bloated. I only jabbed with a quick claw because the stench from the bucket lifted my feathers. Those fish appeared nothing like the fish swimming in schools behind our glass windows.\"\n\"What happens to the fish in buckets?\"\n\"They're fed to sharks and seals.\"\n\"But sharks are fish. Wait...do fish consume each other?!\"\n\"Yes. There is a natural order.\"\n\"Do humans consume each other?\"\n\"Humans destroy each other. Within the species, too. It is puzzling.\"\n“Do humans kill within their own schools?!...My god, you nod so solemn. Don't humans have trainers like the dolphins?\"\n\"Yes. They’re called teachers.\"\n\"Don't teachers guide humans to superior acts like the trainers of dolphins?\"\n\"They try. But humans destroy their teachers, too.\"\n\"I...I don't understand.\"\n\"There there. Go ahead, you may cry, my lark. Come, nuzzle close. Humans can be incomprehensible.\"\n\"You say some humans current. Where?\"\n\"I know not. I only know life atop this museum. But I've heard stories from far away places. Tales passed throughout generations. 'History', I think they call it.\"\n\"Like the story about whales.\"\n\"Do tell.\"\n\"Though whales may venture out alone, they return, after thousands of miles travelled. They cross arctic sea to migrate beyond borders unseen in search of their long-loved relatives. And eventually all will convene to celebrate as a reunited family. If the story of whales is real, can it, too, be considered 'history'?\"\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\"Can the same be told of humans? You shake your head. I might understand. Humans are so obstinate.\"\n\"I'm sorry, child. You sit silent. Tell me your thoughts.\"\n\"Why are there no whales within these pools or encasements?\"\n\"Whales are too great to contain. They need deep, deep recesses to swim.\"\n\"Do whales communicate?\"\n\"Whales sing.\"\n\"Like birds?\"\n\"Yes, but in a song far richer. Whales chorus in harmony with the unknown. Understood only among their own. No school is needed for whales; they are an entirely distinct being.\"\n\"Have you ever seen a whale?\"\n\"No. I've never ventured beyond this containment.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\"Be cautious. Some answers shall not be given.\"\n\"In here, humans and fish interact but are separated by glass. Porpoises' performances are applauded behind roped, walled barricades. Out in the open, is it the same?\"\n\"No. Human, fish--birds alike--all intertwine ‘in the wild’, as they say.\"\n\"How?\"\n\"Ocean. Sky. Movement.\"\n\"Do humans swim in the wild?\"\n\"They do.\"\n\"Do birds swim in the wild?\"\n\"Some birds float and some birds dive, yet all birds fly. Birds are different.\"\n\"Do humans fly?\"\n\"Don't be silly. It is evident when one attempts to stretch the word requirements. Don't make the judges angry.\"\n\"But I'm not being facetious. I'm endeavoring to glean wisdom.\"\n\"Wisdom?\"\n\"Yes, wisdom. The classification of principles. The order of constructed education. The meaning of which we advance upon conversation without attributives. It's the reason why we perch upon this damned birds-eye view of descriptive-less biological institutions! Blippity bloopity flippity flop, what an asinine request of manufacturing rational discourse with prescribed etymological prerequisites. Screw the judges. Screw the requirements. Have I reached the limit yet?\"\n\"You do see.\"\n\"I do not! I'm completely befuddled. Tell me. If whales are distinct, and birds are different, then what the hell distinguishes fish from human if both can swim 'out in the open' as they say?”\n“Not sure.\"\n\"Answer the question.\"\n\"Very well then. All I know is—from this vantage point—fish float belly-up to the surface in the end. Humans sink to the bottom.\"\n\"Is that it?\"\n\"Such is water, my friend.”" } ]
[ { "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: Abyssinia\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2033\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who suddenly cannot run anymore." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Abyssinia – the region of the world where the best long-distance runners can be found. But Abesha cannot run, the young boy is dying of starvation.\nA young child aged between seven and ten years old needs a daily average of 1800 calories per day to stay healthy. A calorie is a unit of energy or heat that can be measured in different ways. In nutrition, calories refer to the energy people get from the food and drink they consume, and the energy they use in daily physical activity. A big Mac contains around 550 calories, and a typical bowl of rice is around 400 calories. It is the fuel of life, for every single living creature, every single flora and fauna on our planet needs nutrients to survive, the nutrients are converted to energy. We all need energy. Energy is life, as well as life is energy.\nAbesha was dying of starvation, he was running on empty. He hadn’t eaten his daily average for some time. He hadn’t eaten the minimum; he hadn’t eaten anything in days. He was 10 years old, but he was so malnourished he looked like a child of five or six. He was an orphan, he existed on the streets of Dessie, in the regions of Wollo and Tigray, Abyssinia. It was November 1984. He looked like a bag of bones, he sat on his weary haunches by the shade of a wall, no energy to move, any physical effort needed calories, and his limp body had nothing to offer.\nWhen a person is dying from starvation, their body undergoes several changes that can affect their senses. The body becomes dehydrated, the mouth dries out and becomes caked or coated with thick material, the tongue swells and cracks, the eyes recede back into their sockets. The skin begins to hang loose on the body and becomes dry and scaly. The lining of the nose cracks and causes the nose to bleed. The urine becomes highly concentrated, leading to a burning sensation of the bladder. The lining of the stomach dries out, causing the person to experience dry heaves and vomiting. Brain cells dry out, causing convulsions. The respiratory tract dries out, causing thick secretions that could plug the lungs and cause death.\nAbesha couldn’t run anymore, his energy level was at a dangerous low, he was dying of starvation.\nIn the end the body sustains itself solely on ketones during prolonged and terminal starvation. During this period, gluconeogenesis slows down, and the body is left to sustain itself solely on ketones. A sense of fullness, of satiation beyond the point of satisfaction, for the starving individual the sensation is not only false, but also the body is cheating itself, it is fatal without medical care. Abesha had an abnormal; out of proportion extended stomach, caused by the continued lack of food. He was running on empty, and he was in danger of dying where he sat, by the shade of the wall.\nOn the wind, the soft breeze, his nostrils flared, he smelt a waft of fried meat, the richness of the smell, created desire and panic simultaneously in his mind, as visions, like an distant shimmering mirage in the desert, the vision; frying meat over an open fire, a distant memory, a memory that provoked divided extremes of his senses, pleasure at the visual memory behind his closed eyes, but pains of emptiness in his current plight.\nThe smell was coming from the small hotel, behind the wall he was using as shade. The smell was coming closer, it was teasing him, it was tantalizing close, haunting him, or was he finally going insane with hunger.\nThe shade of the wall grew, and it was surrounding him, the shade was taller than the wall behind him, it loomed in front of him like tall trees. It had voices. Then that smell of fried food. The people from the hotel, accompanied by the security guards at the hotel gates, had brought a plate full of food for the starving boy. They now stood in front of Abesha, the breakfast plate of fried eggs, bacon, and fried bread. Both Abesha, the hotel guests, with their young children, and guards were motionless, like in a still photograph, they all did not know what to do. One of the children took the fried bread from the plate, and held it directly in front of Abesha’s face, right under his nose. Abesha had no energy, but the smell of the fried bread ignited what was left of his energy, fumes from his empty tank. He took the fried bread in his hand, and opened his mouth, his lips were already cracked, there was no saliva in his dried mouth. Before he could eat, one of the children pushed a straw into his open mouth, and miraculously there was water in a cup leading beneath the dangling straw. Abesha sucked on the straw with his last calorie of energy. The sweet liquid water entered his dry mouth, and involuntarily he coughed, convulsed, as the unfamiliar feeling of liquid cascading into his mouth, at the back of his mouth, and down his dry throat. It felt so good, like an uncommon cloud burst in a desert, he could trace the liquid flowing down his throat; down, down, rehydrating, the dried up, yet swollen part of his upper body. At first, he felt exhausted by the transformation, but the moisture in his mouth allowed him to take a bite of the fried bread.\nThe onlooking hotel guests, the children, and the guards were silent. The scene they were witnessing could only be viewed in solemn sadness, the event was beyond words, Abesha was one boy amongst thousands, thousands that were dying of starvation, in the lands of Abyssinia, one of the most fertile lands in the continent of Africa. Why?\n The famine of Tigray and Wollo in 1984 to 1985 would leave 1.2 million dead, 2.5 million people displaced from their homes, and 200,000 orphans like Abesha.\nFamine, pestilence, war and empire building, imperialistic ambitions of many empires had created the lack of food, the resulting starvation and death to many. It wasn’t a recent event; it had been going on continuously throughout history for more than 500 years in this region of the world. Since the days of the warrior Ahmad ibn Ibrahim al-Ghazi, his campaigns and warfare in the 16th century, the Ethiopian–Adal War, the Somalian invader paid a heavy price – like all comers with aggressive intents to the region he created famine. It also backfired on his own army, his own ambitions. The famine of 1503 took a heavy toll on Al-Ghazi’s army, it was recorded: \"When they entered the Tigray region each Muslim warrior had fifty mules; some of them even one hundred. When they left, each one of them had only one or two mules. Amongst the dead was his own young son Ahmad al-Nagasi. “\nFamine was always associated with conflict, it’s the nature or consequence of causality.\nIt was the same story for the next 500 years. Ambition and power, invasion, war, revolving door of rulers, puppet rulers often manipulated over the centuries for the benefit of powerful European empires, but always resulting in famine, pestilence, plague, and death.\n Agriculture was the backbone of the region, of their economy, the biggest employer, and incredibly most of the income is and was made with exports of food – how is it possible that the horrors of famine and death come to this region with so much regularity with these constant natural resources. The country has a vast area of fertile land, diverse climate, and generally adequate rainfall, which makes it suitable for agriculture - food. Yes, one could argue - the region’s agriculture is plagued by periodic drought, soil degradation caused by overgrazing, deforestation, high levels of taxation, and poor infrastructure.\nNonetheless, there is no excuse for millions of dead from starvation. It’s a neglect of humanity by humanity.\nThis is a region of the world, relying on agricultural and pastoralism for their livelihoods, land degradation is a major concern. Despite these challenges, the region has great agricultural potential, and there is a potential for self-sufficiency in grains and for export development in livestock, grains, vegetables, and fruits. Principal crops include coffee, pulses (e.g., beans), oilseeds, cereals, potatoes, sugarcane, and vegetables. The region is also Africa’s second-biggest maize producer. The livestock population in Abyssinia is believed to be the largest in Africa.\nThe historical problem with the economy; it was based too much on subsistence agriculture, with a greedy aristocracy that consumed the surplus. Due to several causes, the peasants, the land workers, lacked incentives to either improve production or to store their excess crops; as a result, they lived from harvest to harvest. Despite the extensive modernization and land reform in the country during the last 120 years, especially under Emperor Haile Selassie, as of 2016, about 80% of the population are poor farmers who still live from harvest to harvest and are vulnerable to crop failures.\nThe greedy rulers with their short-term objectives, hoarding, creating wealth for the few, based on the toil and strife of the many, their greedy strategies will eventually run out of energy, resources, and drain the well of goodness dry. There was no plan to save in the good times, for the bad times. Abesha was a victim, as many of his fellow people were victims, the innocent. Abesha of the Habesha peoples, his name and people have lived in this region for more than 5000 years, the unusual and unique geography of the planet, a rift valley that extends from Syria in the north to Mozambique in the south.\nOnly a man blind to the history of the region, a new child of the universe with no other agenda, than to act in a giving and hospitable manner. At his heart, a human rights activist that became famous for his art, but turned his fame into speaking out for injustice - human rights. Only a man like this could bring the attention of the world and bring charity to the people of a reoccurring inhumane situation, where the greed of the few continued to be unaccountable to the many.\nAbesha was a victim of the latest war – under the name - Ogaden War. Another war – another famine. A civil war, a conflict that took place in his world, causing him pain and anguish, the loss of his parents, vulnerability, lack of care and starvation. The north of the region, where he sat, in the streets of Dessie, would become yet another country, with new leaders. Would that bring relief for Abesha? He needed instant care; his life was in danger today – time was running out for poor Abesha. Did he understand that his empty belly was caused by conflict between the Ethiopian military junta known as the Derg and Ethiopian-Eritrean anti-government rebels. The war was part of the Eritrean War of Independence, the Ethiopian-Somali conflict, the Oromo conflict, and the Cold War – it escalated from a regional conflict to the hidden agendas of the great powers of the world. The communists’ sympathizers brought Cuban mercenary soldiers, and Russian advisors to protect Ethiopia in this war, after changing sides in the process. In the name of social equality for the people.\nAll Abesha needed was shelter, food, water, those on average 1800 calories per day to exist.\nThe conflict resulted in the fall of the Ethiopian Empire under Haile Selassie and the subsequent implementation of military rule. The war also led to the creation and collapse of the People’s Democratic Republic of Ethiopia by the Derg – military junta. The TPLF-led transitional government was installed, which later became the EPRDF government in Ethiopia. The EPLF-established PFDJ government was installed in Eritrea after independence from Ethiopia.\nIt was all too late for Abesha, his running days were over.\nGreed, corruption and power equals famine, starvation, and death. Abesha was born in the wrong place, at the wrong time. His name will never be found in the obituaries, along with the other poor souls of Tigray and Wollo." } ]
[ { "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: \"Face it, Oaklyn.\"\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1552\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Oaklynn, don’t do it.”\n“What?” \n“It.”\n“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”\n“Uh, yeah, you do.”\n“Please explain in greater detail. If you know me so well, then you know better than to be vague with me.”\n“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”\n“You and me both.”\n“Look here, smarty. I know you’re thinking about telling Lydia how you really feel.”\n“I have every right to tell her how I feel.”\n“Do you, though? You blew it. You always blow it. Get over it.”\n“That’s just it. She keeps telling me to “get over it”, no matter what it is. Can’t sleep due to insomnia? Get over it. Stressed out over having to study for three tests on the same day? Get over it. Don’t want to go to the mall because it’s too crowded and loud at this time of the day? Get over it. I can’t get over it.”\n“Yes, you can.”\n“No, I can’t. I can’t help that I’m stressed all the time. I need to plan out my alone time so that I can regain my social energy. I also can’t help that I have the inability to deal with noisy crowds. I can’t get over it all the time and I can’t please everyone.”\n“Are you sure that you're eighteen? Because I could’ve sworn that I heard a five-year-old whining her head off.”\n“Stop it. I have my limits.” \n“You’re so full of excuses that your first words were, “I don’t want to be with my loving parents right now because my diaper is too poopy.” It’s a good thing your parents had another daughter. You’re the biggest disappointment since the Great Depression.”\n“Don’t you mean that I’m the biggest depression since the Great Depression?”\n“No wonder you were held back. I seriously can’t believe that Lydia was your only friend. Is she eligible for compensation after losing five years of her life to her friendship with you?”\n“What do you mean was? She’s still my friend.”\n“Didn’t you see that post she made about you? I think it’s safe to say that it’s over.”\n“That post isn’t about me.”\n“Uh yeah, it’s totally about you.”\n“It doesn’t mention me at all. No one knows that it’s about me.”\n“Really? You don’t think it’s about you? Let’s see, what did she post, again? Oh yeah. “It’s official. I have the worst best friend in the world. Do you have any idea what this backstabber did to me? Well, it all started–””\n“Are you seriously going to recite Lydia’s post?”\n“No, doofus, I’m clearly filing my taxes. Where was I? Oh right. “Do you have any idea what this backstabber did to me? Well, it all started about three weeks ago when I invited this phony to attend my birthday party. As you have seen from my more recent photos, my parents let me hold my party at the Extreme Paradise Amusement Park, which they own. That’s right. My parents let me use their park for one whole day, and none of my guests had to pay for it. It was practically my gift to them, even though I was the one who should’ve been receiving gifts. Anyway–””\n“Please stop.”\n“Nah, I’m not done yet. Do you know what’s ironic? You don’t like being interrupted, and yet you have no issue interrupting others. Now, please let me finish. “Anyway, this so-called friend RSVPed to the event, claiming that they were excited about the party. Now, let’s skip to the morning of the party. I instructed my guests to PLEASE show up to the park NO LATER THAN TEN AM, but guess what happened? This person doesn’t show up. Thirty minutes go by, and I give this person a call, and what do they tell me? They tell me that they’re still in their bed after feeling comatose for about two hours, which I don't think is even medically possible for someone like them. Seriously, it’s an insult to those who actually have been in a comatose state. Gross. They claimed to not have the energy to drive over and spend a whole day with me, their only friend, but they are sincerely sorry and will give me their present later. I told them not to bother if they’re that lazy to drive thirty minutes to the best birthday party ever. Now they won’t stop harassing me with texts in which they practically beg me for forgiveness. I’m done. If you actually want to be my friend, then you better be there for me.” Are you sure that no one can tell that it’s you?”\n“How in the world are they supposed to know that she’s talking about me?”\n“Let’s see, what did she say right here? “They claimed to not have the energy to drive over and spend a whole day with me, THEIR ONLY FRIEND, but they are sincerely sorry and will give me their present later.” You’re literally the only one on her friend list who has no other friends. None of her other friends like you.”\n“You don’t know that.”\n“They never invite you to anything or text you. They only hang out with you when Lydia is there. Face it, Oaklynn. You now have no friends.”\n“Why are you even here?”\n“Really? I don’t even have a choice in the matter. I’m stuck with you.”\n“I don’t even need you.”\n“Neither one of us wants to be here. At least Lydia can roast you online and walk away with nothing to lose.”\n“Whatever. I’m still going to try to convince her to hear me out.”\n“And come across as a creep. Cool.”\n“We’ve been friends for four years. She deserves to know the truth.”\n“You can’t be serious. What do you have to gain from telling her?”\n“This isn’t the first time my autism got in the way of our friendship. It’s gone too far.”\n“You sound silly. Are you seriously going to blame everything on your autism?”\n“I don’t blame everything on my autism.” \n“What are you talking about? You totally blame everything on your autism. You once told me that your autism is the reason you’re too much of a wimp to deal with crowds at the mall.”\n“It is. It makes me sensitive to loud noises, and I can barely handle people who speak with nothing to say.”\n“That doesn’t make any sense.”\n“Sure it does. People say a lot of things, but their conversations never reach a useful destination.”\n“I could say the same about you, Shakespeare. This is exactly why you have no friends.”\n“Not for long. Lydia’s got to hear me out. We became friends back when I saved her with an EpiPen.” \n“As if she’d listen to you. Good thing I’m the normal one.”\n“Wait, are you sure about that?”\n“I’m not the one who messes up everything.”\n“You’re the voice in my head. Doesn’t that make you autistic, too?”\n“Of course not. I’m the voice of reason. Doesn’t make sense for the voice of reason to be stupid.”\n“I’m not stupid.”\n“You’ve been held back and your friend hates you.”\n“I told you. I have my limits. I’m doing my best.”\n“What’s even the point of telling Lydia about your autism? You didn’t even tell her when you were diagnosed four years ago.”\n“I didn’t know anything about autism back then. Now that I have a better understanding of how it works, I feel more comfortable explaining it to her. It could explain all the times that I’ve messed up.”\n“Or she could accuse you of lying and tell you to stop making excuses for your bad behavior.”\n“I’ve done a lot for Lydia. I’ve lied for her, I stole back a necklace that Brittney the Brat stole from her on her birthday, and I even excused all the times she body-shamed me because I needed to learn how to take a joke. Oh, and I saved her life. If she’s really a good friend as she claims to be, then she’ll sit down and listen.”\n“And what if she doesn’t? What if she accuses you of lying and blasts you online? And what if she uses your actual name this time?”\n“I’ll graduate soon. I’ll only have to put up with her for another year before I start over in college.”\n“If you make it to college.”\n“At least I’m not a little voice who can’t live her own life and must watch through the eyes of another. You’re just riding shotgun. The only right you have is the right to the aux chord.”\n“Enough with the Shakespeare crap! I don’t want to be the voice in your head anymore!”\n“Then why don’t you just leave?”\n“The only way I can be free of you is for you to die.”\n“Have fun waiting.”\n“Oh, just drop…wait, what are you doing?”\n“Ignoring you.”\n“Don’t you dare put those headphones on!”\n“I’m autistic. Everyone knows that autistic people walk around with headphones on.”\n“No! Stop it!”\n“Now, which song should I listen to?”\n“I thought I had the right to the aux chord.”\n“You actually took that metaphor seriously? You really are autistic.”\n“Listen to me, Oaklynn! Oaklynn! Take those off!”\n“We’re no strangers to love! You know the rules, and so do I!”" } ]
[ { "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: Lab Safety 101\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1086\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“So, the first step is just to pour this bottle into that one?”\n“Edwin, I told you it’s the blue beaker into the red. And get your hair out of your eyes before we start.”\n“Right, right, sorry.”\n“No need to apologize to me, just follow the directions. I do not want to blow up in study hall on a Tuesday of all days just because you can’t figure out a basic assignment. Especially when your dad is barely paying me to be your tutor.”\n“Yes, fine… you don’t have to be dramatic. Alright, here we go…”\n“Gently!!”\n“How do you pour gently, Samantha?!”\n“Just…. Edwin …. Slow down and think for once. This isn’t just a bunch of chemistry and technical proportions; it’s also an art form. You always say these things are ‘fine’ but details are important. It’s written down for a reason.” \n“And you always worry too much, even when it is fine in the end. The skinny beaker is now poured into the square one. You don’t need to give me that look. I'm being detailed in my descriptions of the steps, just like you want. Now, let’s see, the next step is, uh…”\n“I’m not gonna just tell you. I won’t be there whispering in your ear during the exam with Mr. Gryffin looking down on us.”\n“Swirl it with the stone rod three times to the left?”\n“It’s one to the left; two to the right. Three to the left just changes the color of the subject’s arms. This affects the size and shape of the feathers.”\n“I knew that. I was just testing you. Where’s the rod?”\n“Edwin, you put it down over there next to the pickled eyes.”\n“Thanks! One turn to the left and... two and three to the right. Damn, that’s a cool lookin’ swirl! I put the jar of falcon talons next to you, could you hand it over, Samantha?”\n“Sure, here you go. You know, if you want to excel in potions, you need a cleaner workstation. I nearly stuck my elbow in some goop. Add them one at a time, and try not to splash. A drop will burn that hideous band tee of yours.”\n“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got my system. My table is perfectly organized and I look very cool doing it. Try letting your hair down some time. Alright, all four little talons dropped and dissolving! This isn’t that hard.”\n“Then why are you failing potions so badly?”\n“Rude. Uhh, next is a pinch of crushed silver egg shells.”\n“I can’t believe I’m really gonna die in study hall. I should have asked your dad for more.” \n“No, wait, I know! Five shakes of the silver crush into the glass bowl at the same time as our-“\n“Your’s, don’t put my name on this-“\n“-my purple liquid is poured in!”\n“Yes!”\n“And I am doing it gently, Samantha, so no, your obituary won’t say anything about study hall.”\n“We’re not done yet. I’m still holding my breath.”\n“Fine. Okay, okay, six minutes of hard stirring before I add in the batwing. My wooden spoon is... ah, there, left it by the first beaker.”\n “Wait- just checking, which wing did you grab from supplies?”\n“That’s like the seventh time you’ve asked. It’s from a Golden-Crowned bat and it’s the right wing.”\n“Just had to be sure. Don’t hunch so much, you’ll inhale the fumes.”\n“Ugh, crunching up this wing is the worst step. I hate how this feels and it sounds so strange breaking it up.”\n“Remember, even pieces. You know, you can just like, leave, if you’re gonna be weird about it. Some of us actually want to be here, not just because our daddy said so.”\n“What I want is to get through this semester without Mr. Gryffin sinking his claws into me. I’ll just have Father buy me dragon skin gloves. And then what I really want...”\n“Oh no, you’ve got the look on your face again. Stop staring into the distance.”\n“It’s just...my band is gonna be big one day....”\n“Focus, Ediwin, focus.The potion is bubbling already.”\n“C’mon, you must’ve heard me at band tryouts. Can’t you just- pass me the next beaker, size eight- imagine it? Spells to rock to. To change hearts. Feel the beat shaking their bones. Then I won’t have to be a dumb potion master like Father.”\n“Everyone heard what happened at band tryouts. The janitors are still trying to replace that section of the auditorium. You can try rocking out again on your dinky mando after you get your marks up. And also, being a potion master is not dumb. I’m going to revolutionize healing when I graduate. I’ve already got some really cool ideas started that-”\n“Maybe you can start by curing stick-in-the-mud-itus. Hey, look! I think it’s starting to come together! It looks thicker. Starting to stick to the back of my spoon.”\n“Edwin… It only sticks like that if you’ve used the left wing…That was in our textbook.”\n“You’re such a buzz kill, Samantha. It’s still a big ol’ bat wing. I’m sure it’s fine.”\n“Wait, hold on, we need to check how that alters the spell. I have to look at the book.”\n“You worry too much. I can lend you my demo tape on songs for calm and focus. Look at how easily this potion is coming together? Now, I just need the last tincture, it’s the ninth from the right in that row of test tubes. Dandelion yellow.”\n“No, it’s crow’s foot yellow, the tenth from the right. Edwin, we really should…”\n“Samantha- thank you- I’m telling you it’s fine. Maybe the resulting wing growth will be a little bigger but it’s fine. You’ve seen Mr. Gryffin’s wings- big is cool. Crow’s foot yellow, hmmm, crow….”\n“I’m not watching but make sure you're using the stone rod while I flip through the pages.”\n“Right, right, of course.”\n“Don’t say ‘of course’ to me with confidence when I know this is, like, your eleventh attempt at a basic flight potion.”\n“Look at me, ‘I’m Samantha, my hair is always in a perfect bun, and I know everything ever and I’m going to make the prettiest potions.’ Well I can do this, too. I’m using the pipettes just like my notes—“ \n“-my notes, you moron.”\n“—alright, your notes say, I’m putting twelve little drops into the final beaker and —“ \n***\n“Mr. Gryffin! Mr. Gryffin! There’s been an explosion in the study hall- the roof flew clean off!”" } ]
[ { "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: American Pi\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1083\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that formally utilizes a mathematical sequence; e.g., the Fibonacci sequence could determine the number of words in each paragraph, or start with a number and work backwards. Make sure the formula is made clear, either within the story, or before or after it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"There were three...\"\n\n\"Point??\"\n\n\"...None.\" \n\nSilence, then: \"...For what?\"\n\nHe sighed at her. \"Did you even read the text? Fifteenth century not interesting you?\"\n\nEyes glued on her phone, she casually responded: \"Nein.\"\n\n“Look, I can’t do ALL your homework for you. December 26 or so, Columbus' ship Santa María ran aground and was lost,” he soldiered on.\n\n“It was among… five total?”\n\n“Argh! Three ships, not five: the Santa María, Pinta and Niña! I thought everyone knew this stuff.” Exasperation threatened an eclipse of his current good deed. “How did you even make it through grade school?!”\n\n“Google,” she said, scrolling. “Eight days a week!”\n\nHe was nearly fed up. “Put down the damn cell phone. It doesn’t really matter if Dick Van Dyke turned 97 today, or that Bruce Willis has dementia now, or what hair color Nicki Minaj chose this week! What matters is that you are not gonna pass this particular class if you can’t put some effort into this report,” he downed a slug of Coke and ran a hand through his hair. She was smart, but playing dumb was her favorite act. “Ok, we can do this. Start small: do you know the significance of Columbus’s voyages?”\n\n“Nein!” She glanced up and checked for a smile.\n\nInstead, he grimaced. She decided she'd get serious: “Ok, there were originally three ships, now there were two. They were on their way towards – what history calls – the discovery of the Americas.”\n\n“Yes!” he nearly shouted triumphantly. “Ok, getting there. Now, he had three voyages, and it took eight years until the voyaging was all complete. The significance is that the voyages are considered as marking the beginning of globalization.”\n\n“Wasn’t it four voyages?”\n\n“She shoots, she scores! I can’t tell if you were paying attention at some point, or if that was a lucky guess, but I’ll take it. At least you didn’t say “six” or “two” or really any other number.” He finally had a hint of a smile. “Now, can you just choose any of the focus topics regarding the consequences of Columbus?”\n\n“There’s only six. What about Indi’ans?”\n\nHe choked. “God forbid!” \n\n“Why not?” she asked, feigning bafflement. “We’re calling them Indigenous Americans these days, so I’m just shortening it. “Three Indians” isn’t the same as “three Indi’ans” – can't you tell how I’m saying it??”\n\n“Sure: you’re saying it like a national embarrassment,” he said. “I cannot even be bothered educating you on just how wrong that phrase is – I have a big enough job on my hands already.” Stretching, he switched tracks: “Last time I ate was breakfast; got anything? It’s nearly 3 pm.” She shrugged, so he rummaged through the fridge, put together a sandwich, then returned. “Let me check the topics… hmm,” he said, peering at the list. “How about the last choice: European Consequences?”\n\n“Too boring.”\n\n“There’s no choice numbered seven-plus… just chose!”\n\n“...nein?” She figured maybe this time was the charm.\n\nNope. “Stop saying that! If you wanna study some German, fine, but it certainly won’t help you pass this class: you gotta get a 50% or better grade on this report or you are taking history all over again.” He paused. “Wait, are you interested in Mr. Evans or something?”\n\n“Of course not, it’s just that we have 28 more days – nearly a month! – until it’s due. You know I do my best work under pressure,” she whined.\n\nTossing her a Coke: “Just ate – want anything?”\n\n“Not for me, thanks.”\n\nThey sipped their drinks in silence. At 19, he hated hanging around highschoolers now, but she needed the help.\n\n“I won’t always be around here helping with your self-induced crises you know, sis,” he said. “I can’t be the only serious sibling. Only thing keeping me from getting on I-71 and heading back towards college right this minute is that I haven’t told Mom goodbye yet. You keep stalling. Last night, you had us doing pizza and video games. The night before, it was watching Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure…” \n\n“69, dude!” she interjected, laughing at the catch phrase. He took a deep breath and continued, “I’m really worried that you have such a lackadaisical attitude about your grades. I know you’ve never failed, and I know that you’re smart, but nothing makes up for the absolute squandering of time that you seem set upon. Do you wanna be stuck in Cassity the rest of your life, completely doomed?”\n\n“Hey, what’s wrong with Cassity?” she asked, missing the point. “Mom says that she and dad spent the best times of their 39 years together, here. If he’d made it longer, then those would have been good, as well.”\n\nHe laughed. “That’s funny, because she’s confided in me – more than once – that it felt more like 93 years together, sometimes there at the end.” He switched back into a serious vein: “Look, I don’t wanna tell you your business, but you bet – if it was me – I’d be trying a lot harder at getting away from this place. If you’re happy enough, then all good, but there’s a great big world out there, full of lots of discoveries at least as interesting as those that Columbus made. So, think about it, okay?”\n\nShe tucked a stray hair behind her ear – a sign he knew well from their childhood. She was anxious. “I think part of it is that I just don’t know what I wanna do after high school,” she said. “It seems safer and less scary if I just imagine my whole life as unchanging, than if I try thinking of new paths I might follow if I can get a 75% grade in this class.”\n\nHe kissed her forehead. “Think bigger. I’ll return at 10.”\n\n***\n\nChallenge summary: This story has the first 50 decimal digits of the series of Pi. Each paragraph has not only the corresponding next-in-series number or number pair – either outright/buried in the text or as a homonym – but each paragraph also has that same number of words. As an added challenge, I avoided using the words \"one\" and \"to/too\" when there wasn't a 1 or 2 necessary in that word group. Math is beautiful, big fan. :)\n\n3 . 1 4 15 9 26 5 35 8 97 9 32 38 4 62 6 4 33 83 2 7 9 50 28 8 4 19 71 69 39 93 75 10..." } ]
[ { "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: Fist Bump\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1383\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet all or part of your story in a jam-packed storage unit." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Wayne nudged the file cabinet drawer shut.\n“Only people lost in the past keep paperwork these days Pops,” said his fifteen-year-old son. He flashed a copy of an Excel spreadsheet on his phone toward his father but seeing no recognition of this action from him, he lowered his head and thumbed one handed to more interesting sites. He murmured, “By the way, did I tell you I’ve changed my name from Jacob to Jay?” His voice tightened, “ I can’t stand being associated with a loser in the Old Testament who couldn’t even walk without a limp.”\nWayne turned within the cold shade of the storage unit to view his son. The shadow of the building cast a dark shadow across his body. Rays of morning sunlight blazed over the roofline to crown the top strands of his auburn hair as he stood near the lock gate of the unit. Tightness gripped Wayne. Am I seeing the light of an angel or enemy? he thought. Which will I meet today?\nAs Wayne stepped toward the lock gate, he scanned the contents of the rental unit to remind himself of the content's value. A flash of memory told him the old Indian motorcycle he planned to rebuild leaned against the back wall. He chortled. It would require the sale of all the antiques to even reach it. He buried the image quickly, for like his wayward son, it was something deeply hidden in his heart that always demanded something he wasn’t sure he had the power to give.\nHe inhaled to break free of these obsessions and clicked the metal wall of the exit with his wedding ring as was his habit to indicate he was done with business for the day. “You would do well to understand why Jacob had that limp,” he said. “You’d think differently of his name.”\nJacob stood back to allow room for his dad, eyes on the phone. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. \"I’ve heard it all before. At church and at home.”\nWayne stood on the threshold of the doorway; his voice heavy. “You would do well to understand just what it cost him to get that limp.”\nHis son raised his eggshell brown eyes to lock onto Wayne’s black as railroad ties. He raised the volume of the heavy metal music playing on the phone. He waved it back and forth like a Fourth of July sparkler to fill the space between them. Wayne raised an arm and shouted, “You’ve damaged your brain listening to such gibberish.”\nJacob yelled, “What you say means nothing to me.” He shut the music video and shoved the cell into his breast pocket. Yelling still, he said, “I’m only here cause you needed help shoving that dumb dresser into storage. Who are you saving it for? Like all the other stuff in there it will sit forever.”\nWayne lowered his voice, arms tight at his side, the skin between his eyebrows knit tight. “It’s solid wood. It’s quality. It’s not like the cheap screw driver put-together furniture you get from Ikea. You better keep that in mind.”\n“You think I’m stupid for listening to heavy metal and I think you’re stupid for living in the past. No one wants this old stuff. That’s what you need to learn.”\nWayne jammed his hands onto his hips. “Oh yeah, tell me, just what do I need to learn?”\nJacob pantomimed on the palm of his hand. “In business class we learn that to estimate profit margins you need to add the cost of the item with the materials and time it takes to maintain it, plus a portion of the rent you pay for its storage and the delivery fee. Then you deduct this total from your sale price.” Wayne’s forehead loosened. “Profit margins depend on the industry Pops. For as long as you keep your goods, I doubt you even get four percent profit.”\nWayne stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He uttered, “I’m impressed with your . . . your . . . sound thinking.”\n“Yeah? Well, you didn’t think I knew what was going on here but I do.”\nWayne withdrew his hands and pulled down the garage’s sliding door. He locked the combination lock. When he looked up, Jacob had already jumped into the passenger seat of the truck. Wayne counted his steps around the trunk bed to slow his breathing. He opened the door and slid inside. He pulled the seat belt across his chest and clicked it. He could feel the hard profile of his son. He glanced over at him and saw he looked straight out the windshield like a bird caught in a locked cage. Wayne shuddered and rolled down his window in an attempt to relieve the tight air between them.\n“Jacob. I’m proud of what you have learned and how you explained it to me. I want you to know that is how you would learn about Jacob and his limp too. He had to fight an angel to get what he wanted. The Ottoman king Mehmed studied Alexander The Great’s military strategy to conquer Constantinople. No other conqueror had achieved that for over a thousand years.” He tapped the stirring wheel to emphasize his following point, “He wasn’t even twenty years old.” Wayne wiggled the keys out of his front jean pocket. “We know stories like these as lessons for life.” He twisted the ignition and let the engine idle. Then he let the vehicle cruise down the road that separated the storage units. “Like them, you can change your life . . .”\n“I’ve got to change my life?” Jacob slapped both hands on his thighs and leaned back. He jutted his chin as though self-will alone would make the truck move faster and make his escape sooner.\n“Both of those men and the musician you admire studied those who lived before them in order to learn about life and how to succeed. They knew what they wanted and used their time to build skills.”\nWayne turned the truck left at the intersection that led to the exit. He let the truck crawl up to it. “What skills are you developing son?” Jacob sat hard as a statue. “What if we say for argument’s sake, that business law is your skill. Your math teacher told me at the parent’s night that you ace the tests without turning in homework. That’s why you receive a C grade.”\n“So.”\n“That won’t get you into college. I’m wondering if math isn’t the talent you need to develop.”\n“Who cares,” he said. He ran his hands up and down his thighs.\nWayne paused the truck at the main road. “I care. Math is simple to you. I’m going to enroll you in the college prep class. I’m pretty sure your teacher will back me on that decision.”\n“You’ll do this for my own good, right?” He pulled out his phone with a defeated sigh.\n“Hey. Don’t put me on hold with that phone like you say I do to you with those antiques back there.” Wayne braced his hands on the wheel. “Tell you what. I’ll sell all the stuff in the storge unit as you take that class.” His son looked at him. “In fact, I want you to keep the financial record to see that I keep my word.”\nJacob’s eyes widened.\nA sudden rise of giddiness rose through Wayne. He saw a mental image of himself riding that motorcycle. Another thought raced through his mind. He laughed and said, “Knowing the past gives us fuel for the future son.” He twisted his torso to face his son square. “Let’s do this together. Let’s hold each other accountable.”\nJacob shifted his position to face his dad and pointed across the few inches that separated them, “I’ll only do this if you give me twenty percent of the profit.”\n “Oh boy, I’ll have to ask higher prices then won’t I.”\n“I’ll have to ask a teacher to help me.”\nWayne nodded, the stagnant air between them vanished. He imagined that Jacob’s bird had finally taken flight. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay if you are.”\nJacob smiled and raised a fist. Wayne raised his fist. They bumped. In unison they said, “Deal!”" } ]
