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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: Fragmented Reality\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1014\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with someone realizing that life isn’t like the movies, for better or worse." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "High school parties aren’t like the movies. \nI had imagined most of my junior class packed in a mansion, drinking from red solo cups, dancing around, carefree.\nBeing young.\nMaybe being a little bit stupid. \nThat’s not what I was met with that night. \nI was in my favorite worn jeans and had smeared pink lipgloss on my mouth. \nFive guys were sitting on stained red couches, passing around a blunt in a humid garage. \nI’d never seen any of them before, and they looked far too old to be in high school. \nA girl in my English class, Valerie, squealed when she saw me. \nShe’s the one who invited me here. \nWe weren’t part of the same friend circle, but when she asked me to come, I thought I could have my movie moment. \nDrink my first alcoholic drink, maybe kiss a boy. \nThis wasn’t what I pictured. \nValerie and I were the only girls here. \nIsn’t that odd?\nI remember thinking. \nFive guys and two girls? \n*\n“Hey there,” Valerie said making her way over to me. \nHadn’t she said Ben, who was also in our English class, would be at this party?\nI had confessed to Valerie that I had a crush on him last week. \nWhy was no one else from school here?\nWhy wasn’t anyone who was our age here? \n“Um, I don’t do drugs,” I whispered to her. \nHer blue eyes flashed with annoyance. \n“No one said you had to,” her eyes were red and she swayed back and forth. \nValerie was wasted. \nShe grabbed my hand and shut the door I had just come through.\nWhy did the sound of the door closing make my heart stutter? \nValerie dragged me over to the guys. \n“This is my friend, Helen.”\nThey inspected me like I had been brought there just for them.\nValerie sat on a dark-haired man’s lap and stared at him with what could only be described as a misplaced obsession. \n“This is my boyfriend, Tobey,” she told me, wrapping her arms around him. \nValerie looked so young compared to her boyfriend. \nI wanted to grab her hand and run away from these grown men. \n“Why don’t you sit down, pretty girl?” The oldest of them asked me. \nHe was at least thirty. \n“Um, I’m only sixteen,” I blurted out. \n“That’s alright, honey. We don’t care.”\nHis response made my hands shake. \nI took a seat even though my subconscious was screaming at me to leave. \n“My name’s, Jessie,” this stranger said, leering at me. \n“Hi,” I squeaked out. \nI looked at Valerie for help. \nShe was wrapped around Tobey, her tongue down his throat. \nThis was wrong. \nThis wasn’t what my first party should be like. \nWhere was the loud music? \nThe silly game of spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven?\nWhere was the innocence? \n“Why don’t I make you a drink?” Jessie asked me. \n“Um, no thanks. I don’t drink,” I rubbed my hands on my jeans. \nI wanted to go back to two hours ago when the only worry I had was what top to wear. \n“I’ll just get you a coke,” his face changed. \nOh. \nWhen he smiled he didn’t seem as creepy. \nHe wasn’t predatory.\nHe was friendly. \nHis green eyes were warm.\nTrustworthy. \n“Okay. Thank you,” I responded, feeling my shoulders sag in relief. \nI was overreacting. \nSo these guys were a little old? \nThat wasn’t that weird.\nRight? \n\nI could only catch glimpses of reality.\nLife had turned into a butterfly, flying away from me, only landing for a mere second. \nI had only an instant to truly see what was happening. \nThen it would take off again. \nThis was what I wanted.\nWasn’t it? \nThis was like a movie. \nFlickers of moments before my eyes. \nAware one second and gone the next. \nJessie was in front of me. \nSuddenly we were dancing. \nI loved this feeling. \nI wanted to feel like this forever. \nI smiled at him. \nThis was nice. \nHe was nice.\nWasn’t he? \n \nI’m not sure how much time had passed. \nFlashes of my surroundings made their way sluggishly into my consciousness. \nA dirty concrete floor. \nAn empty pack of cigarettes under a couch. \nI was on my feet.\nWas that a hand on my hip? \nWho was that? \nI couldn’t remember how I got here. \nWhere was here exactly? \nI felt sick.\nWas this like a movie? \nOr was this a nightmare?\nIt had started out fun. \nI felt like I was left on a roller coaster for too long. \nIt had been fun at first but I’d been left on the ride. \nForgotten. \nNow I was dizzy and confused. \nWas I in danger? \nI fumbled for my phone. \n“No Helen. This party has a no-phone policy,” a man’s voice mumbled in my ear. \nWho was that?\nJessie!\nHe was nice, wasn’t he? \nBut his green eyes were dark now.\nJessie ripped my phone out of my hands. \nAfter that, I remembered nothing.\n\nI woke up screaming into a pillow. \nThat’s all I remember. \nScreaming and a pillow. \n\nWhen I truly came around it was like waking up after being put under anesthesia.\nSomething had happened to my body. \nSomething I would have normally been awake for. \nBut somehow I had been asleep through it. \nNo, not asleep exactly. \nMy body had been here but my mind was somewhere else. \nMaybe my mind had protected me from what I had gone through. \n\nI felt different. \nI refused to examine myself.\nI refused to accept anything had happened. \nIf I didn’t accept it, it couldn't be real. \n \nWhen I think about that party I imagine I had gotten my movie experience. \nThat I got to laugh, be free, and dance. \nThat I was never scared or alone. \nThat I didn’t wake up in a random bed with no idea how I got there.\nThat something wasn’t stolen from me. \n*\nI don’t have many memories of that night. \nAll I know is that something bad happened 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: As You Wish\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2433\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with someone realizing that life isn’t like the movies, for better or worse." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As You Wish\n\nYou might call Harvey “Walter Mitty Lite”. He didn’t concoct fantastic journeys in his mind, or imagine himself committing an impressive array of heroic deeds. Rather, Harvey’s peculiar inclination rested with his ability to wrap himself in the identities of others more interesting or impressive than himself. More often than not, he found these characters in the movies.\n\nHis parents first noticed the unusual behavior the morning after the Saturday night TV presentation of “Superman”. Their son did not pretend to be Superman; he was Superman.\nWhile many little boys have flown around the house at night with a towel flapping in their wake, not many have adopted the identity of the ultra-geeky Clark Kent by day. His parents were required to participate which often involved dropping the traditional labels of “Mom” and “Dad”.\n\n“What’s for breakfast, Lois?”\n\n“Pancakes, Clark.”\n\n“Jimmy, can we play catch later?”\n\n“Of course, Clark.”\n\n“Lois, be sure to leave the kitchen window open in case I have to fly out later.”\n\n“Of course, honey…oops, I mean Clark.” (Per the script, even his parents were not permitted to know Harvey’s true identity. They only called him “Superman” when he was decked out in full rescue regalia.)\n\nThe characters changed with Harvey’s age and were largely dependent upon the movies he had seen most recently. The longest running role was his adaptation of Zorro. Harvey was Zorro three Halloweens in a row, and he suffered serious emotional trauma when his parents would not allow him to go to school as the swashbuckling hero. They considered the role playing might have gotten out of hand one morning when Harvey’s Mom inadvertently referred to her husband as “Sergeant Garcia”.\n\nThe “Rocky” era was particularly rough on Harvey’s Dad who alternately served as sparring partner and punching bag. He didn’t fair much better during the Jackie Chan days, and his Mom was not at all fond of Harvey following up on dessert demands with a stern “Go ahead, make my day.”\n\nThe one sliver of a silver lining for the acts of cinematic imitation was Harvey buying into the “Wax on, wax off” bit. Their two shiny cars were the envy of the neighborhood. All it took was a head band with the Rising Sun and a small cactus they passed off as a Bonsai Tree.\n\nHarvey’s parents hoped Harvey’s obsession with assuming the identities of movie characters would wear off by the time he went to high school, but it didn’t. It wasn’t Harvey Jacobson that walked through the front doors of Central High School that bright, sunny September day; it was the rebel James Dean. In its 55 years of educating children, the school had never seen such a cool customer.\n\nHarvey had been working on the hair style for days, and he managed to find a black leather jacket at a rummage sale. The shades more than made up for the absence of a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his T-shirt sleeve. Harvey was feelin’ it.\n\nThe other students could not be faulted if they didn’t realize just how cool Harvey, n/k/a James Dean, was, but Harvey knew, and that’s what mattered. Confidence. He didn’t walk down the hallways, he strutted.\n\nWho could be cooler than James Dean? Harvey could feel the adoring gaze of the girls as he walked by. Most freshman boys stress over matters of boy-girl relationships. As Harvey checked out the bevy of beauties crowding the hallways, his only concern was how he would winnow the flock down to a manageable 3 or 4. Maybe he would hold a lottery just to be fair.\n\nSeventh hour study hall surpassed the gala premier of any movie ever made. There would be no need for a process of cutting down the dating pool. It was Romeo catching his first glimpse of Juliet, Michael captured by the vision of Apollonia. The most beautiful girl young Harvey had ever seen was seated just 2 rows over and one row behind. \n\nHarvey’s eyes popped wide open as his heart was skipping most of its regularly scheduled beats. James Dean would never be caught so lovestruck, actually dumbstruck, so he alternated between furtive glimpses of the angel who had just landed in his world and staring at the bare wood of the desktop in front of him.\n\nHarvey’s brain locked up. It was more than the irresistible pull of romance. Harvey was also struggling to determine just who he was at this moment, or more aptly, who “they” were. You see, for most of his life, Harvey had rarely been Harvey. He had always been one of those characters he had usurped from the big screen. As he had never before personally encountered a matter of the heart, Harvey was having a tough time arriving at an appropriate identity for the occasion.\n\nHe smacked himself in the forehead. He had seen the most beautiful girl in the world before. She had been working alongside him tending to the wounded on the frontlines of the Russian revolution. Lara, Lara Antipov. What was she doing here? It didn’t matter. Fate brought her back to him. Their love had been instant, from the very moment their eyes met, but it lingered in the magnetic forces that revolved around them that kept them separated for a time. It was the same today in that high school study hall, intense feelings kept apart by two rows of desks.\n\nThe world had never known such passion. Zhivago’s love for Lara could not be cooled by the years, a bloody war, and hundreds of miles of frozen tundra. Two rows of desks certainly wouldn’t keep Harvey from the love of his life. Maybe he would get up right now and walk over to Lara’s desk. She will be shocked to see him. “Yuri!”, said with sheer joy. She will leap to her feet, and her arms will embrace him like the welcoming branches of a Rowan tree.\n\nBut wait. Zhivago and Lara separate at the end. That’s not good. This needed a little recalibration. At least Harvey wouldn’t have to work on developing a Russian accent tonight.\n\nHarvey snuck a few more peeks at the angel 2 rows away. She smiled at him! He knew it! It was indeed the beginning of a storybook romance. He just needed to figure out who they were.\n\nHe added a hat, tilted to one side. Then he knew. Of all the high school study halls in this crazy world, why did she have to walk into this one? All the memories came flooding back, and the pain again filled his heart. But that smile. Had fate also smiled on him? He’d man-up. He would take charge. He would do the thinking for both of them. Their love was real, intense. After all this time and the trauma of war, it had endured. They lost it all once, but now they would have it all back again. He’d be looking at Ilsa again.\n\nAnd the added bonus. Bogie was darn near as cool as James Dean. A tough guy man’s man, a beautiful girl, and a world class romance. It doesn’t get any better than that.\n\nBut wait. Rick leaves Ilsa at the airport. That’s not good. This act of selflessness would make him a true hero, but he would be alone. Nope, that didn’t work for Harvey. Recalibrate.\n\nHarvey went through a number of possible movie matchups made in heaven, each presenting a wonderful look at love, but also saddled with a “fatal” flaw.\n\nHarvey saw a lot of Jack in himself, handsome, gallant, selfless and heroic. Painting the beautiful girl 2 rows over in the nude also had a certain appeal. But the idea of floating around on a piece of busted up wood in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic, and then sinking into the depths to save Rose, was a deal breaker.\n\nHarvey had played junior league hockey so Oliver wooing Jenny was a natural. Although she was a tad on the bratty side, the first half of the movie was pretty near perfect. But watching his lover wither away and die was not what Harvey was looking for. Move on.\n\nEven though Harvey was a good runner and never considered himself valedictorian material, Forest’s Jenny met a similar fate to Oliver’s Jenny. Throw in the fact that Harvey was not a fan of \"peas and carrots\", and that unlikely couple was another no-go.\n\nHarvey moved on to another memorable romance. There can be no greater set of soulmates than Heathcliff and Cathy. I mean, how could you outdo “I am Cathy!” But alas, poor Cathy. She too met an untimely demise, and Harvey couldn’t see himself whispering sweet messages to his dream girl buried beneath his feet.\n\nHarvey kept running into dead ends (pardon the sort of a pun) in his fanciful search for a suitable couple for him and the beautiful girl 2 rows over to emulate. It didn’t seem possible that half of these historic couples made an early exit out of this world.\n\nHarvey felt lost, alone. The moment was bigger than he was. He needed to wrap himself, actually himself and the beautiful girl 2 rows over, in the aura of something so fantastic it had only previously been seen in movies. Think, Harvey, think.\n\nOh my gosh! The beautiful girl 2 rows over had him completely befuddled. Somehow Harvey had forgotten about his own personal favorite romantic couple. The beautiful girl 2 rows over was not Juliet, not Apolonia, not Lara, not Ilsa, not Rose, not Jenny, not the other Jenny, and not Cathy. He had found his true love, the love that would last forever, the love that would never die. Remarkably, Wesley had found Buttercup in his 9th Grade study hall!\n\nTrue love. It was all anyone could dream of, hope for, in life. He would be totally committed to her, and she to him. He would do everything to please her and respond to her every request with a simple, warm, “As you wish.”\n\nTrue love. It would define his life. It would be his North Star. Should they ever be apart, he would return to her eager arms. It would be the match made in heaven and admired throughout the world.\n\nHe studied the beautiful girl 2 rows over just to make certain it was Buttercup. It was. He couldn’t be certain, but Harvey thought she tossed him another smile, a slight, flirtatious smile. Should he approach her now? Should he be a little standoffish and wait for her to come to him? Maybe a crowded high school study hall wasn’t the ideal place to launch the romance of the century. This was the last period of the day. He would talk to her after class, perhaps at the doorway to the outside. It would a quieter setting, a bit more private, less embarrassing should she lose control, throw herself at him and lavish him with kisses.\n\nTrue love. Harvey was just 14 years old and he would be with the beautiful girl just 2 rows over for the rest of his life. Wesley and Buttercup were about to embrace the unbreakable bond of True Love, the easiest glide path to happiness ever-after.\n\nHe certainly would no longer be a stable boy. Wesley would be a king, and the beautiful Buttercup his Queen. Harvey closed his eyes, smiled and enjoyed his new, adopted life. It was his best appropriation ever, and it would begin in 5 minutes.\n\nHarvey eyes darted back and forth from the clock at the front of the room and the beautiful girl just 2 rows over. The hands on the clock were moving at an extraordinarily slow pace- probably the work of the evil Prince Humperdinck. No worry. Wesley will vanquish all obstacles.\n\nThe bell finally rings, and it is a rarely seen combination of the courageous Wesley and the remnants of the stunningly good looking James Dean that parked himself at the school’s main entrance. Wesley keeps an eye out for the crafty Vizzini, the giant Fezzik, and the expert swordsman Inigo Montoya, who threaten harm to the beautiful Buttercup, but all fear to appear. None dare challenge Wesley in his quest for True Love.\n\nStudents rushed to the door to put the first day of school behind them. Despite the large, fast moving crowd, Wesley had no trouble spotting Buttercup. She stood out like a Mona Lisa at a rummage sale. The moment she stepped outside, the sun reflected off her golden blonde hair as it flickered in the breeze. And then the hint of a smile when she saw Wesley. She remembered the magical study hall connection!\n\nWesley stepped toward Buttercup and bowed slightly at the waist. He spoke with great confidence and ease.\n\n“Excuse me, my Lady, it would give me great pleasure if I could have a word with you.”\n\n“I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry. I have to meet my boyfriend. Oh, there he is.”\n\nWesley glanced in the same direction to see a young man in the driver’s seat of a flashy convertible wave to Buttercup. A boyfriend? A car?! And the guy in the car looked more like Wesley than…Wesley!\n\nWesley stepped aside and mumbled a barely audible, “As you wish.”\n\nWesley, n/k/a Harvey, watched Buttercup, n/k/a the beautiful girl 2 rows over, hop into the car as his balloon popped and fluttered to the ground. Shattered. Dismayed. Broken. The adjectives that make a good tragedy couldn’t come fast enough.