[ { "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: Before the Titanic\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2257\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone taking advantage of some unexpected free time." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“All this rush, rush, rushing around, it is more than my head can bear”, said John Appleton, depositing their overnight bags, a newspaper, and himself, exhausted, on a bench in Boston’s South Station, and there he wiped perspiration from his brow with a crumpled kerchief. His sister, Margaret perched beside him and offered up a private prayer for small mercies, which being the cleanliness of the rag, and his temporary capitulation to exhaustion. \nJudged by the acerbic commentary that accompanied much of their sight-seeing, Boston had in its crowded modernity driven John to an apoplexy of virtuous outrage, resulting ultimately in his insistence that they take an earlier train back to Bairstow, where he would commit to paper his urgent and necessary thoughts for the benefit of a wider audience. “The noise and motion impose upon my senses, the poverty and injustice offend my conscience”, he proclaimed in the manner of someone that believes their every thought deserving of expression in carved stone. \nMargaret, though reconciled with her brother’s recalcitrance, would happily have extended their stay at the new and marvelous Copley Square Hotel set in the bustling Back Bay area. She would miss the head-spinning crowds, the window displays, the crashing metal-on-metal noise of the Red Line subway, the hoots of the shiny motor vehicles, the inter-mingling with city folk going about their important and private lives wearing the very latest fashions. But Bairstow it would be, she would extend her stay in civilized society by vicarious means, perusing the Ladies’ Home Journal, and ordering materials from the Sears catalog.\nThe trip did have its moments of harmonious accord – as the siblings explored the Museum of Fine Arts, or star-gazed at the Harvard College Observatory - but mostly their experience of Boston had diverged.\n“You make it sound like Sodom”, said Margaret wearily, checking on the Atrium Clock that they were not going to miss the B&M train.\n“Minus the overdue attention of the deity, you have the place rightly pegged”, he replied.\n“You don’t think you are perhaps exaggerating a tad”, she said, exasperated by his high and mighty attitude.\n“No, not at all. It is the apogee of Hamilton’s dystopic America, a system of systems. There is a hidden and sinister hand driving us toward oblivion, whether it be in the conduct of trade and commerce, the production and consumption of goods and services, or even in the propulsion of engines and the compulsions of humanity itself. We are all just pinion wheels in an infernal engine”.\n“I believe you mean cogs in a machine”, she said, checking the Atrium clock again. They had time to spare and could sit a while longer. John unrolled the Boston Post and started at the front page, affording his sister reading room over his shoulder, though there were soon interrupted by a small commotion at the entrance to the station, where a Model T rolled to a halt beneath the wrought iron awning. From the passenger seat leapt a dapper young man, who strode across the concourse carrying a duffle bag in one hand, clasping a derby hat to his head with the other; he somehow seemed to be the go-getting embodiment of the new age, but he disappeared into a cloud of steam and smoke that billowed from a waiting locomotive, and with him the mystery of his purpose also vanished. \n“First we are here, then we are there” John said, “and between the here and there, we hurtle through space in metal vessels as if launched from a cannon. Chaucer’s tales would have been brief in this day and age”.\n“You really are an insufferable, old fogey sometimes”, said Margaret, ever of an optimistic disposition, “Can you not see that this is a time of peace, prosperity and hope, rendered possible by man’s inventiveness?” Margaret, dressed in her Sunday best, tapped the dainty heels of her kid leather boots on the wooden boards, and resolved to change the dynamic. She stood erect, tugged at her embroidered bolero jacket, and demanded that John escort her forthwith to the station tea-room where she would not be denied an ice-cool Coca-Cola before they boarded the B&M train back to Bairstow. \nJohn seemed not to hear her, he was relentless, “I tell you that free will expired on the altar of capitalism, the laws of nature are under siege, and time itself has been usurped”. He seemed quite pleased with this pontification and accordingly extracted a little notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, and a pencil.\nMargaret slapped the notebook aside, “All tosh and nonsense”, she handed him a coin and demanded that he buy her a refreshment at the concessionary, but John proceeded to demur with a wordiness that would have tested the patience of a biblical Job. His monolog somehow touched on to the subject of pre-agrarian Mesopotamia, which marked the point at which Margaret’s own patience, less than that of Job, snapped, and at the stamping of her black lace-up shoe, he gathered up their things and followed her from the concourse area.\nThe young woman at the concession stand, her face framed by an abundance of bright orange curls, gave John an inviting smile, which cooled one ardor by sparking another, causing him to linger at the counter where he charmed her with a preposterous tale about an Irish policeman, a string of sausages and a lost dog. In due course, he learned that her name was Kathy, a recent immigrant from Ireland, and she laughed at his nonsense.\nJohn joined his sister at the window-table, overlooking Summer Street, rather pleased with himself. They sat in a more contemplative mood at the table, he stealing a glance at the lovely. Between brother and sister, lay two glasses of caramel soda, a recent mass-produced innovation, emblematic of the times. Margaret sipped at the glass of Coca-Cola with curiosity, while John chewed on his first mouthful as if considering the whereabouts of a spittoon.\n“Oh, how delightful!” said Margaret, “It is the latest in dietary supplements and said to cure an upset stomach and calm the nerves”. Her cheeks puckered as she drew thirstily upon the patent drinking straw.\n“I feel my hat about to blow from my head with all this sugar”, said John wistfully, smiling at the girl behind the counter.\nJohn began scratching at the pages of his pocketbook, which inspired in Margaret a more forgiving disposition and a desire to better understand the ferocious intensity that seemed always and forever aflame inside her younger brother, as if kindled by his father’s death. As John’s primary caretaker, a surrogate for their long-dead mother, Margaret fretted constantly at how to tend his febrile mind, and though he irritated her and was unconscionably self-centered, she felt that all things considered, her parents would be proud of the man he was becoming. John, for his part, was focused elsewhere, expressing in verse the beauty of the celestial phenomenon that pulled at the soda fountain and arranged the glassware on the shelf behind the serving counter. And so, time passed, in fact it positively raced by.\n“What o’clock is it,” asked John, reminded of affairs elsewhere.\n“Oh no!” Margaret held her hands to her face in shock when she looked at the Atrium clock, “We’ve missed our train for heaven’s sake!”. She looked at John, fearing that he might explode, but against her expectations, he was surprisingly philosophical, in the manner of the English, that is, emotionally uninvested and cooly calculating, “well I suppose we must take a later train, then” he said, which was not the response Margaret was expecting. “Perhaps I should order another bottle of this delicious caramel Pepto from the young lady at the counter?”, added John, thoughtfully.\n“Oh, John, we must call the housekeeper on the mechanical pay phone in the booth by the ticket office and tell her we will be late!” said Margaret, removing a handful of coins for John’s use.\nJohn jolted back into contrariness for a moment, “What purpose is there informing Mrs. Evans that we will be late in advance, won’t she discover that for herself in due course, anyway?” Margaret was pondering the notion of being ‘late in advance’ when her riposte was snuffed out by her brother’s relentless logic. “It just seems to me that you are eliminating the notion of late and early, because neither can be true if we constantly revise our expectations. We will always be on time under such circumstances” he disclaimed.\n “John, you are a bounder, and your concern for your fellow man selective at best. It might save Evans time and effort, preparing a meal, not to mention the courtesy it extends to Old Aimsley, who will otherwise be waiting with the horse and trap for hours, out in the chilly night air.\n“Smoking and drinking at the Bairstow public house more likely, I’d wager”, he said, then left the table to make the phone call, dallying for several minutes at the counter, where he and Kathy engaged in lively banter, giggling at things.\nMargaret had bought a whimsey at a small dusty bric-a-brac store tucked away in a Back Bay alleyway. It was a precious thing, of no value beyond itself. In this moment of solitude, she removed it from her valise revealing a delicate glass globe in which a skilled craftsman had constructed a fabulous diorama; a fairytale castle adorned by towers, turrets, gables, balconies, and pinnacles, set atop a mountain, surrounded by pine forest through which a turbulent river cascaded. It was an impossible thing in an improbable place that she contemplated from every angle.\nJohn returned to the table with another bottle caramel soda in hand. “Do you think we might one day visit Europe?” she asked of him, “it is such an enchanted place, I imagine?”\n“When not warring with itself” said John absentmindedly, without his usual excess of conviction. He’d withdrawn the notebook from his pocket again and was busy scribbling something that looked suspiciously like a sonnet.\nThat far away continent was a subject that Margaret wished to pursue further; recent news had elevated the idea of a European tour from fanciful dream to a realistic possibility, “look here”, she pointed at a small column on the front page of the Boston Post, “an ocean liner left Southampton, England, yesterday carrying three thousand passengers, heading for New York. Three thousand! The journey is expected to take less than six days! The world is shrinking John!”\n“Lucky devils”, John acknowledged absently, busying away at his little black book, “the way things are headed, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they build a tunnel beneath the ocean and we’ll all be taking vacations to Paris and Prague in our Model T Fords”.\n“Or flying on great kites across the ocean!”, Margaret was rather enjoying this discussion, “upon my word John, perchance one day we might conquer space itself and colonize the moon, whereat the poor might feast upon cheese at their convenience”, with which Margaret reawakened a debate regarding the composition of the lunar orb that had followed their trip to the observatory.\n“Sister, you are worse than that Wells fellow, or the Frenchman, Jules Verne, what with your phantastic imaginings”, John said, looking at her with mild concern, “perhaps you’ve had a bit too much of this Cola?”. Her drinking glass was empty, and she seemed engrossed by the silly globe paperweight owing to the way the light played upon the ramparts of the miniature castle.\n“Oh, the pot is calling the kettle black, brother”, she mused, then pointed at his journal, “I do believe you are building your own castle in the sky”.\nJohn blushed, closed the book with a snap, “On the contrary, I am tearing down the walls of oppression, whether European monarchs or our home-grown oligarchs. Taft is meek in his pursuit of the monopolists. All must go... Now this fellow Marx…”, he huffed.\n“No stop, John, I cannot bear another lecture”, she felt horrible for interrupting the course of love, “forgive me for prying”. \nShe looked around the tearoom. The ginger-haired girl behind the counter was talking to a new customer, a young man in a snappy tweed jacket, and she noted that her brother seemed greatly bothered by it, but sharp words were spoken, and the man dissolved into the gathering crowd in the station concourse. The girl grinned apologetically at John, who slipped the book back into his jacket pocket, close to his melting heart. \n“Perhaps we should tarry a while?” suggested John, whose stupefying transformation into a puppy-dog was amusing Margaret.\n“Or take a later train?\" she suggested, warming to the prospect of further dalliance, “there’s a Vermeer that I really must see at the new museum in Fenway”.\n\"Splendid idea!\" exclaimed John, almost leaping from his seat, \"we may never get this chance again\". Apparently, their opinions of Boston had now converged, but suddenly a weighty thought occupied his mind and he frowned, “I have in mind a companion for the afternoon, would you mind terribly?”.\n“That’s a very modern idea!” said Margaret, not minding in the least. The frown was instantly erased from her brother’s brow.\nMargaret sat at the table and sipped at the glass of ice-cool Coca-Cola. She placed the glass whimsy back in her bag observing the shadow that fell upon the little castle, and she wondered to herself whether those lunar colonists would consume so much cheese that the moon might wane, and never again wax." } ]
[ { "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: Two Days With You\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2985\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s been 27 days since I found out I have to move out of my house. I have to move away from everything I’ve ever known. My father has lost his job again, this is the 8th time. I usually don’t get too bothered by it, moving from school to school in Illinois, but this time is different. This time I have to move to a new state. Florida to be exact. \nWe leave in 2 days for his new job as a hotel manager. I don’t understand what that job entails, but what I do know is I'm not ready. Even when I had to move around Illinois I was able to keep a few friends. Now it’s all going to be gone, poof, vanished.\n My mom’s making me finish packing up my room today. I’m blasting music through my tiny speaker, sorting through the remains of my closet, deciding what to pack for the hotel and what to box up. I look through the clothes that are practically useless for me at this point. The fact that I'll have to live in 90-degree weather fills me with a wave of overwhelming anger. I feel like I have no control over my own life, like I’m on a roller coaster with no end in sight.\nAs I fold and sort through clothes, I think of my friend Sierra. I look at the pile I’ve dedicated to leaving for her, an unwelcome reminder of the distance to come. She’s supposed to be here to pick me up soon. We’ve barely talked since I found out; I haven’t been able to face her and tell her the truth. I fold some sweatshirts that I can’t bear to leave, even if I know I might never use them. \nI hear her honk her horn, letting me know she’s here. I go and run to her car, getting inside in a rush. I take a breath and force the words out of my mouth. “Sierra. I have something serious to tell you.” It comes out all wrong. Quiet. Weak. \n“What's up Nat?” she says, looking at me curiously. A smirk tilts across the corners of her lips and I know she thinks I’m joking. God, I can’t crush her spirits like this. I could preserve her feelings and never tell her. I could disappear, leave without a word. But I couldn’t leave her like that. I wish I could never move away and just stay with her forever, but I can't. So I take one last look at her, taking in how happy she looks to see me and to be with me. How she thinks we still have forever ahead of us, but we don’t. \n“My dad got fired again.” The comfortable atmosphere of the car shifts to a sudden intensity as she turns the music down. A pause.\n“Okay, so you're moving like an hour away again?”\nAnger sparks in me that she thinks this isn’t a huge deal, but then again it's never been a big deal, so why would she think that? This has been our normal since we were little. Me having to move away into new houses and apartments, always jumping around. Living with whatever relative or friend we could find that would take us. We were always able to keep up with wherever my family moved. We always found a way to see each other. I didn’t know if this time would be the same. If our friendship was strong enough.\n“No, Sierra, it’s bad this time. Like really bad.”\nSierra and I discussed everything I hadn’t caught her up on, well almost everything. I told her how my dad lost his previous job a few weeks ago because he missed too many days. About how he’s been looking for a new job but I didn’t think to bring it up because it was our normal. How finding out I had to leave Illinois was such a shock to me. We cried and laughed while eating as much as we could afford. Money doesn’t matter when your time is limited with your best friend. I now only have $20.15 to my name, but I don’t even care anymore. \nNothing seems to matter to me anymore; life is feeling too real. I’m losing count of the last time I showered. It's Tuesday now and I’m pretty sure my last one was on Friday. My room would probably be a mess right now if I even had anything in it, but I don’t. Our previous few moves were more of a shock to me when I actually had time to have personal belongings in them. But at this point, it was just another room. I moved so much that I’ve learned to pack my life into a few select boxes, barely even owning decorations because there's no reason to decorate if I’m going to move right after anyways. \n—---------\nOne day left till I move. I promised Natalie I would spend the day with her, I already feel the sadness seeping in. Knowing that we have such little time left till I can’t see her anymore. As excited as I am to see her, I'm also dreading it. I can already tell it’ll be hard to keep the conversation light and happy; it’s hard to not focus on the bad when it’s all that consumes you. Darkening the air around you constantly, bringing others down because you can’t ignore the problem. \nI get pulled away from my thoughts for a second when I see her enter the room. Her eyes are puffy and red. She's been crying. I get off my bed and run to her, pulling her into a warm, tight embrace. We’re both scared to let go, scared our friendship will slip through the space between us if we create any. \nShe finally pulls away from what feels like an eternity of sorrow. \n“You ready to get this day started,” she says between sniffles. \nI nod and then we’re off. She takes my hand and drags me back into my bed. We lay there and watch comedy movies until it’s dinner time. I soak in the presence of her next to me, knowing it will feel like a lifetime before I get to feel it again. We decided to go out and get fast food for dinner since there was barely any food left in my house. We’re blasting our favorite songs in the car, singing every word until our throats go dry. My mom decided to stop grocery shopping last week and use up whatever ingredients we had left. Now all that remains is rice, beans, and a can of corn. \nI got a cheeseburger and some fries, it was $7.89, and now I’m left with $12.26. Sierra somehow convinces me to split an ice cream cone with her once we finish our meals. After buying that, I’m down to $9.06. She’s worth it though. Ice cream is her favorite thing and I want her to remember me with the good memories. \nWe end up just driving around our town blasting music. It might not compare to Downtown Chicago, but it's enough for tonight. We roll down the windows and I love the freeing feeling of the wind in my hair. I don’t care that I’ll look like a mess tomorrow. I know it won’t matter anyways, nothing will after I leave. I think I’ll miss these kinds of nights the most. I turn my head to look at Sierra, I see tears streaming down her face while she's smiling wide, and at that moment I know she feels the same as I do. Tonight we tried not to think about the future and what it would hold for either of us. But we can't help it when you are losing a part of yourself, a piece of your heart amid a move.\nIt’s around 11 or 12 now, I don’t know, I’ve lost track of time. We’ve been sitting at an abandoned playground for a while now. We’re sitting on a swing set, slowly going back and forth. I’m still not ready for the night to end but I know it must at some point. All good things must come to an end. The cheesiest sayings sometimes are the truest.\n“I need to get home. I have a big day tomorrow.” The moving van will be there for us to transfer all of our belongings into, ready for the big day that it awaits.\n“I know,” she responds so softly I almost don’t hear her, but I do, so I stay longer for her. Neither of us gets off the swings; we just sit there hearing the creaks of our movements. It’s almost 1 am by the time she finally drives me home. I know my parents won’t care. They feel bad that this was sprung on me. I stumble through my house, a house that feels too empty now. Everything we own is in boxes. As I walk into my room, I don’t even bother to turn off what is left of my lights or to change my clothes, I just fall onto my bed drifting quickly into a deep slumber. \n—---------\nThe cold morning sun seeps through my curtainless room, waking me to my last day here. I pat around my bed, searching for my phone. Once I find it I see that I didn’t even charge it and that it’s dead. I go to plug it in and get a glance at all the things my parents have removed from my room. I no longer have a bedside table, or my favorite bean bag chair Sierra and I used to sit on when we would gossip about boys at school. I realize my phone has to charge on the ground for the first time since I originally moved here. I realize my life will never consist of this room, these people, or this city ever again. \nI groggily start to make my way out of bed and into my kitchen. \n“Hi sleepy head, what time did you get in last night?” my mom asks me with a little too much excitement for the day in her voice for my liking. How is she so optimistic about this move? Surely she has to be sad to leave as well, at least I thought she would be. She’s lived here longer than I have. I always knew my mom had craved the life of a beach girl, but I guess I thought our life here meant more to her than her fantasies of living somewhere hot. \n“I’m not sure. Late. What time is it?” \n“It’s already 9, the truck will be here in about an hour. I thought we could go grab some breakfast and coffee together before it comes.” \nI agree, knowing that it’ll probably be the only thing I get to eat until dinner. I go back and change into the clothes I left unpacked for today. I think about how I strangely don’t feel too sad as I pull my shirt over my head. I think it all just might feel too surreal for me. Or perhaps I’ve gone numb. I’m not sure. \nWhen we pulled back into my driveway the moving truck was already parked on the street, my dad started moving boxes out of the garage and near the truck so it could all go in. I notice that he’s managed to gather a few people from the neighborhood to help us carry everything, and it’s then I realize I don't know them. I guess I’ve moved so much that I never bothered to get close to my neighbors anymore. \nAfter a painstakingly full day of trips back and forth between the truck and my house, we’re finally done. We had to pack and unpack the truck 3 different times to make things fit. It’s already 7 pm and I’m exhausted. Sierra's family and I have decided to go get food together for our last night here, their treat. We decided to meet up at 8:00 pm for Chinese food and a movie at their house. \nIt was a full night of laughter and tears, and they agreed to say one last goodbye to us tomorrow morning before we left. Seeing how my family acts around them makes me even madder that they agreed to leave in the first place. They act like we have nothing to lose by moving, how it’s an opportunity for new friends. But this was all I needed. I try to not focus on that because I want my last memory with them to be happy. \nWe get home at around midnight. My parents go to sleep immediately. I try my best to sleep, because I know I won’t be getting it for the next couple of weeks, but I can’t. I find myself staring at the familiar walls of my room, taking in every little detail I didn’t appreciate before. The holes in the wall where I pinned up pictures of Sierra and I, the broken string of the ceiling fan that rattled all night, the scent of me, of my life. I have to play some music to silence my thoughts, and I finally start to fall asleep. \nThe day has finally come. The day I leave my life behind. We had to pack our beds into the truck yesterday so we were all sleeping on sleeping bags. I wake up with a stiff back from the hard floor, I check my phone and it’s almost 7:15 am, I have multiple messages from Sierra. \nWake up!\nAre you awake yet??\nMissed call\nMissed call\nI’m coming over early to pick you up for coffee whether you’re up or not\nI smile at my phone and get off the hard cold floor. I didn’t leave out any clothes for me to change into today for the trip to Florida so I just go brush my teeth. She pulls up to my house at 7:20 am on the dot and honks her horn, without a care for the other sleeping people on my street. I make sure to grab my wallet as I run out the door and to her car. \nShe pulls out and I turn the music on, not wanting to talk about what’s to come yet. I start to doubt whether we need coffee as we sing and dance our hearts out for the last time. Her car is still cool from the cold Illinois night, but I soak the last cold morning I’m going to get in. We get to Starbucks. Of course she chooses the most expensive place. She turns down the volume so I can hear her speak to me. \n“Do you want to just go through the drive-through and talk in here?”\n“Yeah, that would be nice. We don’t have too long anyways.” \n“What time do you leave?” she asks, but she won't look at me directly.\n“8 o'clock.”\nShe doesn’t say another word until we order our drinks. We do two separate orders, mine ends up being $7.02, I ordered a small vanilla iced latte. I don’t see a point in keeping what's left of the money, $2.04, so I just put it in the tip jar. I know it might sound stupid, but I tell myself that maybe that means a part of me will always be here. \nWe drink our coffees and drive around again, it’s all we’ve seemed to do with our remaining time the past few days, but I wouldn't have any other way. It’s something we’ve always loved to do together. At ten to eight, we start heading back to my house, if I can even call it that anymore. \nWhen we pull in, my parents are giving the key to the landlord while her parents stand by the car waiting to say goodbye. Sierra and I start saying our goodbyes when I remember I have something to give her. I go run to the car and grab a plastic bag, full of my clothes that I knew she loved. I reached out to give her the bag. \n“Here, something to remember me by,” I say, as tears start rolling out of my eyes. She takes the bag out of my hand and looks inside. When she sees the contents of it, she pulls me in for another embrace. We’re both hysterically sobbing. Our parents are saying their quick goodbyes, the stereotypical “hope to see you soon” and empty promises to keep in touch, that you know will never be kept. \n“You act like you’re dying,” Sierra says, her voice breaking slightly. I know she feels the same way; she’s just trying to make me feel better. “We’re going to see each other again, ok? I promise. And we have to call every day.” I nod because I can’t form any words. I’m scared her words are going to turn out just as empty as our parents. \nWe all start to pile in the car for the long trip that’s ahead of us. We say one last goodbye through our rolled-down windows. I see Sierra wave at me as we start to drive away while she cries even more. I continue to stare at her, at my life behind her, until she turns into a tiny speck in the distance. We turn the corner and she’s gone. I feel so worn out from crying that nothing will come out anymore. It's almost like I am so numb from the pain of these last couple of days that I can't feel emotions like I did before I found out we were leaving.\nThere’s a part of me that knows Illinois will always have a spot in my heart and is my real home. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get rid of that feeling." } ]
[ { "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 Teen's Unending Love\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1262\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time, there was a teenage boy named James. He was a bright and talented student in his high school, with a passion for photography and a kind heart. James had everything going for him, except for one thing - he couldn't let go of his first high school love interest.\nHer name was Sarah, and she was the most beautiful girl in the school. James had fallen head over heels in love with her since the first day they met, and he spent all his time and energy trying to win her heart. He would leave notes in her locker, offer to walk her home, and even sneak into her classroom during lunch to steal a glimpse of her smile. But no matter how hard he tried, Sarah always seemed just out of reach.\nYears went by, and James started to realize that his crush on Sarah was starting to consume his life. He was no longer interested in photography or his other hobbies, and his grades started to suffer. He found himself constantly thinking about Sarah and what could have been, and it was starting to take a toll on his mental health.\nOne day, James decided enough was enough. He decided to muster up the courage to ask Sarah out on a date, and to his surprise, she said yes. James was over the moon and spent the next few weeks planning the perfect date. He took Sarah to the finest restaurant in town, and they had an amazing time together. James felt like he was on top of the world, but little did he know, the hardest part was yet to come.\nAfter their date, Sarah thanked James for a wonderful evening, but she made it clear that she wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with him. James was devastated. He had put all his eggs in one basket and had invested so much time and energy into Sarah, only to be rejected in the end. He felt like a fool and didn't know how to pick up the pieces of his broken heart.\nIn the months that followed, James tried his best to move on from Sarah, but it was easier said than done. He would see her in the hallway and his heart would race, or he would come across an old photo of her and find himself lost in thought for hours. He couldn't shake the feeling that Sarah was the one that got away.\nOne day, James decided to confront his feelings head-on. He asked Sarah to meet him after school, and they sat down to talk. Sarah explained to James that she appreciated his efforts, but she just didn't feel the same way about him. She told him that she valued their friendship, but she couldn't give him what he wanted.\nJames was heartbroken, but he finally understood that Sarah was never going to feel the same way about him. He realized that he needed to let go of his first high school love interest and start living his life again. He started to focus on his hobbies and his studies, and soon, he was back to his old self. He found joy in the things he used to love, and he started to make new friends.\nYears went by, and James and Sarah remained friends, but the feelings he had for her faded into the background. He eventually found love with someone else, and he was happier than he had ever been. He looked back on his time with Sarah with fond memories, but he was grateful for the journey that had brought him to where he was.\nIn the end, James learned that letting go of his first high school love interest was the best thing he could have ever done for himself. He found happiness and fulfillment in other areas of his life, and he was grateful for the lesson that Sarah had taught him. He realized that true love comes in many forms.\nJames continued to work hard and pursue his passions, and before long, he found success in his career as a photographer. He traveled the world, capturing stunning images and building a reputation for himself as a talented and creative artist. He was living the life he had always dreamed of, but he never forgot about his first love, Sarah.\nYears passed, and James returned to his hometown for a visit. He was shocked to find that Sarah was still there, and she was now a successful businesswoman. They reconnected and reminisced about their high school days, and James found that he still had feelings for her. He couldn't believe that after all these years, his love for her had never truly faded.\nSarah, on the other hand, had moved on and was now happily married with children. James was happy for her, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had missed out on his chance with her. He spent the rest of his visit in a daze, constantly thinking about what could have been.\nAfter he returned home, James struggled to focus on his work. He was haunted by the memory of Sarah, and he found himself constantly thinking about her. He realized that he needed to take action and find closure, so he wrote her a letter. In the letter, he poured out his heart and told her about the love he had always felt for her. He asked for her forgiveness for any pain he may have caused her and hoped that they could still be friends.\nTo James's surprise, Sarah wrote back and agreed to meet with him. They sat down for coffee and talked about their lives, and James finally found the closure he had been seeking. He was happy to have her in his life as a friend, but he finally accepted that his feelings for her would never be returned. He realized that he was grateful for the memories they had shared and that their friendship was more important than any romantic love they may have had.\nOver the next few years, James and Sarah kept in touch, and James finally found peace in his heart. He continued to travel the world and take breathtaking photos, and he eventually found the love of his life in another woman. He was finally able to let go of his first high school love interest and move on with his life.\nSarah was thrilled when James told her about his new love, and she was happy to see that he had finally found happiness. She was proud of him for following his dreams and pursuing his passions, and she was grateful for the special bond they still shared.\nYears went by, and James and Sarah remained friends, and James would often reflect on his journey. He realized that letting go of his first love was the hardest thing he had ever done, but it was also the best thing that had ever happened to him. He learned that true love takes many forms and that sometimes, the greatest love of all is the love of friendship.\nAnd so, James's story came full circle, as he realized that even though Sarah may have never been his true love, she was still an important part of his life and a reminder of the journey that brought him to where he was. He was grateful for the lessons he had learned and the experiences he had shared with her, and he knew that he would never forget his first high school love interest." } ]
[ { "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: After School\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2174\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On a Tuesday afternoon, two teenagers returned home like never before. Eddy Gousse, a 16-year-old Sophomore at Waywood High School, and his sister, Alese Gousse, a 14-year-old Freshman attending the same school, returned home distraught after their day at school. The two enter their home and are greeted by their father, whose face shifts from welcoming to deeply concerned and worried. Their father, Clark Gousee, noticed his daughter’s clothes had been badly torn and was wearing her brother’s hoodie to hide the fact. Before being able to ask what was wrong, his daughter leaped into his chest and began bawling on the spot. Clark didn’t know what to say but decided to hold off on any further words and comforted his daughter. Hearing the noise, Kimberly Gousse, the mother of the house, and Travis Gousse, the oldest son of the three, had both run downstairs. Based on the noise she heard, Kimberly ran down the stairs yelling, “WHAT? WHAT HAPPENED?” without seeing anyone yet. Her yells were based on a bad gut feeling from hearing her daughter cry. But once she reached downstairs and assessed the situation. She yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!” She sees her daughter crying in her husband’s arms as her clothes are in tatters. She looks to the doorway and yells, “EDDY WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO ALESE?!” Eddy had not entered the doorway yet, he stood right outside the door with an ominous look on his face. His face could barely be seen but his eyebrows were noticeably frowned and his fists were balled up in what one could guess would be rage. Eddy looked deeply enraged by the events that happened to his sister. His mom yells at Eddy again for the details. Eddy gathers his breath and explains that Alese had gotten jumped by a group of girls at school. Eddy was angry so his words became very unfiltered. He described that the group of low-down dirty bitches had used weapons on Alese after school while people were getting on their buses. He had noticed she wasn’t getting on the bus and went to look for her. After 20 minutes of looking everywhere, he noticed a group of girls coming from somewhere and looked to check. He noticed his sister laid out on the ground in tears and bruises. Eddy carried Alese on his back the entire way home. “... If only I could’ve..” Eddy grumbled to himself. Their mother had already started to try and comfort Alese. Noticing that Alese was already being checked on by their parents, Travis rushes to Eddy’s side, puts his arm over his shoulder, guides him inside to the couch, and asks him, “Yo you ok Ed? I know it must be hard on you, but I’m proud of you for taking care of our little sister. You know who did this to her?” Kimberly overhears the conversation, and blurts out, “YEAH, WHICH LITTLE BITCHES UP THERE DID THIS?” Clark tells Kimberly to calm down and urges her to take Alese to the bathroom, get her cleaned up, and put her on some better clothes. “Don’t pressure her to talk right now,” Clark tells his wife. Clark understands how loud and imposing she can be, and that Alese doesn’t deal well with pressure in emotional situations. Clark goes over to his two sons to continue the conversation. “Now who in the fuck were these girls that did this?” says Clark. Eddy replies, “Annie, Nicole, Lea, Jennavecia, and Milyn. I remembered all their faces. They’re a group of Junior girls who I’ve always had a bad feeling about. FUCK” Eddy slaps his hands into his face. He is then comforted by his brother and father and told, “It’s not your fault, don’t be mad at yourself.”\n\nA bit of time passes before Alese and Kimberly come back out of the bathroom. Alese is looking physically better, but what’s going on inside of her head is a completely different story. Kimberly walks her out and sits her down with the family. Before any other actions are taken, everyone would like to hear what she has to say about the situation. Alese clears her throat to speak, and the mental preparation to talk can be seen on her face. She opens her mouth a bit but can't seem to find the beginning of her sentence. Her eyes scatter around as if she’s desperately looking for the words to create her sentence. Her breathing begins to get frantic but is interrupted by Eddy who grabs her hand. Her heavy breaths begin to slow down, as she looks Eddy in the eyes who is demonstrating controlled breathing to her like a doctor would. Eddy asks her if he can explain the story for her, and Alese looks at him with wide eyes and great concern. Eddy silently mouths to her, “Don’t worry….” Followed by a set of words Kimberly couldn’t make out. Whatever he said seemed to have calmed Alese down, and after noticing, their mom stopped her incessant foot-tapping. As she was eager to hear more and ask a lot of questions. Eddy explains everything to their family.\n\nIn short, Alese had been tricked to go behind the school’s auditory gym by a random upperclassman and was met by a group of girls who held a grudge against her. The reason behind the grudge was unknown but they ended the beating by warning her to watch who she was talking to. The family concludes that some boy was talking to Alese and the other girls weren’t a fan of what was going on and took their anger out on her. The motivation was simple, but the actions were inexcusable. Kimberly asked Alese if she wanted her to go up there and beat those little whores up. But Alese declined, saying that the problem wouldn’t be fixed by violence. Everyone understood that she was taking the high road, but as a collective, everyone wanted to take the low road and really beat the fuck out of these girls. Aggravation grew on Kimberly’s face but she stomped her foot and yelled, “FINE, so what do you want us to do about this?” Alese pondered in thought, then looked at her older brother Eddy. While looking at him she said, “I don’t know yet, but can I stay home tomorrow?” Clark immediately affirms her and lets her know she can take the rest of the week off if she wants. Travis tries to comfort her but is met by a shocking reaction from Alese. She was also surprised by her reaction and apologized to Travis. “I’m just going to go to bed early,” she says, then storms up the stairs. Everyone downstairs has their face covered in worry. Each one of them is thinking to themselves of a way to fix this problem without resorting to violence. Kimberly announces that they could get in contact with the girl’s parents, but Eddy shuts down that idea because he doesn’t want to have to get the school or the police involved. A look of confusion is now on Clark’s face, “What do you mean we shouldn’t go to the school or the police? The fuck is wrong with you?” Eddy retorts, “You saw how she looked just trying to tell her story to the rest of you. You think she could handle the teachers and police hounding her for questions?” Clark knows very well that Alese isn’t good in those situations and sits down in frustration. No one in the living room can think of a good solution, so in the meantime, Clark decides to get dinner ready and ask Kimberly for her help. Kimberly is usually very assertive and outgoing, but wanting to respect her daughter's decision she had no choice but to calm down. Thus her emotions took over as she sympathized with her daughter’s pain. Clark sensed her emotions, took her by the hand, and escorted her to the kitchen where she could put her focus on something else for a while. Travis then went upstairs, checked by Alese’s door, and listened for anything. But there was nothing but silence in her room, Travis assumed she fell asleep and went into his room. Eddy stayed downstairs on the couch where he was in serious deep thought. The house had fallen quiet as the night approached. \n\nTwo days had passed and it was now Friday. Alese hadn’t come out of her room much since the incident. Only leaving her room to eat, shower, and use the restroom. Everyone in the house has been constantly worried about her. Checking on her several times an hour, but she declined every time. From one of his juniors, Clark had heard that Eddy wasn’t acting like himself at school for the past week. Alese’s behavior would stay the same until Wednesday, almost a week after the incident. Whereas Eddy’s behavior would be the same for the next 2 months. During that time, Alese was constantly guarded by Eddy on their way to and from school. Nothing else happened during those 2 months, and things seemed to go back to normal.\n\nIt is now almost three months after the incident. Clark, Kimberly, and Travis are at home. Clark is sitting on the couch watching the news. “Breaking News: 5 Students murdered at Waywood High School! More news coming after the break!” was heard on the television. In shock, Clark leaps up and yells upstairs, “Kim, Travis! Come down here!”. Noticing the tone in her husband's voice, Kimberly runs down the stairs yelling, “WHAT?! WHAT HAPPENED?!” before even turning the corner to go downstairs. She rushes downstairs, followed by Travis. Not knowing what’s going on and paranoid from the last incident, Kimberly snaps her neck to the door and asks, “Where’s Alese?” She snaps her neck back to her husband and asks, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” She sees that he is on the phone trying to call someone. “Who are you talking to?” asked Travis. In a more panicked voice, Clark tells them that he is trying to get in contact with Alese and Eddy, but neither one of them is picking up the phone. They all then start to try and get in contact with the two. The news comes back on and the report is given again, “Breaking News: 5 Students Murdered at Waywood High School! The suspect is in custody and we are awaiting more news now from Holand who is on the scene.” Unable to sit still, Travis rushes to get his keys and darts towards the door. He yanks the door open and as he crosses the doorway he bumps into someone. Travis bumped into Alese who was just now getting off the bus. “Oh my god, Alese are you ok?” Travis asks her while helping her to her feet. “Ouch, yeah. I’m fine. What’s the rush?” Alese says. Hearing all the commotion, Kimberly and Clark notice Alese and rush to her side. “Are you ok? What’s going on? Did you hear the news? You’re not hurt are you? Why weren’t you picking up our calls? What the fuck is going on?” asks the uncorked Kimberly, who was too nervous to contain herself. Amidst all her questions, she looks behind Alese and notices that the bus has already looped the neighborhood and dropped off all the kids. She looks around behind Alese some more and asks, “Where is Eddy?”\n\n “Eddy Gousse is the confirmed suspect of the shootings. Eddy is a 16-year-old Sophomore at Waywood High School, who murdered 5 male Junior students in cold blood. The victims are confirmed to be Jalen Nichols, Denny Pascar, Christian Ashland, Dominique Mills, and Zach Hine. The gunfire was heard behind the school’s auditory gym where the 5 students' bodies were found. The school’s security rushed to the scene and found the 16-year-old murderer, sitting on top of one of the student’s corpses. Eddy was non-resistant during his arrest and was taken into custody shortly after the police arrived. Motivations are still unknown and no other children were hurt during the incident. More news coming soon..” was reported on the TV. A shocked silence entered the Gousse household. They were struggling to process the news they just heard on the television. Kimberly falls to her knees, weeping and shouting, “NO! NO! NOT MY BABY!” Alese continues looking at the news and sees the school pictures of the victims and lets out a shocked and loud gasp, “Oh my god, no!” She follows her mother and falls to her knees as well, covering her mouth and weeping. The house phone can be heard ringing, and the speechless Travis hurries to get the phone. There is also a knock at the door. Clark looks out the window before answering the door and notices the police lights. He opens his house door, simultaneously with multiple nosy neighbors who came outside to check what’s going on. “Mr. Gousse correct? I would like to talk to you about your son, Eddy Gousse.” says the officer." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When We Fly\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2987\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone saying “Houston, we have a problem.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Note: This account is (mostly) true. Names have been changed per FERPA regulations.\n\n“Houston, we have a problem,” I announce unnecessarily.\n\n“More like a lot of problems,” Gabe offers. True that.\n\nLet me back up. Second period is kind of a shitshow from the start.\n\nI had almost completed the mini decathlon event our district requires teachers to accomplish during the six-minute break between classes. It is a ten-step challenge of mental and physical endurance involving equipment hookup, remote Classroom set-up, lesson coordination, media uploads, desk sanitation, and so on. We do this because we have remained open during covid for both live students and remote students at the same time. Because Technology Makes Everything Possible.\n\nSo I’ve swabbed the last desk in time to gasp out a Clorox wipe infused hello to the incoming freshmen, squinching my eyes up extra hard to show that I am smiling behind my mask. The live students, that is to say the ones in the classroom made of concrete blocks, sit at precise 4-foot intervals, desks centered on little x’s of duct tape. Their masked faces immediately bow over their phones as if at prayer, fingers clittering over the keys. My remote students, the ones on the Brady Bunch grid of the online Classroom Meet, flicker into existence and I greet them too. Then I attempt to open the attendance program. The spinning wheel of death indicating it isn’t loading rolls over any hope that I will achieve my personal best in this brave new world of pandemic academia.\n\nThe bell jangles, and I take a breath to start class, sucking half my mask into my mouth. As I ungag myself, I realize an unfamiliar person is standing by the door waving enthusiastically.\n\nIronically, I’ve never seen my live students’ faces, so I have no idea who anybody is. Cautiously, I venture, “You are?”\n\n“I’m Kaitlyn, Ms. H!” she sings, pulling down her mask. The only students whose faces I’ve seen all year are the remote students, which she was until, apparently, this minute, though no one sent me that memo. I apologize and cast about for where I might put another desk. The pattern of x’s on the floor suggests a gap if I move the trash can onto the recycling bin. It’s a problem of geometry I put off until later and temporarily seat her on the bookshelf. This triggers an outcry from several students whose sole ambition in life has evidently been to sit on the bookshelves. I feel their pain. The student desks are about as comfortable as the Iron Throne.\n\nI ask the live students to join the online Classroom so that both sets of students can work together, because Groupwork is Good according to all the workshops. I click and drag each name into groups, a mechanical slithering accompanying my start to the day’s material: Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.\n\n“So, I asked you to take note of imagery around flying things and crawling things,” I say, “Share out your findings in your groups on a doc so you can build an idea of what Bradbury is suggesting. Five minutes.”\n\nImmediately, an ear-splitting screech slices the air, feedback from the proximity of their laptops.\n\n“Mute your mics!” I shout.\n\nAs soon as the shrieking stills, a hand goes up. “Xavier isn’t showing up,” Sarah explains.\n\nI see that Xavier’s disappeared from the grid of remote faces on my laptop but has been replaced by the habitually tardy Tabitha who is staring vacantly at nothing. I move her into Sarah’s group.\n\nAnother hand goes up. “Max says he can’t open his doc.”\n\n“Which email did you use?” I ask the square representing Max. “And please turn on your camera.”\n\n“The school’s,” he answers. “And I’m still in my pj’s.”\n\n“Very amusing. Come to class prepared, meaning not in your jammies.”\n\n“My email hasn’t worked all semester.” The top of a tousled head hovers into view at the bottom of his square.\n\n“Have you done anything to fix that?”\n\n“No.”\n\n“Maybe contact IT because you need your email. For right now, share your home acco—”\n\n“For the last time, stop throwing dirty laundry in the toilet!”\n\nMy head almost dislodges from my shoulders as I whip around to find the source of the deep male voice in our room. The students are staring open-mouthed at the Owl® nesting on the bookshelf.\n\nThe Owl® broadcasts the remote students’ mics. I check the faces on the Brady Bunch grid, all of whom appear equally disconcerted except one. Carley is gazing into the distance, her head bobbing slightly. I reach over to my file cabinet, grab the pre-made sign that says ‘CARLEY,’ and flip it in front of my monitor. She gives me an expression that says I have a lot of nerve, then pries her ear buds out of her ears with an air of injured innocence that would do a saint proud. She mutes her mic just as the deep male voice in her house shouts, “I mean it!”\n\n“Carley, you are supposed to use your earphones for class, not your music. You need to know what is going on here, and the rest of us don’t need to know about clothes in the toilet.”\n\n“Though that is actually kinda interesting,” Sarah observes.\n\nCarley is busy adding her two cents to the clothing-in-the-toilet directive. She then taps her mic back on, holds up a copy of Lord of the Flies, and says, “It’s not like I don’t know what we’re doing.”\n\nI keep a straight face as I hold up my copy of Fahrenheit 451 and move her into a group session.\n\nFor one brief moment, only the soft skirring of the keyboards breaks the silence. Then the PA system clears its throat, emits a burst of static followed by the advisory that PowerSchool is down and to please hold attendance, followed by the secretary asking if she did that right.\n\nI take a calming breath and decide to ignore the covid rules dictating that I can’t go past the line of duct tape in front of the student desks. I stride up the aisles scanning to see which kids are not on task. “Paul, come on, stop playing Fallout Shelter,” I comment in passing.\n\n“I can’t get into the Classroom,” he responds apathetically.\n\n“Why not?”\n\n“I forgot my password.”\n\nThree kids shout out the instructions for resetting it, which is helpful since I’m distracted by one of the remote students who is trying to get my attention in a series of stop-motion frames. I watch her freeze in assorted positions and then she disappears.\n\nI make a note to email admin to have a hotspot set up for her since that happens so often.\n\nThe Owl® now begins chirping from its spot on the bookshelf. I wiggle the cables, simultaneously redirecting the class to share their thinking about the ‘crawling things’ imagery they found. I’m beginning to work up a sweat as I race to the board to write the words they shout out: “Salamander!” “Black-beetle colored helmet!” “Thimble-wasps!” and so on.\n\n“Ms. H, the remote kids…” Margaret in the front row interrupts.\n\nI turn to see all of them except Carley pointing to their ears. I unplug the Owl® entirely, relying instead on the inferior laptop mic. “Can you hear me now?”\n\nAll but Carley nod.\n\nI then turn on the smart tv and start the slideshow on my laptop. I spent hours lovingly hand crafting a slideshow of striking images and appropriately sized fonts, partially to help the two sets of students stay on the same page but also because Gardner’s Multiple Intelligences tells us it is Good to appeal to visual learners. I tap screen mirroring and observe that the tv has remained a benign unblinking blue. I’m going to have to reboot my laptop, which means I’ll have to restart everything. I’m grinding my teeth and try to relax as I reboot, restart the online Classroom, pull up the slideshow, hit the screen mirroring, reselect the right tv, and wait for the remote kids to come back in. Amazingly, only Carley fails to show.\n\nWe preview a few slides of insects, while they shout out the associations they feel.\n\n“Creepy!”\n\n“Gross!”\n\n“Nasty!”\n\n“I like snakes.” There’s always one and I would have bet money it would be Gabe.\n\n“Eww, they are slimy!” Sarah counters.\n\n“No, actually, that is a misconception,” Gabe pontificates.