\n\nAs the convertible, along with Harvey’s dream role, disappeared behind a row of trees, a colorful cast of possible replacement movie characters was already floating around in his mind. He didn’t take him long. He suddenly realized he wasn’t Wesley or any of the others who never made the cut. And the beautiful girl just 2 rows over wasn’t Buttercup. She was Mary, Mary Swanson a/k/a Mary Samsonite, who had just been reunited with her kidnapped husband.\n\nHarvey raced home. He slapped a cereal bowl over his head and cut off everything in front that was left uncovered. He looked in the mirror and smiled. Harvey was a good student, but he was confident he could slide into the role. In fact, school would actually be easier if portrayed himself to be “Dumber” than he was.\n\nLosing Buttercup was a bit of a setback, but Lloyd Christmas would be ok. His chance would come someday, even if it was just one in a million. He just had to keep his eyes open." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Darkness Can Be So Enlightening\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2536\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with two people sitting in a movie theater, waiting for the lights to come back on." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Darkness Can Be So Enlightening\nThe sudden darkness befalling the interior of the movie house of a small mid-western town was like a pall being thrown over the hopes and dreams of one Terrance Billings—for you can hide in the darkness—yet there was no hiding from the disaster which this night had been! As he sat amidst total darkness, Terrence yet again reflected on every mistake which he had made that evening.\nIt is a Saturday evening in May; the cold grip of a long bitter winter has finally passed to be replaced by the promise of the regeneration which spring carries with it. A pleasant cool breeze carries the aromas of blooming flowers along with the arrival of the very first lightning bugs of the season. Just a typical Saturday evening; however, for High School Juniors Terrence Billings and Darcy Ainsley, this night could not be further from typical!\nHaving known each other since Grade School, they had always been what could be considered good friends—becoming fairly close friends within the past year in fact. But tonight, years of friendship and trust could be put to the test; for they were on their first official date together! If Darcy appeared to be somewhat nervous, Terrence was flat-out terrified!\nSitting in the theater as the film played, Terrence was paying no attention to what was transpiring on the screen—he was too busy replaying the evening in his mind trying to decide if he had badly screwed up so far, or if Darcy was truly enjoying herself and he may actually have a shot at a second date.\nIf he needed any reminder that this was a night he would never forget, he just had to recall when he went to pick up Darcy to begin the evening. Having been over to her house countless times over the years, Terrence knew the family well and didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary when he arrived to pick her up.\nBig mistake!\nLed into the family room by Darcy’s mother who had answered the door, he was immediately pounced upon by Darcy’s father and older brother Paul; who proceeded to grill the young man on just where did he think he was going and what exactly were his intentions! When he replied that he was there to pick up Darcy to take her to dinner and a movie, he was informed that nobody had given him permission to take her anywhere!\nBecoming extremely nervous, Terrence tried to think how he was going to overcome some serious objections, when he was rescued by the appearance of Darcy…who proceeded to scold her father and brother for giving Terrence such a hard time. Playing mean as long as they could, both of them broke out laughing hilariously, each pointing out to the other how Terrence had turned white as a ghost when confronted.\nTold to be home by eleven, they were finally given permission to leave and told to go have a good time….but not before Paul threatened him not to have too good a time if he knew what was meant!\nBy the time they got out the door, Paul was still laughing heartily!\nTerrence arrived at the opinion that—all in all—it hadn’t been so bad. For hadn’t he remembered to open the car door for Darcy while telling her how beautiful she looked? That had to count for some points, right?\nAnd hadn’t she apologized profusely for their behavior as they were walking to the car? Points for that? Probably not, but it let him know that she was definitely on his side.\nOMG! This business of being on a date could drive you mad, he thought! He had never been so afraid to say or do anything ‘wrong’ when they were just hanging out together. He found himself smiling at the thought how in the space of one evening, everything had changed—when in reality, nothing was different.\nLetting his guard down for a few moments, he took a sip of his drink and was actually going to watch some of the movie, when in the course of reaching for the tub of popcorn Darcy held in her lap, his hand accidently brushed up against hers!\nImmediately, he withdrew it and whispered an apology. He had been told time and time again that there should be no ‘touching’ on a first date…or on a second one for that matter. While he was certain that before the evening had begun this did not mean an accidental brushing up against her hand, after what he had been through, now he was not so sure. He did manage to sheepishly look over at her to gauge her reaction, however.\nDarcy knew him well enough to know that he was not being himself that evening. Being somewhat flustered over the concept of being out on their first ‘official’ date herself, she had begun to relax with the passing of every minute they were together. But with him, every time that he seemed to relax to the point where he was becoming his old self, something would occur which would set him back on edge. Knowing how badly he wanted everything to go perfect that evening, she could envision that the ‘edge’ in question was on the side of a cliff overlooking the sea and he could feel himself slipping!\nThey had arrived at what was their favorite Italian restaurant talking freely and laughing as if it were just a normal day. When they had gone to take their seats, Terry had even held her chair for her…something she certainly was not expecting. Making the comment of she didn’t realize just how gallant he could be, the beautiful smile she was giving him turned into a grimace of pain as he accidently smashed her knee into the leg of the table!\nInstantly, the mood changed as he turned as red as the tablecloth and proceeded to apologize over and over. Making a joke about the experience, she could tell that he was mentally kicking himself for what he saw as a major blunder…and what she thought of as something they both could be laughing at under different circumstances. Making sure that she kept the conversation going so as to show him that everything was fine and he needn’t be concerned, dinner became quite enjoyable. The food was excellent; soon they were laughing and smiling once again, until…reaching to buy her a rose from a tableside vendor, he accidently knocked over his glass of tea, totally soaking her plate of spumoni!\nTerrence could see the points he was about to rack up with the short speech he had prepared for just that moment fly out the window as the mood went south just as rapidly! He just knew that she had to be disappointed by all of the mistakes he was making. Had he stopped to remember who he was with and her sweet and kindly nature, he might have realized that he was getting worried over nothing.\nBut thinking straight is just something that guys do not do on their first ‘official’ date!\nThanking him for the beautiful flower, her sweet smile had nearly won him over, when…in the process of bending down to pick up his napkin which had fallen onto the floor, he had banged his forehead onto the table, causing his fork to go spinning off with a seeming life of its own to land directly in the middle of the fish tank!\nSo shocked that neither could say a word, Darcy finally declared how if Terrence had wanted fish for dinner he should have just ordered it. This actually brought a smile onto Terrence’s face; it was brief and it quickly disappeared, but it had been there none-the-less.\nThat is why, as they sat in the theater immediately after the dastardly hand-brushing ‘incident’ Darcy was determined to let him know that there was nothing wrong with what he had done. Taking matters into her own hands—literally—she wiped the grease from the popcorn onto a convenient napkin and proceeded to reach out and place his hand within hers, which she clasped as she gave him a smile and returned to watching the movie once again.\nFeeling the touch of her hand upon his, a warm glow washed over him as a sense of peace and serenity replaced the questioning and worries which had filled his mind since very early that day. He found himself asking what had he been so worried about? This was Darcy he was out with after all! He knew her kind and gentle nature would keep her from tabulating his mistakes as if she were keeping a scorecard at a baseball game. Why had he even considered such a foolish notion?