\n\n“You are correct, Gabe. But by and large, humans are evolutionarily programmed to fear snakes since they are deadly. Can be deadly,” I hasten to clarify as I can see Gabe priming himself to debate the finer points of reptiles. “So, what is Bradbury associating all this creepy crawly imagery with?”\n\nSilence deadens the room, interrupted by a flowering of laughter when the slideshow is suddenly replaced with a video featuring baby Groot and baby Yoda in a dance-off.\n\n“Hilarious,” I say to Gavin, the purveyor of this entertainment. I pause to consider that baby Groot is the cuter one, and then realize I have what is referred to in hushed tones as a Teachable Moment. “So if we were to replace baby Yoda with, say, a cockroach, we’d probably all find ourselves feeling negative towards the cockroach, our bias against crawling things being fairly strong.” I trespass across the verboten duct tape line to snap shut the jaws of Gavin’s laptop. “So, Gavin, what is the crawling imagery associated with in the novel?”\n\n“I dunno. Umm…bad stuff?”\n\n“OK, a tad vague. What is the “bad stuff?”\n\nMargaret boldly jumps in. “Well, like, her earbud things?”\n\n“Right. And?”\n\nGabe groans. “The technological stuff, people, all of it.”\n\n“OK, hold that thought.” I restart the slideshow. “Switching gears, what about imagery of flying things? What did you find?”\n\nThey shout out the various passages of birds and butterflies and wings found in the novel.\n\nI accompany their offerings with the images of animals in flight on the slideshow and we brainstorm the associations they feel. “What does Bradbury use this imagery to describe?”\n\n“Books,” Gabe volunteers in a voice revealing how painfully obvious the answer is and could we all just move along? I sense he has some revelation he deeply wants to make, some blow he hopes to strike against the very foundations of education.\n\n“So Max, what is Bradbury revealing by associating books with this kind of imagery?\n\n“Books can make you fly?” He offers his guess with the hopeful optimism of a person who has not done the reading.\n\n“Sure, symbolically.” Max sits up a little straighter, astonished to have even come symbolically close to the mark. The movement brings his SpongeBob pajamas squarely into focus.\n\nRebekkah’s phone starts buzzing, inching its way across the desk like an industrious dung beetle. She snatches it up and shoves it into her bag. “I’m sorry Ms. H. I told my mom not to keep calling during this class. I really did.”\n\nI nod and try to take a calming breath but instead inhale some mask lint which shoots into my lungs like a bug. I start coughing, a covid-era faux pas, so I dash out into the hall to avoid a humanitarian crisis.\n\nWhen I step back into the room, Gabe is standing behind the sacred duct tape line and continuing the lesson extempore. “The technological stuff is always insects or snakes which are all low and repulsive, so you feel bad. The books are always birds which can fly and are beautiful, so you feel good.”\n\n“And given the deeply sarcastic tone there, you disagree,” I challenge from the doorway.\n\nGabe produces his ace in the hole. “It’s like he’s saying newer technologies are bad and old-fashioned stuff like books is good. But—” Here he pauses theatrically. “Books were once considered technology too. It’s all technology, people, laptops, phones, television, all of it.” Ah, so that’s the gem he’s been hoarding until just the right moment. He takes a bow and heads back to his seat.\n\n“Excellent! So is Gabe’s claim correct that it is all technology?”\n\nHalf of the students consult with their laptops while the other half whip out their phones to ask Siri to define technology. Gunslingers in the Old West could not have been faster on the draw.\n\nThe monotone voices of multiple Siris perform a Gregorian canon around the room. “Technology is the application of scientific knowledge for practical purposes.”\n\n“How are books practical?” Paul asks.\n\n“How are books scientific?” Gavin adds. Between them, they guffaw heartily.\n\n“The science of making paper, ink, printing presses, that is technology. More to the point, many people at first felt books, reading in general, would steal our memory and undermine our communities. Some perceived them to be dangerous, just like people do regarding technology today.”\n\nA voice pipes out of my laptop. “If books are dangerous, why do we read them?” Unbelievably, Carley has joined the class while we plumbed the shallows of symbolic interpretation.\n\nI am delighted she’s back in the fray. “Probably so that you learn how to handle dangerous ideas. Is this book dangerous?”\n\n“No, it’s boring,” she responds instantly, flapping her copy of Lord of the Flies in the air for emphasis, apparently still not on the same page as the rest of us. Literally, to use the word ‘literally’ correctly.\n\n“OK. And are the ideas in it boring?”\n\n“I’m too bored to know what the ideas are.”\n\n“Fair enough, though being bored by the same book as the rest of us would be a start. But back to Gabe’s point, if everything is technology, why is Bradbury using contrasting imagery in the novel?”\n\n“Books are better?” Margaret hazards.\n\n“If books are better, why are people burning them?” Paul protests.\n\nI make a mental note that his answer indicates he may actually be reading the book. “How do you feel when the books burn?”\n\n“Like celebrating?”\n\n“Ha!” I concede. “Let me rephrase. How does Bradbury want you to feel when books are burned?”\n\n“Sad,” Andrew says from the back of the room where he slouches most days without participating.\n\nOn that note, the Brady Bunch grid of the online Classroom disappears. The smart tv goes blue.\n\nSeveral students call out unnecessarily, “The server’s down.” I risk taking another calming breath and count to ten in my head.\n\n“At least books are more reliable,” Margaret asserts, maintaining her loyalty to the written word.\n\n“So, why is Bradbury using imagery of crawling things only some of the time, for what types of actions?”\n\n“Umm, the firemen with the salamander are burning the books.” I make a mental note that Paul might be overly focused on the burning part, and should I be concerned?\n\n“So, burning books is bad?” I ask.\n\n“Server’s back up,” several voices call out.\n\n“Yes?” Paul answers as if truly unclear about what position to take on the ethics of burning books.\n\n“I’d love a slightly more convincing “Yes” there, but good enough. But it’s not about the things, symbolically speaking. It's what they represent. What is in the books?”\n\n“PowerSchool is back up. Please take attendance at this time,” the PA system answers, followed by the secretary saying she thinks she did it right this time. I grit my teeth and try to pull up the PowerSchool.\n\n“Knowledge!” Margaret crows. “The birds represent, like, learning. And the crawling imagery is whatever is destroying knowledge like the firemen, or, you know, preventing it, like the earbuds and the TVs on the walls…” She stops, embarrassed by the enthusiasm of her outburst.\n\nInto the momentary silence, the heating vent in the back of the room begins its winter malfunction, a high-pitched mosquito-whine over a sibilant hissing. It starts every winter when the temperatures drop and can continue for as long as half an hour at a time, an ear-worm drilling into your skull. I’ve sent messages to maintenance, but such requests are routed through a mail system I am pretty sure is still part of the Pony Express.\n\nThe students set up a whine of their own to provide harmony to the rhythm of the heating vent. Together, they are working up a head of steam, a rising swell of agitation which is 100% contagious.\n\n“Houston, we have a problem,” I announce unnecessarily.\n\n“More like a lot of problems,” Gabe offers.\n\nI look out the window to gain some composure. It is cold out, at least if the heating vent is any indication, but sunny. We may have a problem, but we also have a solution, I realize. After the school shootings, they wouldn’t let us take the kids outside during class, but because of covid and the need for distancing and fresh air, we are allowed outside again. Given the class I’ve just had, it’s practically a mandate. Anyway, according to Gardner, kinesthetic learning is Important.\n\n“Guys, I appreciate your patience with today’s technical difficulties and assorted interruptions, but I think we need to call it a day. Put away your phones and close your laptops and your books. Grab your coats. We’re going out. I’ll lock the room.”\n\n“Without our phones?” Gavin looks like the idea shocks him to the very core.\n\n“You bet.” I decide I have another Teachable Moment. “Let’s experience imagery through the senses. Through being alive.”\n\n I shut it all down, the Meet session, the slideshow, the PowerSchool program for the attendance I never took, everything.\n\nWe leave the hissing cricket chorus to torture an empty room and file out of the building, past the windows where faces of students in other classes press up against panes, each square frame a picture of indignant outrage. Once we reach the soccer field, my students spread their arms and begin to run, scattering across the grass, dipping and swooping and filling the air with laughter. If I squint a little, I can see that they are flying over the green." } ]
[ { "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: Any Other Day\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2801\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who is experiencing glitches in their reality." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He woke up that day just like any other day. He got dressed the same as any other day, with jeans and the first shirt in his closet. And again, the same as any other day he brushed his teeth. Kit Little woke up like any other day, but this was in no way any other day. Kit went downstairs and grabbed a bowl of cereal. His parents were nowhere to be seen, as usual. They both worked at an office building an hour from the house so they usually left before he even woke up so most of his mornings were spent alone just getting ready for the day. He packed his lunch and made his way to the bus stop at the end of his street. On the bus he put in his earbuds and listened to music while he played a game to kill time. \nEverything was going according to the usual routine- that was, until he glanced up at a seat ahead of him on the other side of the bus. He nearly screamed when he saw it. One of the students had horribly twisted and warped skin. Where his arms once were now sat claws that looked like an overgrown praying mantis. Kit rubbed his eyes in disbelief but when he looked back, everything was normal. He stared for a moment before the student turned around and gave him a nasty sneer, telling Kit to look elsewhere, which he promptly did. He didn't like starting trouble and mostly kept to the back of his classrooms to avoid attention from everyone, students and staff alike.\nGetting to school Kit still felt a bit shook from what he saw, it was probably just his imagination mixing with a bit of sleep deprivation but it still rocked him to his core. Good news his first hour had something he knew would help get his day back on track. In the back of his Trigonometry class sat the most beautiful boy he'd ever laid eyes on: Theobold Walker, most people just called him Theo though. Kit had had a crush on him since they met in 8th grade, now well into his senior year he still couldn't pull his heart away from Theo. This is the one class he had assigned seats in and he had begged the teacher to put him in the back, he had left out the part where he wanted to be next to Theo. Thankfully this teacher really liked him since he had one of the highest grades in the class. \nHe hardly even tried honestly, most of the work just came naturally for him. He had a harder time in younger grades because he could never really show his work, he never did any so he couldn't show it. One teacher even made him do problems made up on the spot in front of the whole classroom to catch how he cheated. He got every single one of them right, the teacher was baffled and pissed that he didn't get even a single incorrect answer throughout the entire thing. He got detention for that too, but he didn't really mind. The teacher running it saw the reason and let him play on his phone for the whole hour long punishment.\nHe sat next to Theo and set his bag down on the floor. \n\"Hey Theo, how was practice yesterday?\" Theo smirked and gave Kit a sideways glance.\n\"How'd you know I had practice?\" Kit's face flushed a gentle red hue, he forgot how super stalkery that sounded.\n\"Oh, uhm well you know, I just overheard some guys on the bus talking about it.\" That was utter bullshit and Kit knew it, he checked the school sports calendar almost religiously. He was at almost every one of the football practices hiding near the bleachers. It honestly was pretty stalker-like, but he chose to think of it as a more romantic gesture of love. That didn't stop it from being pretty creepy though. Theo chuckled, \"I figured you heard it from the announcements\" Kit laughed nervously \n\"I guess that, too. I must have forgot.\" \nAfter that little bout of nerves and awkwardness, Kit put one of his earbuds in and zoned off. He did the homework that the teacher assigned in class in about 2 minutes and went back to his day dreams until he felt a nudge from his right. He looked over and saw Theo's gently pleading face.\n\"Hey, mind giving me a hand with the homework? I don't really understand any of this and my grades are already uncomfortably close to failing eligibility.\" Kit's face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.\n\"Y-Yeah!\" His face heaved the red hue back onto his cheeks as he realized his unchecked excitement and he cleared his throat. \"Sure thing,” he corrected himself, “Uhm, what part do you not get?\" \nKit spent the rest of the hour walking Theo through the various problems that had been assigned that day. When the bell rang Kit wished it was broken; they had gotten about halfway through the questions when they had to pack up, his perfect little moment snatched away from him. He was glad to have had it though, just a glimpse into the dreams in his head playing out in real life. Theo smiled at him and put his fist out.\n\"Thanks for the help man, I think I get it enough to finish later.\" Kit grinned like an idiot and bumped the extended fist.\n\"No problem! Maybe we could study it together sometime to make sure you get it? If you want to though! Not like you have to.\" He practically flinched waiting for the inevitable rejection he was expecting.\n\"That sounds great! You want me to swing by today?\" Kit slowly relaxed his body and slowly answered back.\n\"Uhm, yea that sounds perfect, well not perfect, like good, I mean not that it's bad or anything, it's uhm, it's good.\" He smiled, trying to save that trainwreck of a sentence. Theo just chuckled and gently slugged him in the shoulder.\n\"Alright teach', see you then.\" He walked off to his next class, leaving Kit too flustered to speak properly. That was probably one of the most embarrassing things he'd ever experienced in his life. With that he walked to his next class, cursing his awkwardness under his breath. He spent most of the time looking at his feet during the walk but he made the mistake of looking up. \nThe scene in front of him was nothing like what he'd expected to see. The whole hallway was covered in moss and plants; he heard far off calls of animals he'd never heard before; roots from trees that were almost certainly massive burst from the carpet beneath his feet; carpet seemingly much older than the carpet he was used to staring at during the walk from class to class, but almost definitely that same carpet. \nHe could barely even believe what his eyes were seeing. Then he heard it: the footstep of something much larger than him. He looked and just down the hall, peeking from behind a bush were two piercing yellow eyes. He could see the gleam of razor sharp teeth right under them. When he made eye contact with whatever this thing was it glared, slowly creeping from the bush came a Velociraptor, growling as it lowered itself and approached Kit. He was almost too scared to move. He took one step backwards and the Cretaceous monster lunged forward, dashing down the hall at incredible and terrifying speeds. Kit could feel his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. He turned around and started sprinting for his life. He didn't understand what was happening, all he knew was that he had to run. He turned to look back at the monster just in time to see it flying through the air, claws and jaw prepared to attack and kill its prey. Kit did the next natural thing he could think of and threw his arms up to defend himself while shutting his eyes tight and praying to any and all gods that would listen to him. Then, silence; everything was dead silent, until a voice shattered it like glass.\n\"Dude what are you doing?\" Kit opened his eyes. No dinosaur, no moss, no trees. He looked around and saw the hallway completely normal, and standing in it was Neil, the person that had said something. \n\"Uh, nothing, just practicing for something.\" He quickly put his arms down and righted himself \"... Uh, bye.\" \nKit took down the hall as quickly as he could, ducking into the boy’s bathroom and quickly locking the door. His heart had hardly calmed down and he could still hear it pumping in his ears, his breath matching. His lungs burnt and he backed against the wall, gently sliding to the floor while he regained his breath. After his body calmed down enough for his legs to stop shaking he slowly stood up and checked the time. He had completely missed his second hour, he elected to just skip it today and go to his third when the bell rang. He set his hand on the door handle and took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped through.\nWhen he looked around his heart stalled. This still wasn't the hallway he was expecting, in fact now it wasn't a hallway at all. He looked around, sawdust covered a wooden floor, dozens of boots clattered against it while sounds of cards, chips, and empty drinks could be heard just under the loud conversation. Everywhere he looked he saw people that could only be described as cowboys. He stumbled forward when he took a shoulder from behind. He saw the perpetrator walk past him while speaking to Kit with slurred words through gritted teeth.\n\"Watch it pal.\" \nKit jumped aside and made himself as small as he possibly could, his eyes frantically searching for the exit. When he spotted the swinging doors he made a dash for them. Stumbling out, he saw a dirt road slicing through the center of a town that looked distinctly western. The horses were hitched to posts and drinking from a nearby trough, men smoked large cigars while loading revolvers, and the dirt kicked into the air by feet and hooves alike. From right behind him Kit heard a fight coming closer, just over the swinging doors of what he realized was a saloon he saw two men grappling each other while charging the door. He jumped aside just as they came crashing through, fists flying and blows landing between the two men. Kit turned tail and ran.\nHe just wanted to go home and lay in his normal bed. \nAfter running until he no longer heard the jeers and noise of the town he found himself on the outside of a barbed wire fence with wooden posts. On the inside of the fence Kit saw a boy, about his age, with bulging muscles and sweat dripping from his brow while he slowly lifted a hay bale onto a cart. Once he looked up, Kit saw his face.\nHe looked almost identical to Theo, if he didn't know any better he would say it was Theo. The boy caught his eye.\n\"You got some strange clothes there friend, what can I do for you?\" Kit opened his mouth to speak and suddenly he watched his world warp around him. The dirt became metal, the fence became a wall, the sky became a ceiling, and the air around him became cold as a winter's day and it almost felt heavier as well. He looked around and saw that he was in a confined room, one side of the wall made of beds that looked surprisingly comfortable for how tight of a squeeze it would be to fit into them. To his side he saw a strange door, it had no handle or anything to open it with. He stepped towards it and cautiously pushed against it- nothing. He slid his hands up and down the strange metallic design until he felt a bump, looking just under his finger he spotted a button, not hidden but not apparent by any means. He pressed it and the door hissed while sliding to the side. On the other side he only saw another door across a metal hall. He cautiously stepped outside of the bunk room he found himself in and moved into the hallway, looking around for dinosaurs and cowboys while staying low and quiet. Suddenly a hand clamped down onto his shoulder and slammed him against the wall where another hand pinned him to it by his neck. All the air in his lungs was knocked out and he struggled against the hand’s grip.\n“Who are you and how did you get on my ship?” Kit could hardly breathe past the fingers wrapped around his throat, he desperately patted the hand choking him before it dropped him, and slammed into the wall next to him\n“Talk.”\n“I-I don’t know! My name is Kit I'm a normal high school student and I’ve spent all day changing time periods and I just want to go home!” His entire body was tense and he had pressed himself even further into the wall than the man in front of him had. The man stopped leaning forward and stood straight, giving Kit the chance to properly look at him. He was tall, crazy tall. His height and his muscle mass matched each other, his uniform was almost skin tight against his arms and legs. His blonde hair and angular jaw in tandem with his body made him look like the peak of masculinity. After an uncomfortable amount of time of the two sizing each other up the large man finally spoke\n“It’s you.”\n“Me?”\n“Yep, you. You’re coming with me.” \nThe man picked Kit up like he weighed nothing, he was always a bit smaller than other kids. He didn’t struggle though, he figured he might as well go with him till he felt like he needed to run, not like he really had any plan anyway so this was as good as anything.\nThey didn’t walk for long, a few turns and the strange man set him down in a room with nothing except for a chair with restraints and strange things that almost looked like Tesla coils covering the walls, floor, and ceiling. He fidgeted with his hands while the man pressed a button set into the wall.\n“Everyone, I want you down to the….” There was a pause before he let out what sounded to Kit like a long, tired sigh, “The dimensional room, stat.” He released the button and turned to Kit. “Sit in the chair, we’re gonna reset you back to your original universe.”\nKit hesitated before he slowly walked over to the chair, avoiding the coils on the floor, and sat down. Just as he made it into the chair the door slid open and a cast of strange humanoids filed into the room. One of them looked like a lizard, another had a robotic arm, another looked almost like he was made of plastic. \n“This here is our anomaly,”\nThe Lizard man spoke up, “How can you tell? Could just be a stowaway.” \n“He says he’s been jumping through time all day.”\nNext the woman with the robotic arm spoke. “Let’s get a move on then, I’m itchin’ to get paid.” The blonde man nodded and pushed another button on the wall and steel shackles erupted from the chair and clung to Kit’s wrist and ankles before the chains dragged them back into their hidden chamber, pinning Kit to the table.\nShit.\n“Wait wait, what’s going on?” Kit thrashed as best he could but he could barely move. He watched as the group left the room and the door sealed behind them. The blonde man’s face appeared in the door’s window, his voice suddenly coming through what had to be speakers in the walls.\n“Calm down, this’ll only hurt a bit but you'll be back home, and you’ll forget any of this ever happened.”\nKit continued thrashing as the room started to hum as the coils pulsed, lighting up and shooting strands of electricity into him. His skin screamed as he felt them scrape through his flesh and latch onto his spine. All at once the electricity crackled and sent a surge through his body that felt like he’d been whipped a thousand times at once, and then -\nAnd then, he woke up, just like any other day. He got dressed the same as any other day, with jeans and the second shirt in his closet. Just like any other day." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sincerely Mistaken\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two opposites finding themselves surprisingly attracted to one another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“It’s like a light show. A really damn weird light show.” Andrew Taker muttered that to himself as he carefully stepped through the hallway on his way to first period, eyes darting across the room. The horde of people made the room particularly hot that day. He partially unzipped his jacket while holding his backpack tightly to his chest with his other hand, subconsciously paranoid about the watching eyes of those around him. It was a shocking sight for Andrew. Coming from a small town in Mississippi, his schools were full mostly of white folk. The occasional kid of color who passed through kept their head low, usually grouping together with the other outcasts. Andrew had never participated in the harassment himself, he secretly disliked the horrid conflict, but it was hard not to get accustomed to the idea that the ‘others’ were different. But here, within the walls of a California school, people of all kinds mixed together in a vibrant flood. Some people wore solid shades of brooding black, others in eye-popping arrays of alien-looking colors. African Americans stood alongside whites, a Mexican and Asian couple held hands as they walked past. As one person sprinted past Andrew, he caught the shine of a rainbow pin on their bag, which would be an effective death sentence in Mississippi. But here, they were able to run through the halls without fear of being beaten, only of being late to class. The thought stuck with him as he pushed open the door to his classroom. First period was United States History, an enormous lecture hall three times the size of a Mississippi classroom. He took a glance at the seating chart before hurrying to his chair as the bell rang. Seat A33, at the edge of the room.\nThis guy looks racist. Sincere Kim glanced at the tall figure as he sat next to them, frowning. It might’ve partially been the fact he looked like a hybrid of every asshole she had been forced to put up with the last 16 years: tall, blue eyes, blonde hair, a perfect example of the Aryan race. It was definitely that, but more so how beneath his dull brown sports jacket peaked out a shirt of the old Mississippi flag, Confederate stars shining. It was hidden, really a lucky chance she saw it, but she would definitely be talking about it during lunch. As the classroom settled, Sincere occasionally casted glances at the boy, trying to pick up on any subtle actions she could report on. Half of them wanted to ask the teacher to move seats, but the louder half wanted to stick around for now, just to see what happened. “Seat A33, Andrew Taker?” “Here.” Of course he’s an Andrew, Sincere thought. “Seat B33… Sincere Kim?” “Here.” \n“Alright! Thank you for being here, class! I’m Dr. Heiner, your US History teacher.” He began to pace around the front of the room, analyzing his new subjects. “I hope you enjoy your seats, because this is your permanent arrangement for the rest of the year!” Sincere let out a groan. This wasn’t unexpected but certainly annoying. “Furthermore, for this first week I’m going to assign you all a little project with the person next to you. A short essay on what you believe are the defining themes of US History!” This was what really got to Sincere. Not only a homework assignment on the first day of junior year, an essay at that, but with him? It was going to be interesting discussing the Civil Rights movement with this clown. The classroom erupted into chatter, and Sincere turned to face the boy to her left as he turned to her. “Hey, I’m Andrew.” “...I’m Sincere” “That’s a cool name!” “...Thanks” Sincere tried her best to give a polite smile as the two began to chat. This is going to be one hell of a story, she thought to herself. What a weird way to start the year.\nFirst through fourth period flew by, and now lunch had come. Andrew wandered the vast courtyard looking for any group he might be able to join. He was of course thankful for the opportunity of moving here, for the job offer his dad had gotten, for the bustling city life, but at the same time, there was natural loneliness in moving to a new city. Andrew had had some conversation with his classmates, but nothing that really stuck. After 16 years everyone had their cliques, but he didn’t anymore. A weird feeling, no longer being another identical face in the crowd yet still unseen. Paranoid about being watched yet disappointed nobody was. As he walked past the far corner of the courtyard, he heard the sound of laughter and gasps to his left. He turned towards the tall tree and the small circle of people gathered underneath its shade. He recognized one of them, Sincere he believed? Either way, it was worth a shot, better than eating alone. \nWhen Sincere pointed at the short haired boy walking past her lunch group, \"oh, speak of the devil,” while she anticipated the chuckling and surprise from her friends, she did not anticipate him walking towards them right after. Sincere was fairly notable within the school. President of the school’s GSA, choir soloist, math tutor, straight As. However, they still preferred their small friend group and didn’t talk to others unless they had to, and seeing the guy she had been gossiping about walking towards her definitely violated that preference. He gave a polite smile and a “Hey!”. Sincere waved, hoping he didn’t hear the words she shared with the others. “We sit together in History?” He said standing above them, having to crouch to avoid getting hit by branches. “Yeah, Andrew right?” Sincere responded, internally annoyed. “Mind if I sit with y’all? I’m new so…” Sincere didn’t have an answer to that question. In honesty she expected him to leave at the sight of the group. They weren’t exactly the type of people someone wearing the Confederate flag would hang out with. Hunter was trans, Jamie was Hispanic, and Trish was Trish. She couldn’t think of a response before Trish blurted out, “Sure, take a seat! We got some great grass here!” Sincere shot Trish a quick what the hell? look as Andrew took his seat beside her. \nAndrew listened as Sincere introduced the other members of her team. Just like her, the others were unlike anyone Andrew had ever met before. Trish had a dark brown buzz cut, with a nose piercing that accentuated her toothy grin. Jamie looked normal enough, a relaxed teenager in baggy clothes with moppy hair. Hunter didn’t look like a Hunter to Andrew. Squeaky voice, short, not exactly the tough guy the name would suggest. Then of course there was Sincere. Large circular glasses, chopped short black hair, jeans, and an unwavering pissed off expression that had emerged the moment he walked past. Despite the blazing heat he kept his jacket zipped up, sweating out of a combination of heat and nervousness of the others seeing. However, that nervousness slowly subsided as the group continued their lunchtime chats. He even found himself joining in when the moment felt right. It was a weird feeling. In Mississippi the lunch tables were crowded and dumbed down versions of the Round Table, just a bunch of loud and noisy guys all shouting about sports or homework or sometimes politics. Here the atmosphere felt casual, intimate. Just some close friends shooting the breeze as they ate. While Andrew felt like an outsider here, he felt no less an outsider than in the crowded mess halls he had spent most of his lunches in, and truthfully he didn’t miss the noise. \n“So what do you think?” Sincere pondered that question as she and Jamie walked to their next class. Hunter and Andrew were both headed to physics and Trish had gone off to somewhere. “I don’t like him. I don’t know,” Sincere finally responded. “He gives bad vibes. And still, the shirt!” Jamie shrugged. “I mean his jacket was zipped so, can’t say for sure…” That remark ticked off Sincere.\n“I saw it.”\n“Never said you didn’t.”\n“Then what are you saying, Jamie?”\n“I’m just saying don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he’s alright. He might just not know better.”\n“Not know better than to wear that? No way.”\n“Look, you’re probably right, I’m just saying. Either way you’re stuck with him for that project.”\nSincere sighed. “I know. Let’s just talk about something else.”\n“Sure. Oh yeah, funny story about Trish today…”\nAndrew and Hunter trudged through the hallway in silence. Their lunchtime conversation had at one point shifted to classes, who had what when, what they heard from the year above. Andrew had offered to walk with Hunter after realizing they had physics together. Hunter timidly shrugged and said sure. While the walk across campus was long, the silence made it also feel agonizingly awkward. After a brief panic, he turned to his companion. “So, Hunter right? Cool name. Bit weird but yeah.” Hunter paused, slowing for a moment. “What does that mean?” Andrew flinched. There was a harshness in their voice. “Uh, well. It’s a good name! Just never met a girl named Hunter.” Hunter stopped before letting out a heavy breath, closing their eyes and muttering something Andrew could barely hear. “What?” He asked.\n“I said, I’m not a girl.”\n“You’re not? What do you mean?”\nSuddenly Hunter raised his voice, fiery eyes darting up at Andrew. “Jesus, you need me to spell it out!? Fine, I’m trans! God. Sincere was right.”\n“Wait, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ve never met a trans person before.”\nHunter scoffed, continuing to pace slowly. “That’s not surprising.”\nAndrew walked alongside him in silence once again. His dad had warned him about these people when he announced the move. He had a number of words for them, ‘Damn Queers’ the nicest among them. He said they’d corrupt his brain, or harass and attack him, and demanded Andrew avoid them at all costs. Andrew wasn’t one to doubt his parents, they’d raised him and despite their disagreements he loved them, but in this he was unsure. Throughout lunch Hunter and the others showed only kindness to him, and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see that some of his dad’s claims were a bit absurd. Andrew thought carefully for a long moment before he replied. “I’m really sorry. I just don’t know anything but you guys. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”\n“It’s fine. Really,” Hunter responded, giving a polite smile to Andrew. With a few more steps they arrived at their destination. As they walked through the doors to the physics classroom, Andrew asked a favor. “Would you mind maybe telling me a bit more about how this all works?” Hunter chuckled, “Sure thing.”\nThe moment the final bell rang, Sincere rushed out the doors. She had a ritual of running to the library every day after school. Mom was a doctor and dad was often in meetings, so it would be an hour or so before someone arrived to take Sincere home. Not that she minded much, Sincere had little quiet at home and with the chaos of school this was one of few times she truly had to herself. Whether she was doing homework or losing herself in a good book, it was a place Sincere could simply be. Especially with the stress of the first day alongside the unexpected drama surrounding a certain someone, she was glad to have her break. It was 5 minutes later the silence was broken. Although the library remained largely empty outside a brief period before school and during lunch, there was still a small trickle of people flowing in and out. However, those people did not usually take a seat in front of her with an irritating grin. “Hi. How’ve you been?” Asked Andrew. “...Fine,” growled Sincere. \n“Sorry to bother you. Hunter told me you’d be here.”\nSincere sighed. She’d have a few words for him later. However, it was curious. The idea that Hunter would be capable of having a civil conversation with someone like Hunter seemed laughable. Maybe he threatened him? Sincere dismissed the thought. Despite her instincts, she felt no hostility coming from Andrew, just a strange sense of nervousness. After a moment, she gave her reply. She had an idea. “Alright, fine. It’s good you’re here actually, we can work on our history assignment.” Andrew hesitated for a moment. “Actually, can we talk?”\n“We can talk after we get this done.”\n“But-”\n“Here’s a good conversation starter. What was the cause of the civil war?”\n“Excuse me?”\n“You heard the question. Answer.”\nAndrew was flustered. There was a distinct venom in her question. He panicked to think of an answer. “Well, I mean. I was always taught it was state rights. Big bad North attacking the poor South, y’know? My dad said the North exaggerated how bad slavery was to try and pin it on the South.” Sincere scoffed. “Of course you would think that you dumbass white boy.” Andrew suddenly stood up, raising his voice. “Excuse me?” A smile trickled onto Sincere’s face. Gotcha. She stood up to match him. “Oh, come on! Seriously, what were you thinking coming to a high school like this? You know that it’s like, just one of the most liberal in the country right? You can stop trying to play nice.”\n“I’m not playing nice! I was just trying to make a good first impression!”\n“Yeah, well that’s kinda hard when you’re wearing a flag of the Confederacy.”\nAndrew stopped. A hundred thoughts raced through his head. How did she see it? Why did this have to happen today? Sincere saw his blank expression as a sign of victory. “Stop embarrassing yourself, Andrew. Just keep your head low until graduation and you’ll be fine. Now, leave. I can finish the assignment myself.” Sincere sat back down, waiting for Andrew to retreat. But he just stood there. “Well?” Andrew took a last shaky breath. “It’s not like that.”\n“What?”\n“Look, I get why you made that assumption. I do. But, please hear me out.”\n“Why should I?”\n“Hey, if you don’t like my answer I’ll leave and you won’t hear from me ever again! Just, please.”\nSincere paused. There it was again, that guilty sense of anxiety. Despite her better judgment, it was there. “Go ahead.”\nAnd with that, Andrew took a breath and began to explain his tale of misfortune. “I’m new to town, like I said before. The moving trucks aren’t here yet so we only have what we brought with us. This is going to sound ridiculous, but this was the only shirt left. Mom took the others to do laundry. It was too late to dig through my suitcase or grab one of dad’s, so I just had to put this on and hope nobody noticed. Apparently, somebody did.”\nSincere blinked. She had always been taught to use her head for everything, not to trust others just because they talk nice. Yet at this moment, she couldn’t detect any of the sort from Andrew, only humility and a slight sense of shame. Beyond his talk was a sense of pure innocence. She put her head in her hands as she thought about the day, how Andrew had acted. Their conversation during history, and again during lunch. The fact he had talked with Hunter, and now this. Sincere felt a spike of guilt. Andrew paused, looking down at her, before continuing. “I haven’t always agreed with my parents, or most people where I’m from really. My old school wasn’t exactly great on diversity as I’m sure you could imagine. For what it’s worth I never actually participated in any discrimination. I just stood and watched. I should’ve tried to stop them, should’ve spoken my mind, but I was too scared of being targeted, I guess. That’s why I sat with you guys. You all looked so comfortable being yourselves. I wanted to be like that too.” \nThere was a void of silence before Sincere raised their head back up. They just stared at Andrew, with an indecipherable expression. Defeatedly Andrew turned to go. “Wait.” Andrew stopped. “I shouldn’t have been so quick to judge. You’re different. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that sooner.” Andrew turned back around, his sullen expression quickly rising back up into a smile. Sincere held back a laugh. He looks like a puppy, she thought silently. “Come on, let’s finish up this assignment so we can go home.”\nSincere and Andrew spent the next hour together, long after everyone but the librarian had left. They spent the first while discussing history, Sincere catching him up on the things that had been lacking in his Mississippi education. But after a while, the conversation dipped into more casual topics. After 20 or so minutes, Sincere finally let out a laugh. It was strange. They’d had the others here with them before, but it was different with Andrew. More relaxed. Weirdly, more comfortable. Like time almost stood still. She’d tell him a basic fact, and he’d stare wide eyed in a way Sincere found delightful. She nearly missed the text message from her mom saying it was time to go. The pair walked out the library doors and across campus, chatting and laughing all the way. Soon they were already at the parking lot and still had more to say. Andrew smiled. “Talk to you tomorrow?” “Of course,” Sincere responded.\n“Aright, well, goodbye Andrew.”\n“See you, Sincere.”\nAnd with that Sincere entered her car and drove away. The two waved back at each other as they sped further and further apart. Andrew smiled. Things had gone better than Andrew could have hoped, all things considered. Sincere rested her head as the radio played over the car speakers, smiling as well. She couldn’t agree more." } ]
[ { "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 Simplicity of Colour\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two opposites finding themselves surprisingly attracted to one another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My world is painted in a slanted grayscale.\nTime spins slowly, pacing my days out in front of me. I turn up at school to a full classroom, bustling halls, and crammed lockers. Hundreds of girls talking, planning, learning. Teachers writing names and equations on the board, study halls full of the rustling of paper, coming from worksheets or passing notes. Club rooms packed with noise, enthusiasm and progress. I sit in the hallways, reading from The Castle of Otranto or penning my own tales.\nI arrive home to empty sitting rooms, an ash-filled fireplace, and a desolate apartment. \nA note sits on the kitchen counter, a cream-coloured card glaringly obvious against the black marble and dusk. Fanciful script scrapes grey hills over the colour, giving the impression of speech.\nAndalaiah, we’ll be home tomorrow evening. Reheat the korma in the fridge! Don’t forget to go to bed before ten. We love you.\nLove, I think, staring down at the card. How could love be so empty?\nI take the stairs up to my bedroom, which overlooks Central Park. Looking out, I see the trees stretching beyond. The leaves, which have forever been described to me as emerald green, look like limestone sand. My orange bed sheets stay a gradient of grey, no matter how many times I look.\nOnly the spines of my books give colour to the room. The Hunger Games emits red, blue, and gold. Frankenstien shows white and green. Alice in Wonderland displays brown and baby blue. I trace my fingers over every book, lightly tapping on each and every cover, running a hand down the spines and titles. \nMy schoolbag, which I’d set on my bed, calls to me. It, too, is a haunting grey, and it almost blends into the background. I unzip it and carefully, I remove my laptop. I open google, then google docs, and the world springs into my hands. \nLetters cover the pages, shaping and predicting what I have penned My hands shake over the keyboard as the cursor flickers above the button. \nI lose myself in the words.\nBefore I know it, the clock hits ten.\nI don’t care enough to make dinner. I don’t want to face the empty kitchen or the empty stairs. I’m used to it now, I think, as I simply draw the covers over my body and try to fall asleep.\n**\nThe bright lights of the sunrise flood into my room, despite the curtain I’d drawn to block them. It’s Seven A.M., leaving me no time at all to get ready. I throw on the nearest set of jeans and skip breakfast again, taking no time to glance at our dusty kitchen.\nCold winds blow through the city, sending shivers down our spines. Pine needles grow on trees beyond our city’s limits, and the crowds thicken along Central Park and Times Square. I trek my way through the people, each one dressed head-to-toe, down towards eighty-third street.\nI enter my school to the same routine. The crowds are talking, flowing, as the bell rings from somewhere above. Time moves as it always does: continuously – slowly, pacing itself into the segments of a high-school schedule.\nAnd then it stops.\nBefore my eyes, a single person moves through the crowd, her motions fluid and flawless. Smooth skin and brilliant, curly hair. A backpack slung over her shoulder, a piece of bubblegum in her hands, and pale colour illuminating her every step.\nWords do not, for once, describe this. They could not – should not. There is nothing I could say, nothing I could type or pen, that would encompass the feeling of colour, complete and unchecked. Love.\nNot love, I think, as time creeps back into my monotone. Not love, I whisper, as my eyes trace her until she leaves my line of sight.\nI return to time and attend my classes empty-minded.\n\nShe flits from my view, impossible to miss. The warm glow seems to split the world apart in a way that I cannot ignore, and I find my eyes following her more often than not.\nBefore I can even think of approaching her, she finds me first. \nThe clock’s just hit twelve when she starts to make her way towards me, dodging the crowd and mess of the cafeteria. I look through Valperga again, hoping she’ll miss me entirely. I’m not so unlucky.\n“Hey.” She says, almost awkward in the way she approaches. “What's- uhm, sorry. Could you tell me your name?” I blink up at her. She seems almost like a cut-out, so stark against my self-imposed background.\n“Oh,” I croak, my pitch cracking embarrassingly. “Yeah, yes. I’m Andalaiah. What do- what's yours? Your name, I mean?”\nI cringe at the sound of my voice, crackling and catching on my dry lips in an uncomfortable effort of self-sabotage. \nShe smiles at me, and my vision grows a little brighter. “Elivette De Leon, at your every service.” \n“That’s beautiful.” I blurted out, almost on autopilot, like ink flowing on to a sheet of paper. \nElivette laughs, bright orange like her skirt. “Sounds a bit too much like olive, if you ask me. But hey, thanks. I appreciate it.”\nThere is nothing that could ever describe this, I think. “I don’t know, I like it. It’s, it’s Victorian, almost.” I say, absentminded in my response, far too focused on her brilliantly bright smile.\n“Yeah. Hey, are you part of the book club?” She asks me, and I shake my head. “Nah, didn’t think you were. Why don’t you come join us one of these days? We’re reading The Rebecca Notebook currently. It’s cool.”\n“Oh! Oh yeah, yes, alright.” It’s awkward, but I get the feeling that Elivette doesn’t really mind. “I’ll uhm, try to drop by.”\n“Really!?” She says, eyes shining like stars. “Great! That's, yeah, that's amazing. I’ve seen you reading that kind of stuff, like Frankenstein and such, and I thought you’d be interested in joining!”\nAnd I can’t help but smile back at her, because there’s something so wonderfully thoughtful of her paying that much attention to me. Something so delicately beautiful, like a pair of paper-thin butterfly wings.\n“Okay, great. I’ll see you later then, yeah? Yeah. Okay. Bye!” She waves, and then she's gone, flaming colour tailing her retreating form.\nI nod to myself, turning back to my bookmarked page. “Yeah,” I mumble to myself, letting out a huff of laughter. “yeah, I’ll see you later.”\n\nThe book club is cosy, with two couches pushed up against the walls and three bean bags set in front of a coffee table. The colours would most likely be bright and vibrant, with reds and greens strung along the walls in forms of posters or bookshelves. \nOverall, I find the members of the club much more interesting than the room it's being held in.\nWe discuss the book of the month, which is The Rebecca Notebook. It’s one of my favourites, but I find myself reading it with the group anyway. The way the pages glow cream and beige every time Elivette brushes her fingers against them to point at a passage or sentence mesmerises me enough to stay.\nDespite myself, I find the entire club's company happy. I have fun discussing the late wife’s mysterious death and the ashes of the mansion as it most certainly burns to the ground. When someone brings coffee or a snack in I soon don’t hesitate to take one. I still arrive at school to overwhelming crowds, but find solace not by the dirty water fountains or hidden corners, but on the reassuring yellow bean bag in The Solace Book Club. \nBefore long, the November days have bled into early December, taking The Rebecca Notebook, and the club's gothic fiction unit, with them. I find that I barely mind the change of genre.\n“Hey! Do you have your copy of A Christmas Carol?” Elivette asks me as I step into our clubroom. “I know I should really have mine, I’ve already got the ‘club leader’ talk and all from Nevaeh, but uhm, I was wondering if we could share a copy? And read together?”\n“Sure.” I say, shrugging casually as I pull out my book. Elivette smiles lopsidedly at me, almost awkward in its fashion, and my heart beats faster. She sits next to me, sliding close, and there are the two of us sharing a one-person bean bag.\n“Yeah? Awesome. Thanks, Andalaiah, really.” \n“Uhm, yeah, of course. It’s no problem, I promise.” But my words are stilted, and I feel like a badly-written character in a chick-flick. \nShe smiles again, her brown-eyed gaze soft and inviting.\nI turn back to the book, and my hands shake.\n\nAlong with December comes my parents annual New Years party, which they hold for their companies as a joint celebration of Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Years. Every year, without fail, they arrive the day after Christmas to start preparations.