\nGiving her hand a squeeze—which resulted in her once again glancing over towards him and giving him that sweet smile which he relished so much—he scooted over from the far side of the theater seat where he had positioned himself since they had sat down until it was only the arm of the seat which separated them as she had done the same.\nHaving absolutely no idea of what was happening on the screen as he had been paying no attention—it was a chick-flick which he had no interest in to begin with and had chosen it because he knew that Darcy had wanted to see it—he turned his thoughts not to what had gone wrong that evening, but rather to pleasant memories they had shared over the years.\nHe found himself wishing that this evening would never end…but could go on and on forever.\nAnd that’s when disaster struck!\nThe evening would, of course, have to come to an end. This would lead them having to say good night as he walked her up to the door. But what then? How should he handle what is rightfully considered to be the most awkward moment of a first date? Should he just say goodnight and leave? An embrace would be out of the question, naturally; but…what about a short kiss goodnight? He knew there was nothing more that he would like, but how would it be received if he attempted such a move? Would she slap his face? Doubtful, but what would it say to her about how he thought about her? And yet, if he did not, what would that say to her about how he thought about her?\nWhat to do? He got so worked up that his head was spinning to the point that everything appeared to go dark. It wasn’t until he heard Darcy wonder what had happened that he realized that the film had stopped running and everything had indeed gone dark!\nExpressing that he had no idea, he did add that he swore that it wasn’t anything he did! The cute little laugh he could hear emanating from the darkness in the direction of her seat made him smile.\nA voice amidst the darkness coming through the sound system informed them how the lamp in the projector had just burned out. It would only take a few minutes to get the film set into a back-up projector the voice indicated, and the movie should be starting back up in a very short time.\nThis interlude gave the two a chance to talk once again.\n“Look Darcy, I know that this has been a bit of a strange evening, but I just want you to know that I am enjoying myself immensely,” Terrence told her…hoping against hope that she was as well.\nA chuckle escaped from the darkness surrounding its source as she replied, “It has been a touch ‘unique’ shall we say, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.” Just to show him that she meant what she said, she gave his hand—which by now had lost all feeling other than an intense numbness which there was no way he was going to claim—a squeeze. “I suppose that we’ll just have to see how our second one compares, won’t we?” she asked, anxious to see if he was thinking along the same lines as was she.\nHe did not answer right away; and when he did, he asked if he could tell her a secret? Bending her head over to where she figured her ear should be placed, she could hear the sound of his breathing as he drew near. But it was no words which escaped his lips, but rather the soft touch of a kiss she felt upon her cheek!\nIt was just at that exact moment when the projector kicked back in and the film began anew; bringing light back into their little world.\nAnxiously gazing upon Darcy’s face in order to gauge her response, when she didn’t say anything, he began to become worried that he had gone too far. He began to babble, saying how he had lost his head, but that she was just so special…and so wonderful…and…and that he was sorry if he made her uncomfortable by doing that…and…\nThat was when he felt her finger upon his lips as if to say “Hush.” Looking deeply into each other’s eyes, each one could feel something which years of friendship had never awakened. Barely able to hear her whisper that she had a secret to tell him as well, he bent his head towards her. Taking his face in her hands, it was obvious that she had no interest in his ear as—ever so slowly—her lips rose to meet his.\nLong they stared into each other’s eyes, until finally he placed his arm around her shoulder as she nestled deeply into his embrace.\nLater, they would laugh as they realized that the name of the movie which neither of them could remember a single moment of had been titled “Forever In A Moment!”\n*\nWhile it often seems how that experience was only yesterday, in reality, their ‘Official First Date’ was nearly twenty-four years ago. And while being married to your best friend and soulmate lends to sharing many a special evening, this was definitely one to be remembered.\nIn response to a knock at the door, Darcy rose from her place on he couch to go answer it. She returned to the family room where Terry was eagerly awaiting the visibly nervous young man she had in tow.\n“Who are you?” Terry growled, reveling in watching the young man melt right before his eyes.\nWhen the young man answered that he was Donnie Belanger and had come to take their youngest daughter Melanie out on a date, Terry raised his hand to stop him mid-sentence.\n“Is that what you think?” Terry questioned harshly. “I don’t recall anyone asking permission to take out my daughter…do you Darcy?” he inquired of his wife.\nFortunately for young Mister Belanger, the appearance of Melanie saved him from further interrogation, as with a “Really, Father!” the concept of the two young people going out to dinner and a movie was sealed.\nUpon hearing the front door close, Darcy glanced over at Terry and just shook her head. And Terry…he just smiled, knowing that some traditions are just too important not to be kept!\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: Under a Dying Sun\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2558\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone making a deal with the devil." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Smoke rose from the crackling fire and dissipated into the night sky. Stars dotted the black expanse, innumerable as the grains of sand in the Mojave desert where Connor McClain lay on his back, head cradled in his arms, thinking of Saralee. \nI’m finally coming home, he willed his words across the dusty earth, through the mountain pass, and down the stretch of trail that would carry him back to the little wooden cabin by the creek—back to his brown-eyed, long-legged girl. \nBeside him, Thunder stamped his hooves and huffed softly, as if he too was impatient to be rid of the desert. The mournful, hungry cry of a coyote echoed across the valley and settled in the pit of Connor’s stomach. He slid his shotgun closer and let his eyes drift shut. Just a few more days, Saralee. \nAnd he meant it this time. \nThree months tops, he had told her, said that’s all it would take for him to go West, strike rich, and make his fortune–their fortune. Gleaming Mines! Rivers of Gold! the newspapers had claimed. He ignored them at first—kept his head down and worked the ranch as his Pa and Grandfather had done before him. Treasure hunting was for fools–dreamers. \nThen he and Saralee had begun to see neighbors pack up and head West. The Kilners had even written back, saying the rumors were true, that John Kilner had found a gold nugget the size of his thumb the first week in the mines. Connor must have read that letter a dozen times, leaning against the fence post, standing in the fields, alone at the kitchen table. The words consumed his thoughts; he began to dream of gold.\nThen that Spring, the cattle plague swept through wiping out most of his herd. It was a sign, Connor had decided; what’d he have to lose then? Saralee had cried as he packed, wouldn’t hardly let go of his shirt. “You see those saplings there?” He’d pointed at the garden beside the house. “I’ll be back before the beans are ready, you’ll see. And when I do, we’ll be rich, darlin’.” She kissed him and wished him luck.\nBut it seemed luck got lost on its way to Connor; the mining towns were overcrowded with eager diggers, and everything was overpriced. He borrowed what money he needed for supplies–pans, pick axes, a tent, and boots. And what little gold he found in the creeks and rivers went to pay back his debts. There was never anything leftover—nothing for Saralee. \nThen, somehow, three months turned into six, then a year. Then two. A nagging voice greeted him with every sunrise and every sunset, telling him to call it quits, admit defeat, and go home. He shut it out with the same thoughts: Just a little bit longer. I’m so close. I can feel it.\nAnd he wasn’t wrong. \nConnor smiled in the dark, thinking of the bulging pouches of gold weighing down the saddlebags–gold from his own secret mine, that unassuming slit in the mountainside he’d found by accident. He worked it alone, with limited tools, and told no one, not even Saralee where it was. Just wrote, “Finally struck luck. When I come home, we’ll live like kings and queens.” \nHis heartbeat pulsed at the thought of seeing her, holding her again. It was a drumbeat across aching muscles, reverberating in his thighs, his groin. He felt phantom gyrations tug and pull at his body, as if he was still in the saddle, galloping across the rugged California terrain. \nSleep claimed him as images of Saralee floated at the edges of his dreams: she was wading into the creek, hair loose and wild, stripping away her calico dress. She turned to him with a teasing smile. Come. Play. Then she slipped beneath the current. Her voice was far away, mournful and hungry like the coyote’s cry. And when he looked into the water, he saw only gold, sparking in noon-day sun.