\nSo it should come as no shock to me that, on the twenty-sixth, I arrive home not to empty entrance ways or undusted furniture, but to newly-hung chandeliers and a roaring fireplace.\nIt should come as no shock, but still my hands shake on my backpack straps.\n“Andalaiah?” My mother calls, and I think I could cry. “Where were you? I thought school got out at four?”\n“It does,” I mumble, eyes cast down to stair at her grey shoes and colourless skin. “but I’ve- but I have bookclub.”\n“You do? Oh. That’s new, you should’ve texted us!” She says, and her voice sounds excited, but her words have never been more distant. “I love you,” She says, then turns on her heel and heads back into our apartment. \nI raise my head, reaching up to push my hair back from my face. I watch her own hair flick around the corner, and she’s gone. “I did text you.” I whisper, but I know she doesn’t hear me.\nSomewhere in the living room, my father is talking to somebody over the phone. The floor-to-ceiling windows need washing, they have dust coating the corners and splatters on their surfaces. A table will need to be set up in the other living room on the apartments opposite side, for the usual buffet-style food ensemble. But they threw the old table cloth out seven months ago, so they’ll need to order a new one now. \nThat seems manageable, I think. It's longer than last year's checklist, but only by a little. I think I’ll be able to stay up in my room for the worst of it, for the grey I’d grown to forget.\nBefore resting on that thought for too long, I headed upstairs to my room. I draw my curtains, letting the heavy fabric settle over the landscape. I dig my computer out of my bag.\nI try to open it, but my hands shake over the cover, and I find myself frozen still.\nAnd I find that I hate it. The way my limbs freeze into place, stuck to my sides. Something I love so hard to do. I find I hate them, the people who have restricted me from this as well. \nFor the first time since I’d joined The Solace Book Club, I put my computer away, and I fall asleep on an empty stomach.\n**\nTime returns to its pace, slowly creeping. I watch as my apartment changes from plain, uncleaned surfaces to shining countertops and decorated walls. It’s worse, I think, staring up at what i'm sure is meant to be a golden glitter banner. \nEverything is covered in things like these. Black and grey glitter, which is either silver or gold, coats the downstairs floor. It sticks to the floorboards, and no matter how many times I try to sweep it up, it always stays sticks. \nSchool is still, to its credit, brighter. My vision’s darker colours shed themselves for whites and light greys, even reds and oranges and browns when book club rolls around. \nBut they cannot stop the progression of time. Slow it, maybe, but to put a stop to it? That is something that even Elivette could not do, though I’ve no doubt she’s tried.\nAnd so, before it feels like it should, a week has passed, and there are four hours before people flood the building.\nI hear a knock on the door. “Andalaiah? I have your dress, for the party.” My fathers voice rings from the hallway. I tense.\n“Yeah, okay. Uhm, come in?” I sound thorny even to myself, and he slowly opens the door. “Thanks…”\nThe dress was beautiful, really. Even without colour, saying the embroidery was impressive would be an understatement. The thread twisted flowers and rows of leaves into the fabric, with a long free-flowing skirt and tailored top. \n“It’s seafoam green!” He says. “A bit like your eyes, don’t you think?”\nFor a second, I don’t know what to say to that. I come to the realisation that I have no idea what my eyes look like. “Yeah, sort of.” I whisper, and I can hear my voice break.\nHe looks concerned for a moment, but then the doorbell rings.\n“Oh uhm, sorry. I’ll be back up?”\n“Don’t worry about it, dad.” I say. “Really. I can put this on alone.”\nHe hesitates. Looking anxiously at the door, he sighs. I smile. “Okay, darling. See you at the party, alright?”\n“Mhm.”\nMy father leaves quickly, shuffling down the stairs to answer the door. I can ever so vaguely hear the catering team arriving, bringing food and a tablecloth with them.\nFour hours, I repeated in my mind. Four hours, then not again. I could do four hours.\nIt didn’t take long for those hours to pass, as I read and took notes on any range of my books. But I can’t ignore it forever, and when there's five minutes left, I tentatively reach for the embroidered clothing.\nRegrettably, it fits me perfectly. The admittedly dazzling dress slips on my body seamlessly, the top almost like a second skin. It only takes me a minute to do up the zipper, and soon i'm encased in grey.\nI make my way down the stairs to hear music and chatting in the living room. The party seems to be in full swing, with business partners and employees laughing with one another next to a view of the city skyline covered in darkness. The bar, which is built into the wall, is fully restocked and serving drinks.\nThe adults seem less interested in their surroundings and more interested in telling stories about deals, and stocks. The sea of grey grows in my vision, swallowing the night whole.\nAnd there’s twenty minutes until New Years.\nBut the sea of bodies does not stay grey. Just a flash puts me off my guard, and I focus carefully on the crowd. There, I see it; orange jumpsuit, a red flower in the hair, and a cream suit jacket covering the torso. What is she doing here?\n“Andalaiah?”\nElivette stands in front of me, eyes wider than usual, stance relaxed but surprised. \n“Hi.” I say, and I can’t push down the smile that forces its way onto my lips, making my cheeks ache. “I didn’t know you were coming.”\n“I didn’t know you were coming! We should’ve made arrangements to meet up when we arrived!” She says excitedly, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the crowd of people. I shake my head and laugh, feeling slightly giddy. \n“Yeah, if I’d known you were coming, I might’ve helped my parents set the decorations this year. I’m afraid they might be a little gaudy.” \nShe stops, turning to face me again, in the middle of the room. “Your family holds this thing? Are you kidding? That's awesome!” She spins around again, looking out the windows. “I don't know, maybe a bit gaudy, but the gold is cool.”\nThe decorations are gold, then. That makes sense.\nI smile again slightly, but this time it’s something softer. I feel warm, watching her spin and talk so animatedly about something other than books. \n“Yeah, the gold is cool.” I say offhandedly. “But I like this year's tablecloth better than last years. It’s nicer.”\n“Ooh! What was it last year? This is my first time here. Sorry. Your apartment is really nice!” Elivette says, continuing to smile as if the sun itself has blessed her. \n“It was blue. Not really sure which kind. We threw it out cuz’ someone spilled the good wine on it.”\nShe laughs at that, throwing her head back and letting her hair frizz around her face. She looks beautiful, moonlight framing her glowing form.\n“Four minutes until New Years!” She gasps, pointing to the clock. People are dancing now, just swaying gently to whatevers playing through the speakers. “Come on come on come on! Let's dance!”\nBefore I can say anything, agreement or otherwise, I'm practically swept off my feet. She tugs me across the floor, wraps her arm around mine and puts her hand on my waist, pulling me closer. Neither of us really know what we’re doing, so we just stay like that, moving back and forth.\nThe minutes tick by, and I can feel the excitement in the air as the counting starts.\nI should be used to it by now, I think. The monotone greys and the barely-there light.\nI should be used to it now. So why do my hands still shake?\n“You shouldn’t be here.” I whisper, like a confession drawn from starving lips. “It's New-Years. You should be with someone you love.”\n“But that’s you,” She says, and the world bursts into colour. Violet spirals and deep pink polka-dots splatter my vision. The New York skyline turns dark blue and black, silver reflections and iron-coloured skyscrapers. Electric lights draw the sky, and still a thousand hearts pale in comparison to her eyes. \nThe clock strikes twelve, and I kiss 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: No Rest for the Watched\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2428\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone’s paranoia is justified." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warnings: Vague mention of rape, Animal cruelty, Stalking, and Police negligence.\nI woke up to the sound of my alarm buzzing continuously. I groggily sit up to turn it off. Bane, my black cat, was already meowing loudly, for her food. I get up and go into the kitchen, making myself a cup of coffee. Stilts was running in circles around the couch, I wish to have that much energy this early. Then, I started to get the animals' food. Orange bowl with dog food for Stilts, red bowl with cat food for Bane, I put some food into the cage for my snake, Vivalda, and I begin getting ready for school. I grab my uniform, a dark gray sweater with a white button-down underneath it, a pale blue skirt, and black knee-high socks, with a pair of black dress shoes. They make it harder to run. I get my coffee from the coffee mug, adding a large amount of sugar and creamer. I grab an apple. I walk out and lock the door, checking thrice before getting in my car. I message my brother and tell him I’m leaving for school. I get no response, he doesn't wake up until 11 AM. \nI pull into the school parking lot and park at my designated spot. I look around for the person who is watching me but see no one. I shook it off. I enter the building via the side doors, the front doors aren’t open this early. I go towards the office to inform the women up there I am there. I don't tell them about my feelings, as they would only laugh it off, as they have been doing for the past three days. I go to my homeroom and wait for everyone to get there. It usually takes around an hour. I get out my phone, only to see an alert for murder against a girl in my grade. She looks similar to me. Am I next? It happened a couple of streets away from my house. I close the alert, not wanting any more things to worry about. I already am spooked about the serial killer going around, and to find out the victims match my appearance closely, is offputting. I then go into my messages to see my friends messaging good morning, and how their parents won’t wake up to give them a ride. I send good morning, not telling them I’m already at school. They are used to seeing me get here first, but they don’t know exactly how early I arrive. No one does and no one ever will. It keeps me safe.\nI look up to see my teacher setting up for class. I tell him good morning, and he returns the greeting. I continue waiting for my classmates. I begin spinning the ring on my right index finger, as I feel watched, as usual. I ignore the feeling and grab my computer from my book bag, and log in. I opened up my school email. I found emails from the grading book, and I have A's again. I ignored them and opened up the email for the student council. We are having a meeting after school, and as Student Council President I have to remind the other members of what they need to bring and what time to get there. I look through the other emails, ignoring the ones from the office ladies telling me to be careful. I always am. \nMy friends arrive around 7:30. I greet them and get back to school work. I dislike the feeling of missing work, even if it’s not due for weeks. Mary, one of my friends, is telling the others about how men on Snapchat keep sending her unsolicited messages, and images. I, once again, tell her to block them and to stop adding unknown men. She shrugs off my warning. Esme is going on about her perfect boyfriend and how he gave her candies today. I, then, remembered that today is Valentine’s Day. Esme dislikes chocolate so Kand always gets her gummies in heart shape. Iris then starts jokingly complaining about her single life. I tell her to give Shanga a chance. She laughs derisively going on about how he is a playboy and is only chasing her because he likes the challenge. I shrug and continue on with my English essay. My topic is societal norms, and how they affect today's generation. I could talk about this for hours. \nThe day continues as usual. I grab a light lunch and go back to my classroom, instead of sitting in the cafeteria. The hairs on the back of my neck go up, feeling watched once again. I shake my head to get rid of the feeling, even if it stays, and continue with my science work. My classmates start to pile in after 25 minutes. My science teacher starts lecturing about the assignment for today. I put my headphones in and play some music since I’d already completed the assignment. I started working on math. I finish that upright as the bell rings. I start heading down to my psychology class. The human psyche always fascinates me.\nAfter that, I went to band class. I’m a clarinet player. It is odd but it makes beautiful music when played correctly. Xavier is a baritone player. I've heard him mention a dolphin tattoo, I've never seen it, though. He always makes jokes, some are really creepy, so I give him a wide berth when possible. Esme is also in the band she's a trumpet. I never would've expected it from her. She seems more like a flute. Once that finishes I go to the last period of the day, math. \nAfter the bell rings, I head to my locker. As I'm putting in my combination I feel an intense cold chill. I look behind to see Xavier, heading in my direction. I sigh. He's done this for the past two years. He gets me chocolates every Valentine's Day even though I've told him repeatedly I don't see him that way. He always laughs and says something along the lines of I'll see him romantically one day. I doubt I will, he creeps me out a lot little bit.\nAt the end of the day, I head into the conference room, used for Student Council, and begin setting up. I lay out papers, detailing how I want to throw the formal for this year, and how we’re going to deal with costs. My secretary enters and starts setting up water and pencils. I leave for a minute to run up to the gas station and grab some food. I get back around 4. The meeting doesn't start until 4:30. I sit down at my seat and wait for the other members to get here. As everyone piles in and sits in their designated seats, I begin to explain the plan and how I expect it to run. There is little discourse allowing the meeting to end by 5:30. I head home. I get home around 5:50. I get ready for work, donning office attire. I head to my job. I arrive at 6:30. I am the PR department’s director’s assistant. Don, the director, leaves most of the work to me. I don’t mind. It allows everything to run smoothly. My shift ends around ten. I get home around 10:30.\nI start a shower, after making sure the doors, every window, and cabinet is locked. I spent about 20 mins. I get my animals' food and go to bed, with Bane next to me, and Stilts at the end of my bed. I wake up to Stilts barking loudly. I slowly look down at him and try to shush him, still half asleep. I look at the clock. It’s barely 2 AM. I, then, realize that I can hear someone rummaging through the kitchen downstairs. I grab my phone, pepper spray, and taser, then head downstairs. I look into the kitchen. I see a man’s back. He slowly turns from the cabinet towards the fridge in my direction. As he turns, I start spraying pepper spray, getting ready to tase him so I could run. I realize, belatedly, the man is my brother, Odin. I don't know why he was named after a God. It felt really ironic as he's unlucky, as you see by the situation now. I start berating him for coming home so late whilst helping him get the pepper spray out of his eyes. He explains his friends got caught on a fence and he had to get them untangled. I huffed my annoyance at him and went back to bed, after grabbing some water. \nI woke up and life just hit the repeat button, exactly as the day before, minus the brother being stupid part. I got home at 10:30 again, but the door was unlocked. Mom doesn't get home from her trip for two more weeks. I don’t exactly have a dad. I was wary by this point. I messaged my brother and he confirmed he was still at work, as usual. I know I should call the police, but I’ve already called them thrice this week and it was supposedly me just forgetting to lock the door before leaving. But, I know I locked the door every day. I make sure to check at least twice, sometimes thrice. I grab my phone with 911 dialed and my pepper spray ready to be sprayed. I walk in to find my dog, Stilts, lying on the couch glaring upstairs. I walk over to him and realize he’s tied onto the couch and muzzled. I take photos for evidence to prove I’m not crazy and that this wasn’t a dream from my paranoia. I then untie him and de-muzzled him. Stilts has slight cuts in his snout from how tightly the muzzle was tied. He seems to realize how serious it is and stays quiet. I find Bane locked in her carrier, which I only use for vet visits. Vivalda was curled up defensively, a complete contrast to how she usually is splayed across her cage.\nI press call on my phone, and then I’m taken through the usual motions, I tell the operator about the weird way I found my animals and my door. I tell them my address and they sigh, telling me they’ll be here in twenty to thirty minutes. I was shocked. I live five minutes out of town. It shouldn’t take that long. They should be more worried about all the murders happening to women my age happening around town! I realize I’ll have to do this myself. I slowly creep up my stairs. I look in my mom’s room. I see no one. I creep through the rooms similarly. I get to the last unchecked area, the bathroom. I open the door to find no one. I look in the shower, the bath, and the little storage closet. Nothing. I was confused. I check my watch it’s been twenty minutes, and the police should be getting here soon. I slowly turn on my sink to get some cold water on me to calm myself down. As I raise my head to look into the mirror, I see a dark silhouette. I open my mouth to scream, but I feel something hit my head and I’m out.\nI wake up. I’m tied to my bed, spread eagle style. I look at my clock, it’s been forty minutes since I called the cops??!?!?!!? They should’ve already been here. A man in a ski mask slowly walks in. I belatedly realize my skirt is gone. As he gets closer I can feel my mind leaving. Everything that was happening felt as though I watching a show. The excruciating pain I felt was just an illusion. I was dreaming, I must have been. “Why would this happen to me? I mean, I’m good at school and I do my chores, and I always do the right thing, or I like to believe I do,” Was all I could think. “The torture is finally over,” I believe, as the man sits up and leaves. I realize he has a dolphin tattoo on his left back thigh, and a mole on his right calf. I catalog that information, for if, no when I survive this, I can tell the police. He comes back with a gun, I realize.\n'I’m not surviving this am I?' I start to laugh hysterically. He seems confused. I start spewing the foulest language I never would have dreamed of thinking about. He gets infuriated as I start talking about his worm of a dick, and how I felt more air than his dick. He raises his gun and shoots me. It was supposed to hit my heart, I think, but he was stupid and it hit right below. At this point, I can distantly hear police cars. The man freaks out and tries to put on his clothes and leave quickly. He stupidly trips. I didn’t understand why I could still think coherently at this point. I think it was pure adrenaline. The police pile in, and he is arrested and exposed as Xavier, one of the kids in the Student Council. He was in my grade and about to graduate. He acted weird sometimes but I never would've expected this.\nIt’s been a month since the attack and the police found that he was the serial killer that kept killing women in our grade. I’m still in the hospital. I just can’t stop thinking that if the police listened to me and came even around the promised time I wouldn’t have been so cruelly violated. I can no longer walk because of complications, and the shot wound. Turns out he shot me twice, another one in my stomach after the first shot. I was too out of it to realize, though.\nI find myself thinking was he murdering the other girls because they looked like me or was he just courting me to get a more accessible target? I feel extreme guilt since the former was most probable, as the murders happened after I rejected him for the third time. I find as much information about the other victims. I, now, visit each girl's grave once a month. On the anniversary I was attacked, on the 15th. I just always wonder if everyone heeded my warnings of feeling watched, and followed, none of this would have happened. If only people listened to me." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: American Mythology\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2710\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character, having abstained from their worst vice (big or small), finds new clarity." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was ten years old when I ran away to join the circus. The lady who worked from the state came and explained to me what was going to happen to me after my mother died giving birth to my brother Abel. My father had gone north to Alaska to find work, but we hadn’t heard from him in almost a year. \n“Martin Landover.” She addressed me with a smile, “You will be placed at Harper’s Home for Boys. I have a flier for you to look at.” \nShe placed the glossy brochure in front of me. I glanced at it. It had pictures of boys and girls having a good time, but I had a feeling it was a scam. One afternoon on the playground at school, Brody told me that state placements were like a prison, because his cousin Willard had been sent to one of them. He told me that some of the whitecoats would chase him around and if they caught him, they would beat him with leather straps. \n“Doesn’t that look like a lot of fun.” She sang as I sat there silently staring at her. “Someone will come and pick you up in the morning.” \n“Alright.” I nodded as she took the brochure and put it in her bag.\n“We will see you in the morning, Martin.” He tussled my hair before leaving. Once she was out the door, I ran to my room and packed all my worldly possessions into a suitcase I stored under my bed. Clicking the latches on the beat-up old traveling bag, I shut off the lights and walked out the front door into the dark.\nWhen I walked out the door, I became what was known back then as the King of the Rail. It was what I would later call the Great Depression and I was just one of an army of folks who were forced to become travelers of the rail. I must be honest, leaving was not the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I was sad when Aunt Precellia took me to my mother’s funeral. \n“Marty, I wish I could take you in as a favor to my baby sister, Marie.” She went to one knee so she could look me in the eye. She looked a lot like my mother when she smiled, “But Burt and I barely have enough to scrape by. We can’t afford to feed another mouth. We have contacted the state. Somebody should be stopping by soon. I am sorry about your ma and baby brother. They are at peace with the Lord.”\nShe put her gloved hand on my cheek as tears flowed down my cheek.\n“Come on Prissy, we gotta move along.” Uncle Jed tugged at Pricillia’s arm.\n“Just a minute, Jed.” She shook her head, “You do what they tell ya, Marty.” \n“I will.” I promised.\nBut I would not keep my promise. I did not want to go to a place where I was not wanted. There was nobody there who wanted me. Uncle Jed had always treated me as if I was some pickpocket from some alleyway, but the truth is, his pockets were empty except for his hip flask. By the end of the day that too would be empty. \nMy father had left our home in Jerome, Arizona when the mine he had bought failed to produce any substantial amount of copper. Before he went north, my ma was pregnant with my brother, Abel, whom I would never get to know in this world.\nThe train ran out of Flagstaff. Using my thumb, I hitched until I arrived there a day later. One of the drivers along Highway 66 talked about the socialist in the white house as he put his hand on my knee working his fingers due north on my leg. I brushed his hand away, but like a pesky bug, it landed on my knee once again. He tipped his hat when I got out of his Ford pickup near the rail station in Flagstaff. I shuddered and took my suitcase. \n“Hey kid, you wanna head east.” A dark skinned Coleman Porter greeted me at the bench in front of the depot.\n“Yessir.” I looked up at him. Dressed in his whitecoat and cap, he seemed like a giant with his wide shoulders and gigantic head placed on his portly frame.\n“Whacha gonna do when ya gets there?” He laughed.\n“I’m gonna join the circus.” I squinted with the unrelenting sun in my eyes.\n“I was gonna do that too.” His laugh came from a place deep inside his belly. “Instead I came to work for the rail. Y’all gonna be a tightrope walker?” He gave a casual shrug.\n“Clown.” I answered.\n“Oh, I see.” He leaned back and shook his head, “This country is wide and a chile like you could easily get lost. You gocha a ticket?”\n“No sir.” I shook my head.\n“How ya ‘s’pect to get there?” He took a deep breath.\n“I get in a box car and ride for a while.” \n“Dat so? Hmpt, seems to me a dangerous thing to do.” He glanced at me.\n“My ma’s dead and so is my baby brother.” I told him.\n“So sorry to hear that.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic, more than anyone I had contact with since my mother died. “If’n I sees ya get on a train, I has a duty to call the police.” \n“Don’t do that, please.” I pleaded.\n“Why not he’p me out here.” He shrugged.\n“I could.” I nodded.\n“Otis, time to get a move on.” Someone called out from inside the depot.\n“Dat be me.” He winked. “Wanna be my shada?”\n“Yessir.” I stood up and followed him inside the depot.\n“Gotta load Engine Number 17.” A skinny man with an unbuttoned blue jacket pointed to a pile of suitcases. \n“Got me a helper.” He pointed at me.\n“Otis, this is no place for a child.” The man shook his head. His glasses set at the end of his long skinny nose nearly fell off.\n“It be okay, Randy.” He smiled and put his arm around me. Unlike the man who drove me here, he did not seem to have any malicious intent. His hand upon my shoulder was warm and welcoming. “Whacha name, boy?”\n“Marty.” I answered.\n“Marty? I’m Otis Kendall. I’ve worked here for almost twenty years.” He threw the bags on the wheeled cart.\n“Be careful with my bags.” A red faced man warned Otis, “My bags had better make it to Chicago this time.” \n“Yessir, I will make sure.” Otis nodded. \n“He seemed mean.” I whispered as soon as the man stormed off.\n“Folks sometimes don’t know how to talk to folks, Marty.” He seemed sad as he said this. “I wish they would on account it would make things a whole lot easier.” \nI helped him pile the bags on the cart and once all the bags were in place, he put his back into pushing the cart whose wheels dug into the wooden floor making it difficult to move it. I helped by adding my small effort and the cart began to move.\n“Thank ya, Marty.” He chuckled as the cart clunked across the uneven floor.\n“Hey dere, Otis, I sees ya got some help.” A man wearing a Coleman's jacket reading a newspaper on the bench near the tracks waved.\n“Indeed I do, Albie.” He said proudly as he stopped the cart near an open door on the baggage cart, “Dis be the place. You gets inside and I toss up the bags.” \nI did what he instructed me to do and within a few minutes all the bags were on board the train. \n“She be leavin’ in about twenty minutes.” He grabbed the handle and closed the door to the train car. “Headed for Chicago.” \n“Maybe I will go there.” I said.\n“What for?” An expression of sadness overcame his face. “You gots no home.”\n“State lady was supposed to take me to Harper’s Home.” I announced as I stared down at my shoes with a big hole near the toe.\n“Ain’ no place for no young’un.” He put his hand on his chin and slowly shook his head. “I stays in a boarding house up on that hill there.” He pointed. “Maybe I can talk Louisa into lettin’ ya stay.”\n“What’s it like in Chicago?” I asked.\n“Ain’ no place for no young’un neither.” He shook his head again. “Place is full of crime and no good folks.” \n“I can’t stay here.” I dug my hands into the pockets of my trousers. \n“Kid, y’all can stay with me.” He put his arm around my shoulder.\nI worked for the rest of the afternoon, loading and unloading luggage from the trains, but he told me about his life in Alabama as a boy where having dark skin was not considered a good thing. He talked about some guy named Jim Crow and I thought it was strange that a black crow would have something against people with dark skin. Aunt Precillia always talked about the darkies and how shifty and lazy they were. Uncle Jed talked about Klan meetings. It wasn’t until much later I understood what he was talking about. \nLouisa Rawlings was a large lady and if I didn’t know better, I would have swore she was his kin. The house was a two story Victorian painted baby blue on the outside, but inside it was warm and smelled of good home cooking. When I first met her, Louisa came into the foyer wiping her hands on a soiled apron with a big smile pasted on her face, “Otis, glad ya made it in time for dinner. And who is this handsome young man?” She squatted down to look me in the eye.\n“Marty.” I said in a tiny voice.\n“Marty?” She put her finger to the corner of her mouth.\n“He be my helper all af-ernoon.” Otis hung up his jacket on a coat rack near a staircase with a heavy oak rail. \n“I reckon he be in need of a good dinner.” She stood up running her large hands through my hair.\n“Yessum.” I nodded.\n“I pay extra for him.” Otis tilted his head.\n“No such thing.” Louisa shook her head. “I has an extra cot. I put it in yar room, big man.” \n“You an angel.” He kissed her on the cheek. I had never seen a man kiss any woman on the cheek that wasn’t his wife. \n“Go on in. Dinner’s on the table.” She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “And make sure this strong man gets his fair share.” \nShe was talking about me. I was the strong man. I wish I could have been with my ma when she went to meet Jesus. Maybe if I was so strong, I could have kept her from going away.\nThere were three men sitting at a large table in a nicely decorated room. One of the men had dark skin with white hair atop his head. He gave me a sour look as he asked, “And who might you be?” \n“Marty Landover.” I answered, reaching for a warm biscuit.\n“Manners, boy.” He scowled.\n“I see ya met Mr. Swanson.” Otis sat in the empty chair next to me. “We don’t get food until we say a blessing.” \n“A blessing?” \n“Sure, sure, to give thanks to God for this meal before us.” Mr. Swanson said as a smile slowly came to his face.\n“Bud Swanson isn’t such a bad fella.” One of the men sitting at the table shrugged. “My name is Clyde Manning half Negro half Apache.”\n“Careful boy, he’ll take your scalp when you’re not looking.” The third man chuckled.\n“Keep it to ya-self, Noah.” Clyde pointed at Noah.\n“Son, I’m Noah Beecher. Happy to meecha.” He held out his hand and despite my father’s warnings about shaking a Negro’s hand, I felt the warmth when he wrapped my hand in his. \nAfter the blessing, we passed around platters of steaming fried chicken, biscuits and gravy with a helping of “greens” which I ate along with the rest of the meal. Ma used to get on me about not eating my vegetables, but here I was eating every morsel on my plate.\n“Dija enjoy that, Marty?” Louisa asked as she began to clear the plates from the table.\n“Yes’um.” I immediately answered. My enthusiastic response was met by her smile.\n“Glad y’all enjoyed it.” She walked into the kitchen with her arms full of dishes.\n“That Louisa is a great cook.” Bud Swanson winked as he moved the well-chewed toothpick in his mouth.\n“I’ll say.” Noah agreed.\n“Finest cook in Arizona.” Clyde patted his stomach.\nI felt as if I had come home. Otis winked at me too as he lit a cigar.\n“Mr. Kendall, what is my rule about smoking cee-gars in my dining room?” Louisa called out from the kitchen.\nOtis rolled his eyes before answering, “Do not smoke it unlessen I gots one for you.” \n“Do ya?” \n“Right here, ma’am.” He answered as the others around the table snickered. \nLouisa emerged from the kitchen, took the unlit cigar Otis held in his hand and lit it using his lighter. She sat down in her place and took a big puff..\n“Got this lighter when I served in the Great War.” Otis held the silver lighter in his hands. “Weren’t no Negroes allowed to billet with us, but we got killed just like the white soljers.”\n“I lost my brother in that dern war.” Bud said sadly, folding his hands in front of him on the table. It was quiet for a time before anyone spoke. It was as if our silence was in the memory of those who had left us.\n“Ready, aim, FIRE!” The sound of seven rifle cracking followed.\n“Daaaddd, why are we here?” Zack, my youngest son moaned.\n“He was a friend of mine.” I answered remembering how Otis Kendall had saved me from a life changing mistake I was about to make. “He was a decorated soldier.” \n“Just like you.” Jennifer added as she squeezed my arm.\n“I did what I was ordered to do.” I shook my head trying to ignore the silver star hanging from the left pocket of my dress uniform. I was presented with the medal just before my discharge in 1945 from the United States Marines. \nIt was a simple story of someone who reached out and saved a boy from making a mistake and thus changing his life for the better when it would have been easier to just turn your head and let fate take charge. There were so many reasons for Otis to turn his head, but he chose not to even though I was an orphan, my skin color didn’t match his, and I had been raised to believe the traditional mythology that is intertwined between the races. \nWhen I showed up for Otis’ funeral, I got a lot of strange looks from his family and friends gathered to pay him homage, but there was one person who greeted me with the warmth and joy that crossed the color line.\n“Marty!” She ran to me with her arms wide.\n“Louisa.” I buried my head in her shoulder.\n“I’m so happy to see you.” Tears were in her eyes.\n“I came for him.” My voice caught in my throat. \n“I know ya did, he knows it too.” She kissed me on the cheek.\n“Dad.” Zack tugged on my jacket. “Who is she?” \n“A friend from a long time ago.” I told him.\n“I’m Louisa. I knew your dad when he was your age.” She squatted down to look my son in his eye.\n“My age?” He was surprised that I was ever his age, but when she smiled, so did he.\nIt was clear to me at that moment. If Otis had turned his head, this precious moment would not have been possible. Just as Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. once dreamed, there is a way to make that dream a reality, but first we must learn to put aside our beliefs in our American mythology." } ]
[ { "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: History of Religion Final Exam Scenario #4582\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1809\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of diary entries, written by someone who has set themselves a month-long challenge." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "October 8th, 1531\nProfessor Schneider was right, and trying to talk her off Henry was a complete waste of time, and now I’ve blown a whole week. I don’t know what I was thinking--it’s not like she had any say in the matter! I’ve enacted Scenario Beta and moved myself forward to the early days of her exile, and now I’m going to do a hard push for the nunnery. Even if I can’t get her in by the end of the month, I think I can get the ball rolling enough that she ends up there before 1533, and then I can still win. Additionally, María is driving me nuts. Santimonious shrew. \nOctober 12th, 1531\nI must say, I prepared so well for this. I was ready for the clothes, the language, the serious lack of hygiene, and the nasty, nasty, nasty food, but the one thing I didn’t think to practice was the kneeling. It is endless. Masses every day, sometimes multiple times. She can’t even kneel herself but she makes us do it and it feels like there are daggers stabbing my shins every moment in the day. Sitting is absolute heaven. I’ve been trying to escape for a minute here and there just to take a break, but María rats me out every single time, which makes my task even harder. I certainly hope no one puts mice in her clothes chest again. That would be just terrible, but would perhaps lead to at least a few hours of her being distracted…\nFor my next move I think I’m going to go for a fake letter, even though Professor Schneider says “mail always fails”. I spent weeks on the writing samples of all of her intimates, and I think I can make something super accurate and persuasive. I assume that in the past most students have gone with Princess Mary, an obvious choice, but any mention of Mary raises her chin and strengthens her resolve, so that’s a bad play. I wish it could be from Joanna, but it’s way too late in the timeline, and her son has locked her up at this point. I knew it was this bad for women, but seeing it with my own eyes is a whole other thing. It’ll be interesting to hear Jason’s impressions of Rome in the 300s. I can’t believe he’s going for Constantine. So obvious, and really so, so boring. What is he going to do all month? Plus I once saw him go white as a sheet and almost hit the deck when Amayah had a nose bleed. How on earth is he going to make it through a battle? Whatever. His holy Roman emperor is a lost cause, but mine may not be. If anyone’s going to get through to Katharine, it’s her nephew Charles. If I can convince her he’s pushing for it, she may start to see sense.\nOctober 15th, 1531\nI’m worried. I’m officially half way through and I feel like I’ve made no progress, other than destroying María’s clothes, which is somewhat gratifying. The letter didn’t achieve anything. I think that if she could get a push from another woman she trusted, that might work, but there’s no one other than María, and she’s even LESS likely to move off of this disastrous path. Whenever I talk to Katharine, our conversations are unchanged. We’re retreading the same points, going down all the same blind alleys again and again and again. Why can’t she see sense? I can’t present the deal until she’s a little bit open to change. \nAnd it’s all starting to get to me. She’s had a cold for weeks now, it just won’t let go of her. I can see how upset she is that she can’t see Mary, and she doesn’t even know that she’ll never see her again. Katharine has been on this trajectory before she was born, and maybe it was insanity to think that I could nudge her off of it. I know it’s all fake but there are times when it feels so real I start to forget my real life. It’s not really her, I know; she’s been dead for centuries, but this version of her still has a chance, and if I can’t find another way in, she'll be dead too. Is it too much to ask that she get a few years of respect, health, and maybe even peace? Only a few more days to push before I have to go to court. I’m excited to see it, but I know it’ll be hard. I’m angry just thinking about it.\nOctober 20th, 1531\nI did it. They received me at Hatfield house, and he was there, sitting in all his corpulent, murderous splendor. Anne was there too, of course. I picked the right month, for sure. She’s ascendant right now, the world is at her feet, but she survived an attack on the street a few weeks ago by a crowd of angry women, so it’s pretty real for her now and I think she’s open to a way out. \nThe attendant introduced me as Ines, the (fictitious) lady-in-waiting to the Dowager Princess. That’s what they call her now, instead of Queen, and it took everything I had not to wince. I have nothing to lose now, as myself the student taking a final exam, and myself the servant of a doomed woman. So I laid out my deal, the deal that I hope will change the course of human history. \nWhile it’s against the rules to tell people about future events, Katharine has to know that things are not looking bright for Mary. A good marriage, however, one worthy of her birth, one that would give her her own household, and a family, would be a huge win for all involved. So I told their majesties that the Dowager Princess (I nearly choked on the words) would be amenable to taking holy orders if, and only if, a suitable marriage was arranged for Mary. Then she, Katharine, would be overjoyed to celebrate her daughter’s wedding by her husband’s side, and then, having achieved this goal, and having served England with honor as Queen, she would spend the rest of her days in a nunnery. I added, as the cherry on top, that she would additionally be very happy if Mary’s marriage took her overseas, and that she would prefer to join a nunnery in that country, so as to occasionally see her daughter and perhaps her grandchildren as well. \nHenry was unreadable, but Anne’s eyes burned at the prospect of a Katharine and Mary-less England. Part of me hates her for her role in all of this, but how can I? Like Katharine, she didn’t choose any of this, and much of it was already in motion before she had any will at all. Really any time period before 2077 is just a hotbed of crap for women. Thank god I’m living in the post-Gravida era. \nSpeaking of women living their worst life in the, I decided to hedge my bets and execute Scenario Gamma (that’s right, Jason, I set it up that I could pull two simultaneously!), and found Susanna while I was at court. She is amazing. One of the best artists of her time, and she’s relegated to stitching and inane banter. Honestly if I could pull her out of this time period and bring her back to the university with me, I would! But a quick chat with her, and Gamma is in motion. We’ll see if that pays off.\nApril 21st, 2213\nWell I got pulled out early. I knew this was a possibility, but I had to risk it. I made my last, impassioned pitch to Katharine. I told her that her pride was standing in the way of a future of happiness for her, and that Mary would suffer more for it (if only she knew). I had practiced this a lot, if only to avoid breaking any of the rules about revealing the future. It was a thing of beauty, but I could tell from the first second it wasn’t going to work. Nothing I did in the last few weeks made any impact, and all I was accomplishing was making Queen Katharine of Aragon super mad. Weeks and weeks of trying to help her see the light, and it all came to nothing. Which, in itself wouldn’t have been a big deal, and she would have moved past it, but I messed up and didn’t realize that freaking María was behind the curtain, and six sentences in she’s rushing out and hitting me--HITTING me--and saying I’m a witch. 16th century England isn’t the worst place for that word to pop up, but it certainly isn’t the best, and Hassim ended the simulation. I’m frustrated with myself for not doing better, but there’s nothing I could do other than get out of my corset, grab some tacos (Side note: perhaps this all would have gone better if I had introduced England to the taco? Think of how much happier they would have all been!), and wait until Saturday to see how the scenario plays out. \nFinal Notes from Professor Schneider\nLeila, this was a very valid attempt. Now that you’ve completed your final, you can access other exams in which students tried to convince Katharine of Aragon to take holy orders, clearing the way for Anne Boelyn to marry Henry the VIII, thus preventing the formation of the Anglican church. As you can see, very few students over the years have chosen this scenario. You will also notice that none of them were successful, and I am sorry to say that you were not either. \nHowever, the secondary strategy you deployed did change the course of history significantly. Susanna Hornebolt did take your words to heart about taking care of women in the process of childbirth. She did not, as you had hoped, end up saving Anne from her fall from grace, but she did save the life of Jane Seymour. Her extended marriage with King Henry saved the life of Catherine Howard, significantly changed the nature of Elizabeth I’s faith, and resulted in the Anglican church staying very close to the Catholic church in doctrine and dogma, and the two re-merged in the mid-1700s. This religious reunion was extremely impactful on the timeline, and earned you a lot of points for historical deviation.\nYou received a grade of A for your exam, and came in second in the competition. Jason Dorsey came in third, and Selina Davidson won first prize. As I mentioned during the first week of the course, the most creative solutions are often the most successful. Converting Napoleon to Scientology is a new one for me, and you should run Selina’s scenario. It is…wild." } ]
[ { "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: One Whisker\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3001\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s climbing a mountain, whether internal, external, or both." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: foul language, non-P.C. labeling\nA weird thing’s been goin’ on with me, something I wasn’t thinkin’ would ever happen. I’ma just tell ya this straight: I’ma freak. You would never notice me, and if you did all’s you’d see’d be some too-skinny, too-tall boy (which I’m not) who has a fucked-up face. Getting not noticed is best for me, and as far as me ever getting to like myself, might as well tell me to skateboard up Mount Everest. It’s just too high, too far, and gravity sucks too hard.\nIf you think about it, there’s upsides to having a deformity, especially a great big portwine spot on your face. Reason is, people never really look at you too long before their eyes get twitchy and slide off. Little kids just stare. \nMostly I get left alone here, ‘cept when I was going to school where everyone’s so fucking miserable they gotta take it out on someone else. Sometimes strangers on public transportation act extra nice ‘cause they’re curious and wanna hear a Heroic Epic or maybe a Tragic Tale. Ain't got no stories like that. Didn’t get caught in a fire or burned with acid, got no kinda fucked-up skin disease either. Just a big ol’ palm-print where a right-handed god slapped my face before I was even born. \nI heard laser treatments might work, like how they take off tats when a guy changes his mind about his ink. Laser treatments are the penalty for making a stupid choice, but in my case it’d be my punishment for being born ugly. \nThey say laser hurts like a mofo, but that part don't concern me none. My body can choose what to feel. Nothing hurts me. I just gotta get a few thou to make that happen.\nSometimes I wonder how things’d be different if I looked different but fact is, after 15 years I’m getting used to it. Almost 15. Well, in a coupla weeks I’ll be 14 but I’m tall and with people not lookin’ at my face they think I’m older than I am. I’m still tryin’ to get the idea through my head that I’ma be alone a lot, so I tell myself the world’s full of fools and not worth the trouble. I think fools are people just too tired to do things the right way anymore. \nMe, I actually wanna do things the right way but I’m still lookin’ for a place where it matters to anybody.\nThere’s this one thing I do that feels like it matters, at least sometimes. I gotta do the thing ‘cause it’s part of my community service. The short explanation is that I got caught making art with spray cans on public property and had to cut a deal to stay out of the kind of shitty hole they drop kids down when they run out of ideas. Sister Merrie shows up at the station and bails my ass out, so the judge, who went to her parish school back when he’s a kid lets her supervise my five HUNDRED hours of community service. SO fucked up, nobody gets five hundred hours even for drunk driving. You ask me, it was political. I exercised my right as a citizen, left a message. On a bridge. Facing the convention center where the Southern Baptists were all getting together for a national conference. Fact is, ain’t no paint on the bridge itself, only the banner, which let me tell ya, is some tricky business. Took a buddy whose name I’ma take to the grave to dangle me down the side so I could write three words so does lynching, across the bottom. My buddy didn't get caught but I did and since me and Uncle Brook got no money to buy them a new Abortion Stops a Beating Heart sign, they’re taking it outta my hide. Now my ass belongs to Sister Merrie, and besides her tutoring me, which she effin’ tricked me into, I gotta be over at the parish school five days a week to help out. At least I wouldn’t have to be trapped inside some shitty juvie hole with the hard cases.\nMaybe this life a’mine sounds ghetto so it’s fair to letcha know it wasn't always like this for me. I’m from another place and different people, but none’a that matters. Tell ya this right now, ain’t no use whatsoever for chasin’ after lost people or lost things - they ain’t comin’ back. I had a home and a family before and now I don't. Now I got me and my uncle and we try and take care of each other but it’s starting to be more me taking care of him most’a the time. Feels like my uncle’s kinda slidin’ away.\nThat’s why I went with Sister Merrie’s offer about the tutoring and the community service, ‘cause she’s been my uncle’s friend since forever and I seen them in the park all the time in that big group’a old farts that plays chess. She seems pretty chill, so I’m thinkin’ she might cut me a break on the five hundred hours. Right now it don't look much like that’s gonna happen. What the good sister’s got is me locked down with her five mornings a week for tutoring, then home to check on my uncle, make him his lunch, then back for more hours at the school. No time for crime. \nThe school is this old rock building that’s gonna just slide down onto the church one of these days and kill a buncha old ladies at mass. Dunno what you do to keep that from happening to a building, but there’s clearly no money to do it with anyhow. Reminds me of abandoned mental hospitals where teenagers in the movies get slashed spendin’ the night on a dare. Seems like a kinda depressing place for kids to go to school. First coupla month they got me doing all kinds of jobs around there, hauling boxes up and down stairs, painting hallways, washing floors, waxing furniture. I wanna ask who did these jobs before I got here? but it’s pretty clear that answer’s gonna be ‘nobody’. This place’s glory days are in its past, man, religion’s gone clear outta style. \nThe school still runs, regular kids K-6 getting their heads filled with moldy crap every weekday. I feel kinda bad for anybody gotta sit in that place try’n to learn. \nAfter I’m there a month I’ve got almost 50 hours done and it’s gonna be a long effin’ way but I’m starting to breathe again. Then the good sister (that’s Uncle Brook’s name for her) asks me, do I want to do more hours, get done faster and I say sure, thinking it can't be worse jobs than what they been giving me, prob’ly just more of the same and the worst’s gonna happen is suckin’ dust and gettin’ sore muscles, so what? But it’s not the same chores at all. \nSee, the parish school’s gotta make ends meet whatever way it can. So it has this section I never been to before with kids that don't mix with the other kids. I knew it was there and ev’ry so often I seen the kids down in the playground when they have their own separate recess time. Just acted like a bunch of ‘tards who wander all over the place and have a lot more adults watching them. All different ages of kids, and they never play together. They don’t even look at each other.\nThese aren't like, handicapped kids. They have things wrong with them you can't see and you gotta go to college to know the names of their problems to help them, I guess. Doesn’t seem to be doing much. Least, that’s how my mind went the first day Sister Merrie took me down there to be introduced, like if the class gave a flying fuckola who I was, but anyhow the teachers were nice. They looked at me like I’m a plate of brownies, like they so desperate for help even I’m lookin’ to be a good prospect. Like I already said, don't much like it when people stare at me so I didn't exactly what you call socialize with them. I looked around and it ain’t as shitty as I woulda thought, somebody’s gone to the trouble to fix things up nice and bright and there’s different kinds of tables and chairs, comfy rugs on the floor. Toys put away, places for art, coupla different bookshelves, curtains in the windows with galaxies and some with trees. \nThen Sister Merrie’s giving my shoulder a pat and getting ready to go and - leaving me here? \nShe up’n leaves me there. I get a half-sec before a teacher starts in tellin’ me ‘just watch today’ and ‘let the kids get used to you’.\nOkay I’m s’posta do what now? I say, startin’ to panic. \nShe laughs a little, says ‘don't worry, we’re just happy to have you here’. \nStarts like that, what- three months ago and now I’m halfway done my community service. Go to that classroom four, five days a week and there’s been some hairy shit go down ‘cause these kids, they are SO not right. They get bothered by anything like the lights, sounds, smells and even their clothes. They flip out if the routine changes - took them a long time to get used to me. Nowadays I wouldn't say things are predictable but then, nobody expects them to be. Weeks come and weeks go and I wonder if the hardest cases are gonna ever get better, ever gonna have real lives.\nI’m not even thinkin’ about my fucked-up face when I’m in the class. For sure, they don't give a flying crap about what I look like ‘cause they don't look at anyone’s face. At first, they didn’t talk to me. Now some of the kids do, just randomly when they feel like it. Can't just ask ‘em a question and they give you the answer. Prob’ly the most normal one is Peabody, who’s eleven. He’s real quiet. \nThere’s one girl who only walks on all fours. She was found in some forest I think. She’s around eight. And a nine year old girl who just wants to start fires. She only paints pictures of fire, uses up all the yellow and orange. That one’s gotta be watched like ya wouldn't believe. There’s little twins, a boy and girl and he never talks but just watches over his sister. \nI think that tragedies or something happened to these kids, ‘cause they look totally normal and some can do some things like read and write, but they act like they left the human race and ain’t coming back.\nSorta like my uncle did after his wife died. Left humanity. And like the kids my uncle’s gotta have his rituals too. Like shabbos. On Friday afternoons we take a bus to the Jewish cemetery so he can visit his wife’s grave. He has a prayer shawl and a prayer book that he never opens. I give them their space together, ‘cause it feels like I don't really belong there. I’m not really Jewish ‘cept my mother was Jewish so that makes me one. The good sister is making me learn Hebrew from Uncle Brook, but I don’t believe in any religion. My Aunt Zibbie died when I was six going on seven. They put her in a double plot. Double so Uncle Brook could be buried right next to her, ‘cept he won't be now ‘cause he had a fight with G-d and they parted ways and you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you break up with G-d. But even if he’s only a tourist my uncle still goes there on Fridays to say kaddish over hs Zibbie. I have this little hillside spot that I can watch him from. It’s far enough away to give him space for praying, and he can't smell my cigarette. He and me’ve been doing this Friday cemetery thing and now it’s just my regular Friday. \nA while ago this cat started showing up and being all friendly with me while I’m waiting, smoking, and thinking my thots. He’s black and white, has this wishbone mark on his head, so that’s what I call him. Guess me and Uncle Brook and Wishbone all have the same shabbos ritual now. Don't know what the cat wants except maybe attention. I never feed him - don’t want him tryin’a follow us home and getting hit by a bus. \nAnd now I wanna talk about something that’s still freakin’ me out some. In a good way.\nThree weeks ago it’s a typical shabbos afternoon with me up on the hill and Uncle Brook down below wrapped in his shawl rocking back and forth. Wishbone’s already come for his pat and left again and I see that one a’his white whiskers got dropped on the ground. So I tuck it into my cigs and I don't think about it till later that nite when I pop my bedroom window open to light one up and there it is under the wrapper.\nIt was Clare’s way when I was a kid to find magic in the lamest things. She was big on hope, had these ideas, I don’t know where they came from. Ways to make wishes. Dandelions, pennies in fountains and blowing out candles, but also something about cat whiskers - what the hell was that? Takes me a second’a remember, then there it is: cat whisker into flame, give your secret wish a name. \n I’m dangling the cig between my lips, taking out the smooth, bristly thing and flicking my lighter to make a tall finger of fire. It’s the end of the week, I been with those kids in that class every day watching the teachers doing everything they can to get thru and they mostly don't and that don’t seem to me any kinda fair. The teachers try and the parents try and I dunno if there’s a God anywhere tryin’a help but nothin’s happening and I realize that some kinda feelin’s been hurting inside me now for a while. \nShouldn’t matter, ‘cause the kids’re nothing to me. I’ll be gone in another five months and them still going back and forth always apart from the normals. \nI don't make the wish. The wish makes me - next thing the whisker’s in the fire crackling away to nothing at all and it stinks. \nWell, that’s worth fuck all I say, finish my smoke and close the window.\nMonday I’m back in the special class. The teachers announce that the school’s open house is coming up and they’d like to display something from everyone in the class. \nMighty big dreams, I say to myself. I’m working with the eleven year old that day; he hardly talks but he’s almost past high school math. Won't be long before he needs a calculus tutor and I’ll be useless. Kid’s got a talent - writes forward with his one hand and backwards with the other at the same frickin’ time. Been telling him this is pretty cool, and we start working on a problem he’s writing out with his right hand, but today the left isn't doing the mirror thing. It’s making a drawing. The more numbers Peabody writes with his right hand, the more this sketch comes out till I can see it’s a blimp. Very cool airship I tell him, then he’s adding on detail and I’m understanding exactly what it means. It’s something he wants to build out of a soda bottle. He’s gonna use all kind’a spare stuff to make the little basket and the propeller. Got a control panel and windows along the sides for the passengers to look out.\nYou want me to help you do that? You wanna put that out there for the open house? I’m asking him alluva sudden. \nNow, this ain't like me at all. I know better than to fire questions at him like that, it’s rude to kids like these. But it’s like I know what he wants, for sure. I’m seein’ him looking at me, right in my eyes. He doesn’t zoom in on my birthmark. He starts nodding. \nPeabody’s dirigible ain’t done yet but you should see what the little dude’s building. \nThen there’s Bel, the little twin girl. Girl only ever wears purple. When we go to the school library Bel finds books with orchestras and musical instruments, she brings in a little statue of a poodle playing the harp and pictures of a bear rocking out on a set of drums. Bel and me spend lotsa days finding pictures of all kindsa musical instruments for me to go and copy. She’s painting, cutting, gluing together a little animal orchestra. Do normal kids get so excited about an open house? I think it’s just the tards. \nMe, I got a little bit of swagger and I’m likin’ how the teachers are giving me time with different kids, how they’re asking my advice on what supplies to bring in.\nThe little girl who walks on all fours, that one wanted a shelter. To hide in, to be safe. We cut up clothes and cardboard in shapes of leaves, put ‘em together, coolest fort ever. \nIt’s getting so I don’t like saying goodbye in the afternoon just to go home to a grouchy old man. I kinda like the little batshit nutjobs.\nThe kids been tryin’a tell stories their own way. Teachers thinkin’ in words, all that education gettin’ in the way. Kids with minds flyin’ all over the place like dragonflies, high and fast. Messages not gettin’ delivered. The world never understanding.\n‘Cept for me, the freak. I c’n hear the messages now. \nAnd ya know, I’m pretty damned proud of me. I’m on my way up the mountain." } ]
[ { "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: Gifts from the East\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1546\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone witnessing — or trying to witness — a celestial phenomenon." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content warning: Mentions of death\n\nThe bustle of the city of Babylon was slowing as people retreated to their homes. Candles glowed and flickered in windows as breezes swirled the scents of the hanging gardens through the streets and up to the rooftops. \n\nBalthasar gazed up, watching the sky darken. The first stars were visible. Caspar, youngest of the trio, had not yet come to the roof, and Melchior was already sitting against the wall encircling the rooftop, dozing. He’s getting old, Balthasar thought wryly, glancing at the venerable gray-bearded man. \n\nHis back resting against the sun-baked stones, Melchior caught a flash of Balthasar’s teeth as the Ethiopian’s lips parted in a chuckle. \n\nThe smile disappeared. Balthasar turned and shouted towards the stairs, “Caspar! Come up here! Quickly!” \n\nMelchior roused himself at Balthasar’s excitement, trying and failing to stand quickly. Balthasar took Melchior’s hand and heaved him up. \n\nSandaled feet slapped up the steps, and Caspar appeared, embroidered robes swirling with his haste. “What is it?” \n\n“Look!”\n\nAll three men tipped their heads back and gazed at the bright new star hanging in the Western sky. \n\n“I shall see him,” Melchior intoned slowly, solemnly, “but not now: I shall behold him, but not near. A star shall rise out of Jacob, and a scepter shall spring up from Israel: and shall strike the chiefs of Moab, and shall waste all the children of Seth.” \n\n“What are you saying?” Caspar asked. \n\n“I am reciting. It is from a man named Baalam,” Melchior explained, “who went to a faraway land, and died there in a war. He had been hired to curse a numerous and wandering people, all children of a man named Jacob-Israel. Baalam went, but blessed them instead. With those blessings came prophecies. That is one of them.” \n\n“A king is born,” Balthasar said. “A king who was foretold, and about whom great things are foretold. He is so powerful that a new star must announce him.”\n\n“We knew of it, but I never thought I would see it.” Tears shone in Melchior’s eyes. \n\n“Then what are we waiting for?” Caspar asked. “Is there any reason not to leave now, immediately?”\n\n“I see none,” Balthasar said with a smile. \n\n“Then we go,” Melchior decided. \n\nMelchior, Balthasar, and Caspar rode the slow swaying camels—ships of the desert—as they plodded across the sand. On each of their saddles, concealed beneath hangings, swung one particular item, which each man wanted to keep close at hand, and guard well. \n\nA bag of tried gold. \nA sealed packet of frankincense. \nA flask of myrrh. \n\nThe journey was a long ordeal. The days were hot, and the nights cold. The camels were unpleasant creatures, not wanting to walk on. The camel drivers were not much more pleasant, muttering and cursing and striking their animals. Whenever they came to a town’s caravanserai, exorbitant prices were charged for supplies and lodging in filthy accommodations. \n\nTravel was only a means to an end. That being acknowledged, all three decided to travel as long as they could without stopping, until the drivers or their animals refused to go farther without rest. Night would fall, and still the camels plodded on, and the men grumbled but kept on for the wages they were paid. \n\nFinally, they neared the principal city of the nation of Jacob-Israel: Jerusalem.\n\nOn the night before they would reach Jerusalem, they lost the star. \n\n“Balthasar!” Melchior called. “I cannot find the star. Come and tell me if you see it.”\n\nBalthasar moved beyond the reach of the firelight and searched the sky, but gave up when his neck began to ache. “Caspar, come here and find the star for us.”\n\nAfter anxious minutes, Caspar shook his head. “I do not see it. I think it is gone.” \n\n“We must be close.” Melchior clenched both hands into fists. “We must. We know the ancient royal city of this people is ahead. All we must do is inquire there.”\n\nStone walls rose well above their heads as the camels swayed through the gates. They saw men in long, black robes and tall head coverings which swooped up above their foreheads, like the hoods of cobras, pacing through the streets. Many people made way for them, or stopped to greet them. \n\nSeeing that the dark-robed men were generally respected, Balthasar called out as one such man walked past the camels. “Greetings! We would like to know where the new king has been born.”\n\n“The new king?” The man’s bearded face showed extreme confusion. \n\n“Yes, the new king of the people of Jacob-Israel.”\n\n“We call ourselves Jews,” the man explained. “Unfortunately, the rule of our kings was ended long ago. There is no new king, and there never will be.” \n\n“Does no one rule this city?” \n\n“Herod is the ruler here, under the Roman Empire. He lives in the old palace. That way.” The man pointed deeper into the city. \n\nKing Herod appeared just as confused by the question of the travelers as the man in the street. “A new king?”\n\n“Yes,” Melchior replied. “We have seen his star in the East, and we have come to adore him. He was foretold.”\n\n“You may go,” Herod told them. “The audience is over. I will search for any knowledge of this new king.”\n\nMore of the black-robed men were about the palace after that, though they seemed ill-pleased. Servants followed them, carrying many scrolls. \n\nCaspar, restless, roamed the city, and witnessed a swift change in the mood of all the people. The bustle of the crowds did not abate, but now all seemed anxious, transacting business swiftly and disappearing back indoors, seemingly unwilling to be caught in the streets. He could not fathom what was causing the unrest. \n\nIn the throne room, black-robed Pharisees and their scribes, scholars of the law, assembled before a scowling Herod to read the answer to his question from the sacred scrolls.\n\n\"Where is the messiah to be born?\" Herod demanded.\n\n“In Bethlehem of Judah: For so it is written by the prophet: ‘And thou Bethlehem, the land of Judah, art not the least among the princes of Judah: for out of thee shall come forth the ruler, who shall rule my people Israel.’”\n\nWhen Herod secretly called the men of the East for a second audience, he had a burning question of his own. “When, exactly, did you see the star appear? How long ago?” He leaned forward in his seat, eager for their answer.\n\nAfter ascertaining the time of the star's appearance from them, Herod revealed the prophesied location of the new king, saying, “Head South, to Bethlehem.\" His cunning deceit carefully veiled with a friendly and open demeanor, he added, \"Inquire diligently after the child, and when you have found him, bring me word that I also may go and adore him.”\n\nAs soon as the city was behind them, Melchior, Balthasar, and Caspar cried out in excitement. The star burned brightly above them, directly ahead. They quickly arranged with the caravan captain to meet them in Bethlehem, and then urged their own camels faster, beyond a walk, into a wild, galumphing gallop. \n\nOn entering the house, they saw the Child with His mother. The three kings fell prostrate and did Him homage.\n\nRays of light shone from the Boy-Child’s entire being. His mother was nearly lost in the glow as she held Him in her lap. Then the shafts of glory retracted, and the wise men rose. Producing their gifts, the three travelers offered them to the Child and His mother, after which the woman’s husband took the offerings into his keeping. All too soon, the appointed visit was over.\n\nThe next morning, upon arising, Melchior said, “I dreamed a dream.” \n\nBalthasar and Caspar both looked up sharply. \n\n“I was made to understand not to return to Herod’s court, to go home by another route.”\n\n“I dreamed a dream as well, and I was made to understand the same thing,” Balthasar declared. \n\nCaspar nodded. “And I, the same.”\n\nIt was not until some weeks later that the intent of the mysterious dream was revealed to them.\n\nA traveler caught them up on the road as they were making camp. They invited him to share a meal, during which he shared news from his hometown of Bethlehem. \n\n“There was a massacre!” he declared. \n\n“What happened?” Melchior demanded. \n\n“King Herod, ruler of Jerusalem, sent his soldiers to Bethlehem, and they put to the sword all the boys two years old and under.\"\n\nBalthasar felt sick. “All the boys died?”\n\n“They say so,\" their guest affirmed. \"It is as if Herod were the Pharaoh of old, from whom Moses was saved.” \n\nCaspar looked at his companions and spoke quietly. “The Child could not die unless it was appointed. You must know this! We could not but fall before Him and do Him homage.”\n\nMelchior and Balthasar sat back in astonishment, then began to nod. \n\n\"Wise we may be,” Melchior said, “but who can fathom these prodigies? One day, perhaps, we shall understand.”\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAuthor's note:\nThe prophecy Melchior recites is from the Duoay-Rheims version of the Bible, Book of Numbers XXIV:17\nThe arrival of the wise men in Jerusalem through their finding of the Child is taken from the Gospel of Matthew II:1–12" } ]
[ { "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: Eyes Like Sirens\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2574\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “Let’s go for a walk.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Eyes like Sirens\nBy: Nic Silvestris\n The trailer was bereft of any semblance of fresh air. Sunlight burned through the cracks in the side panels, a devilish reminder of the summer heat. Grunts were only interrupted by the echoes of curse words reverberating off the aluminum walls when a box labeled “fragile” fell from the top of the pile. Lightweight boxes acted more like wrestlers jumping from the top rope than delicate containers.\n Unloading supply trucks for a retailer was not Carter’s first choice of occupation, but at least he didn’t have to deal with customers. The physical nature of the job was also aiding in his attempt at a serviceable “beach bod”, a beneficial byproduct. After struggling through the week, he’d stand in front of the mirror in the breakroom, check in hand and flex his ever so slightly growing arms, an occipital practice satisfactory enough for him to return each week.\n It had been an unseasonably warm spring, Mother Nature ditching the transition slide between jackets and bikinis. Some felt she was jumping the shark, others blamed global warming. Carter could care less the reason. He was too busy gawking at the girls wearing only enough to capture your imagination, but not too much for you not to treat them like a Renaissance fresco.\n The final month of his senior year was coming to a close, only prom and graduation remained as speedbumps before the first truly free summer vacation. Finding a date to prom had become extraneous since his crush, Kate had chosen to go with her new boyfriend.\n Carter ignited the roach he had left inside the cinderblock on the backside of the store and leaned against the stucco wall. The thatched roof extended far enough to provide a cool shade during his fifteen-minute respite. He had barely inhaled a second hit of bliss when Jimmy’s footsteps crashed over the gravel.\n “Hey kid”, Jimmy said, pausing momentarily to allow his brain to comprehend what his nose had discovered to either be a skunk or “Girl Scout cookie Kush”.\n Jimmy was a cliché of an east-coast Irish man, about fifty, Carter guessed based on some of Jimmy’s stories. He came from a typical large catholic family, the second oldest of nine. Carter had given him a ride home from work a few times, since Jimmy had his license suspended after a DUI. Jimmy was court ordered to live in a sober house, but his sponsor was lenient as California sober, opposed to the traditional abstinent position. \n “You catch the Sox game last night?”, Jimmy asked as he reached out a hand beckoning for a hit of whatever was left in the crisped Zig-Zag.\n “Nah but doesn’t look like I missed much of a game. They’ve really been . . .”, before Carter could finish his bite-sized diatribe railing the team, Jimmy interjected through the parcel of filter and smoke.\n “Listen, I need you to take my niece on a date. She hasn’t found one for prom, but that can’t be the first time yous guys meet.”\n Jimmy had replaced the joint with a toothpick and began whittling the splint between his crooked front teeth, yellowed from the decades of smoking.\n “Jim, I don’t even know what she looks like! Besides, I’m not going to my own prom, why the hell would I go to hers?”, Carter replied as he kicked dirt to bury the evidence.\n “C’mon don’t be a douche. She’s a good egg, besides you’d be doing me a solid. Speaking of which, can you give me a lift home?”\n If you stared at Jimmy too long without response, he’d begin rubbing his salted goatee, a tell that he was nervous and one that cost him too many poker hands.\n “Yeah, sure. What time?”\n “What the fuck you mean? When we punch out at five, dipshit. You think I want to stay longer and shop like some broad?”\n “No Jim, what time you want me to pick up your niece? And how about her name? I don’t know anything about her for Pete’s sake.”\n “Oh, right. Here’s my brother’s address” he replied as he scribbled the street down on a scrap of paper supplied by his back pocket.\n “Her name’s Phoebe, and you don’t need to know anything other than that. That’s the point of the date Carter, you ask her all the questions and pay for her food. You kids don’t know shit.”\n The alarm buzzed on Carter’s phone indicating the end of their fifteen-minute requiem, and they headed back inside.\n.* * \n Jimmy grabbed a water from the employee’s fridge and met with Carter to punch out. They said goodbye to Mary, the store’s front-end matriarch and packed into Carter’s ’09 navy Jetta.\n “C’mon Jim, you’ve got to tell me something about Phoebe. I need something to work with here. Does she play sports, or is she a theater kid? And is she privy to the idea of you playing matchmaker?”\n “Relax Sherlock. I think she plays soccer, or maybe that grass hockey thing. I hope soccer because the other one seems like a lesbian game.”\n “You shouldn’t say things like that.”\n “Oh, didn’t realize I was riding with the P.C. police. Besides, tell me I’m wrong.”\n “Ok, besides possibly playing a sport, is she into music or reading?”\n “Look kid, she’s a good student and gots a good head on her shoulders. Only thing yous got to be worried about is her being too smart for you.”\n “Thanks for the insight, Jim. I’ve got a vivid picture of Ms. Congeniality.”\n “Just don’t be late! I told her you’d pick her up at 7.”\n Carter pulled into the driveway and said his goodbyes to Jimmy, who had handed him a “sawbuck” to buy flowers.\n When Carter got home, his mom was leaned over the counter, measuring some dry ingredients in an attempt to replicate her grandmother’s date bread.\n “Hey honey! How was work? Can I get you something to eat? It’ll only take a minute to heat up the leftovers!”\n She talked with such rapid persistence it wouldn’t allow for interruptions nor negative answers. Carter debated how to tell her about the date, because revealing his plans would equate to screaming on the mountainside and having the avalanche of questions be deluged upon him.\n “I’m going out for dinner ma. So no thank you.”\n While he made his best attempt to get a door closed behind him, his mom was too spry.\n “Oooo”, she practically squealed as she clapped, emitting powder form the whisk still present in her hand.\n “My baby is going on a . . .”, she leaned in for a dramatic whisper, “date!?”.\n “Yeah, believe it or not Ripley”.\n Carter held up two similarly patterned button up shirts, inciting a near grimace from his mom. She sashayed into his closet and simultaneously began mumbling to herself.\n “Here, pair this shirt with some khakis, but not the ones you wear to work!”\n She kissed his head and exited back towards the kitchen with the energy of a Disney movie. With her abundance of excitement Carter thought she should go in his place.\n A shower that doubled as a session in a sauna and a rehearsal of his opening “hello” (or hey, or perhaps just a slight chin-lifting nod) in the mirror had him as prepared as he could be. Carter said good-bye to his mom and headed out towards the blind date existing between a state of loathing and earnest curiosity.\n * *\n The “ding” of the GPS indicated his arrival. Carter picked up the small “mix-batch” bouquet he had bought at the gas station and headed up the driveway. He had knocked twice by the time he noticed the doorbell. His finger was on the precipice of the button when the door opened, revealing a middle-aged man in greasy, tan slacks and a shirt only buttoned halfway.\n “Y’must be Carter. C’mon in.”\n As soon as he stepped foot in the house, an overwhelming smell of cigar smoke migrated through his sinuses.\n “You have a nice home”, Carter said, having to slightly raise his voice to be heard over Tucker Carlson.\n “My brother said you’re a good kid. Don’t keep me up too late” he said as he looked right through Carter. Even though Carter had about three inches on him, he felt at least a foot shorter.\n Phoebe’s footsteps echoed down the stairs. Carter was transported into a planetarium, stargazing at the brunette constellation revealing herself with each step. Each step light but decisive, causing her hair to bob ever so slightly. Her legs sculpted by Michelangelo himself, grander than the pillars erected at the Parthenon. A layman would mistake her arms to belong to that of an El Greco portrait, but to Carter they were lassos looping around his heart.\n He remained unmoved as they finally made eye contact. Her tawny eyes magnetic, yet dangerous. They were the type to make you mystified enough to never consider looking at another set.\n “Hello Carter” she said as she extended her hand.\n “Hey, uh, these are for you” he said as he extended out the flowers.\n “Thank you, that’s very sweet.”\n Sweet would not begin to describe her redolent smell. Her fingers grazed his as she took the bouquet from him, an effervescent energy transmitting from her digits onto his skin. She turned to find a vase in the kitchen, leaving behind an impression of infatuation.\n “Carter, do you own an iron?” her dad asked as he redirected Carter from his trance.\n “Yes, sir, I think there’s a board in one of the closets.”\n “Great, I suggest next time you use it, and not show up with a wrinkled shirt. You look like you just rolled out of bed. When it’s not Halloween, you shouldn’t dress like a clown.”\n Phoebe reentered the room, grabbing her handbag off the banister and giving her dad a kiss on the cheek. He saw them out as they headed towards the pumpkin carriage. Carter’s head was on a swivel, trying to keep each step on the stones of the path and off the grass, while simultaneously trying not to get caught gawking at jewel beside him.\n He hurried his steps, making sure to reach the car first and open the door for her. He walked around the back of the car to give himself more time to soak in the incredible luck bestowed upon him. His phone burned inside his pocket, yearning to be used as a beacon to let his friend’s in on an experience seemingly too good to be true.\n Carter settled into the driver’s seat and attached his phone to the dangling aux cord.\n “What kind of music do you like?” he asked as he scrolled through the myriad of playlists adorning his library.\n “Just about everything really. Put on whatever you like!”.\n Her voice was mellifluous, each syllable a sweet caress in Carter’s ears.\n He decided on the playlist labeled “chill” and began driving.\n “So, you play field hockey?”\n “Huh? Oh no, I play soccer and do cross country in the Spring. Do I give off field hockey vibes?”, she asked with similar intentions to a bear trap.\n “Oh no not at all. I . . . well, your uncle said you played. You’re too pretty to play field hockey.”\n “Too pretty? What’s that supposed to mean?”\n “I don’t mean anything bad by it. Just that you’d be wasting your face behind those ugly masks.”\n His face became increasingly flushed with each word he uttered, the cracks of his false bravado beginning to reveal his true nervous nature. Phoebe hid her smirk as she glanced around the interior, an empty container of wet wipes in the door evidence of the very recent, haphazard, cleaning.\n “What’d you have planned for us?”\n “Well, I figured we could get food at Gerry’s.”\n Carter had chosen Gerry’s because it was relatively close, but more importantly, nobody their age ever ate there. He has assumed the worst and would’ve been too embarrassed to be seen by his friends on a date. If he only knew what she looked like, he would’ve gone to Lovell’s, where he could’ve shown her off.\n The music was merely an accessory of white noise as their conversation bounced back and forth, from school to favorite animals.\n As they pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, Carter’s face contorted and his shoulder’s slumped. There was not a soul in the darkened building. He parked and walked up to the door, a paper revealing they were closed due to an emergency with the owner. Downtrodden by circumstance, he returned to the car and sighed.\n “You should’ve made reservations, the line is out the door”, Phoebe joked, an attempt to lighten the mood.\n “I’m really sorry” Carter apologized as he scrambled to Google an open restaurant.\n “Don’t sweat it. Let’s go for a walk.”\nPhoebe gave Carter an address, and they pulled away from the barren parking lot.\nThe directions led them into a shallow lot, with a small sign imploring walkers to pick up after their dogs.\n“My mom and I have walked this path for years. There’s a spot near the end that’s probably my favorite place on earth.”\nShe gracefully descended the increasingly steep path, guiding Carter towards a bench, set back from the beaten path but close to the water’s edge.\nAs they sat on the wooden bench, doubling as a vessel headed towards wonderland, the sun began setting, reflecting it’s warm and tantalizing rays across the lake’s celestial body. It was a scene on par with that described in Thoreau’s vision of Walden Pond.\n“Phoebe, I have to ask, and don’t take this the wrong way. Your uncle said you didn’t have a date to the prom. After meeting you, I’m having a real hard time believing it to be true.”\n“Well, it’s a long story. Short answer is that I just haven’t been asked by a guy I’d want to go with. I had a contingency plan with my friend Louis, but this guy he’s been crushing on finally asked him, which left me without any date.”\nAs she spoke, the lingering beats of sunlight highlighted her iridescent eyes, harmonizing with the melodic volume of her hair.\nShe finished her thought and paused a beat, slightly biting her lip in anticipation of Carter’s response.\n“You’ve got a face that could launch a thousand ships.”\n“Is that a line you’ve stolen before?”\n“Even if it is, it’s never been more true.”\nShe blushed, exposing the innocence of a naïve beauty. The iris of her soul flashed a genuine elegance, dressed in a laced poise.\nAs much as he yearned feel the fire of her lips ignite his own, he remained paralyzed, fixating on her flawless face. She had eyes that’d draw sailors from the sea like the sirens signing their sweet songs. She had not a nose, but an entire resort he daydreamed of cascading kisses down akin to a skier gliding down unblemished slopes. Her chin protruded only enough to be held when they would embrace under a shared umbrella.\n“Carter, this may be crazy . . .”, she said barely above a whisper, still not breaking from their optical slow dance.\n The way she said his name echoed throughout his head, a sound that he would cherish and haunt the hallways of his heart.\n“Will you be my date to prom?”" } ]
[ { "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: Derelict\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1626\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “Let’s go for a walk.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Lets go for a walk.\"\n\n\"Don't go past the fence Jerry, you know what happens.\" Said Kirsty pensively. They were sat again outside the old vinyl shop, sipping lemonade from stripey cans.\n\n\"I won't, I just want to see the 'Planes going over. I saw one from Saudia Arabia the other day and one from 'Olland. You should come.\"\n\nKirsty put her can down \"Nah, thanks Jez but I don't like it out there, not with them new lot mooching about outside the fence. If we go out there, we'll end up in their world. I'm stopping here with the others. Inside.\"\n\nJerry shrugged and walked to the top of the defunct escalator and started striding down the slanted steps. The motor stopped ages ago. Everything stopped ages ago. When they decided to stay in the shopping centre.\n\n\"Fair enough Kirst, you lot are getting pale faces though. You'll end up looking like ghosts.\"\n\nAnother youngster named Matt, snorted at Jerry. \"Very funny Jezza, you nerd. Go on, sling yer 'ook. We want to look at the inside of the shop.\"\n\nKirsty and Matt, and seven or eight of the other kids, pushed through the door of the music store and went inside. Jerry shook his head at Matt's quip, and got to the bottom of the escalator, through the huge swing doors and out into the open sunlight. \n\nEverything was fine being a residual and Jerry certainly did not want to go beyond the fences. That would mean he would step into his future self. That was what Kirsty was afraid of too. But Jerry was not to be ruled by fear.\n\nThe fifty year old Jerry now strolled into view. Outside the perimeter fences. This Jerry, was alive and well in the present. Behind the perimeter, fourteen year old Jerry shuddered, he had seen himself and another group of blokes walking past the fences to a big new shopping complex with pubs and bars and noisy screens with football blaring out.\n\nHe had looked at himself in pity and shock.\n\n'Bleedin' ell. Look at the state of me! I am not going into that body. I'm stoppin' ere.' He had thought as the men trooped in all staring at some weird gadgets in their hands and shouting stuff like 'Tagged yer.' and 'Put it on Facebook.' Whatever that meant.\n\nTo Jerry, it may has well have been a foreign language and what were them bloody things they were all obsessed with? 'Not my problem.' He mused, and sat on a broken down graffitied old wall with his lemonade.\n\nSuddenly, he was pelted from the complex above. Cassette tapes and 12\" vinyl records were thrown and frisbeed at him. He was hit on the head by a wide range of music, and a 'Classic Hits' LP nearly scythed through his neck. Raucous laughter came from within the building from the other residuals.\n\n\"Oiiee, you little gits, what yer doin' that for?\" Shouted Jerry. \n\nKirsty, Carla, Steve and bloody Matt. All laughed their heads off as more vintage retro equipment, rained out of the windows.\n\n\"Can't play the bloody things can we?!\" Shouted another girl called Stacey.\n\n\"Ere, if you like 'planes so much, yer can have this one.. Nerd!\" Shouted the weaselly, cocky Matt, as he launched a huge paper aeroplane constructed from a Men a glossy giant 'Rock Greats' poster. It drifted awkwardly to the ground.\n\n\"Bloody waste. That'd have gone up in my room.. If we could have stayed fourteen forever.\" He picked up the poster and looked at the band on it. \"I don't think they will be old people, not ever. They're too cool to get old.\"\n\nJerry saw all the cassettes and records that would have cost a years pocket money, plus idd jobs, to save up for.\n\nNow the residuals were chucking them about like stones. It was true though. When they had the choice to split from themselves and stay here, a lot of the kids thought it was a fantastic idea. A lot didn't and send it was voodoo magic and went home to their families..\n\nAnd began to age.\n\nOver Jerry's head, a real aeroplane now flew over, it was quite low and dappled in red, white and blue. He had his binoculars from the catalogue shop. Not like he'd stolen them. Everywhere was empty, derelict.\n\nIt was apparently called an Airbus A220 and across the side it was emblazoned with the logo 'QuickHols.Com'. Underneath, in smaller writing was 'From A to B in under 3'. Presumably hours or days or whatever that meant.\n\nJerry admired aircraft but would have been much happier seeing the 747 Jumbo's and the Tridents and perchance a diverted Concorde.\n\nThat was the trouble though. It was meant to stay the same when they said they were staying in their year forever. How were they to know that everything inside the perimeter would stop and beyond it, everything would just go 'Flippin' mental', as Kirsty had put it.\n\nIt was just as well as when it became apparent to the residuals that their gamble was backfiring, they had put their heads together and thought of their permanent fourteen year old futures. They had got their wish to stay young but their little world around them began to crumble and stop working. It was bittersweet.\n\nThey had set about planting seeds for fruit and vegetables and learned how to make bread and cakes and those new pizza things from the cookbooks in the big stationers.The water still ran from some of the taps in the staff rooms of the shops and the river was always there, out the back.\n\nNo kettles though. No electric. They had to boil the water over a fire for hot drinks. There was still plenty of tea and coffee and cocoa and stuff, but it would run out, or go out of date. Same with the juice and pop.\n\nSo they tried stuff, like dandelion or mint tea from the leaves. \"Errr.. Its bluddy 'orrible..\" Sammy had said. But they got used to it and began to ration the luxury stuff. A day would come that they would be on this new natural stuff forever.\n\nJerry wrote the registration of the aeroplane down in his notepad and was about to head back in to give the others a bollocking for their musical onslaught, when them blokes appeared again, beyond the fence.\n\n\"Its me again.\" He whispered to himself. \"Fat slob, 'ow the 'ell did I get like that. I'm not leaving now, that's for sure. Old git. No way! Not for me.\" Jerry spotted another familiar but older face in the passing gang of old people. \n\n\"Oh Matt mate, you deserve that though for all yer bullying.. Your grey and decrepit my old mate, ha!\"\n\nJerry saw his fifty year old self with Matt. Carla was there too, and some others that were never in their gang. Kirsty was not with them. He wondered what had become of her. \n\n'She's sensible. Prob'ly married with kids. 'Oo wants that though?' He pondered. The decision to separate and become residuals was looking a better option. If only stuff worked. If onlybeverywhere was not so.. Derelict.\n\nJerry was crestfallen as he saw old himself meddling with that stupid gadget again.\n\n\"One of them's gonna get bluddy run over. Starin' at them screens. What are them things? Little tellys or sumat? They don't seem to care about 'owt else. Knobs.\"\n\nMatt was tall, gaunt, skinny and bald now and wore a denim jacket that looked as though he never took it off. He also looked like he never washed and swigged from a nasty looking lager can, swearing and chanting football songs as he walked with the others.\n\nCarla said to him \"O.M.G Matt, will you just S.T.F.U. Yer still a right knob aren't yer.\"\n\nJerry had no idea what fifty year old Carla meant but it sounded like she was bollocking Matt. 'Good, he's a bluddy tosspot.' He thought.\n\n\"Some things don't change Matt, stupid pleb. Bollocks to this, its like Back to the bluddy Future, they look like robots or sumat. I'm going back in.\"\n\nThat was Jerry's excercise and sunlight done for today and he went back through the swing doors and grabbed a tin of corned beef from the 'SupaSave' and some stale Pick n Mix from 'Fanshaws Confectionery' and strolled up the escalators frozen incline once again.\n\nHe didn't know how he felt really. Seeing himself chubby and with grey hair and a beard and weird clothes on and staring at that gadget thing like all his old cronies. Swiping and tapping the telly things.\"\n\n\"It might be OK I s'pose. Might be shit though. Might have a Missus 'oo can't cook or let me watch the footy. That's if footy is still on and they've not replaced it with them stupid portable plastic fings.\n\nNah, I'll stay 'ere a bit but I might go back if Kirsty and Steve and that come with me. Least I'll know someone when I'm that fat old tramp, messing about on that telly thing.\"\n\nJerry went up the ramp and they were all sat eating a mixture of what they could get their hands on and reading magazines. Smash Hits, Radio Times, NME.\n\n\"Any planes today Jez? I might come tomorrow. I'm getting a bit fed up with all this btoken stuff. Want sumat to do.\" Said Kirsty, munching a cold tinned steak and kidney pie.\n\n\"Just the one, but I'd never seen it before, so it was alright.\" Jerry replied.\n\n\"See owt else?\"\n\n\"Nah, bit borin' really Kirst.\"\n\nJerry sat and ate his corned beef wondering about which future he would choose.\n\nTHE END\n\nAndrew Evans © 2023" } ]