\nConnor gasped awake; sunrise had peaked above the mountain ridges, casting long, uneven shadows across the rocky desert valley. Near his feet, a spiked lizard darted out from under a shrub in pursuit of a cricket. It skittered over the long metal barrel of Connor’s gun and caught the insect, gumming it down with a twitch of its spiny head. \nConnor rose, stretched the kinks from his spine, and pissed in the dirt, the yellow stream turn the dry earth to mud. He uncapped his canteen and tipped a precious sip in his mouth, swishing it around, savoring it. Then he sifted oats from a pouch and offered them to Thunder, stroking his mane as the horse's teeth softly grazed his open palm. The horse nudged him, greedy, searching. \n“There’ll be more of that later. Let’s get moving.”\n*\nThe sun burned hot and relentless, even as it dipped toward the horizon. Thunder’s movements had grown slow and stiff after a full day of travel, but Connor pushed him, urged him on through the suffocating desert heat, closer to the mountains’ edge where green was becoming more abundant. Connor followed the growth until they came to a towering cluster of rocks that jutted out over the land, creating a strip of shade. Beneath it, a trickle of a stream ran between the rocks and pooled in the basin of a large, smooth stone. Thunder drank.\nConnor dismounted and sank down in the cool dirt, pulling off his sweat-soaked hat and kerchief. A faint breeze teased his damp hair, urging him to rest and relax. If he kept this pace, he’d be home in two days. Home to Saralee. Thunder lifted his head from the stream and walked toward Connor, his gait already steadier. He snorted and tossed his mane. \nConnor reached up and stroked the horse's soft cheeks. “You done good, boy. We’ll be home soon.” Then the horse reared back suddenly, his hooves stamping the dirt. The animal’s eyes grew wide, the whites stark against his dark coat, and he neighed a shrill, nervous whinny. Connor scuttered back, dodging the hooves sporadically beating the ground. “Thunder! Woah, boy.”\nThen he heard the rattle. \nCold fear sluiced through his bowels; his vision blurred and sound grew muffled as if any threat was far-off in another world and not just a hand’s width away. The snake hovered above its coiled body, its wide mouth open, black tongue spilling out like oil. Connor held its stare, his own face frozen in a mask of terror. Its slitted eyes glowed, the color deep and warm–amber, like Tennessee whisky. He couldn’t look away.\nConnor scraped against the dirt in a slow escape, eyes locked on the snake. Its sharp hiss was like the sound of water dousing a fire. He’d had run-ins with snakes before–knew to back away and give them a wide birth, show them respect; this was their desert, after all. \nBut this bastard looked as if he wanted a fight.\nConnor’s gun lay just a foot away beside his discarded hat. Not daring to blink, he reached for it, watching in his peripherals as his own trembling hand crossed the distance between his body and his weapon. He felt disconnected from it—as if it was someone else’s hand shaking at the edges of his vision. When his fingers finally bumped the cool metal barrel, an imperceptible jolt cracked through Connor’s body, internal and invisible; but not to the snake. \nIt lunged, fangs sinking into Connor’s wrist, piercing skin and striking veins.\nWhite-hot pain ripped through his arm; his scream echoed off the rocks. Connor turned his back on the snake and half-crawled, half-ran away from the stream and the shade, collapsing in a heap in the sandy dirt. Two holes leaked blood from his wrist, which was already beginning to swell. \n“Thunder!” he wheezed out, trying to whistle. He stood and ran deeper into the valley, calling for his horse. “Thunder!” He opened his mouth again, but little sound escaped. The air in his lungs felt trapped and strained. Pain tore through his body in waves, burning and twisting. “Thunder, there you are.” He stumbled forward, hobbling toward the creature. But it was only a cactus, distorted and strange in his poison-laced vision. \nThe desert was spinning, shrinking and expanding, going black and then blinding white, hot and then cold. Connor fell to his knees and held his bloated arm to the sky; it was blue against the orange sunset. He slumped to the ground, no longer able to hold himself up. His cheeks scraped sand and stone. \nSaralee. I’m coming. \n\nSomewhere across the valley, a coyote howled at the dying sun. Beside Connor’s body, black boots crunched against the gritty soil.\n“Howdy there, partner. Seems you’ve got yourself in a bit of a bind.” The voice sounded tinny and warbled in Connor’s head, like it was coming from the inside of a canteen. From the slit of one swollen eye, Connor made out a figure in a white hat.\n“Saralee?” The word clawed itself from Connor’s throat.\nThe stranger knelt and lifted Connor’s swollen wrist, inspecting the bite. “Rattler got you good, didn’t he.” He clicked his tongue. “I’ve seen this before. Might be able to help you out.”\nConnor commanded his eyes to open and focus on the man; he gritted his teeth against the pain coursing with each beat of his heart. Images slowly fizzled in and settled at the edges of his mind: White hat. Dark hair. Arms tattooed green–green bees. No, not bees. Birds–headless, bodiless birds. No. Not birds. Just wings. Green, tattooed wings. \nConnor’s head slumped back. “Please,” he wheezed. “Help. Me.” His tongue clung to the dry ridges of his gums.\n“Oh, I’ll help you.” The man cupped Connor’s neck and brought a canteen to his lips. “But it’ll cost you.”\nWater trickled down Connor’s chin, pooling in the hollow of his neck. More. He needed more. He was on fire–burning. “Anything,” he managed. “It’s. With. My horse. Take. It. All.” The man could take everything; Connor could always go back for more; he still had the mine and no one was going to take that away. \nThe man leaned in and said, “What horse?”\nConnor turned, squinting into the dusk-cloaked desert. Thunder was gone. His gold was gone. \nThe man leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “You’ll find a way to pay me, won’t you, partner?”\nConnor nodded, his stubble grazing the man’s cheek. \n“Alright then. We got a deal.”\n** \nSaralee played the fiddle, fingers arched like little bridges across the strings. Her feet stamped with the rhythm and she laughed. Connor danced in circles around her, arms loose and free. He felt alive. Whole. Then, the music turned sharp, notes sliding together in a shrill screech. He turned and saw Saralee melting into a puddle on the cabin floor, her eyes pleading. He lunged for her, gripping her arms as they transformed into snakes, her hands into fanged heads. Failure, she hissed. Then all went dark. \nConnor jolted awake, sweat-drenched and stiff. He lay at the mouth of a cave, his hat and kerchief in a heap at his feet. Images wavered in his mind, mirages of what he discerned were memories rather than hallucinations. The snake. The bite. The pain. The stranger—a savior. He raced his hands along his arm, reveling in the ease with which he moved and breathed: there was only skin, smooth and unbroken in the place where he’d once felt fire. “I’m alive,” he cried into the sky. “I’m alive!”\nAt his voice, something rustled beyond the cave. Connor reached instinctually for his gun, but it was gone. Scanning the ground, he gripped a large rock and crouched closer to the sound, knowing he’d be no match against a pack of coyotes. But he’d go down fighting anyway; he’d come too far to die here.\nCaught between the spiky branches of a Yucca tree, the creature huffed and tugged, stomping its hooves against the dry ground. \nThunder. \nThe horse startled when Connor came up beside him, then threw his head back and neighed. “I thought I lost you, boy.” Connor slung an arm around the animal’s thick neck, nuzzling his face against the soft, musky flesh. He untangled the reins from the tree and led Thunder back to the mouth of the cave. Connor pulled out the bag of oats and emptied it into his cupped hands, letting the animal have his fill. He returned the empty pouch and paused; there at the bottom of the saddlebags were bulging bags of gold. Untouched.\nIt’s all here. Everything.\nConnor released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Let’s go home, boy.”\nThey rode hard, eating up the miles that stretched between the Mojave and home. Thunder seemed to feel a sense of being at the end, his desires somehow linked with those of his rider. They pushed on through heat and high elevation until the terrain began to flatten again and familiar sights greeted them. Just a few miles from town, they passed the cluster of cactuses that looked like praying nuns, then the Pritchards’ ranch, then the Haymakers’. Then Connor could see the church steeple rising above the center of the town, its whitewashed beams a beacon guiding wanderers home. \n“We’re almost there, boy.” Connor patted Thunder’s thick shoulder, sending puffs of dust wafting off his dark coat. Soon, Connor could hear the gentle trickling of a creek–the one that would wind around the next bend and lead him to a sun-bleached cabin and a beautiful girl–home. Connor dismounted and walked beside Thunder as the house came into view, a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. \n“Saralee!” He couldn’t wait another second. “Saralee, I’m home!”\nThe door opened, and a woman poked her head out. Connor began to run, leaving Thunder to graze along the creek. The woman ducked back into the house, shutting the door. \n“It’s me Saralee! Connor!”\nThe door opened again, and this time Saralee was standing beside a man, his palm resting on her shoulder. Connor stepped up to the house and stopped, confusion turning him momentarily mute. Saralee squinted into the space between them, then turned to the man beside her. “He must have the wrong house.” She took in Connor’s ragged, worn clothes and his sunburned skin and smiled. “But wait here, and I’ll give you something for your travels.” She slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. \nConnor stuttered, “Wait! What’s happening here?” Then anger boiled up within him. “And who are you?”\nThe man stepped into the light, “Howdy there, partner.” He flashed a wide grin. “Oh, you know me; I’m an old friend.” He extended a tanned hand to Connor, waiting. Connor’s eyes traveled from the man’s face to his outstretched hand where, peeking out from under his sleeve, was the tip of a green, tattooed wing. The wind shifted and Connor felt a coldness seep into him, creeping into his bones. \nThe man lowered his hand and glanced at Thunder. “I see you found your horse.”\n“Please,” Connor stuttered, his head spinning. “I can pay you now. What do you want from me?”\n“From you? Why, nothing at all.” He narrowed his eyes, their color deep and warm–amber, like Tennessee whisky. \n“Your debt is already paid.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: All about Toni\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1074\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with two people sitting in a movie theater, waiting for the lights to come back on." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "All about Toni\nLarry and Toni sat rigid in the back seats of the cinema as the credits rolled down the screen. People were already leaving.\n“I told you not to do that,” said Toni through gritted teeth.\n“You didn’t need to hit me,” replied Larry, cradling his aching groin.\n“Then you shouldn’t have tried to grope me. You know how I feel about that and zip your fly up.”\n“They’re right about you.”\n“Who is?”\n“All the fellas. They reckon you’re a lesbian.”\nToni slumped in the seat while Larry struggled with his zip. She wasn’t a lesbian; she was a virgin. A rare species, apparently. Most of the girls in her class had thrown it away, and the rest were lesbian.\n“I’m a virgin and plan to stay a virgin and boys rummaging around in my private parts doesn’t help.”\n“I wasn’t going to screw you. Just, you know, have a bit of a feel.”\n“I should tell your mother what you tried.”\nLarry grimaced. His mother was bouncing up and down on the sofa with her current boyfriend, which she changed almost as often as her underwear.\n“Why did you come to the pictures with me if you didn’t want a bit of action?”\nToni shifted uncomfortably in the seat, adjusting her dress. She really didn’t know. This being a virgin was getting tiresome. It was her mother’s fault. She kept giving speeches to Toni about virginity. No STI’s, no unwanted pregnancies, high moral values and the biggest prize of all, God would be proud of you. Her mom was someone important in her church. The propaganda was all too much for a sixteen-year-old girl and the alternative seemed a little scary, so she resolved to stay a virgin.\n“Well, you can tell all your creepy friends I’m not a lesbian. I like boys. I even kiss them occasionally.”\n“What about the time Harry kissed you behind the school toilets? You bit his lip and made it bleed.”\n“He grabbed my left tit so hard it hurt,” she retorted, “Why is it every time I kiss one of you boys, you grab something?”\n“Your supposed to like it.”\n“Gawds sake. Who told you that?”\nLarry shifted in his seat.\n“My dad. He said women like it rough, they like being grabbed and pushed around.”\n“Half the women in the village have a protection order out on him and your mother has a domestic violence order. What’s he doing now, anyway?”\n“Six months’ community service order for assault in London.’\nThey sat in silence, watching the credits. Credits seem to go on as long as the movie or it seems to.\n“Did you like the movie?” Asked Toni.\n“Don’t know. Wasn’t really watching it.”\n“Of course you weren’t. You were spending all your time trying to get your hand under my bra.”\n“You weren’t complaining.”\nShe didn’t. Toni didn’t hold the top part of her body in the high esteem as the bottom part. She didn’t mind getting her tits squeezed now and again, gently, of course.\n“You have difficulty dealing with a girl’s bra, don’t you?”\n“I’ve been practicing.”\n“Practicing? How do you practice dealing with a bra?”\nLarry turned to Toni with the look of one about to reveal a dark secret.\n“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”\n“Definitely,” she replied, not. This was too juicy. The girls would love it.\n“Dad left behind a punching bag in the garage and I put one of Mum’s bras on it.”\nToni’s eyebrows lifted.\n“Won’t it slip down?”\n“I cut a tennis ball in half and glued them on to the bag.”\n“Why a tennis ball?”\n“Mums got small tits.”\nToni wiped that image from her mind.\n“Then what?”\n“I put a blindfold on and try to take the bra off.”\n“Did it work?”\nLarry sighed.\n“Your the only one I’ve tried it on.”\nToni rolled her eyes.\n“Couldn’t you think of a better place than a picture theatre to try to get my bra off? Anyway, I wouldn’t have let you.”\nAgain, Larry sighed.\n“I suppose you’re right. I tried it out on Heather Wilson.”\n“Heather Wilson, you’re joking. She doesn’t wear a bra. She’s got no tits.”\n“That’s what I found out when I got her top off. Didn’t know what to do then.”\n“What did you finally do?”\n“Grope her. Then she got mad and stormed off. \"\n“Poor Larry, why don’t I take you to meet Sally Butterworth? She will let anyone take off her bra off and, for a packet of cigarettes, anything else. If you bring a flask of gin, you will hit the jackpot. Just don’t grope her.”\nSilence fell between them again and Toni watched the credits roll on. What the hell is a ’key grip’ she thought. For no particular reason, her mind turned to her sister, Tanya. Tanya was five years older and her half sister, the result of her mother’s dalliance with an unknown man, thus losing her virginity. In fact, she is always put on show when her mother was lecturing her.\nIt was obvious Tanya enjoyed sex as Toni kept finding used condoms floating in the toilet. She was pretty sure they weren’t dad’s. One would think, Toni thought, Tanya would be the perfect person to talk to about sex, but she was worse than her mum. She was always saying she would beat her up if she finds her with a boy. She should protect her virginity and wait till she was twenty-one. Twenty-one, for gawds sake. She stopped talking to her.\n“I like you, Toni.”\nShe turned to look at Larry. The light from the screen illuminated his big, sad, brown eyes. Much too sad for a sixteen-year-old boy.\n“If you’d stop trying to grope me, I’d like you too,” she replied. Then, for some reason,she could never work out, leaned over and kissed him.\n“Can I tell you another secret?”\nToni groaned.\n“Really Larry. You’ve got to stop telling girls your secrets.”\n“I’m a virgin too.”\n“I thought you did it plenty of times.”\n“Well,. I try to.”\n“You mean you grope them?”\nHe nodded.\n“Then they get angry and go away,” he said, sadly.\n“Girls don’t like that, Larry.”\n“I know that now. You gave me a painful lesson.”\nJust then, the credits rolled to an end, and the lights came on.\n“Come on,” said Toni,” buy me an ice-cream and I’ll take you to Sally.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Siren\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2998\n\nPrompt:\n\nInclude a scene in your story in which a character's body language conveys their hidden emotions." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“She’s just sixteen years old, leave her alone they said…”\n\nTHE SIREN\n\nMr. Harris’ English class assembled at the bell. There was a thin paperback placed on each desk with a sailing ship on its cover. Mr. Harris sat straight-backed wearing a tartan vest out of charity to whoever had given it to him. Among teachers he was one of the most respected by students, in fact he had just diffused a fistfight in the last period by dropping to one knee in the middle of it, and was back at his desk. When they were all seated he stood up and opened his own copy with a snap.\n“Good morrow everyone.” a smile creased his face. “If you open your eyes all the way you’ll see I’ve given you each a copy of ‘The Siren’ by Esther Jacobson. This story takes place during the Golden Age of Piracy, does anyone know when that was?”\nHe looked at half-slouched faces around the room.