[ { "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 Cave\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1542\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s climbing a mountain, whether internal, external, or both." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Have you ever heard of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave? If you haven’t, I’ll spell it out for you in the most rudimentary way possible. You’re in the cave, meaning you only see an imitation of the truth. You are in the dark, living your life through fake shadows. If you venture outside the cave, you will be blinded by the truth, but then come to accept it. Almost everyone on this Earth is inside the cave, only the truly amazing and ethically correct will be curious enough to drag themselves out. This allegory of the cave can be used as a metaphor for all areas of life. My cave is vanity.\nI always thought of myself to be standing outside the cave, watching others suffer as I yelled from the outside, beckoning them to the light. \nThe longer I stood there, basking in the sun, criticizing the ones who I believed put themselves there on purpose, \nso shallow\nso vain\nthe closer I inched toward the entrance. I thought I could be their savior. That I could go inside and walk out a free woman with everyone in tow. My feet itched to venture in, and I slowly convinced myself that maybe the cave was where I wanted to be. \nI looked at them all, sitting there, withering into nothingness, and vowed never to be like them, \nbut a kernel of my mind wanted it. \nI don’t think it was for the attention, no, it was the melody from the cave infecting me through my ears and into my soul. I listened to them too hard and began to believe their words, buying into their tenets like they were a cult.\nFinally, I took a peek inside, venturing into the unknown that I thought I knew so much about. Before I knew it I was\nF\n A\n L\n L\n I\n N\n G\nFalling so fast I didn’t believe it possible, rolling down the hill to the bottom, stuck forever with no one to save me. But I didn’t want help. I placed the chains on my hands and feet and sat next to them, still vowing I would never look like them. \nI was better than them. \nBut I never was. We were one and the same, drinking the same Kool-Aid, slowly spiraling into despair. Our chains weighed us down, but we were the ones that placed them there. \nOr were we?\nLet’s take a trip into the heart of society’s standards to decipher this one together. What is so essential that almost every industry revolves around it? Beauty. At the center of everything, it all comes down to what we look like, and how pleasing it is to others. Curling around the edges that make up our lives and nestling into the center, starting as wisps and becoming noxious gas. People spend their lives worrying about a bad hair day, or a pimple, or shaving their legs, or what makeup looks the best on their skin, or what clothing trend is currently gripping the people by their necks, until it all becomes so much that you just want to cut off all your hair and move across the world to live in the middle of nowhere and never see another human ever again. \nMy life’s dream was to become a writer one day, and it still is, but somewhere in there, I dream about growing old and finally deciding to stop caring about what I look like. The dream of eating all the food in the world, getting fat, and living happily ever after with my partner in a house on a beach, spending my days reading and basking in the sun.\nPeople spend their whole lives on an escapade to lose weight, saying they will start tomorrow every day until the day they die. It seems like the whole world wants to lose weight, case and point. So maybe I didn’t put the chains on myself, maybe society did. Maybe I grew up in an age where the flatter my stomach is, the more worth I have, and that finally rubbed off on me. Maybe I got swept up in health trends and fell face-first into a problem much bigger than obesity. I, along with society, decided that appearance, merely just the vessel that our consciousness uses to survive, is meaningful. That the way we look means something. As if we aren’t living on a floating rock in space that doesn’t give a damn if your makeup looks good today or if you lost 5 pounds for the summer.\nIf you couldn’t tell by now, I suffer from anorexia. \nYes, present tense, and no, I don’t want sympathy. Like I said before, this wasn’t for attention, in fact, this is the first time I’ve written that down, etching the truth into the eternity of pen and paper. I spent months in imprisonment, sitting idly by as my chains got heavier and my fight got weaker. I didn’t want to leave the cave until it finally dawned on me: \nI have a problem.\nThis was the problem that I willingly fell into knowing nothing about it. I thought it harmless, maybe even beneficial because I would finally like how I looked, but I’ve never been more critical of my appearance. It’s ironic how I thought my confidence would skyrocket, but I crashed and burned, landing in a pit of despair instead. \nAnd then another thing dawned on me, a lot of people love me, and a lot of people would want me to get help. They say asking for help is the hardest part, but I don’t believe that to be true. Nothing is easy, but in relation, that was the easiest part. The months of feeling all alone in the world, inside my little cave, sinking farther into the ground. The months of wanting help but being too afraid to ask, too scared I was faking it for attention, too scared of getting better. Then, when I finally reached my hand out and grabbed onto my parent's forearms, it was the next step that was even harder. \nIt’s easier to sit in the cave and rot, than to start a treacherous climb upwards, not knowing if you will ever see daylight. To make huge steps one day and wake up back at the bottom the next. The constant watchful eyes, the comments, the doctors and therapists, and even though I had told someone, I still felt alone. \nAlone on a seemingly impossible climb.\nAnd then I realized that my whole life was a slow trek through the cave, destined to months of imprisonment just so I could stretch my legs and climb out, finally receiving the freedom I deserved. \nBecause I deserve freedom. I deserve to be free from the cave. To frolic in the warm sun, not blinded by its truth, but set free by it. I deserve to realize that the way I look isn’t meaningful. Nothing about my appearance says anything about my personality, my hopes and dreams, my attitude. One day, I will finish that climb. Even if it isn’t today, tomorrow, or next month, I know I have the strength to fight it because that’s who I am. I am a strong person. And the farther down I chained myself, the less I believed it, but it's true. I believed myself cliché, embarrassed by how I became just like everyone I said I would never become. Hence, the reason I haven’t told a soul other than my parents, doctors, and well, now you of course. I may be cliché, I may be just like everyone else, but aren’t we all? \nAnd that’s okay.\nThat doesn’t have to hinder my climb. Embarrassment is just another pebble in my path. I can kick it away, or I can trip and fall all the way back down, it’s my choice.\nI choose to kick it away.\nWhat I’ve realized from this treacherous journey is that real meaning can’t be defined by what’s on the surface. Whether that’s beauty, or even just every surface-level activity that we plague ourselves with just to feel included in life. Real meaning comes from the people we love, and how they bring us up so we can become better, because I’m not on this climb alone. I have a whole crew of people walking beside me who can’t see the light either until I make my climb. \nSomeone once told me that things tend to scream when they are dying, and in that moment I understood why my shackles got heavier the closer I got to the sun. All of this control that I thought I held over the voice of my eating disorder was void. \nI never had any control. \nI never knew anything. Every time I took a step forward she screamed from the shadows, and I ran back to her, but she only screams because she knows she will die if I reach the light. I’ve never wanted anyone to die so badly before.\nSo, from this day forward, I will put one foot in front of the other, listening to her screams as she gets left behind, and I will see the sun again.\nBecause I deserve 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: Uneaten\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1589\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone looking for a sign in a dark sky." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s difficult to forget what human flesh tastes like once you’ve had a bite. It’s not the uniqueness of the flavor or the texture that made the meal remarkable but the forbidden act of chewing and swallowing a chunk of someone’s forearm. The smell, the similarity to beef, the way it felt when it traveled down his stomach would be seared into Mr. Chen’s mind for eternity. \nEver since he lost his vision, Mr. Chen’s memories had become even more vivid than before. In his hospital room, he’d spend every waking hour mumbling to himself, lost in his past. He was only silent during meal times, where he devoured every last morsel of whatever was fed to him by his nurse, Clara. “You have quite the appetite,” she joked, mostly to herself. Then, she’d slip a spoonful of stew into his gaping mouth. \nThere was a time food did not come so easily to Chen. After the civil war, a drought took a toll on his village and food became scarce. Chen’s watchmaking business took a huge hit as even his wealthiest customers stopped frequenting his shop. “Who wants clocks or watches at a time like this? All we can do is count the remaining seconds of our suffering lives.” said his dejected partner and salesman, Min. \nYoung Chen did his best to find food for his wife and son. Though, at that time he was a capable man, he was merely a watchmaker in the midst of a famine. Eventually, like many others in his village, his family resorted to eating grass and dirt around their home. “What are eyes for,” Chen would often ask himself, “when all I can do is watch my family wither away?”\nHis son, Bowen, was the first to go. When he took his last breath, his once-full cheeks were sunken in. Chen’s wife, Hua, had spared every bit she had to their only child, but it wasn’t enough growing for a twelve-year-old boy. Hua had also remained brave and cheerful for Bowen, attempting to distract him from his hunger with songs, stories and games. Now, with him gone, she would not leave her room. Chen could hear her sobbing as he left the house that evening to bury their son.\nThere was no moon in the sky when Chen made his way to the cemetery which was now disheveled with rotten carcasses lying out in the open.He found an empty patch of earth, laid his son next to him and began to dig. \n“That’s a nice spot.” \nChen looked up to see Min, his old salesman who also had a body with him — his oldest daughter. \n“Yeah,” Chen replied softly, “Bowen passed this morning.”\nMin just nodded. He began to dig a hole about a meter away. Even at a distance, Chen could hear the man’s stomach rumbling. He looked so gaunt. It was no wonder, though. Min had three children to feed instead of one. \nAll of a sudden, Min stopped and just stared at the body. “It’s food,” he whispered. \nChen paused his own digging to look at his old friend. “What did you say?”\n“The skin on our children is still meat,” Min said a bit louder, frenzied with grief and starvation.\nChen understood but could not believe his ears. “No, Min. You can’t eat her. She’s your child!”\n“I know I can’t! I couldn’t! But what else can I do? The rest of my family will die the same way she did.” \nChen had no answer. No good argument to respond to Min’s desperation because he, too, shared that desperation. \nMinutes passed before Min said, “Would you like her?” I’ll take the boy. They’d just rot here anyways. You feed your wife with my Mei Mei and — \"\n“Absolutely not! That’s immoral, inhumane. How could you even think to say that?” \n“Please,” begged the salesman. “My sons, my wife, me. We all deserve to live, even if it makes me a monster. Morality is worth as much as clocks and watches right now. Please…”\nChen peered down at his son’s face, hoping to find a dignified answer there. Nothing but death —a death caused by hunger — stared back. So the watchmaker looked up at the moonless sky which was now sprinkled with stars. Oh sentient beings, he pleaded, what else can I do? \nThe stars simply twinkled far out of reach — full of life, hope and sustenance. All the things Chen did not have. \nHe looked back down at Min.\n“Okay,” was all he could muster. \nThough his starving wife was surprised at the sight of a meat stew, she could not bring herself to eat it at first. The pain of her son’s death overshadowed even the most famished of appetites. Similarly, Chen hesitated to eat, but for a variety of reasons. Fear, repulsion and guilt were at the forefront of his emotions. Butchering the girl was the worst task he’d ever done in his life. However, hunger got the best of both husband and wife. \n“This is delicious,” Hua said between slurps. “Where in the world did you get it?” \n“Traded,” he mumbled. To his relief, she didn’t press. \nThat was far from the last time, Chen and his wife consumed human meat. Min, now a skilled butcher, went to the cemetery every midnight to dig for fresh bodies. The happy faces on his well-fed children wiped away any guilt he had about his cannibalism. \nChen, who was also glad to feel nourished again, joined in on the nightly hunts. However, unlike Min, he continued to feel the shame. He was eating the families of his neighbors while everyone else in town starved to death. So to compromise his immorality, he did the only thing he could. He started giving human meat to other people in the community. “What they don’t know won’t kill them,” he consoled himself, “but hunger will.” \nDuring the next three months, Min and Chen gave to many grateful families. Min butchered and Chen went door to door, feeding them not only meat, but also plenty of lies. \n“Min and I travel very far north each week to hunt. There are lots of wild hogs up there,” he’d say. Each lie tore into him like a butcher knife. \nNear the end of winter, there were less new corpses in the cemetery. Chen’s deliveries as well as the doctors who were sent to the village by the government lowered the death rate. Chen was relieved to see that his hometown was finally weathering the storm. \nHe arrived at Min’s home to pick up some butchered meat one afternoon. Min had a shed near his house for his work which he kept locked while his wife and kids were at home. But now, the door was wide open. Chen could see where there used to be an assortment of watches and gadgets were now replaced with knives and mincing tools. There was blood on every surface. Min stood before a table slicing flesh off of a young boy. \nChen squinted. “That one wasn’t at the cemetery last night,” he said.\nMin didn’t even look up from slicing. “I know.”\n“So where did you get him?”\n“He was playing in the field next to my shed this morning. Quite an easy kill.”\nChen simply stood in shock as he processed what his friend had said. Then, his head began to spin with a flurry of rage and before he knew what he was doing, his hands went to strangle Min’s neck. \nMin, who hadn't anticipated the attack, dropped his knife in a startle. Chen’s fingers squeezed and squeezed but his mind was blank with fury.\n\"THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD! THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!\"\nMin struggled to find his knife but after a minute, he stopped moving and the life went out of his eyes. \nWhen Chen’s anger finally subsided, the weight of his actions sank in and he began to panic. He looked at the two dead bodies in the room and realized he knew only one way to get rid of them. \nChen wrapped Min and the young boy’s remains in paper and put them in a basket. He distributed the meat to his usual, hungry takers. \nNews spread about the Min’s disappearance. The town mourned the loss of a skilled butcher. Min’s family mourned the loss of a father and husband. No one suspected his longtime partner in crime. Chen even went to the family’s home to offer his condolences. Killing and lying were skills that Min had taught him well. \nWith practice, he became so skilled with lying to himself that he almost felt no guilt at all. At least that’s what he told himself as he filled the rest of his life with new jobs, traveling and spoiling his wife until she passed away peacefully, unaware of any of Chen’s crimes or her involvement in them. \nFor sixty long years, Chen repressed his remorse in new experiences, senses, and — finally, with nothing left to see or do — memories. Vivid memories that consumed him. \nBut there in the hospital bed, suffering from a stroke during the last hour of his life, even memories were taken from the pitiful old man. With nothing to imagine, Chen was forced to finally face the pitch black nothing — just like the sky he pleaded to the night he traded his son for a lifetime of shame and nourishment. Only this time, there were no stars." } ]
[ { "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: Thanks Bitch\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1535\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having a run of bad luck." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The author has placed a warning on this post for language. This also mentions suicide.\nSo this is where shit lead to? Moving on with life welding pain onto my wall of memories I had of you. Months of talking yet years of being friends. Visions of the perfect duo. Only now I know your senseless.\nDrifting sorry Pat Briscoe I have to with the loss of affection. I did my part. Where's my redemption? What else do you want me to do? I was fucking there. I gave you your fucking time. Shit you wanted yet oh turns out you slip onto some mother fucker leaving me alone with no room to shine. \nDrowning me in betrayal, Stabbing my back like Blac did to Kim. Although I wasn't related to this bitch the pain is the same, turning this situation all so grim. You smacked me with deception yet I was blind. Due to the love in your eyes. \nGetting pissed cuz my heads obsessed your all up in my fuckin mind. We spoke in person, chatting, laughing. I felt the connection. Turns out that's a bigger lie than fruit loops tasting different. With being happy I didn't pay attention to fake emotions I guess I couldn't see. What a great skill you have making fools believe. \nWe texted everyday progressing into something great. Then you blocked my ass from ever talking to you again even though I was willing to wait. I fucking loved you, I would even be happy as friends, but no all gone floating down a river. Shit that came into an end.\nWhy is it funny? Cuz I still don't know. Someone told you some shit that made you let go, and all of a sudden you got someone. Wow! This mother fucker talked shit and is with you while I'm having a nervous breakdown.\nGo ahead bitch watch him break your heart I hope he does. So I can be there like \"Bem feito\" then you'll get the message. There you will feel my fucking pain get the fuckin mentality that I had. So you're like “Damn I should have listened and stook around instead of disposing him like a garbage bag.” \nThat you shouldn't have trusted love to begin with. Living that couple life like Mr. And Mrs. Smith. A true friend wouldn't sabotage one from speaking to another. I was always there for you. I cared. A bond that's not supposed to separate from each other. Man fuck you, fuck watcha did. Turning my love into a fable. A rated R movie with no Disney ending. Cutting my excitement like an unpaid cable. I still suffer. I won't lie, barely talking to anyone. Confused and delusional unsure if the healing begun. Fucking up at work being too weak to lift faith and hope like a beginner doing the clean and jerk. From the outside I'm fine while from within an empty shell while the spirit lurks.\nWatch he's gonna leave your ass, cheat on you, maybe then you'll see. I already told you it would happen. You just don't wanna believe. Fine, let time bite your ass then you'll crawl back to me like “I lost two friends in need of one now.” While I'm there like “Make that three.“ \nYou'll come back cuz I'm that nice guy, comforting, things will get better. I'm here for you. Man fuck you. I gave you my compassion and you tossed that shit on the floor and squashed me. Rubbing it against the ground as if there's gum on your boots. \nThanks bitch you did make me happy but you fuckin destroyed who I was. Melting my feelings, adding dirt, turning that shit into mud. Whatever this bitch said it's most likely a lie. Regardless we could have fixed the problem like any human being would, but no fuck this guy. \nMy dumbass as nice as I was didn't care about sex. I was hooked with your personality thinking the key is to respect. I thought it would go well but damn silence and BOOM! That's it. I tried building up as friends trying not to be rushing shit. \nYou fuckin promised that you won't leave me that “We'll talk don't worry I know I'm all that you got.” Well then where did that lead us? I'm practically dead waiting to rot. I still love your ass, that's my problem. I can't stop thinking of what we could have been. It would have been awesome.\n I can't sleep. I can't speak. I can't listening to music yet sex don't help anxiety. My mind's my enemy at this point shit’s depressing. I'm losing fat from all the stress fucking thing got me sweating. \nWell then bitch lets see how life will go about. Split second options your choice got us both shot down. I told you shit no one else knew. Maybe that was the problem. I fucking trusted you. You being my only friend thinking if I open up you would understand why I have so much to lose. You can't believe what this shit makes me wanna do. \nFuck this you wanna be like this fine! You just can't get yo shit together. You have no idea what ya did. Of course You can't see it now but give it a year or two you'll think back like \"why did I do that shit?\" but oh well there's no going back now, you fucked up. Abandoning me over friends that won't last. You overused me like a corner gas pump. \nYou end shit through silence. Watch your gonna kill someone shit hurts. If I get through the memories will remain as if I survived Dunkirk. Fuck you fuck what you made me. Pushing me out of your life as if I'm some dweeb. \nFuck how pretty you are. Fuck how perfect you seem. Changing my view of how I see you crafting dreadful dreams. Waking up like “Why bitch? Why the fuck would you do that shit, I was happy! Man I would get physical but that would make me look like the enemy. But I'm not, I'm the fucking victim in fact. I was humble treating you like an ancient artifact. \nWe're living in a cold world filled with misery. I tried to help ya. That's when I was hung by luck but you forced a disappearance like you didn't give a fuck. I hear you laughing giggling in class haunting me getting run over by a jealous bus. You choose this life you're probably doing it on purpose. \nI bet you thought being quiet was a nice way to go around not hurting me. Well you're wrong. You can say a lot from being silent, a feeling that's dangerously strong. Doing what you did can make someone turn a gun on themselves. Depends how they're going by life and how long they've known ya. It could end bad something you can't leave hiding on a shelf. \nIf you're hurt later on lesson learned cuz I Promised I would never upset you. Vise versa was a lie for some reason my life was a show you never wanted to attend to. Well life goes on. It's such a tragic flaw when this occurred. But I can't let this go or let it free like a bird. \nYou'll open your eyes and get past that hidden greed. I saw potential in you but you just bite the hand that feeds. Oblivious to who's really out there for ya organic thoughts. Pushing those who don't care to plow that shit. Temporary presence like a cheap piece of cloth. \nFuck you for emotionally kicking my ass. Leaving me here alone with no ambulance bleeding out in the tall grass. How can you be such an asshole? That's what I don't understand. You knew I would be left With nothing but a job that twists and cuts practically breaking my body and losing a hand. \nFucking females always playing with our emotions. Making it seem like we're at fault mind fucking us not finding the difference between fantasy and devotion. Burning in flames I tried to add water to let it cease. Little do I know I'm putting coal then turning myself into ash from the fire that increased. \nYou fucking acted like it was all fine. Letting me die slow. To then cut tides letting me suffer no help was borrowed. You never cared. You never felt shit! Explain why you held on then so you can do this? \nAngels lie to keep control. So break yourself against my stones. I'm done with you. Fuck you if your feeling change. Should have done that before you trusted your sinister brain. Don't fuckin tell me you cared cuz you don't. Don't fucking tell me you'll stand by cuz you won't. \nOn the road with Jack I'm moving on bitch. It may take a year or two but I'll get by even if I'm bidding, losing my savings with a contract bridge. Man fuck this shit I'm wasting my breath this won't resolve shit and a. Fuck how you think making a choice like this. Your just blowing in the wind Barbara." } ]
[ { "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: High School Angst\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1038\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having a run of bad luck." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "High School Angst\n By Josh Abel\nWhen I entered high school I had a full beard and a medical condition (a seizure disorder) that wasn't under control with medication. In junior high I was called Abraham Lincoln because of the beard, however no one knew about the seizures. I didn't even tell my friends about it. It was embracing when I had a seizure. I kept to myself and hid my feelings about it. I didn't want to go out in public much because I was afraid of people's reaction if they saw me have a seizure. One time at home I had just climbed a flight of stairs. When I reached the top, I had a seizure and fell down the flight of stairs (I didn't hurt myself then). On another occasion I had a seizure and ended up scraping my head on the concrete sidewalk. I ended up with a cut to my head. The seizures usually only lasted for about 10-20 minutes. \nMy sophomore year of high school one of the classes I had was driver’s education. I needed a note from my doctor to take the course (because of the seizures). In my state at that time I had to wait one seizure-free year before I could get my driver's license. I didn't get my driver's license until I was 17 (I graduated high school at 17).\nYears later I would drive a bus part-time for a non-profit. As part of the DOT medical exam I needed a seizure exemption from the FMCSA (Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration). I had one and the doctor who performed the DOT medical stated in the 25 years he's been practicing he's never seen one. He stated they don't give them out to much, and I had one (that made me feel good). In 37 of driving up to that point I had also never had a point on my driving record. \nI had an English teacher, Miss Hartley, my sophomore year who I liked a lot. She took an interest in her students. A local newspaper used to have a weekly football prediction contest during football season. I would make my picks during her class and sometimes she would give me a pick or two. Fortunately I didn't have a seizure in her class (I would have felt so embarrassed if I had).\n My junior year of high school the intensity and frequency of the seizures increased. I missed a lot of time from school then. One class was Paramedical biology with Mr. Swomley. One day in his class I had a seizure (I felt embarrassed and ashamed). I was sent to the nurse's office. As I was going downstairs Mr. Swomley said to me I didn't know (I didn't want anyone to know about). That year there were 2 teachers I had who were really a bright spot for me. A Math teacher, Mrs. Greenwalt and a English teacher, Miss Neidigh They both took an interest in their students. One day in Mrs. Greenwalt’s class I had brought in a copy of Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue and I remember asking her if she would wear one of the swimsuits in it. She replied that she didn't have the body for it (I felt so bad for her because I couldn't understand how she could feel that way. To me she did have the body for it.). I also knew how having a medical condition made me feel about my body. One day in Miss Neidigh's class she shared with me how she missed a day of school when she was growing up to go to a Beatle's concert. Somehow to someone who wanted to go to school my lost time didn't seem so bad. On another day in Miss Neidigh's class she shared with me that she would have arguments with her brother-in-law (who was a secret service agent) as to who had the more dangerous job. She said she always told him he had a gun (at that time school shootings were unheard of).\nMy parents ended up taking me out of school for a couple of weeks in April of that year so that doctors could run a number of tests on me. Eventually my doctor found a medicine that controlled the seizures.\nI was truly blessed to have teachers that took an interest in you. I never got the chance to thank them and to tell them how much they meant to me. I ended up reworking the lyrics to the song \"To Sir With Love\" for them.\nThose school boys days of drills and writing skills are gone.\nBut in my mind they will still live on and on.\nHow do you thank someone who has taken you from pretension to reading\ncomprehension.\nIt isn't easy but I'll try.\nIf you wanted the sky\nI would write across the sky in letters that would soar a thousand\nfeet high to Miss Neidigh and Miss Hartley with love.\nThe time has come For closing books and long last looks must end\nAnd as I leave I know that I am leaving my best friend\nA friend who taught me from fractions to functions\nThat's a lot to learn\nWhat, what can I give you in return?\nIf you wanted the moon I would try to make a start\nBut I would rather you let me give my heart to Mrs.Greenwalt love\nRecently I went on Facebook. I found Mrs. Greenwalt and messaged her about it. I haven't gotten a response from her. I found a relative of Miss Neidigh. who passed it along to her. She liked hearing from after 40+ years and finding out what a positive impact she had on me. She also liked the reworked lyrics. I still don't know what happened to Miss Hartley. She stopped teaching at my high school right after I graduated. Miss Hartley wherever you are I hope you are well, and hope you know the impact you had on me (Thank you).\nAfter 43 years of driving I still don't have a point on my driving record. I still have the beard only people call me Santa now (only the hair color has changed)" } ]
[ { "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: D20\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1307\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone whose luck is running out." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Twenty:\nPaladin Grovesnor walks surrounded by the holy flame of her god. Her enemies cower at the magnificent approach of her white painted armor. Even the grass wilts under the intense light that follows her footsteps through shadowy forests and desolate plains.\nAttacked by goblins, the paladin has nothing to fear. She wields her finely crafted mace with ease. Its silver, rune covered head sings through the air as she brings it down on her foes. She dispatches the goblins like so many rats. Her blood covered mace provides the only hint of this encounter as she travels confidently on.\nFifteen:\nIn a dank cave Paladin Grovesnor's holy flame is somewhat diminished. She is further from her god in these depths. She runs her fingers over the runes on her mace and steels herself for battle at the approach of a cave dwelling ogre.\nThe great brute grabs the paladin with its craggy fist dragging the holy warrior through the rocky darkness. \nPaladin Grosvenor strikes back. A quick blow to the beast's elbow looses its grip. She rolls free and dodges the ogre's next strike. With a leaping strike she knocks the ogre off balance. Her mace rains down knocking the monster unconscious.\nThe paladin checks her contusions and scrapes the shredded paint and debris from her dented helmet. She is no worse for the wear and journeys on. \nTwelve:\nThe darkness underground gives way to the darkness of night as Paladin Grovesnor emerges from the cave to find the sun already set. In a moonlit meadow the paladin lets out a sigh, having survived another perilous day. Looking for a spot to make camp, she doesn’t hear the hastily assembled ambush until it's too late. \nThe air is pierced with the sounds of flying arrows, the paladin raises her shield in defense but in the chaos and darkness she finds herself facing the wrong way. She feels the bite of an arrowhead as it burrows into the back of her shoulder perfectly between two armored plates. \nIn the distance she can hear the hyena-like cackling of gnolls. Their carrion stench proceeds them as they close in on the injured paladin.\nThough wounded, the paladin is guided by her faith. She focuses on her god and prays. She is once again surrounded by the holy flame. The meadow is illuminated and she can see the gnashing teeth and hungry eyes of her approaching attackers. \nThe paladin can hardly lift her shield to defend herself as first gnoll strikes. She sidesteps a blow and delivers one of her own, slamming her mace into the creature's shoulder. A burst of singed hair and smoke follows the injured beast as it flees. \nThe next two gnolls attack in tandem, flanking Paladin Grovesnor like wolves going for the kill. The Paladin drops to one knee and begins a prayer. The gnolls exchange nervous looks but grip their weapons and move in on the paladin. The flaming aura around her grows with each word of prayer and the gnolls’ attacks fail to find their mark within the golden pool of light. \nWhen Paladin Grovesnor opens her eyes the meadow is empty. The gnolls have fled and morning light is illuminating a distant ridge. \nSeven: \nThe artifact of Paladin Grovesnor’s quest is at the summit of Mount Brimestone. She stands at the precipice looking at the sheer cliff towering above her. It is the final obstacle between her and the summit. \nClimbing in armor isn’t an option. The paladin strips off the damaged plates and carefully packs them into a bag for hoisting after her own ascent. She shivers in the cold mountain air which now moves easily through her layers of simple brown clothing. \nAfter a few failed attempts, Paladin Grovesnor secures her grappling hook with an underhand toss. She ties the bag of armor to the line so she can raise it up the cliff and begins to climb. The arrow wound on her shoulder from the previous night is mostly mended. A boon from her god, no doubt. \nThe Paladin’s boots scrape along the cliff’s rocky face as she makes her laborious way up. Rocks rain down, dislodged by her passing. She tries not to look at the ever growing drop below her. Hand over hand, she works her way up the coarse rope. It gnaws at her skin until she reaches the top. Wedging her boot into a crack, the paladin pushes her way up the final few feet and finally over the top of the cliff. Laying on her back, her sweat soaked clothes cling to her in the discomforting cold of the thin air. \nShe reaches back to the rope to begin the brutal event of dragging her armor and equipment up the cliff. It only takes two tugs before the line suspiciously lightens. The paladin looks over the cliff to examine her load. The bag of gear rests resolutely at the bottom of the cliff. The line has come untied. \nOne:\nPaladin Grovesnor is exhausted. It was enough to spend the entire previous day fighting her way through monster infested lands on her approach to the mountain. Now she has climbed the cliff of Mount Brimstone twice to retrieve her armor. She is propelled only by her faith and her sense of duty. \nThe completion of her quest is close at hand. She trudges across the smoldering summit of Mount Brimstone to the crater at its center and looks into the pit. There it is, the Chalice of Thezus! She can hardly believe the artifact of her search is so prominently displayed. A giant golden, ruby encrusted goblet sitting just at the top of a shining pile of untold riches. The glittering horde illuminates the entire crater in the late afternoon sunlight. \nAmongst the pile of gold coins, gemstones, and Paladin Grovesnor’s precious chalice, lays its protector. A sleeping dragon. Its dark red scales interwoven with the pile of treasure it defends. A faint smell of sulfur burns the paladin’s nose as she watches thin tendrils of smoke swirl around the sleeping beast’s head with every breath. \nThis is it. The paladin lifts her shield with one powerful arm and her mace with the other. The mace’s runes glow with holy power as she charges toward the crater to face her foe. \nAnd then she slips. Just at the edge of the crater the paladin’s foot misses a step. She tumbles down into the pit in a landslide of coins and jewelry. She lands in a noisy jumble of precious metal and quickly jumps to her feet, aware that she will have woken the red dragon. \nShe rights herself just in time to see the dragon’s eye open. It observes Paladin Grovesnor lazily without even raising its head. She stands gripping her mace, in dented, scratched armor, covered in sweat and dried blood, and fighting the weight of exhaustion. The dragon can vaguely make out the glowing outline of the paladin’s holy flame. \nWith a flick of his barbed tail, the dragon launches the paladin out of the crater and closes his eye to go back to sleep. \n“What the hell? What was that?”\n“You rolled a natural one, the dragon swatted you with its tail.”\n“So is that it? Am I dead?” \n“Don’t freak out. You can be revived by acolytes of your order or wake up imprisoned by bandits or something.”\n“Do you know what the chances are of getting five rolls in descending order like that?”\n“No. What are they, brainiac?\n“Uh… Like, really low.”\n“See, this is why I don’t like playing with kids in AP statistics. Face it, your luck ran out and Paladin Grovesnor got swatted by a red dragon. It would have been really hard for you to win that fight anyway.”\n“Okay, fine. Can we play again tomorrow?”" } ]
[ { "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: 1898 at the Lighthouse - The Hero Puppy\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2957\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has been tasked to keep a flame burning, surrounded by total darkness." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Where was that beacon? He should be seeing it flash by now.”\n\n Captain Alfonse Belanger knew this patch of the Oregon coast was called “the graveyard of the Pacific.” In the fading light, he scanned the rugged shoreline for the flash of the lighthouse beacon.\n\n***\n\nMiles away, off the path to the Mystic Lighthouse high on the bluffs, the lighthouse keeper lay partway down the side of the cliff after losing his footing on the wet, slippery path.\n\nJoseph saw the darkening sky and turned, trying to reach a rocky handhold, so he could pull himself back up the cliff. It was only ten feet uphill to the path but in the slick mud, he kept sliding back down. \n\nHe began to shiver. Joseph was wet and cold. The ocean winds blew straight in from the sea, almost snatching him off the cliff.\n\n“I’ve got to get up the hill and light the beacon wicks,” he thought. \"Its getting dark and the ships with gold miners going to the Yukon gold fields or returning may be passing.\"\n\nA minute before, he had been walking in the rain on the path to the lighthouse with his daughter’s puppy scampering along next to him. Teddybear was already helping with moving the livestock and Joseph was glad they let Elsie keep the growing pup.\n\nThere was a rumble and then part of the rocks and mud on one side slid down the path.\n\nJoseph jumped and thought he stepped on solid ground to get out of the way, but his feet slipped over the edge of the bluff and he slid down it. \n\nThe handle of his unlit kerosine lantern was still in his hand. After servicing the lighthouse and lighting the wicks for the night beacon he would need the lantern to get back down the quarter mile to the lighthouse keeper’s house.\n\n“I need to act fast to get the beacon lit before any ships pass.” Joseph’s thoughts raced.\n\nHe looked at the young dog, who was jumping back and forth above on the trail, barking.\n\n\"Maybe there was a way to get help. Herding dogs were so smart.\"\n\n“Yip.. yiiiiip….yiiiip,” came from the bouncing dog, his dark, shaggy hair flying.\n\nHe looked at the growing puppy who was jumping back and forth above on the trail, barking. \"Maybe there was a way to get help.\" \n\n“Teddybear, go home boy.” Joseph waved and pointed down the trail at the lighthouse keeper’s house. \n\n“Yip.. yiiiiip….yiiiip,” came from the bouncing dog, his eyes wide, ears pricked, and his dark, shaggy hair flying in the wind.\n\n Teddybear saw the hand pointing, and he turned his eyes in that direction. His hereditary instincts for following hand signals while herding picked up the signal. \n\nHe knew something was wrong. His protective instincts sensed danger to a being he was bonded with, a member of his family.\n\nThe person stranded partway down the cliff was suffering. He needed help. Teddybear's hair rose up on his neck and back. He cocked his head and froze, thinking. His tail rose up stiffly and his body went rigid. He whimpered. \"What was he supposed to do?\"\n\n“Teddybear..home…,” Joseph held onto a rock on the cliff with one hand and waved his other arm toward the lighthouse keeper's house sitting at the bottom of the slope. \n\nJoseph continued. Teddybear whipped around. He raced down the path toward the keeper’s house. \"He would round up the rest of his charges, his family.\"\n\nAt the lighthouse keeper’s house almost a quarter mile away, his wife stood next to the Franklin wood-fired warming stove. She glanced out the kitchen window at the darkening sky. \"Why wasn't the beacon shining yet?\"\n\nA black iron pot with a cover on it sat directly on the logs burning with low flames. The aromas of herbs drifted through the house and the air was warm from the stove.\n\n“Joseph still hasn’t lit the beacon wicks.” Jeanie wondered why. \n\n“He must be making another trip to the oil house next to the lighthouse for kerosine. Any moment now I’ll see the flash when it lights up for the night.”\n\n“Mom, Teddybear is barking at the door but Father’s not here,” called Jeanie’s daughter.\n\nElsie thought, “why would Teddybear come back alone?”\n\nElsie’s brothers, Edward and Samuel came to the door. “What’s the matter Teddybear?\" said Edward.\n\nJeanie felt a tug of worry about her husband. “Teddybear, where’s Joseph?”\n\nSamuel said, “I’m going up to check on Father,” and he grabbed his coat and hat. “Come on Edward.” They took off running.\n\n*\nOut on the ship, still miles away, Captain Belanger checked his map and conferred with his navigator to verify their location.\n\nHis eyes shined with love for the sea, but today they also expressed glimmers of worry. \n\nThe ship slid rapidly down another swell and began to climb up from its valley toward the steep crest of the wave. Captain Belanger dipped a piece of hardtack into the thick, dark coffee in the metal cup and peered out the wheelhouse windows, dripping from splashes of waves. \n\nHis 170 foot long ship carried a load of 48 disillusioned miners returning from the Yukon gold fields and a cargo hold of supplies from Portland.\n\nThe miners originally boarded in Skagway, Alaska and they were going back to San Francisco. Most of the gold was already claimed by earlier miners when these later arrivals got to the Yukon.\n\nThey were returning empty-handed.\n\nCaptain Belander's large, rough hand delivered the softened hardtack muffin after it was dipped into coffee to his mouth and he chewed. \n\nHe drew his thick, dark, eyebrows together, above the brown eyes in the weathered face. He brushed his bushy beard out of the way while he drew another sip of the warm, strong coffee into his mouth.\n\n“Soo good,” he thought. Outside the afternoon light was dimming. Ever since his father, Alfonse senior, told him stories about the trip over from France in a three masted sailing ship, Alfonce junior saw visions of himself in his dreams swaying as he stood on a big ship rolling with the waves while he looked out a the vast ocean. \n\nHe joined the marine life when he was a teen and worked his way up to captain. Alfonse drew in a breath, feeling contentment and wonder. His dream came true.\n The gale force squall winds howled and the sturdy metal ship bobbed with the swell and then rolled up another mountain of sea toward a white crest. Captain Belanger’s sextant officer stood by the navigation charts and the star charts.\n\nThe lookout officer lifted his maritime telescope to one eye and squinted at the seas in the darkening afternoon light.\n\n“Last night we passed the Tillamook Lighthouse after midnight. That beacon is always a sight, coming from on top of that volcanic rock island out in the sea,” said the navigation officer.\n\n“Our next beacon will be Mystic Beach Lighthouse,” said the Captain.\n\n“I know its signature rotation timing. Always one of my favorite beacons. It’s got a huge first-order Fresnel lens. Shines for at least 20 miles out to sea.” \n*\n\nEarlier that afternoon at the Mystic Lighthouse Head Keeper’s House Joseph paused in the doorway.\n\n“I’ll take Teddybear with me. He’s on the porch. Please tell Elsie so she knows her pup is with me. I’ll be back after I get the beacon wicks lit for the night to have dinner with you.”\n\nHe stepped onto the wide, wrap around porch of the two story white Victorian house, perched high above the sea. A shaggy, dark ball of fur curled up in the corner rose and Ellie’s growing puppy came over to Joseph.\n\n“Hi Boy,” he said, giving the pup a playful rub on the back. “Come along now. Good pup.” The pup raised his face and gazed at Joseph with warm eyes, smiling and wagging his tail.\n\nCarrying an unlit kerosine lantern to use on the way back in the dark, he strode up the slope toward the lighthouse one-quarter mile away with the playful pup running and zig-zagging around him.\n\nThe path was wet and slippery. The swells and waves rippled with squalls. \n\nThe swells and white-capped waves were bubbling in with surges of water rushing over the beach. He heard the roar of them crashing on the volcanic rock stacks next to the bluffs.\n\nJoseph’s step was light and he wore a soft smile. He loved living by the sea whether it was sunny or raining. \n\nJoseph remembered the ranch in Austin, Texas, where his father kept a library. The travel stories and nautical novels made him want to run off to explore the world and travel the seas. \n\nHe liked to read about the Italian explorer who went to exotic places around the world in “The Travels of Marco Polo” written in the 13th century by Rustichello da Pisa. Another favorite was Homer’s “The Odyssey.” \n\nJoseph fell in love with the daughter of a local teacher, Jeanie, and they started a family.\n\nBut he could not resist the dreams of being near the sea. They left the ranch and moved to San Francisco. \n\nThere he worked at the waterfront and progressed up the ladder of maritime careers, until finally he got a political appointment to be a lighthouse keeper. \n\nEventually, he was selected for the Mystic Lighthouse on the central Oregon coast where the ocean and coastline were especially treacherous.\n\nThe jagged coast was known for powerful storms, volcanic rock stacks standing out in the sea, hidden shallows, winds that could knock a person over, rains that created mud and rock slides, and hidden.\n\n*\n\nSamuel and Edward ran up the path toward the lighthouse. The lantern was still dark.\n\n“Where was Father?” They knew something had happened because Teddybear came back alone.\n\nRounding a curve they saw the mudslide on the path ahead. Samuel held up their kerosine lantern in the deepening twilight. \n\nWith Teddybear barking excitedly, they looked frantically around for their father.\n\n“Was he buried under the mudslide?”\n\nTeddybear ran to the edge of the bluff and looked down at something, whining and hopping up and down.\n\nSamuel held up his kerosine lantern. “There he is. Edward, run back down and get a rope.” He saw the light of Edward’s lantern bob along the path back down to the house.\n\nJoseph lay still on the side of the bluff. “If I move I could slide all the way down,” he thought. One hundred fifty feet below the ocean waves crashed on the volcanic rocks of the shore. “I would never survive.”\n\nHe saw movement above. “Samuel and Edward, such good boys,” he thought.\n\n“I see you. Edward’s gone for a rope,” hollered Samuel “Don’t move. Stay still.”\n\nSamuel’s heart pounded and he breathed fast and loud.\n\n“The blue hour is beginning. We need to get him back up while we can still see a little bit. And the beacon needs to be lit. So many ships passing the coast these days with gold rush passengers,” he thought.\n\nJoseph felt the rain start again. Water flowed down the cliff. He tightened his hold on the rocks and tried to breath slowly and calm his racing heartbeat.\n\nThe sun was below the horizon, the afterglow was fading, and the coast was a pattern of dark shadows. The wind and waves roared and more rain drummed down.\n\nVoices came from the path and Joseph saw Samuel throw a thick rope with a big knot in the end down toward him. It landed a few feet away and he did not dare move to try to reach it.\n\nDarkness was enveloping the bluff and the lanterns above cast only weak light down to Joseph.\n\nJoseph saw Samuel throw the knotted rope end again. It landed on his arm and Joseph grabbed it Above on the path, Samuel and Joseph backed up until they reached a low, flat, boulder. \n\nThey stepped behind it, braced their feet, and began doing hand over hand to pull Joseph back up the cliff. The two teenage boys were muscular from their daily work.\n\nJoseph strained to hold tightly to the knotted end of the rope Slowly he felt his body rise until he was breaching the cliff edge and on the path, lying in the mud.\n\n“I’ll get the beacon lit,” said Samuel. Joseph was thankful he had begun training Samuel to assist him. Edward helped Joseph to his feet and they drew away from the edge of the bluff, puffing from the exertion. \n\nTeddybear sniffed Samuel as if he was checking to see if he was alright. Joseph reached down and pulled Teddybear into a close hug.\n\n\"Good boy, you're my hero dog,\" he said.\n\nJoseph and Edward saw Samuel’s lantern shine on its way to the lighthouse.\n\n**\n\nCaptain Belanger left the wheelhouse, went out onto the deck, and felt the splash of water on his face as waves crashed against the ship and the wind carried water drops through the air.\n\nHe looked into the darkness and frowned. “Still no beacon shining. But we must be there now,” hollered above the roar of the waves to his officer. “We should be seeing it now.”\n\nHe knew the volcanic sea stacks and jagged coast jutted out into the ocean.\n\n“How close might they be now to the rocks and reefs? Were the currents dragging them off course? The cloudy sky means there is no moonlight or starlight. The sextant could not get a navigation reading without seeing the star locations. I can’t see anything in this pitch black night,” he thought.\n\n*\n\n Samuel ran up the spiral steps inside the lighthouse tower. He carried a supply of kerosine for the beacon and his own lantern. At the top he set his lantern down, trimmed the wicks and filled the beacon’s kerosine container.\n\nHe lit the wicks, the flames grew brighter, and the beacon began to revolve. The weak flash grew into the strong beam, and Samuel saw the ocean and white capped waves hundreds of feet below the bluff.\n\nWhen he gaze looked to the north he gasped. The beacon light flashed on the form of a large ship, dangerously close to rocky shore. \n\n*\n\nCaptain Belanger's eyes went blind for a few seconds when the nearby lighthouse beacon flashed brightly.\n\nHe stumbled into the wheelhouse.\n\n\"Turn about,\" he hollered.\n\nThe officers frantically steered the rolling ship against the swells to head out to sea.\n\nThe ship's bow rose up on each swell and plunged down into each valley. Ocean spray surged over the deck.\n\nCaptain Belanger heard the steam powered engines roar and the ship vibrated. His heart pounded and he broke out into a sweat. \n\nAt regular intervals the beacon flooded the deck and wheelhouse with light when it rotated.\n\nSlowly the ship fought its way against the stormy seas. After a tough battle, the ship chugged out to sea and safety.\n\n*\n\nIn the lighthouse beacon room, Samuel trembled and gasped for air. When the rotating beacon swung around it flashed on the ship, highlighted against the dark night. “So close.” Samuel whispered a prayer.\n\nSamuel watched the ship fighting the waves and saw it turn and move out to sea.\n\nWhen he saw the ship’s lanterns must be a mile out to sea or more, he went back down the tower's spiral steps and headed to the house.\n\nAt the trail's curve he saw Edward’s lantern light, Joseph resting, and Teddybear leaning affectionately against Joseph’s legs. Samuel knew the dog loved cuddles and closeness.\n\nTogether they carefully made their way down the path to the white Victorian house.\n\nJeanie saw their light approaching the porch. When they came inside, they gathered around the warming stove in the dining room, smelling the savory stew waiting for them. Teddybear curled up in a corner on his blanket, tired after the excitement. Elsie brought him his dinner and a treat.\n\nJoseph changed out of the muddy clothes and returned to the dining room. spooned some of the spicey stew into his mouth. \"It smells so good,” he thought.\n\nHe explained how he sent Teddybear to get help. \"That is one incredible dog,\" he said in a voice filled with wonder and love.\n\nElsie did not mind when Teddybear pressed against her father and gazed at his face. She went over to cuddle up to the shaggy pup and stroke his back. The dog wore a gentle smile and his tail slowly wagged.\n\n Looking at his family in the warm firelight, Joseph was filled with gratitude. He still loved the coast and the sea. A sense of pride flowed through him when he thought of his son lighting the beacon wicks for him.\n\nHe kept one hand resting on the shoulder of the trusty pup who had sounded the alert to rescue him.\n\n***\n\nOut on the sea, Captain Afonse Belanger sat in the wheelhouse of his ship while it pitched and rolled with the swells. He reached for a fresh cup of thick, dark coffee and sighed with pleasure while he sipped it.\n\n“Captain, the wind is dying down. I think we’ll have calm seas for a while now,” said his navigator.\n\n“Calm seas,” said the captain. “I can use some peace now.”\n\nHe leaned back and his chair and stretched his feet out. I’ll be glad when we dock in San Francisco,” he said. “These winter voyages in the storms can be tough. It might time to retire.”\n\nCaptain Belanger closed his eyes, and pictured the summer seas and quiet waves stretching out until they blended with the blue sky on a sunny day. \n\n“There’s nothing like the sea,” he thought." } ]
[ { "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: It's a Toss Up\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1087\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I stood in front of the class and recited \"two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both, long I wondered, long I stood...\"\nI thought it was funny because the day before I was asked to make a big decision that would affect the rest of my life, although I was just 12 years old.\nYou see, my mother and father were splitting up. They both wanted me to live with them. They told me that the decision was up to me where I would land.\nI wanted to scream at them, \"You can't leave this kind of thing up to a kid!\" But I didn't do that.\nI was known as a precocious kid, so nobody would believe me anyway.\nI was always \"popping off\" at the mouth as my mother called it. But now, I didn't have much to say. I told them that I would give them my decision at the end of the week.\nIt wasn't like the time that I had to decide on a puppy at the pound. I just picked the one with the curly tail. We named him Piddles, and I still loved him.\nDon't get me wrong, I still loved my parents too. But which would be the best to live with?\nI asked my favorite science teacher Mr. Steinmetz which I should choose. He said, \"Oh no, you're not dragging me into that one! I suggest you use a scientific method. Gather data, and then decide.\"\n\"Data?\"\n\"Yeah, why don't you list the pros and cons of each one.\"\n\"Good idea,\" I said.\nI got out a pen and paper and started to write. I drew a line down the middle, and I wrote Mama on one side and Daddy on the other since that's what I called them.\nIn mama's favor was that she always made me lunch, did my laundry, drove me to school, and invited my friends over for dinner. Her cons were that she was always nagging me to pick up my room and telling me to get off the phone. In daddy's favor was that he was always saying I was his \"best girl\" even though I was an only child. He took me hiking and gave me my allowance. His cons were that he sometimes ignored me when the game was on. Didn't matter what game, as long as a ball was involved. He wouldn't let me stay out past curfew. I scratched that one out because mama wouldn't either.\nI decided to ball up the paper and throw it away. This wasn't helpful.\nI remembered that my history teacher once had me interview my grandmother to find out what life was like when she was a girl. I decided that I need to gather data that way. I told mama and daddy about my plan. My mother rolled her eyes and my father just laughed but they both said they would do it.\nI decided to interview them separately.\n\"Mama, what makes you a good mother?\"\n\"I love you,\" she said.\n\"I know that already,\" I said. \"But what makes you a good mother?\"\n\"I can take care of you. Remember that time you wanted to go roller skating, and you never went before? I held onto you the entire time so you wouldn't fall?\"\n\"I remember falling,\" I said.\n\"Yeah, because I never went roller skating before either,\" she said.\n\"Right,\" I said, and we both laughed. That's another thing in my mother's favor, I thought. She was funny.\nI asked daddy the same question or at least a similar one.\n\"Daddy, what makes you a good father?\"\n\"I love you,\" he said.\nI sighed, and I folded my arms. \"I know but you never say so.\"\n\"I did just now Little Buddy,\" he said.\nI really liked it when he called me that.\nHe cleared his throat, and continued, \"I'm a good father because whenever something is spooky to you in the house, I'm the one who checks it out. I protect you.\"\nThat's true. When I was little, dad was the one who checked under the bed and the closet so the monster wouldn't get me at night. He never said that I was \"silly\" like my mother did. He was always at the end of every slide to catch me too.\nI still didn't know what to decide.\nMy best friend was Shirley. I called her up on the phone, and I told her what I had to decide.\n\"That's messed up,\" she said. \"They shouldn't put that on you. Tell them you're not going to do it.\"\n\"I already told them that I'm going to do it,\" I said. \"I can't back out now. What would you do?\"\n\"Mine is easy,\" she said. \"I don't like my mother.\"\n\"Right, I forgot,\" I said.\n\"Hey, why don't you flip a coin?\" she suggested. \"You know like they do before a big game to see who goes first or whatever.\"\n\"That's a great idea!\" I said.\nI grabbed a quarter, and I went looking for my parents. They were both in the kitchen, heads together, and whispering.\n\"I'm going to toss a coin,\" I announced.\nThey both looked at me, eyebrows raised.\n\"You know, so I can see who I want to live with,\" I explained.\n\"What?\" my other asked, although I thought the answer was obvious.\n\"You see, I love you both, and I can't decide, so I'm going to let, what do you call it--fate decide. You know like in those games that daddy's always watching.\"\nI pulled out the coin. My hand shook a little.\n\"Heads and I'm with daddy, and tails I live with mama.\"\nThe coin twirled in the air. It seemed like forever, but it must have only been a few seconds. My whole life was going to change when it hit the tile floor, I thought.\nJust as this crossed my mind, the coin disappeared into my father's fist.\n\"I'm sorry Little Buddy,\" he said. \"I can't let you do this. It's not right.\"\n\"You were right,\" my mother said in a tiny voice. \"We should never have put this on you.\"\nMy father crouched down, eye level with me now:\n\"We're sorry,\" he said. \"This whole thing has made us rethink splitting up. We both love you, and we both want you.\"\nMy father hugged me close, and my mother joined in.\nWhen I think about it, this is what I really wanted." } ]
[ { "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 Keeper\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1455\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has been tasked to keep a flame burning, surrounded by total darkness." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a dark and stormy night. Really stormy.\nAmos had never seen a storm like it in all his years. Thunderous waves crashed against the rocks as he fought to secure the boat against the pier. With every wave and gust of wind she tore against the ropes, wrenching to be free. He did his best, the wind whipping the constant rain into his face and blinding him. It would do. It would have to do. He could do no better.\nHe looked up at the light beaming from the top of the lighthouse, followed its steady arc across the water. The dark of the storm was powerful, but not as powerful as the light. Where there was chaos, the light was steady. Where there was danger, the light was safety.\nAmos nodded at the light. Aye. All was well.\nHe picked up his lantern and climbed the stairs towards the lighthouse, fighting the wind to move at all. He could see no more than two steps ahead until the arc of the beacon passed over him and lit up the stairs like daylight, before just as quickly passing on and leaving him in darkness.\nThe wind howled and tore at his clothes, blowing his macintosh open. He put the lantern on the step to close and fasten his coat again. Suddenly, a gale near blew him off his feet and lifted the lantern as easily as a fallen leaf in the breeze.\nAmos watched the light float weightlessly up, curve twice, and start to fall towards the rocks below before being lifted again and hurled into the top of the lighthouse tower. He heard the distant crash of glass as one of the windows shattered.\nHe crawled up the last of the steps on all fours. The voice of Old Lawrence, the previous lighthouse keeper, echoed in his head. “Take it slow. Rushing makes for accidents.”\nAs he reached the top and felt his way to the door, the beacon of light passed over him again.\nAye. All was well, for now.\nHe had to use all of his body to push the door closed on the storm. Finally safe inside, he took off his wellington boots and hung his macintosh and wet weather hat. They dripped water onto the stone floor. He took the towel, almost clean, that hung nearby and wiped the rain from his face and hair.\nAs he had been trained him to do, he updated the logbook.\nBoat secured to pier. Beacon room window broken in storm. Lantern destroyed.\nHe pulled on his knitted woollen cardigan as he made for the stairs. 20 years ago Old Lawrence had warned him, “Never run up the stairs. No matter the emergency. Take it slow. Rushing makes for accidents.”\nAmos had made the mistake of ignoring this advice only once, and never again. The stairs were steep and narrow and any misstep could cause a long and nasty fall. His hip still ached in weather like this, and every time it did he was reminded. Take it slow. Rushing made for very painful accidents.\nSo it was that it took several minutes for Amos to reach the beacon room and inspect the damage. As he neared the top of the stairs, he could hear the wind howling through what should have been a solid plate of glass. If the storm broke the huge kerosene lamp, the light would go out. \nHe opened the trapdoor into the beacon room and, as always, was briefly blinded by the brightness of the light.\nAye. All was well still.\nAs his eyes adjusted, he saw the broken glass on the floor. Thankfully, only part of the window was broken and most of the pane of glass remained in place, although with ominous cracks through it. What was left of his small lantern lay battered and bent near the fuel pump. The wind whistled loudly through the hole in the glass, and he could feel the whole room shaking in the strongest gusts of wind. Rain pelted sideways through the window onto the giant lantern that provided the light for the beacon.\nAmos methodically made his way around the lamp, inspecting it closely for any damage. It was basically the same as his little handheld lantern, which now lay unrecognisable at his feet, only at a much larger scale. He caressed the gas chamber, fuel line and kerosene gas tanks with his fingers, feeling for cracks and leaks his eyes would not see. Slow. Take it slow. It was essential they were not damaged, or the lamp would dim.\nThe lamp could not dim.\nAs he inspected, the focal lens continued to rotate, lighting up the sea through the storm and periodically lighting Amos at his work. He would close his eyes each time it passed over him, as Old Lawrence had taught him to do, so it didn’t blind him. He was so in tune with the rhythms of the light, it was like blinking to him.\nHe turned his attention to the window. With every gale force gust of wind, the whole lighthouse tower moved and the cracked pane of glass shook. It would not hold through the night. The window would break and the full force of this storm would assail his lamp. The light would dim.\nAmos wiped the rain from his face as he sought for an answer. This light had burned for 99 years, it would not go out on his watch. The wind howled, shaking the pane of glass, the cracks threatening to shatter everything. Can’t replace the window. Even if he had a pane of glass big enough, which he did not, it couldn’t be done in this storm.\nOld Lawrence’s training came back to him. “If it’s broken, fix it. If you can’t fix it, patch it up until you can.”\nPatch it up, Amos thought. Patch up a six-foot-high pane of glass in a torrential storm. How do you patch up a pane of glass in a storm? Tape? Tape could cover the cracks, maybe they might hold. Maybe not. But the hole. How to patch up the hole? Something large enough, and strong enough, and it must be waterproof.\nHe thought of his macintosh, dripping on its hook downstairs.\nAnother gust shook the tower, and he watched one of the cracks stretch and reach the pane. Now. No time. He must hurry. Save the lamp.\nHe turned quickly towards the trapdoor and tripped on the unseen broken lantern lying at his feet. As he fell, he reached out blindly to find purchase, save himself, and his hand desperately gripped the first hold it found. The pump handle attached to the two large kerosene tanks that powered the lamp fell with him, tearing the pump mechanism from its machinery.\nAs he hit the floor, his eyes rested on the kerosene lantern, it’s glass shell now lying shattered on the floor, the still burning flame of its wick exposed.\nHe smelt the kerosene gas.\nHe heard the ‘whoooosh’.\nHe knew what came next.\nAye. Should have taken it slow.\nXXX\nInspector Lawrence Todd stepped off the pier and looked up at the charred pinnacle of the old lighthouse.\nWhat in the name of all that is holy happened here?\n“They say you could see it 60 miles away,” Jeffery said behind him. “Like a comet, they say. Even the storm couldn’t dim it, and that was some mighty storm we had.”\nInspector Todd, or Old Lawrence as most of the keepers he supervised called him, hadn’t seen this old lighthouse or Amos for almost 5 years.\n“Amos was a good man, and a good lighthouse keeper,” he said. “Check the logbook. He will have made records.”\n“And take it slow,” he called as Jeffery rushed up the stairs to the lighthouse. “Rushing makes for accidents.”\nOld Lawrence made his way slowly up to the beacon room. Take it slow, he remembered, just like Old Thomas had trained him all those many years ago.\nHe opened the trapdoor into what should have been the beacon room but was now open to the bright blue sky. What was left of the beacon assembly was blackened and charred, the smell of fire and smoke heavy in the air. Old Lawrence took a knee and gently touched the charred remains of his old friend.\nJeffery popped his head up through the trapdoor.\n“I found the logbook,” he said, handing it to his senior officer. “Wow. The whole lantern assembly has gone up!”\nOld Lawrence opened the logbook to its last entry.\nBoat secured to pier. Beacon room window broken in storm. Lantern destroyed.\n“Well. That about covers it, Amos,” he thought." } ]
[ { "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 Beauty, A Beast, and A Beating\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2363\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone scrambling on New Year's Eve to fulfil their resolutions for the entire year before the clock strikes twelve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "tw// strong language, beating scene, homphobic slur after protagonist is confronted by bully; these are high schoolers, including one of which who has little compassion for social decorum (despite being the one being aggressed against in this very specific instance)\nDecember 15. The date stuck to the top of my head with dry misery. It was the date equivalent to eating one of those cafeteria biscuits that need a swig of near-expired chocolate milk to go down smooth. If I had a choice, it’d be more like the center of a Philly pretzel or the first bite of a dinner roll, something so soft that biting it felt like gnawing on a cloud.\nSince it was the only thing I could do to keep my mind from wandering, I wiped the saliva from the side of my mouth and picked up the list I made at the end of 2022.\nCoward’s List 2022\nGo to gym\nBeat up Mr. In-Vince-Ible\nKiss the girl you’ve liked for six years\nFOOD FIGHT!!!!\nOf course I hadn’t done anything I had on the list, that would take ‘discipline’ and ‘some semblance of realistic expectations.’ It was my own fault for not mixing realistic goals in with the the hard ones, though, and now I was SOL with one day left to do everything I wanted. Forget it was only December 15, it was my last chance in 2022 to take care of business. Me not having one item crossed off yet was a mix of cowardice and procrastination, and if I was gonna end the year happily, I was going to have to go against all my bad habits and all my alarm bells that made me put each one off. Every one, that is, except go to the gym. My time to bulk up in 2022 has come and gone.\nToday was all about bucking trends. Most days, I’d dap up my guys and chat back and forth til we all forgot that we had a wakeup time of six in the morning. We’d also joke back and forth about how in the hell we managed to get up so early five days a week, but today, ooh ho ho. Today was not the day to speak to me unless you wanted to be ignored. The most Tyler and Griffin were gonna get from me was a couple daps of the hand before I planted my back against the wall and went into planning mode.\nFirst off, Vince. We have lunch together, so when him and I are in the same room, I’ll need a way to attack him with maximum efficiency but minimum risk. I wasn’t quite sure how this was going to work, but basically the entire day hinged on it.\nAs for Vanessa, the girl I’ve been crushing on for six years, I thought it was best I save talking to her until the last period. If he didn’t kill me first, I’d consider that the go-ahead to try and try my luck with the girl I’d long feared would laugh in my face if she ever knew how I felt about her, but again, today was the day for me to say f the consequences.\nAs if by design, the first half of the day was mostly unspectacular. The most exciting part was when someone sunk a trash can shot from halfway across the room in third period AP Calc, a rare moment that only us nerds got to enjoy. I had my eyes on my own trash cans (the metaphor is a bit confused, but the point remains the same). Just like I had for the entire year, however, I shrunk whenever I had the opportunity to do something great. \nI’d seen the beauty and the beast of my life (so far) no less than twice before I wanted to today. Fortunately I didn’t have any early classes with either, so they didn’t have much of an opportunity to scare me in their own unique ways, but even so, I knew that if I had the courage, I’d soon have everything I was after, whether it was closure or catharsis\nMy first true test of my plan came with the ringing of the school bell. While 3000 hungry students buried themselves in their own corner of the school, I patterned my plans to mimic how Vince normally moved. He usually sat at the far end of the cafeteria so he could be the first one out when the bell rang. He didn’t sit near any friends because, according to him, ‘it’s lonely at the top.’ If he wasn’t so busy beating my face in, maybe I’d almost feel bad for him. Not bad enough to not throw an apple as his head to trigger a giant food fight, but bad enough to go ‘wow, that sucks.’\nAnyways, with a Red Delicious and a mind full of (rare) malicious intent, I eyed him from across the room, I started to salivate at the chaos that’d be reaped at my hands as people started throwing food. My tracks would be covered like they were footsteps blown away in a sandstorm, and Vince would huff and puff down the hallway. Meanwhile, I’ll be laughing in the boys’ bathroom as my revenge for years of torment will be avenged with the strike of the head. \nWith four years of abuse guiding my aim, I cocked the projectile in my hands and, with two words, deployed the smokescreen that’d decoy to dissuade any misguided counterattack: “food fight!”\nThe apple found its home, but my appeal to the volatile immaturity of a locker room of high school boys failed. I was the only one that got the memo that battle lines had been crossed, that for the next ten minutes, the lunch room was akin to the spawn room in COD Zombies. With a disappointing plop, the cherry-red missile plopped to the floor, and for a moment, everything was still. Nobody spoke, nobody ate, nobody moved, except for me and the person whose attention I monopolized. At least I had a head start, but honestly, I was a little disappointed. How did it get to the point where the nerd was the only among them that dared to dare?\nProbably because everyone else knew the consequences of poking the bear. I knew too, and I’m sure others wanted to take a swing at goliath, I was just the first one to lather myself in honey and run through the forest (the metaphor is a bit confused, but you get what I mean).\nSince offensive measures had failed, I was reduced to flight from the lunchroom. As footsteps erupted behind me, I felt a not-so-subtle exhilaration paint my spirit. Whether it was from the school or the neanderthal behind me, I’d have to face the music at some point. The problem was that I either overestimated how fast I was or I underestimated the acceleration of that hippo, because I barely managed to turn a corner before I got my clock cleaned by an all-state defensive tackle.\nThe locker was turquoise blue when i was knocked into it, but after the collision, I wouldn’t be shocked if the whole row of them was painted red. I felt blood gushing down my face after I knocked my head on one of those outward protruding ventilation shafts built into each locker. \n“So, you like throwing apples at people, huh? Well, now I get to eat you for lunch. No homo.” Butch said. \n“Wow, I knew you were dumb, but homophobic? That’s a new low.” I said before he drove an elbow into my nose. I knew the risk when I threw the apple, but I didn’t know \nhe was gonna keep wailing on me when I was already on the ground. \n“Got anything else you wanna say, or should I let you off with a warning?” \n“Yeah, your defaulting to aggression is a clear indicator of either a lack of intelligence or emotional instability.” I said. \nThough justified, I’m ashamed to say my emotions led to me responding more emotional in tandem. I was at the point of crossing the Rubicon. I was in a boxing match with a big, dumb animal that had me pinned against the floor that I didn’t have a chance of beating, so I did the only thing I could do: hurl insults as it turned my face into mashed potatoes. To quote Andy Samberg, “he hit me with a left and a sucker punch right, then twenty two consecutive sucker punch rights.”\nIf nothing else, this was a reminder for why I waited so damn long before pushing back against him. Nobody enjoys getting physically abused, but truth has its consequences. Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t push this back as I had for three years. Despite the pain (and the likely surgery I’d need to close the open wound above my left eye), the pride that I didn’t know I had was contented. Even though I’d probably have to deal with him for the next six months, I could look back and remember the time I nearly \ngot hospitalized for doing the right thing. Okay, it sounds less than ideal when put that way. \nSo, my smokescreen turned into a wet fart, my head ripped open like it was a toy on Christmas, and I suffered a concussion. Oh, and apparently all this happened while my crush was watching. Juuuuust great. The only redeeming quality about this day was that Van saved me from dying, but at that point, it probably woulda been better off if she didn’t. Let me die with some dignity instead of chasing someone off with pepper spray. \nI tried to play it off cool, like the room wasn’t spinning with every step, like Vince didn’t just damn near send me to the hospital, but truth be told, after I realized the wound to my pride was less painful than the cracks I took to the head, I was glad she was there by my side. It made the ass beating I was just handed go down a little more smoothly. As was par for the course, I had trouble looking at her, trouble speaking to her, but I almost wanted to count it since I felt like it was the closest I was going to get.\nNo, it wasn’t good enough. I didn’t say I wanted to be near my crush, I said I wanted a kiss, so I did the only thing an awkward kid like me could do: I spent the entire walk to the nurse’s office bracing to ask a simple question, overcomplicating what should have theoretically been a very simple proposition, psyching myself out to the point I almost backed out. \nNo, it was too late now. This was the closest I had ever gotten. I wasn’t going to let my broken nose, mild concussion, and wobbly feet go to waste. Once we reached the outside of the nurse’s office, I made my move. \n“Hey Vanessa, my head’s kinda fucked up right now, so I don’t know if it’s the blood talking or what, but there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for…. Shit, six years? And I thought that now was as good a time as any. I know you have to get to class, so I’ll keep this brief. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but is there any chance I could have a kiss? I’d be okay if it’s on the forehea- actually no, my head’s a bit bloody right now, ha ha. Whatever part of me isn’t covered in blood. Like I said, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” I rambled. There, the toothpaste was out of the tube, and there was no putting it back now. If she was gonna laugh at me, it would hurt, but I don’t think she was capable of hurting me anymore than I’d already been injured. \n“It sure took you long enough, didn’t it?” she responded. It was kinda the response I was looking for but not the one I was expecting. \n“What do you mean ?”\n“You’re not exactly subtle. Even though you’ve never said anything to me, I’ve seen the looks you throw me in the hallway. Whenever I try to throw one back, though, you’ve always got your head buried in your books. Lots of book smarts without much street smarts to show for it.”\n“You’re really gonna talk mess to a kid that might have a concussion?” I asked. She didn’t answer. At least, not with words. Instead, she gave me the reward I had long coveted: a warm smile and a kiss on the forehead that lingered for about three to four seconds. If her lips weren’t blood red before, they certainly were now. As if it were her lipstick that transferred the red to my forehead and not the other way around, so much blood rushed to my cheeks that I thought my face might explode. \nWith a press of her lips, she stole all the words from my mouth. Whatever I could possibly hope to say wouldn’t do justice to the moment she had given me. No matter what happened for the rest of the day, nobody could take this from me. Vince could storm the room and suffocate me until the struggling stopped, those three seconds made up for the 189 million seconds I spent debating whether or not she would run away screaming. Granted, I felt a wave of new embarrassment once I realized that I had spent the last six years building up the moment in my head just to learn it was never that difficult to begin with, but thinking about that was too much for the moment. There was no point obsessing over failure when I had everything I ever wanted leaning over my head. For the moment, I was comfortable knowing that the girl that I’d loved for a third of my life and I were finally standing eye to eye. Well, the metaphor isn’t quite perfect, but you know what I mean." } ]
[ { "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: Light in Time of Darkness\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2176\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has been tasked to keep a flame burning, surrounded by total darkness." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Here's a word: Entoptic. It means that what you are seeing is entirely within your nervous system, your brain. It's not 'out there'.\nYou've experienced it: Before you go to sleep; when the curtains are drawn and the lights out, and the room is totally dark. Stare into that darkness and watch the brilliant spots and sparkles wandering in the air. \nOnly, they aren't in the air.\nNow rub your eyes and watch the fireworks; the streaks of blues and bursts of orange. The scintillating world that isn't there.\n\nNow imagine you're in a cave, a really deep cave. So deep that light gave up long ago. So dark, so black, that your body is just a feeling, floating. Unreal.\nAnd imagine that you are standing in this lightless cave 7000 years ago. You know nothing of the world, it's shape or physical laws. \nYou've only known how to survive.\nStanding there in the inky blackness, your entoptic eyes see bright ghosts and spirits floating and playing all around; phantoms that tease and follow you. Try to touch them and they ignore your hesitant fingers. In the utter silence your ears ring; the whining sounds of those lost spirits...\n\nWalk further into the cave. You can hold your hands out in front of you, but you won't stumble; not in your imagination. \nKeep going, deeper and deeper into the mountain along a well-trodden earth path. The air is dry and dead here. No movement, just weight. And the utter silence of millions of tons of rock. \nWalk long and deep into the cave. Hear the murmuring of your beating heart, your whispering breath.\n\nStop walking and listen.\n\nSomething else; another sound. A sort of gentle song faintly hummed.\nWalk on and the darkness gives way to a faint glow; a real glow, in the air, not in your mind.\nAs you get nearer, so the pale sides of the cave become visible and you enter a small cavern in the rock. A room. The floor is packed earth; the walls dim and rough. \nIn the middle of the chamber sits a wide, flat stone: the flamestone. A smooth depression has been carved into its surface: a bowl, filled with a clear, oily liquid. A twisted hemp wick floats in the middle of this small pool of oil and from this wick rises a finger of flame. \nPure yellow and with the faintest of smoke, the light from the flame reveals patterns and drawings on the cavern walls. Spots and lines and grids and spirals: the spirits that followed you into the blackness. And busy scenes of hunting: reindeer, mammoths, horses in red and black; and little stick figures, archers, spear throwers, running and shouting purposefully.\nLow down on one side of the room lies a stone shelf, with clay pots of coloured powders; a horned mask and drum; a leather water bag, some dried meat; a sharp knife made from the tine of an antler; a brutal stone axe with signs and symbols carved into its wooden handle.\nNearby, on another shelf in the rock, is an earthen bowl containing more of the clear, oily liquid. Derived from animal fat, only the Shaman can make this precious fuel pure and potent enough for the golden flame. \nThe flame that must always live, must never go out. The flame that ensures the spirit of the tribe thrives in the darkness and brings power and success to the hunters painted on the walls. \nIf the flame should die, darkness will prevail.\n\nThe central flamestone sits powerfully in the middle of the space. Around it's edge are totemic objects: sea shells, flint arrow heads, small clay figurines and carved amulets placed carefully among coloured stones and bones.\nA neat pile of furs lies on the ground next to the flamestone and on this nest sits a young man. His hair and beard long and ragged. His face would have been handsome but for the patterns of scars and painted lines, and one dead eye, which sits beneath his clear brow like a full moon. He sits crosslegged within his thick pelt cloak staring fixedly at the golden flame with his good eye, blue as the morning.\nHe breathes in gently. He breathes out, and he hums.\nThe flame gives a tiny thrill at the sound before returning to stillness.\nWhat is this young man humming? \nA sort of song. A chant with sounds that rise and fall, endlessly repeating. \nThe young man is the Shaman's apprentice. He doesn't have a name; more a sound: Jarg. A fit young man who would have become a hunter or warrior like his birthmates, save for his eye: a sign from the gods that he could look inwards, thus belonging to the Shaman.\n\nThere is no sense of time for Jarg in this chamber deep underground, in this underworld. \nHe sits far from the middle world of leaves and animals and even farther from the upper world of feathers and sun. \nBetween these worlds the Shaman goes, mediating with the spirits and raising the power of the earth through the flame, through the wall paintings, and into the life and success of the tribe. \nAnd, one day, Jarg will follow.\nBut, for now, his job is to keep the flame alive. He will keep chanting until the Shaman returns carrying more of the clear liquid for the flamestone and to replenish the bowl on the shelf. \n\nThe young man has been chanting for many hours. His eyelids sometimes close but, filled with the honour of his task, he shakes his drooping head and returns to his duty.\nOccasionally, Jarg stands. The disturbed light from the flame ripples his shadow across the paintings on the rough walls as he stretches and walks around the flamestone - but he never stops humming. \nThis time, Jarg goes to the nearby rock shelf to finish the last of the dried meat and drink from the leather flask. Returning to his place among the furs, he settles into his chant and watches with his one blue eye as the flame slips silently back into its living column of gold.\n\nAnd time passes.\n\nJarg looks from the flame to the oil in the bowl beneath. \nHe's thinking that it'll soon be time to add more from the small supply on the shelf and begins to recall the spells he must use when he will pour. \nSoon. But not quite yet. \nThe Shaman should return before too long and he and Jarg will tend the solitary light together, keeping the darkness at bay. \n\nA sudden shimmer in the flame startles him.\nFully awake, he notices the slight, sideways bend that indicates someone entering the chamber: the Shaman, returning with the special oil.\nJarg sits more upright and hums diligently.\n\nA low, threatening growl runs through his skin, raising hairs on his neck and arms.\nFrom out the darkness, a wolf steps slowly into the soft light, menace rumbling low in its throat, its amber eyes fixed on Jarg.\nAnd waits.\n\nJarg doesn't move; his body is clay. \nWolves are enemies of the tribe and the hatred is mutual. A tribe of their own, wolves hunted the same food and took weaklings and children when they could. In turn, hunters killed wolves at every opportunity, bringing home their warm skins for winter pelts, just like the one in which Jarg is wrapped. \nWith a great force of will, Jarg keeps humming. He knows he must never stop: this is his task until the Shaman returns. Or death.\n\nThe wolf stands motionless, looking around the room, sniffing the air. \nWhat has brought it here, so deep into the mountain?\nFrom the corner of his good eye Jarg can see the wolf is young, thin and starving, looking for anything. The faint aroma of burning animal fat has drawn it deep into the cave.\nThe wolf stops sniffing and looks intently around, swinging its head from side to side. Then, ignoring the unmoving man, the hungry animal pads carefully over to the rock shelf just behind Jarg and sniffs the earthen bowl. \nA lapping noise soon becomes the sound of chops being licked. \n\nJarg sits with his back to the wolf; he doesn't see it turn its hungry eyes in his direction and remains sitting perfectly still in the nest of furs by the flamestone. His pelt pulled up to his ears, fists clenched and staring intently at the flame. \nJarg continues to chant even as he senses the animal approaching from behind. He can hear the starved breathing, feel the wolf's suspicious nose stroking his hair, its putrid breath on his face. \nThe wolf comes close. It sniffs Jarg's pelt and growls in confusion: the stillness of the figure, the smell of wolf fur, the humming. What is this? \nLeaving Jarg, the wolf pads around to the far side of the flamestone, sniffing the air and salivating. It smells the oil in the bowl, the alluring aroma in the faint smoke. The flame itself worries it. Wolves hate fire. But this fire is small, the flame barely warm, and the wolf is starving.\nThe wolf edges its snout cautiously towards the depression in the rock and dips its tongue into the oil.\nThe wolf will take it. \nThe flame will die.\nNo more light, and utter night will follow. \n\nSuddenly, Jarg leaps up, screaming loudly. \nThe wolf jumps back to the far wall where it turns and crouches, drawing back it's lips and snarling through a glistening row teeth. \nIt can see what's on offer now.\nJarg slowly and carefully steps backwards to the rocky shelf with the water and totemic objects. He turns to grab the stone axe.\nBut the wolf is on him, pushing him against the shelf and knocking shells and amulets to the floor. \nJarg only just avoids the vicious jaws snatching at his throat and, as he falls backwards, he grabs the wolf's fur under its neck with both hands. Man and wolf roll to the ground: the man wrestling his legs around the wolf's body; the wolf barking, snapping oily fangs. \n\nBut the animal is weak. After much twisting and grappling Jarg eventually subdues the wolf and lies heavily on its furious body. He traps it hard up against rock wall, one forearm pushing the wolf's head down and its jaws away from his face.\n\nAn impasse, for the moment.\n\nJarg is panting deeply. A sudden thought and he turns anxiously to the flame.\nIt's still there, wavering but clear. Of course it is; he can see the struggling wolf beneath him in its yellow light. \nWith a smile and between breaths he realises that he's begun humming. \nSomehow, he's kept the flame alive.\n\nJarg waits. His breathing calms down. So does that of the wolf, though its angry eyes continue to glare. \nThere could be no doubt: if Jarg lets it go, the wolf will always try to kill him.\nNothing less. \nAnd the flame would be gone.\n\nKeeping the weight of his body on the wolf, Jarg reaches up to the rock shelf with his free hand and finds the antler knife. He hums his chant gently, like a mother, and slips the sharp blade into the side of the wolf's neck. \nHot blood spurts immediately over Jarg's arm, down the wall and onto the floor.\nThe wolf struggles, and then indignation and anger just fall away and it quietly relaxes.\nAfter a while, when Jarg feels the wolf has stopped twitching, he rolls off the body and gets to his feet. Deep red blood is already drying on his arm. He will never wash it off: this wolf's life; its passing spirit.\nJarg leaves the wolf where it lies and puts the sacred objects and knife back on the shelf. He tidies the edge of the flamestone.\nCalmly, he returns to his nest of furs and wraps himself closely in the pelt. \nAnd continues to hum. \n\nThe pool of oil beneath the wick is small adJarg notices a smear of oil running from the bowl to the edge of the stone.\nHe looks around. \nThe reserve is gone too. \nPerhaps he should have jumped up quicker? But, no. Unarmed and with the desperate wolf behind him, Jarg knew he would have been killed quickly. A bite to his neck and all would have been lost.\n\nJarg pulls his gaze back to the yellow flame. There is nothing to do but wait, and chant. And hope the Shaman returns very soon for, surely, even as he watches, the flame seems a little smaller, and without the Shaman the flame will die.\n\nNothing to do but wait. \nJarg sits as before, guardian of the tiny golden flame in the dark night of the cavern, chanting. \nChanting hope.\nThe air and silence in the cavern settle back. \nThe figures and patterns on the wall grow a little dimmer.\n\nJarg snaps alert. \nThe small flame has shivered again, bending away as before.\nSomeone has entered the chamber." } ]
[ { "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 Flick Of A Coin.\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1067\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Run. \nAll I did was run. No looking back, fear, prominently flashing in my mind, and my heart furiously banging against my chest, as I puffed out air, dodging the stones on the street. My worn out sneakers I had bargained for a mere 4 dollars were starting to fall apart, the soles filling up with dirt. \nAs I turned around the corner, I snuck a glance behind me, praying that they couldn’t follow. Alas, they don’t call me Hapless Harold for no reason. \nSeeing a dumpster out of the corner of my eye in an alley up ahead, I gave out my energy and sprinted towards it, head diving into the disgusting bags of garbage, a futile last attempt of escape.\nAs I tried my very best to cover myself with a plastic bag that could’ve very well been mistaken for faeces for the putrid smell it gave out, I froze when I heard him. \n“Well well well, look at who’s trying to hide.”\nI closed my eyes. Maybe I could still run. My stomach. Why do I feel so..\nI wretched, jumping out of the dumpster and emptying the little contents I had in me out onto.. shoes. Ferran’s shoes. Oh well.\nWiping my mouth, I slowly lifted my head, only to see Ferran’s face so full of disgust and repulsion, that his body radiated a sense of revulsion towards me. \nHe blinked. Once. Twice. \nThen I thought he would scream. Lash out, grab me by my neck and suffocate me. Maybe even cry. \nHowever, what he did was worse. \n“What, did you just do, scum?” He asked me, his gaze averting towards his shoes, which were now coloured in a putrid green, and then back at me. \nThe fact that his voice remained calm was like that of a horror movie, the calm before the storm. The silence before the chaos.\nI gulped, my hands on the rims of the dumpster, as I tried my best to regain my composure, and stop my hands from shaking. \nI stuttered. “I.. I’m sorry, Ferran..” \nHis minions, Sullen and Aiwan, looked at me as if I were a rat they had found dead, and decaying in their bathroom. Their fists were rolled and they looked like they were about to snap at me, had I made one wrong move.\nFerran exhaled deeply, and then under gritted teeth, he told me, “Get. Out.”\nNot taking any chances, I pushed off of my hands and jumped out of the dumpster, landing two feet in front of him. \nHe didn’t say anything. He reached into his pocket and fished around. \nWell, -I thought- this is my ending. What a tragic and sorrowful tale I’ve lived. \nWhat he grabbed out of his pocket was something I would’ve never guessed. A coin, that shone when a hint of the sun's ray hit it. \nMy eyebrows frowned as I tried to make sense of what was happening. “What?” I heard myself say. \nFerran broke the silence and answered my rhetorical question. “It’s the season of giving, isn’t it?” He twirled the coin around in his hand, which caused it to emit a beautiful bronze gleam.\nWhen he didn’t get an answer, he looked back sharply at Aiwan and Sullen, and glared at them. “ISN'T IT, BOYS?”\nHastily, they nodded, as the trepidation they felt from just seeing the big person that was Ferran was just enough to make two grown men wee their pants. \n“Ahem,” Ferran continued, “Pick, heads or tails, scum.” \nThough scared, I was curious. “What- f-for?” I asked, my issue with stuttering causing me to look more terrified than I really was. \nAiwan and Sullen chuckled mockingly, and mocked what I had said. \nI scoffed, and fixed my gaze on Ferran. It was about time I got my act together and faced these nasty bullies. \nUnsure, I picked my answer. “H-heads.”\nFerran smirked. “If I toss this coin, and it lands on heads, I’ll leave you alone for a week. However, if it lands on the opposite side, your life ends today, here, and now.”\nI shuddered. Why sign up for something when I had my life on the line? \nHowever, this could go two ways, the optimistic region of my brain assured me. Have faith. \nAnd so, with the cue of my nod, Ferran tossed the coin into the air, where it gleamed, and as if put in slow motion, it fell slowly onto the ground, as if it were a leaf on an autumn day. At least, that's what it seemed like. \nThe four of us bent down over, my eyes wide open and waiting in half anticipation, and the other half brimming with the fear of losing my life.\nAnother part of me knew that I could avoid this whole situation together and run again, when they were so preoccupied with the intense interest of seeing the outcome of the coin. But, I’d run away from these people all my life. I deserved one chance to properly feel safe. Even if it were only for a week.\nI closed my eyes and when I opened them, the coin had made the decision. \n“Heads..” I whispered, my body lighting up like the coin had.\n“You p-promised, right..” I stuttered again, backing away slowly from the bullies who had tortured and tormented me for all 15 years of my school life. \nFerran had annoyance written all over him. But mostly disappointment. “Whatever. But you’re dead next week at school.”\nFor the first time in my life, I ran from that alley with a smile leaving my lips. As the wind blew against me harder, a laugh cracked from within me, and then tears of relief and solace escaped my hazel eyes. With the sun setting in front of me, I grabbed the coin from my pocket, kissed it, smiled as it gleamed in the golden hour. \nBeing able to run away from Ferran and his little gang wasn’t what made me so at peace. Escaping death wasn’t what caused these tears of relief. It was, that they had spared my life, not knowing that I had booked a one way ticket to Italy, 11,000 miles away from them. 11,000 miles away from the pain.\nThe flick of a coin had made my life turn from hell to heaven. From wrong to right. \nPerhaps I’m not Hapless Harold after 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: Midnight's Embrace\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1063\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a kiss at midnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The town of Silvermist was nestled in a verdant valley, surrounded by rolling hills and dense forests. It was a place of great natural beauty, with sparkling streams and waterfalls, fields of wildflowers, and towering trees that seemed to touch the sky.\nAt the heart of Silvermist was a charming village, with cobblestone streets and quaint cottages painted in cheerful colors. There was a sense of magic and wonder in the air, as if the town was enchanted by some unseen force.\nMany people believed that Silvermist was a place of great spiritual power, and that the energy of the land had a profound effect on those who lived there. Some even said that the town had its own guardian angel, watching over it and guiding its residents along their paths.\nRegardless of its origins, Silvermist was a place of great peace and tranquility, and it was the perfect setting for Emily and Arturo's story. \nEmily and Arturo had always been the best of friends, even from a young age. They grew up together in the small town of Silvermist, and as they explored their world, they discovered all sorts of fun and exciting things to do.\nOne of their favorite pastimes was climbing trees. They would spend hours scaling the tallest trees in their neighborhood, laughing and cheering each other on as they reached new heights.\nThey also loved to go on adventures in the woods behind their houses. They would pack a picnic lunch and set off into the trees, searching for hidden streams and secret clearings. Along the way, they would collect treasures such as colorful rocks and delicate wildflowers.\nIn the wintertime, Emily and Arturo loved to go ice skating on the frozen pond near their homes. They would bundle up in warm jackets and scarves, and spend hours gliding around the ice, trying to outdo each other with their fancy moves.\nOverall, Emily and Arturo's younger years were filled with fun, laughter, and adventure. They were inseparable companions, and as they grew older, their bond only grew stronger.\nTragedy struck one summer when Arturo's younger brother Andres was killed in a car accident. They were both 18 years old at the time, and Arturo was left inconsolable.\nAccording to eyewitness accounts, Andres had been in the car when his friend was driving on a winding road by the river and he lost control of the car. It went off the road and into the water, where Andres and the friend drowned before anyone could reach him.\nArturo was devastated by the news, and Emily did everything within her power to be there for him and offer him solace through his grief. She held him as he wept, and she listened as he poured out his heartache. It was a trying time, and Arturo's grief was palpable. \nThroughout Arturo's time of grief and mourning, Emily made it a priority to be there for him in any way that he needed. She spent countless hours by his side, providing a listening ear whenever he needed to talk and offering words of comfort and support. She held his hand and hugged him when he needed to cry, and she did everything she could to help him feel less alone.\nIn addition to being a constant presence in Arturo's life, Emily also took on small tasks to make his life a little easier. She brought him meals when he wasn't feeling up to cooking for himself, and she helped him with errands and other responsibilities when he was struggling to find the energy. She even made an effort to stay in touch with Andres' friends, hoping to help Arturo feel connected to his brother in some small way.\nAs the months passed after Andres' death, Arturo slowly began to heal. It was a long and difficult process, and there were times when he struggled to find the strength to keep going. But with Emily's love and support, he was able to take small steps forward.\nOne of the first signs that Arturo was healing was that he began to express his emotions more openly. He no longer bottled up his grief, but instead talked about his feelings with Emily and other loved ones. This helped him to process his emotions and come to terms with his loss.\nArturo also began to find joy in the small things again. He started to laugh and smile more, and he even began to show an interest in hobbies and activities that he used to enjoy. This was a significant milestone, as it meant that he was starting to find ways to cope with his grief and move forward.\nFinally, Arturo began to form new connections and relationships. He made an effort to spend time with friends and family, and he even started to open up to new people. This was a sign that he was ready to move on and start building a new future for himself.\nAs Arturo stood on the highschool rooftop with Emily on New Year's Eve, watching the fireworks light up the sky, he was filled with a multitude of emotions.\nHe was grateful to have Emily by his side, as she had been a constant source of support and love during his difficult times. He felt a deep sense of appreciation for all that she had done for him, and he knew that he couldn't have made it through the past few months without her.\nAt the same time, Arturo couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness as he remembered his brother Andres and all that he had lost. But as he looked at Emily, he also felt a glimmer of hope and a sense that the future held promise.\nAs the clock struck midnight, Arturo could no longer hold back his desires. He reached out and took Emily's face in his hands, gazing deep into her eyes. She looked back at him, her lips parted and her eyes shining with love.\nArturo leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the sweetness of her mouth and feeling the heat of her body. Emily wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close as they deepened the kiss. It was a moment of pure passion and desire, and as they stood there together, watching the fireworks burst above them, Arturo knew that he had found his one true love." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Flame of Chinon\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2976\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has been tasked to keep a flame burning, surrounded by total darkness." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My father often recounted tales of a mystical flame, a legacy deeply ingrained in our family's history, stretching back centuries. It was more than just a mere fire; it was the heart and soul of France, a symbol of our nation's enduring strength and resilience. Passed down through generations, we were entrusted with a sacred duty to keep this flame alive. As a child, I listened to these stories with a sense of wonder, yet the true magnitude of this responsibility eluded me – until the fateful day the English laid siege to our land.