\n“If you’ll turn to the back cover there’s a synopsis…” he was saying, but then the door opened and she entered the room. Everyone in the school knew the name of Simmons West, although they did not know she was the exact spitting image of her mother. Mr. Harris looked away; the resemblance was so uncanny it made him nervous, but their eyes had met for a moment like two spirits trapped in some incompatible form. She wore a powder blue dress shirt on which she dusted an apple which she placed on his desk and then took her seat with a swish of her skirt.\n“Um, where was I?” he collected himself. “The synopsis, would anyone like to read it for us?”\nSimmons’ hand shot up first but he picked a young man in the back row to avoid showing favoritism, then he went back behind the desk as if he was hiding from something.\n“Lord Buchanan is a young nobleman dispatched to greet the late arrival of a ship that went missing during a voyage in the Pacific. He has to relate the death of the Earl of Monteith to his son Charles who is first mate and his childhood friend. The ship arrives without its captain; a coffin is on the quarterdeck as it comes into port.”\n“An interesting beginning isn’t it?” Mr. Harris said. “If you can imagine it’s 1701 and a sailing ship that has been missing has returned. Read on please.”\n“Buchanan learns that the captain is dead and the first mate missing, but the crew refuses to say why or even speak his name. Apparently there was an argument during which the captain was stabbed and died from his wounds. The first mate was set adrift by his own insistence near a tiny unnamed island. When asked why he was not detained under maritime law, Buchanan learns that the first mate did something ‘against nature’ which they are forbidden to say, which caused the ship to anchor for three days. He asks various sources and there is no agreement on what the reason might be.”\n“So this is the chapter you will read tonight.” Mr. Harris continued. “Any thoughts? What do you think is the answer to this mystery?”\nThey ruminated until someone suggested the first mate had a gay relationship with someone.\n“Interesting theory, but even a relationship between two men was not unknown among sailors.” Mr. Harris said curiously. “Anyone else?”\nSimmons’ hand went up.\n“Yes Miss West?” he called her by her mother’s name without realizing it.\n“There is no right or wrong answer, am I correct?” she said thoughtfully. “I mean you don’t want to have a mystery solved in the first chapter.”\nHer wisdom brought the discussion to a halt. Mr. Harris simply said “Very good” and had the class begin reading as he sat down sweating at his desk again.\nHe was a student himself once and the beautiful Miss West was a person who turned listless boys into scholarly men. He did not know her daughter was taking this class or the remarkable woman she had become. Suddenly he was presented with the opportunity of knowing his lifelong friend as a young pupil before they met and being her mentor. It was not a physical attraction in any way; in fact he wanted to protect her from everything in this school.\nAt the end of class Simmons stayed behind as she always did, standing there until he was forced to look at her.\n“The way you broke up that fight this morning was so… honorable.” she put her hand on her heart.\n“It was just a practical response to the situation.” he replied honestly. “People are too often demonized for having emotions.”\n“What do you mean?” she leaned closer.\n“When a student erupts in anger it’s often a sign of innocence.” he explained. “The person pointing the finger is often the villain hiding behind a veneer of civility, probably because they have something to gain from it. For example if someone had dealt with that situation by punishing them is that not also violence? If I’m the ‘behavioral police’ then I should try to resolve things with forgiveness, do you see?”\n“I’ve never heard that before.” she admired him. “I’ve only heard that violent people are bad. So you’re saying civility can go too far as well?”\nHe only realized what he had said once it came out.\n“You may think I’m hotcakes now but when you have a boyfriend I will be old news.” he attempted to change gears.\n“Ugh, boyfriends?” Simmons rolled her eyes. “Now there’s a subject I’ve never given a second thought. I am a student, I have my brain to satisfy me so enlightenment will never be dead and these classics will live forever!” She dropped three books on the desk.\nMr. Harris started to rise from his seat in apology. He didn’t have ten students put together who felt this way about literature. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.\n“I’ll see you after classes.” she smiled, and left with a flip of her hair.\nWhy did she have to do that? He was a rational person; there had to be a solution to this. He knew what a cruel man would do. He balled up a piece of paper in his fist and hung his head.\n\n\n\n2\n\n1st of May 1701-\nThe young Lord Buchanan arrived at the port of Lyme Regis where he demanded to be taken to high ground where he could see the Channel. He had known his friend Charles since they were schoolboys and since that time had become a man of responsibility. The carriage took him to a high hill overlooking the sea, and indeed there the ship was, still several miles out. With a spyglass he could see the seamen on board, and there was a solitary coffin in the center of the upper deck where the captain would normally be standing.\nHe rode hastily down to the harbor, but the first men off the gangway were six grim-faced sailors carrying the coffin itself. Not one of them would say a word to him, so he went aboard but Charles was not there.\nHe pressed them but the crew only looked at him with great sadness. The log which Buchanan read for himself ended on the day they left Tierra del Fuego in the Pacific for home, with no mention of anything unusual in its entire contents. It was as if they had all sworn an oath to go to their graves with this secret.\nIn desperation Buchanan had the entire crew rounded up and questioned, saying he would have to go searching for Charles himself.\n“No!” a tired sailor’s eyes widened with a look of concern. “For God’s sake do not go back there!”\nHe pried out of the man that there was a disagreement during which the captain was accidentally stabbed with his own knife. Charles was so mortified he was marooned by his own choosing on a tiny nameless island they had discovered. Buchanan’s face went white when he heard this.\n“Where is the island!” he grabbed the old sailor by the throat. “And what reason has my friend been slighted this way? You name the crime for which he has lost his honor or I will split you!”\n“It doesn’t have a name!” he choked until his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed into a heap on the floor.\n\n\nMr. Harris stopped reading and put the book down. The conversation in the faculty break room was becoming a distraction.\n“There was another arrest for a teacher-student relationship on the news.” Mrs. Tabor was saying. “Why are there always such unchristian people in our ranks, is it because their beliefs are just meaningless?”\nMr. Harris got up and walked out of the room. He had to stop against a wall because his heart was beating out of his chest. But he was a Christian. As he turned to go down the hall there she was again. It was impossible to avoid her.\nWhen Simmons came to see him after school Mr. Harris looked unwell and she immediately asked him what was wrong.\n“I have a problem I need a solution for.” he said carefully. “I don’t know why I didn’t bring it to you sooner since you’re the smartest person I could ask.”\n“Well whatever it is you know I will help.” she said innocently, sitting down side-saddle in the chair.\n“There are people who think you and I have a relationship.” he managed to say.\n“But we do have a relationship.” she gave a surprising answer.\n“I mean there are people who think we are too friendly.” he elaborated.\n“Who are these people?” she was astonished.\n“Mostly faculty.” he answered her. “They don’t understand how two people can be brought together in a professional setting just by goodness and common interests. I suppose because they’ve never known it themselves.”\n“I didn’t know there were people on the faculty like that.” she looked disillusioned. “I just assumed they were respectable or they wouldn’t be here.”\n“I know, I know.” he was forced to backtrack. “The point is there are rules that exist for a student’s protection and we don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”\n“But you just said those people are wrong.” he realized this conversation had taken a wrong turn. “You have moral authority. I need you to protect me from them.”\n“It’s true that social rules and virtue don’t always go hand-in-hand.” he conceded. “There is such a thing as a moral anarchist I suppose.”\n“So what if you’re moral and smart and you don’t want to follow certain rules?” she asked a question that was more provocative than she realized.\n“People like that have to be extraordinarily self-sufficient just to meet their own needs.” he tried his best.\n“But I do have everything I need.” she reasoned. “I have you!”\nHe swallowed, keeping to himself the rest of what he planned to say.\n“Then we’ll keep our feelings to ourselves.” he lowered his voice. “Our friendship is strong, we’ll do whatever it takes to succeed.”\nSimmons’ thoughts were a complete mystery to him.