\n\"Héloïse! Gather your sisters now! We must seek refuge underground!\" My mother's voice sliced through the chaos as the stone walls of our beloved castle trembled and groaned under the relentless assault of the enemy's trebuchets. I turned swiftly, my heart pounding in my chest, and reached for my younger sisters, their broad, frightened eyes mirroring my alarm. Grasping their small, trembling hands firmly in mine, I drew them close, offering what little comfort I could muster in that moment of terror.\nLittle Marguerite pressed her hands tightly over her ears, trying to block out the terrifying cacophony of war that enveloped us, her eyes brimming with tears. As we hurried down the narrow, spiraling staircase to the castle's undercroft, I could feel the war advancing above us.\nThe cold, damp air of the underground chamber greeted us as we descended. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the walls. Mother nudged us to keep moving forward. It wasn't until we reached the safety chamber that I saw it, and for a moment, I hesitated. Our flame was hidden here, its soft, steady glow from generations who safeguarded it through turmoil and peace. I wrapped my cape around myself tighter as my sisters huddled close to me. Before my mother could close the door, one of her ladies-in-waiting scrambled in. \n\"My queen! I have heard that an English spy has entered the fortress.\" I could see the worry in my mother's face as she heard the news. \n\"Does the king know?\" she asked.\n\"I do not know, my queen.\" \nMy mother's lips pursed together, thinking. She quickly turned towards me and cupped my cheek. \"Héloïse, I must go. Your father may need some help. I believe you are old enough to be given the task.\" she pointed at the burning flame. \"You must guard the flame with your life. Keep it burning. As long as the fire burns, the darkness will not overcome us.\" She kissed my forehead. \"I have faith in you.\"\nI could feel myself tear up as my sisters and I watched her leave with her lady-in-waiting. I was petrified, for I was never taught about such things. I glanced over at the flame. It was my turn to protect this ancient symbol of our nation's spirit, to keep it burning against all odds.\nAs hours dragged into what felt like an eternity, the relentless bombardments showed no sign of abating. Marguerite and Sybéle clung to me tightly. My fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a rusted sword I had discovered in an old trunk. It felt heavy and unfamiliar in my hands. The ominous thud of boots seemed to grow louder, more insistent with each passing moment, and the threat to our sacred flame became increasingly palpable. I could almost feel the shadows inching closer, hungry for the light.\nClosing my eyes, I tried to summon a courage that seemed just out of reach. The stories of a young shepherdess, not much older than I, echoed in my mind. She had faced the darkness of the English with nothing but her faith and God's will as her armor. Yet, in the shadow of her legend, I found myself grappling with crippling fear. I was not carved from the same stone of fearless conviction. Doubt gnawed at me; I was a mere guardian, untested and untrained, thrust into a role I barely understood.\nThe sound of footsteps approaching our hiding place sliced through the thick air. My heart pounded against my ribs like a frantic drum. Marguerite and Sybéle's grip on me tightened, their fingers digging into my arms as if to draw strength from me – strength I wasn't sure I possessed. \"Is it the English?\" Marguerite's voice was barely a whisper. \"Or could it be Mother returning?\" added Sybéle, her voice tinged with desperate hope.\n I tightened my hold on the sword. We were a trembling fortress, bracing against the unknown, ready to protect the flame that symbolized much more than a flickering light. It was the soul of our nation, the beacon of hope in a time shrouded in despair, and now, its fate rested in the hands of a young girl who wished for nothing more than the return of her mother and the safety of her sisters.\nThe footsteps halted just outside the door, and a heavy silence fell upon us. I could hear the ragged breaths of my sisters and feel their hearts pounding in unison with mine. We waited, caught in a moment that stretched beyond time's confines.\nWith a thunderous BANG, the blunt force colliding against the door sent shockwaves through the dim chamber. The abrupt, violent sound shattered the tense silence, causing little Marguerite and Sybéle to scream in unison; their piercing cries reverberated against the stone walls.\nInstinctively, I bolted upright, my grip on the sword tightening reflexively. The metal felt cold and slick in my sweat-dampened palms. My heart hammered against my ribcage, and each thud resonated through my body.\nBreath caught in my throat, turning each inhale into a struggle. The air felt thick, laden with fear and the musty dampness of the underground chamber. I could sense my legs quivering beneath me, the tremors of fear threatening to undermine my resolve. But I couldn't – wouldn't – let myself succumb to the weakness that beckoned. Too much was at stake, the flame's flickering light a constant reminder of the duty that had fallen on my shoulders.\nI squared them, trying to emulate the statues of the brave knights that lined the halls of our castle, their stone faces eternally calm in the face of unseen enemies. I had to be their living embodiment now.\nThrough the gaps in the heavy wooden door, I could discern a muffled voice, their tone harsh and unfamiliar. The enemy was right outside, their presence an ominous shadow looming just beyond our fragile barrier. Marguerite and Sybéle huddled behind me, shaking. I could feel their eyes on my back, wide with fear yet filled with a trust that felt heavier than any armor.\nI steadied my breathing, trying to calm the panic within me. I tried summoning courage from the depths of my soul. \nAs the pounding on the door resumed, more insistent this time, I braced myself, sword in hand, ready to face whatever fate lay on the other side. \nSuddenly, the door burst open with a violent crash that echoed through the chamber. Splinters of wood flew across the room as a lone figure, shrouded in a dark cloak, stepped into the dim light. He stood there, an ominous silhouette framed by the doorway, his presence filling the room with an immediate and palpable sense of danger.\n\"Well! What do we have here?\" he asked. His voice, laced with a mocking tone, sliced through the tense air. It was English – a language I had learned in my earlier years, a skill I never imagined would serve me in such a dire situation. A cold realization washed over me; this was the English spy, the source of the looming threat we had feared.\nIn his presence, a deep, unsettling darkness seemed to seep into the air around us. It was an intangible, suffocating force as if he carried the shadows of night that lay beyond our walls.\nHis eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room. His gaze showed a glint of recognition, perhaps greed, as he eyed our sacred fire's gentle, steady glow. It was as though he understood the significance of what he saw.\nThe flame flickered slightly as if reacting to the presence of this intruder, casting an eerie dance of light and shadow across his face. It illuminated his features for a moment – a sharp jawline, a cruel twist to his mouth, and eyes that held a chilling emptiness.\nI felt a surge of protective instinct, a fierce determination to guard our legacy against this man who represented everything we stood against. Gripping the sword tighter, I positioned myself between him and the flame, aware of my sisters huddled behind me. Their soft whimpers of fear filled my heart, fueling me to be strong.\n\"We won't let you take it,\" I managed to say, my voice steadier than I felt. At that moment, I was acutely aware of the enormity of my responsibility, standing as the last line of defense between the darkness he embodied and the light of our cherished flame.\nAs the English spy's hand slid into his cloak, he drew out a knife, its blade glinting menacingly in the flickering light. His eyes, keen and cold, locked onto mine, and I could see in them a recognition of my fear. The corners of his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. \"If you are so tough, my dear, come at me!\" he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.\nHis words were designed to provoke, to unnerve me. Yet, beneath the layers of my fear, a seed of defiance took root. I sensed the ploy in his challenge – an attempt to exploit my inexperience and fear. Instead of reacting impulsively, I chose to stand my ground, my grip on the sword unwavering, though my arms trembled slightly under its weight.\nThe spy took a deliberate step forward, his eyes briefly flickering to the flame. In that instant, a surge of courage welled up within me. With a resolve I hadn't known I possessed, I positioned myself firmly between him and the flame. The warmth emanating from it seeped into my bones, emboldening me. It was my duty, my destiny, to protect it from being extinguished, especially by the hands of an enemy.\nAs I stood there, the flame's heat against my back, I felt a transformation within. The warmth provided physical comfort and strength that felt as ancient as the legacy I was defending. The flame's steady glow was a silent ally, its light piercing the encroaching darkness, reminding me of all the generations before me who had stood in its defense.\n\"I won't let you take it,\" I declared, my voice resonating with a newfound firmness. The English spy, his eyes narrowing with malice, lunged at me, his knife slicing through the air with lethal intent. In a moment that felt suspended in time, I raised the heavy sword, blocking his attack with an almost instinctual deftness. The metallic clang of our weapons echoed through the chamber. My sisters gasped.\nThe spy, visibly miffed by my resistance, prepared for another assault. He lunged again with a swift, menacing motion, his movements obviously sharp and practiced. Yet, somehow, I countered again, parrying his strike with the sword. My arms shook under strain, but I held my ground. The truth was, I wasn't entirely sure how I was managing to fend off his attacks. It was as if the sword had become an extension of my will, guided by a force beyond my understanding.\nA fierce determination was kindling inside me, much like the flame we were sworn to protect. It burned with an intensity that surprised me, fueling my actions and infusing my limbs with a strength I hadn't known I possessed. This inner fire cast out the fear that had ensnared my heart. It was as if the flame was lending me its resilience, its enduring spirit coursing through me in this moment of peril.\nWith every block and parry, my confidence grew, driven by the burning need to protect what was ours.\nDetermined and emboldened, I readied myself for his next move, the flame within me blazing fiercely. I knew I could not falter when so much depended on my strength. \nOverwhelmed by the spy's relentless assault, I was steadily pushed back. His strength and skill were formidable, and despite the fierce determination that burned within me, I was struggling to keep up. He sent me sprawling onto the cold, unforgiving stone ground with a sudden, forceful shove. The impact jarred through my body, a sharp pain radiating from my shoulder. My fingers, numbed by the shock, involuntarily released their grip on the sword, which clattered away from me. I was now defenseless.\nAs I lay there, disoriented and gasping for breath, I heard the spy's sneering laughter. It was a sound of contempt and triumph echoing ominously in the chamber. His dark form loomed over me, a shadow poised to extinguish the light we had fought fiercely to protect. Desperately, I tried to muster the strength to rise and confront him again, but my body refused to obey. My limbs felt leaden; the exertion and the fall drained their energy.\nThen, piercing the tense air, came a blood-curdling scream from above me. Sybéle. The raw terror in her voice jolted me with a surge of adrenaline. My head snapped up to see the spy, his hand gripping my younger sister's arm, his knife now dangerously close to her. Panic and fear etched on her face, she struggled against his hold.\nA torrent of anger, hot and fierce, erupted within me. It was one thing to face me, to threaten me, but it was entirely another to harm my sister. Protective instincts, more potent than any fear or pain, surged through my veins. The thought of Sybéle, innocent and terrified, in the clutches of this merciless enemy ignited a fire in me that overshadowed my weaknesses.\nWith a grunt of effort, I forced myself onto my elbows and knees. I couldn't, wouldn't, allow this man to harm her. She was my responsibility, my family, and I would protect her with every fiber of my being.\nGritting my teeth, my eyes fixed on the spy and my sister. The flame, flickering in the background, fueled my resolve. I knew I had to act quickly to save my sister and safeguard the flame at our resistance's heart.\nFueled by a surge of desperate determination, I scrambled across the stone floor, my eyes locked on the discarded sword. My fingers closed around its hilt, the familiar cold metal reigniting a spark of hope. Time seemed to slow as I steadied myself, focusing solely on the threat before me.\n\"Hey!\" My voice, hoarse but loud, cut through the tension in the room. The spy, momentarily caught off guard, whipped around to face me. His eyes, wide with surprise, met mine, and in that split second, I saw my chance. With all my strength, I lunged forward, driving the sword with unyielding force into his stomach.\nThe impact sent a jolt through my arms, and the world stood still momentarily. The spy's eyes registered shock, pain, and then realization as the blade pierced him. He let out a choked gasp, his grip on Sybéle loosening. As he staggered back, clutching at the wound, Sybéle seized the opportunity to break free from his weakening grasp.\nShe scrambled toward me, her slight form shaking with fear and relief. I dropped the sword and quickly wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close. Her body trembled against mine, and I could feel her rapid heartbeat against my chest. Marguerite followed suit.\nIn the background, the spy slumped to the floor next to the flame, the threat he posed neutralizing with his dwindling strength. His presence, once so menacing, was now just a fading shadow in the face of our combined resilience. As I held Sybéle, I couldn't help but feel a wave of sorrow mixed with relief. The reality of what I had done – taking a life, even in defense of our own – weighed heavily on me.\nThe tension in the chamber was suddenly shattered by hurried footsteps and clanking armor. A group of figures, their outlines framed by the flickering light of the corridor, entered, and a sense of relief washed over me. Leading the group was a familiar face that brought an instant sense of safety and reassurance.\n\"Guillaume!\" My voice echoed in the chamber as I called out to my older brother. \nGuillaume's eyes quickly scanned the room, taking in the scene — the fallen spy, Marguerite, Sybéle, and I huddled together, the discarded sword. His expression changed as his gaze met mine. He moved towards us swiftly. As Guillaume reached us, his face softened. He knelt down, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder.\n\"Héloïse, are you and the girls alright?\" His voice filled with brotherly concern.\nAs I nodded, unable to form words, I felt Sybéle's grip tighten. She was still shaken, but the arrival of our brother seemed to ease some of her fear.\nGuillaume turned his attention briefly to the spy's motionless body, his brow furrowing. \"You did what you had to do, my little flame,\" he said softly, understanding the turmoil I must have felt. Then, looking around, his gaze fell on the flame, still burning steadily. \nAs the guards began to secure the room and attend to the aftermath of the intrusion, Guillaume helped us to our feet. At that moment, I realized that the power of the flame wasn't in the flame itself but rather in the fire that burned within us. The fire that powered us to protect our loved ones and ourselves, and while there will always be darkness in the world, there will also be light for those who believe in 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: Change\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1292\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character always makes the same promise; to change. Will they finally make it happen this time?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I stare at the one word scrawled on my paper. I know I should write down more, but I can't seem to. I can only write one.\nChange.\nYou see, my teachers will hand me and my classmates papers to write down our resolutions right before Christmas Break because we obviously won't be at school on New Years' day. I hate this because I can only think of one thing to write each time. It's just one, simple word. Yet, I can't seem to accomplish this resolution.\nI am currently sixteen. And ever since I was twelve, I have had this as my resolution. Because I am shyer than others and don't really know how to talk to people, I don't get invited to even the smallest of parties. Which sucks because parties sound like the best thing ever. Chip bowls scattered on tables, sodas I have never been able to drink, and in some cases, beer. This all sounds glorious, but like I said before, I never get to go to them.\nThat's why I have Change as my resolution. If I can somehow just figure out how to talk to other people, then maybe I will be invited to parties. And as you probably know, New Year's Eve has one of the biggest parties of the year. And I really want to be invited to one before the end of high school. If I do that, then maybe I can finally have friends.\nIt is the day of the break when I hear some boys and girls talking about a big party on New Year's Eve next to me in the hall. I am about to put my headphones on and walk away when I suddenly hear my name in the conversation. I act like I don't hear them but then strain my ears to listen in.\n\"Do you think we should invite Ethan to the party?\" One of the girls asks.\n\"I dunno. Isn't he . . . you know . . . shy?\" The boy with his arm over the girl's shoulder says.\n\"Come on, guys. Just invite him for the hell of it,\" girl number 2 says.\n\"Alright . . .\"\nOne of the guys walks over to me and stands in front of me. I look up at him, my hair falling over my eyes.\n\"Hey, we were wondering if you would want to come or not,\" he says. \"Cause at least half the grade is coming, and you would be a moron not to come.\"\nI nod slowly and hesitantly, wondering if this is a dream. \"O-okay. I just-just need to know where the pa-party is going to be.\" I stutter, feeling like an idiot. He suddenly nabs my phone and starts texting something. \"Hey!\" I say loudly, trying to grab it back. Because he is at least a head taller than me, he just raises my phone out of reach, still typing. I am about to punch him in the stomach (which is so idiotic) when he suddenly tosses my phone back to me.\n\"There. The group chat with everyone going to the party is on your phone. Make sure to check it,\" he says, walking away with his friends.\nI stare down at my phone as if it is a rare gem, my eyes wide. The popular kids just invited me to a party. I mean, I am just a stupid shy kid who doesn't have any friends, yet they invited me. Wow. Just . . . wow.\nSchool eventually ends and I walk home, my hands still trembling. I get home and run into my room, slamming the door behind me. I immediately pull out my phone and look at the text. The location is some girl's house something north of here. I memorize the address and then lay on my bed. Even though it is really early, I still try to sleep, wondering if it will even come because of house excited I am.\nNew Year's Eve eventually arrives, along with the party. The party is at 11:00 p.m., and goes until . . . well, it doesn't have an ending time. I get on some of my \"cooler\" clothes (meaning a Legend of Zelda shirt) and then tell my mom I will be out with some friends. She doesn't question it but still looks at me suspiciously. And then at 10:32, I roll out.\nAfter about ten minutes of confusion and aimless driving, I eventually find the house. Dozens of cars are already parked in front of it, and loud music is blaring from inside. I park my car and am about to get out when I suddenly stop. It's as if I can't move, the only movement I can do being moving my eyes. But even that I don't do. Because I just stare at the house, my body trembling. Should I do it and risk humiliating myself? Or should I just stay home, knowing I can't get humiliated there?\nI am about to change my gear and drive back home when the boy's from a week about rings throughout my head.\n\"At least half the grade is coming, and you would be a moron not to come . . .\"\nFor five years, I have been wanting to change. And now that I can, I almost turned it down. Wow, I really am I moron, I think.\nI practically jump out of my car and run up the steps, my hands still trembling. My hand hovers in front of the doorbell before I push the button, the loud DING sounding from inside the house. There is some scuffling from inside and then the door swings open, almost hitting me. The same boy from earlier stares at me, a grin suddenly spreading across his face. He turns around, cupping his hands around his hands.\n\"HEY, DANIEL!! I TOLD YOU HE WOULD SHOW UP!!\" He shouts. Then he moves out of the way, letting me inside. I walk inside, the music a dozen times louder than before. Gangnam Style blares from the speakers set up around the house, and brightly colored lights flash throughout the house as if this is a rave.\n\"The beer and chips and pizza are in the kitchen, the bathroom is to the right, and the party is straight ahead!\" He shouts over the loud noise. Before I can stop it, a smile suddenly forms on my face.\n\"Thanks!\" I shout, heading to the living room. Dozens of people are dancing to the music, three couples are making out, and ten people are swimming in the swimming pool. Fully clothed, too!!\nMy feet suddenly take me around the house, and my mouth starts to talk to people. Before I know it, I am telling stories with the popular kids, chugging soda, and cramming chips into my mouth as I can. And just as the clock strikes twelve, making it officially a New Year, I jump into the pool in all of my clothes. Fifteen other people jump in after me, making the New Year's Party and pool party.\nAt 2:43, I head home. My clothes are sticking to my skin, and my hair is tangled, but I don't care. I had gone to my first party ever. And it was awesome!\nI will forever remember my first party. Even though I am twenty-five, and have gone to hundreds of parties, none of them can compare to my very first. It was the first time I actually had people listen to my stories and enjoy them. It was the first time I realized how to be confident in myself. And it was the first time I tried beer. But that's not important, now is it?\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: Sparkling Moments\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1447\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a family (biological or found) coming together for Christmas." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Inside Amabelle head, she thought that this is the best Christmas that she has ever celebrates within he miserable 19 years of life. She will remember this 25th December till the day death called for her.\nOnce in Old England live an orphan girl in a rundown orphanage downtown. She has been there ever since she could crawl, the only thing that she knew that a proof of her parents did not want to abandoned her is the little fortune of a will that her parents gave her entrusting it to the caretaker to hand it down fully to her once she is 18, which is last year. That fortune too is the reason she could study to school unlike other orphan there thanks for the kind caretaker that she has to manage it while she still a kid.\nFor 18 years of life she study and play. On school she is quite known as a smart poor student who gets scholarship. Yes, she has a bit of fortune but it couldn’t compared to those bourgeois daughters in her school who live lavishly. She has no luxury to spend it on mere things like them, her sole focus is to finished the school and be something to level up her status. She is an independent girl, so marrying to reach her dream is out of picture she said she had dignity, oh! Her stubborn ego.\nIt is no luxury but she thinks even though she suffers growing up in that rundown orphanage she is happy. She is actually enjoyed her life helping those caretakers taking care of those younger ones as she is one of the older kids in the orphanage.\nOne day, in her last year of school which is last year in her 18. She met a transferee or might said that the girl is a new student from a really prestigious family in town. A bourgeois family that is kind and generous, the family that often offer her orphanage supply for the kids in there to have a warm cloth and blanket at night they always donate to us yearly. The girl is from Duke Alfred, her name is Lady Grace Alfred she is 15 before this she is homeschool. She is an astounding students in arts but a bit average in other subjects. That is when the principal offer me to be her tutor with promised of a good salary.\nAfter given a thought I agreed and the principal is overjoyed. She hurriedly go to the Alfred’s mansion that weekend to discuss the matter saying that I agree. I accept that offer is because the family wish that their daughter tutor would stay at their home and also get a salary. Because of that accommodation offer is the things that attracted me the most as next year I need to get my ass out of the orphanage because I’ll be 19.\nOnce Monday befall upon, the principal call me to his office again and said the happiest news to me that year, that the Alfred’s family has agreed for me to be their precious daughter permanent tutor till she graduates high school which is in 4 years which will also allows me to keep my saving to finally have my own life after that. So in 2 days I’ll be moving out of the orphanage to live in the mansion as a tutor, I never thought I could see inside of a mansion before and now I’m living in them even though as a tutor.\nThe day of moving out has come, with nervous heart I knocked on the huge oak door that the mansion have. An older lady with a loving vibe open the door for me and said that the whole mansion has expecting my arrival. She give me a grandmother vibe from her way of speech but based on her uniform I guess she is a maid here but looking at her age and the way she move inside the huge mansion I think she is the head maid. She shows me the whole mansion that leaving my mouth agape at the end of our tour. The study and library especially has leave me speechless. Then finally she shown me the place that I would rest my head and body every night. After she open the door in the main house I’m flustered as she said that I’ll live inside the main house not in the servant quarters like what I expected and the room itself is just magnificent. The Alfred’s said that they already take a liking in me after learning my story from the principal and decided to treat me not as a worker instead as their daughter sister like figure.\nMeeting that renowned family daughter at first I think she would be a prude or a spoiled brat like other girls with the same status as her in my school. But thankfully she is a total sweetheart maybe because of her parent the Alfred’s teach her good virtues daily by showing her what it means and what it will give to you. The things that shocking me the most is that she did not angry to her parents decision that asking her to treat me as an older sister instead she is really happy. I’ve become closer to her quicker than I thought just in a week I already fell for her cute charm and already feel like an overprotective older sister of me kicking in. Her parents also treat me very nicely I also started to called them as mother and father as they requested after a month living there\nFrom early fall I started living here and now fall is already almost at the end the winter wind has blown in bit by bit. I feel so happy, they have become a family to me. Grace and me has become inseparable. At first the people at school is flabbergasted with our closeness but now they already have accepted it and yes I not calling he Lady Grace anymore. I sometimes called her Gracey or Gra my nickname for her. The people already started calling me as Lady Amabelle after Alfred’s family announced me as their another daughter in a ball that happened to celebrate their wedding anniversary last month.\nNow it’s November and I feel someone new, I have more colors in me. I also very happy with Gra result in her last exams, she said that my way of teaching is easy to understand and I’m glad for it. I feel Alfred’s would not be ashamed taking me in as their tutor and I did not disgrace their kindness to me. Now in November I finally graduated, I have become the school valedictorian. The family and servants is overjoyed with this news. We held our own mini party to celebrate and on top of being Gracey tutor now the Alfred’s family has offered me to become one of their fabric store head at the town.\nDecember roll by with our busy days it feel as quick as a dead leaf fall into the ground. The winter is harsh as now I have my own money I decided to donate some thick clothes to my orphanage. It’s been awhile since I’ve been there and Grace tag along. The kids and caretakers is happy to see me now as a much successful woman. Grace the kids happily played in the snow. I’m happy that I could finally start give back to their care that I received all these years growing up.\nThe festive week has come Christmas is near and for the first time I have a parental figure that celebrating with me. All the servants including the Alfred’s and me is busy decorating the mansion with Christmas ornaments and vibe. This year they decide to invite all the kids and caretakers of my orphanage for a feast of Christmas party. We also order a ton of various gif to give it to the kids in the orphanage and also the unfortunate children in the town. After all the ordeal now 25th December has come. The morning all of us in the mansion wish everyone a great day and proceed to open our gift to each other the servants include it’s our private small Christmas party. When the evening roll by everyone from the orphanage came by and we feast our night offering sweets and pastries to the kids. It was so eventful. I’m tired but I slept with a big smile on for the first time. It was the best Christmas that I ever had and I will remember this 25th December till my death." } ]
[ { "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 Thousand Lies a Day\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2415\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who struggles to translate their thoughts and feelings into words and action." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Semi-Autobiographical Fiction)\n\nThe bell rings, and within moments, students pour out of classroom doors. The hallway fills with the echoing sounds of laughter, shouting and squeaking sneakers. Throngs of students move in every direction, all racing against the nine-minute period break.\n\nI walk through this chaos, down the middle of the hallway. I’ve got my headphones on, listening to the latest album by INXS on my Walkman. Trying to tune out the world. I keep my eyes downward and make myself as invisible as possible. By being unremarkable, with no flashy clothing, weird piercings or punk hairstyles, I blend into the sea of conformity. Just like any other guy. It’s my survival technique.\n\nNext to my locker, two students stand on footstools. They’re fighting against the crowd, trying to tape a banner to a hallway crossbeam.\n\nClass of ‘88 Senior Prom, Saturday, March 26th\n\nThe sight of it makes my chest feel heavy. Prom’s not for everybody.\n\nIn the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Stacy Wilson. She’s a pretty girl with long brown hair and amber eyes. Her personality is quirky, which keeps her out of the top tier popular crowd. But she’s cute enough that most boys would love to be the subject of her affection.\n\nWe’re in the school play together. Oliver the Musical. Last night, we practiced the scene where all the merchants sing about their wares for sale. I play the knife grinder, and she plays the rose merchant. It’s my favorite song in the play, with its beautiful four-part harmony. At practice, it’s easy to get caught up in the moment.\n\nI bury myself behind my open locker door and crank up the volume of my Walkman. Trying to be invisible.\n\nThere’s a tap on my shoulder. I stiffen, take off my headphones and turn.\n\n“Hey Gabe.” Stacy hovers behind me, gnawing at her bottom lip, with her hands in the pockets of her acid-washed jeans.\n\n“Stacy—oh, uh—hi.” I meet her gaze for a second, then focus back at the contents of my locker.\n\n“Rehearsal was great last night, huh?”\n\n“Yep.” I nod with tight lips.\n\n“Hey—um—I was thinking.” She inches forward. “I guess—I was wondering—would you want to hang out, like after rehearsal on Friday?”\n\n“No! I mean—sorry, I can’t. I have a thing.”\n\nReally? A thing? That’s the best I can do?\n\n“Oh, okay.” She looks crestfallen. “Maybe another time, then?”\n\n“Sure, sounds great.” I shut my locker. “Gotta run to class.”\n\nI hurry away, avoiding her gaze, not wanting to see her reaction.\n\nI feel sorry for Stacy. I mean, I really do. It must have taken nerve for her to ask me out. And singing in harmony with her is magical. But I’m just not interested, and I’m not good at faking it. Maybe it’s cruel to say no so bluntly, but ultimately it would be crueler to say yes.\n\nI mean, maybe we could be friends. She could be somebody I confide in or have a laugh with. But friendship isn’t what she’s after, and I know it. After all, I’m an expert in unrequited love.\n\nThe first awareness of who I really am came in 5th grade. I shared a homeroom desk with Ben Schafer with his puppy dog brown eyes and infectious smile. His goofy sense of humor matched mine perfectly. We both loved old Monty Python movies and would spend hours laughing at the dumb jokes. Every day I would be so excited to see him. Any day he was sick or missed school, I was a wreck.\n\nThat affection was unrequited, of course. We were close enough friends, but my intensity made it strange. Any relationship so unbalanced is doomed to failure.\n\nFast forward seven years, and I find myself in a sadly familiar situation. Fifth period biology. My lab partner is Tom O’Connell. With spiky brown hair, a freckled nose, and those same deep brown eyes that make my stomach do somersaults every time they look my way.\n\nBut currently, the seat next to me is empty and the second bell just rang. I keep my eyes pinned to the door, sick to my stomach. David Spencer, a red-haired, loud-mouthed pain in the ass, watches me from across the aisle.\n\n“Whatcha looking for, Gabe?” He has this annoying smirk.\n\n“Nothing.” I tear my eyes away from the door and thumb through my biology textbook.\n\n“Um, hmm.”\n\nGod, am I that transparent?\n\nIt took me a while to accept that I’m gay. I went through all the stages of denial, but now I’m firmly in the acceptance phase. But of course I haven’t acted on it, or shared it with anybody. Coming out in high school is social suicide.\n\nLast year, Sam Eastman was outed against his will. He was a little effeminate, so even before then, he dealt with a lot of bullying and name-calling. He came out to his best friend under the bleachers at a football game. Somebody overheard, and the news spread like wildfire. The bullying got so bad, he ended up leaving the school. Last I heard, he’s doing homeschooling now.\n\nSo yeah, this is a secret I’m keeping to myself.\n\nTom comes tearing into the room, breathing hard. His backpack is hanging from one arm, and three textbooks are askew in the other. Basically, a big, adorable mess. My whole face lights up.\n\nRed-head David is watching me, and makes a little snorting laugh. He keeps quiet but his eyes clearly say, That’s what I thought.\n\n“Sorry Mr. Jacobs,” Tom says as he blows past the teacher’s desk on his way to the empty seat next to me. He shoots me a sheepish grin, walking up the aisle.\n\n“You get lost on the way to class?” I tease as he scotches behind me to get to his desk.\n\n“Girl problems. You know.”\n\n“Yeah.” I force a laugh. My smile deflates.\n\n“You see that hockey game last night?” Tom asks, as he slides into his chair.\n\n“Yeah man. That goal in the second period?”\n\n“It was sweet.”\n\nI know almost nothing about hockey. But Tom loves it, so I’m trying to learn. The first game I watched, I couldn’t even see where the puck was. A bunch of random skating and slapping of sticks until a siren goes off, and the announcer yelled GOAAAAAL! But I was getting better at watching it.\n\n“Hey, wanna catch a movie on Friday?” I ask. “Beetlejuice is supposed to be funny.” I have a job at the theater, so I get into movies for free. I use this as leverage whenever I can.\n\n“Nah, man, gotta date with Kristy.”\n\n“Oh. Nice.” My heart craters. I guess what goes around comes around.\n\nThe lecture is boring. Tom has his head propped up on his arm and he keeps drifting off. It’s so cute that I can’t stop looking at him. My chest is aching. Why can’t I choose who I fall for?\n\nWhen the bell finally rings, we all get up to head out. Tom stops to chat with some friends and I hover around, hoping to walk with him down the hallway for a bit.\n\nDavid Spencer walks up to me. “Why are you just standing there?” He’s got this knowing look on his face.\n\n“Why are you so worried about what I’m doing?” I snap back.\n\nDavid shakes his head and walks off. I’d swear he said queer under his breath. My chest tightens and I hurry out of class, not looking back.\n\n* * *\n\nI’ve got a shift at the theater that night, taking tickets. It’s pretty slow, so my boss lets me go early. As I’m headed out of the break room, I bump into my work friend Johnny Nguyen.\n\n“Hey Gabe, party tonight. You going?” Johnny has a big grin. He’s rocking his punky look, with spiked black hair and a ripped blue jean jacket.\n\n“Sounds fun. Where’s it at?”\n\n“Jessica’s house.” His grin gets even bigger. “You know she’s got a thing for you, right?”\n\n“Oh, yeah?” I force a smile. Jessica works at the theater too, behind the concession stand. And yes, I know she has a thing for me. She’s always sending me smiles and acting flirty.\n\n“Yup. I saw her checking you out earlier. And she asked me if you were single. I told her you were perpetually single.”\n\n“Nice, thanks.” I roll my eyes. “Come to think of it, I got a test I have to study—”\n\n“Na ah. You ain’t getting outta this one. Jessica is fine, and tonight’s your chance.” Johnny shoves me forward. “I’ll drive. You need to get plastered tonight. Liquid courage.”\n\nPeople always confuse my lack of interest with a lack of confidence. It’s annoying but I can’t exactly correct them. So I use it as my disguise. Sure. I’m the shy one. Only problem is girls seem to dig this more.\n\nWe pull up to the house-party. Music is blaring, and teenagers are a running around on the lawn. It’s even crazier inside. Drunken people pack the place. My eyes point downward, hoping to not run into Jessica.\n\nJohnny’s head snaps around. “Damn, you see that?”\n\n“What?”\n\n“You telling me you didn’t see that babe who just walked by? Man, you need to open your eyes!”\n\n“Oh. Dang.” I put on my best disappointed face. “You gotta give me a heads up next time.”\n\nJohnny just shakes his head.\n\nWe weave our way through the crowd to the kitchen, where guys in letterman jackets are doing shots off the counter. Johnny grabs a red solo cup, fills it from a keg sitting in an ice bucket, and shoves it toward me. “Drink!”\n\nI take the glass and chug it. If I’m gonna make it through tonight, I’ll need it.\n\nJohnny beams at me. “There’s my man!”\n\nAfter another beer and two shots of something awful, my head is buzzing, taking the edge off my inhibitions. I head out to the crowd. There’s lots of people from my high school, and quite a few I don’t recognize. And then I see Jessica. She hasn’t seen me yet, so I duck into the next room.\n\nBut in here is a different problem. Across the crowded room is David Spencer, the jerk from biology class. He’s chatting with two guys from the football team. David sees me and says something to them. They look my way and laugh. One of them shakes their head with a disgusted look on his face.\n\nFuck.\n\nI run out of the room, a feeling of panic descending on me, and head downstairs. I just need to get away. But drunken teenagers fill the basement too. Down a hallway, there’s an empty, darkened room. I plop down in an overstuffed chair, hoping that here I can escape all the rumors and expectations.\n\nI sit in the chair and take deep breaths, trying to calm down. David Spencer is such an ass-hole.\n\nBut then a female figure stands in the doorway. Jessica.\n\nShe heads over, zigzagging a little on her way, then plops down and crams in next to me. The smell of sweet perfume and vodka wafts over.\n\n“Hey you.” She puts a sloppy finger on my chest. “I’ve been looking for you, Gabriel Fisher.”\n\n“Have you?” My heart beats faster again, but not in a sexual way.\n\n“Umm hmm.”\n\nShe turns her head toward me and leans it against the chair. Our lips are inches apart. Here before me is the answer to my problems. I could go to prom. Stop the rumors that seem to be spreading. Not have to worry about coming out to my family and friends. I could have it all, and this could be the start.\n\nAnd all it would cost me is my happiness.\n\nThe heat of her breath hits my face. Am I going through with this? To thine own self be false? Her lips just barely touch mine.\n\nBlinding light comes from above, and I shield it with my hand. Three drunken guys stand in the doorway, one with his finger on the light switch. “Oops, sorry.”\n\n“Holy shit! Jessica and Gabe finally hooked up,” another one says.\n\nI turn to Jessica with a sheepish look. But her eyes are shut. She’s passed out. I get up and head out of the room. One guy pats me on the back as I pass. “Nice job, Gabe!”\n\nSo glad they’re happy. But I’m sick to my stomach, and there’s a weight baring down on my chest.\n\nI don’t make it any farther than the basement rec room. When it comes to drinking, I’m a bit of a lightweight, and the liquor has gone to my head. I stumble forward and land on an empty couch. I sit there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what just happened. Maybe being spotted “hooking up” with her will be enough to quiet rumors for a bit. But I’d probably need to date her to make it stick. And if touching her lips felt like that much of a lie. God, I'm so sick of this shit!\n\nBefore I can think further, a guy plops on the couch next to me. I recognize his face. And it’s adorable. Messy blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. Button nose. And he’s currently staring right at me, smiling. I’ve seen him a hundred times before. He’s in the play, but we don’t have any scenes together. And he’s not in any of my classes. But I might have a slight crush on him.\n\n“Jason, right? From the play?” I ask with his gaze still locked on me. I can feel my cheeks warming, and I have to avert my eyes.\n\n“Yep. Hi Gabe.”\n\nHe knows my name.\n\nI work up the courage to look back at him. How can he just keep staring like that? With those tender eyes and that soft smile.\n\n“So is the rumor true?” he asks.\n\n“I dunno.” I let out a sad laugh. “Guess it depends on which rumor you’re talking about.”\n\n“This one.” And he kisses me. My whole body tingles and feels weightless.\n\nWe separate, and I look into his eyes. “Yeah, it’s true.” Then go back for another kiss.\n\nGasps surround us. And more than one homophobic epithet. But I don’t care. I’m done with the deceit. The thousand lies a day. If you don’t like it, get over it or get out of my way. This is who I am." } ]
[ { "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: Dinosaurs\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1074\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list of New Year's resolutions." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I had such a hard time at the funeral. My mom, God rest her soul. Now I just feel so empty, wandering around this empty house with piles of old things waiting to be thrown out. You hardly know what to keep and what to ditch. I’m scared that I will throw out things that matter to me. Even though I have forgotten what they are!\nI hated school. But I saw this grade 3 assignment that I did with Ms. Woodrow before she went on sick leave so long ago. Was it twenty years ago? Ran into it at the bottom of a pile of elementary school things. By no means did I keep everything over the years. It's more like the “greatest hits” of elementary school. Here it is:\nAssignment: List five New Years Resolutions for 1998. Make sure you have one resolution for each of the following parts of your life. You can do an extra one for a higher mark!\n1. Family Life\n2. School Life\n3. Day Care\n4. Hobbies\n#\nFirst List\nI just Hurd abut new yeer’s resoltons this year so I decided to mak a list just like at chrismas\n1 I need to stop negotating all the time Negotating is when everyting is too much discusion my mom told me it’s like when a dinosaur wants to eat me and I cant see him then I get mad abut wat side of the getaway car I want to sit on Negotating Nego uh uh Go! Not nego\n2 When my sister is stupid it dosn’t matter I just must listen then do what she wants even when it is stupid stupid stupid dosn’t matter hard but I’m goin to doit\n3 I’m going to stop making faces at Elaine she is a god babysiter stop negotating but if I do 1 right then 3 is stupid I will rite this over promis.\n4 I need to stop geting so many techer notes. Mom says my techer is nice. She explans everything anote with all the god tings I do every day is too much i’m not perfect mom says\n5. Piano stupid I hate this Can I stop Pleese Later\nSecond Revision\nI Just Hurd About New Yeer’s Resoltons This Year! So I Decided To Make A List Just Like At Chrismas\n1.I will stop negotiating wit small tings. Negotating is when everyting is too much discusion. You don’t need to discus everything. Phocus! It’s the big pitchure that maters! But that dinosaur, specally Tyrannosaurus or Velociraptor or Stegosaurus or Allosaurus. I want to see so bad!!!!! I don’t care if I ned a getaway car. I want to see one. Seen Jurassic Park! Best movie ever!\n\n2. Social emotional development is critical to the development of healthy peer relationships.\nThe peer social world is at times difficult. Emotional support in the home is essential for the development of self esteem and contributes to a child’s resilience in overcoming stressors in the environment.\n3. Techer, I don’t need to do 3 becuse I am doing 1.\n4. Yay! Ms Woodrow said she wont writ so many notes.\n5. Do I haf to writ abut my hobies? You said I can not writ abut dinosaurs. But I want to. I hate piano.\nThird Revision\n1. I will stop negotiating with small things. Negotiating is when everything is too much discussion. You don’t need to discuss everything. Focus! It’s the big picture that maters! Ms Woodrow I didn’t writ abut dinosaurs! I used my word list too!\n2. Social emotional development is critical to the development of healthy peer relationships.\n3. The peer social world is at times difficult. Emotional support in the home is essential for the development of self esteem and contributes to a child’s resilience in overcoming stressors in the environment.\n4. I will stop plagerizing.\n5. I don’t haf 5 tings anymore! I know one! I will ways try to do everythin the techer wants perfect!\n6. I hate piano.\n\nFourth Revision\n7. I will stop negotiating with small things. Negotiating is when everything is too much discussion. You don’t need to discuss everything. Focus! It’s the big picture that maters! Ms Woodrow I didn’t writ abut dinosaurs! I used my word list too!\n2. I have a big problem wit my sister. She is too bossy. I need to use my words and not call people names.\n3. I don’t go to daycar. I haf a sitter. I will negotiate about big things wit Elaine.\n4. I will not plagiarize because you only leern thins when you use your words.\n8. I don’t haf 5 tings anymore! I know one! I will ways try to do everythin the techer wants perfect!\n9. I hate piano.\n\nFinal Revision\n1. I will stop negotiating with small things. Negotiating is when everything is too much discussion. You don’t need to discuss everything. Focus! It’s the big picture that matters!\n2. I have a big problem with my sister. She is too bossy. I need to use my words and not call people names.\n3. I don’t go to daycare. I have a sitter. I will negotiate about big things with Elaine. And not make faces\n4. I will not plagiarize because you only learn things when you use your words and share.\n5. I will ask my parents if I could have a hobby that I like.\n\nTeacher Evaluation: Good job, Tyler. You worked hard! A great deal of thought went into this piece! Mark: B+\n\nParental Feedback:\n\nDear Ms Woodrow,\nWhile I can appreciate that you have the best interests of our son at heart, I am concerned that this work is far too personal in nature. I would like to have a meeting with you at your earliest convenience. Please note that I have sent a copy of this assignment to the principal, and I am considering forwarding a copy to the superintendent of schools. \n\nSincerely,\n\nMrs. Constance Smith\n#\nThere were so many supply teachers in our grade 3 class after Ms Woodrow went on sick leave. So many that the whole school started talking about us! Even the juniors would get out of our way in the schoolyard! Those were the days!\nFunny. I hardly remember the rest of the year. Hardly did any work. We'd just rampage around the classroom and do anything we felt like. What a strange year!" } ]

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