\n“That story we’re reading, it’s not ‘safe’ reading is it?” she asked.\n“What do you mean?” he responded.\n“There’s tension in it. I mean if you’re going to write a story make it relevant. Conflict, that’s the word. Conflict is relevant.”\nHe rose from his chair. It was too much of a joy and an exasperation watching her mind work, he could not allow her to learn the dark underbelly of human nature. And he couldn’t cut her loose with some excuse she would never believe. She knew that he loved her.\n\n\n\n “It’s like having a dream where nobody has a heart.”\n3\n\nYoung Lord Buchanan arranged passage for himself to the South Seas. If there was a chance his lifelong friend was still living he had to pursue it. The general opinion of the crew was that Charles was considered a “Jonah”, a man who did something that brought a curse on the vessel.\nSeventy days into the voyage he saw the shores of the beautiful Tierra del Fuego archipelago. Buchanan met the governor himself and explained his predicament. The man said that he remembered Charles but had not seen or heard of him since the ship left port. Buchanan’s heart sank. He would have to set sail for the islet on which Charles was marooned.\nThat night he had a strange dream. He could see the outside of the vessel, and a beautiful woman rising like Venus out of the dark water. She was dressed in a gossamer white gown with hair that flowed like a perpetual wave, and she was singing a kind of music with no words, only harmonies. She climbed up the side of the hull while the crew were sleeping and entered his cabin. She was not any woman he knew, but he felt adoration for her and his eyes never left her face. The ship’s bell was a rude awakening that evaporated the strange illusion.\nAt daybreak the ship moved south to the island where Charles was last seen alive. To his horror it was only a small cluster of rocks periodically submerged by the sea. As they drew closer he could make out an overturned dinghy that was badly weathered from storms.\nAs the ship came to a halt an emaciated, bearded man emerged and shook his fist at them like a madman. Buchanan was shocked to see features he recognized on his gaunt face. He descended a rope ladder to greet his friend.\n“Charles it’s me John!” Buchanan said tearfully.\nThe man turned and stared at him.\n“John?” his hoarse voice sounded skeptical. “What are you doing here?”\n“We’re going back to England together! You are alive!” he exclaimed joyfully, embracing his skeletal body.\nCharles was at a loss, sitting down on a rock to consider this chain of events.\n“I can never go back to England.” he said simply, gazing up at him. “I have taken a wife and we have a child together.”\n“Bring them with us!” John implored him. “I care not what people will say, I’ll make the arrangements myself!”\nA crying sound erupted from under the overturned dinghy. It sounded like a cross between the wail of an infant and some wretched animal, a fact that was impossible to ignore as its wails continued. Buchanan walked over to the dinghy and looked under it.\nHe backed away slowly, his face changed. It took him a few moments to realize what he was looking at and what this predicament was really about. Eventually he looked at his friend in anger.\n“What… in God’s name… have you done!” his voice became enraged. “I traversed the globe out of kinship to you to find something there is no place in Hell for?”\n“John, I’m sorry…” Charles started to say, but Buchanan had walked past him and was climbing back up to the deck. He spent his entire life believing they were an enlightened people, but there were things that were taboo among them, forbidden because they were too close to their beliefs, set apart from the rest of God’s creatures. Buchanan ordered the crew to hoist anchor. He tore the pages from his journal and burned them, taking a vow of silence.\n\n\nMr. Harris put the book down. The way his chest was acting lately he felt he was living on borrowed time. The school intercom made him jump.\n“Mr. Harris report to the principal’s office immediately.” it said urgently, sounding like a funeral notice.\nThe principal’s door was open and several people were standing inside including Simmons herself. The principal was at his desk reading a composition book that was obviously Simmons’ private journal.\n“Close the door please.” he said with a grim face. “I’m sorry to summon you here like this. I know a student’s private thoughts are just thoughts, but then I read some of these entries. This one says ‘I must honor his wishes because Mr. Harris is wise and he knows everything. I will keep our relationship a secret exactly as he asked. We will be strong together and he will be pleased with me.’”\n“Miss West,” the pricipal asked her delicately, “is this something that you made up?”.\nShe looked wide-eyed at Mr. Harris and then back at them.\n“Yes!” the word jumped from her throat like an epiphany. “It’s a work of fiction. I want to be a writer!”\n“But why would you write about having a romantic tryst with your teacher?” he demanded.\n“Maybe I’m not the shining person you think I am.” she shrugged. “I have bad thoughts sometimes. Everyone’s human.”\n“So you are not involved with Mr. Harris?”\n“He’s an easy grade.” she lied. “I was just using him.”\n“Simmons stop!” Harris objected, feeling a sharp pain move from his chest down his arm.\n“We are not here to judge you.” the principal stated. “The student is not to blame in these situations. You are too young to understand…”\n“I’m a grown woman and I do understand!” she jumped up and grasped Mr. Harris by the hand, throwing herself to the wolves to keep them from blaming him. Two of the faculty restrained her and a security officer pulled Harris out of the room.\n“I want to run away with you!” Simmons shouted tearfully, extending her hand toward him as they held her back.\nThe door was slammed shut between them. Mr. Harris was restrained and forced through the main doors toward a waiting police vehicle where his body started convulsing. His face turned purple and he dropped lifeless on the pavement in front of the school.\n\n“If I could fly, I’d pick you up and take you into the night\nand show you love like you’ve never seen.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dear Fifteen,\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1051\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite from the point of view of a character writing a letter to their past or future self." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: implied death, suicidal ideation, depression, child sexualization, body dysphoria, disordered eating, implied abuse.\nGet ready for the beginning of every past-self letter ever written: If only you'd known.\nFirst: You're autistic and have ADHD. Read about how those things affect girls specifically. Talk with Mama and Daddy and Dr. Pat about it. I often wonder how much pain could have been avoided if I'd known why I felt so out of place; how much I wouldn't have had to give up on if I'd known to approach it from a different perspective. Honestly, I think about two-thirds of this letter would be moot if this had come about sooner.\nAsk someone to sit in the room with you while you clean - they don't need to be actively helping you, but just having someone else there will help you stay on track.\nStop watching HGTV - it sets unrealistic ideals.\nEdward Cullen is not romantic. He's controlling and creepy as hell, and you should definitely not be basing your relationship expectations on Twilight. Jacob isn't any better.\nBe proud of all your accomplishments thus far and keep reaching for the stars - but do not tie your identity to these successes, as they are fleeting, and you are so much more.\nNever stop reading, and try to write a little every day. Some days it will just be a single sentence, and that's enough.\nIt is not normal for your period to make you puke or pass out from pain. Don't let anybody tell you that's normal. Go to a doctor, and if they tell you it's normal, go to another doctor.\nDon't let people pressure you into feeling like you should be showing off your body in ways you dislike. It's their problem for being creepy and sexualizing you, but you're allowed to defend yourself however you feel most comfortable. Nobody is entitled to seeing you in any way you do not wish to be seen.\nOn that note, lewd photos of a minor are still lewd photos of a minor, even if said minor is the one taking and distributing them. This is incredibly dangerous, and even if you feel like you're in control of the situation and completely trust the other person, it's illegal. Send goofy selfies instead - the ones who are worth your time will love them.\nAsk Daddy about everything. Ask him about his childhood, talk with him about politics, spend time with him on things you might think are boring, and appreciate every second you have with him. Hug him, hug him, hug him. And when you see that text message to Christine on Christmas Eve, tell someone. He needs help.\nThat said, don't feel guilty if the help doesn't work. It's not your fault. It was never our fault.\nYou should look into the ways that anatomy of the hips and pelvic bones affect the shape of one's body, and then come to terms with the fact that a thigh gap is neither feasible for you nor important whatsoever.\nWeightlifting is fun as hell, and you will be happier at 165lbs than you ever were at 115lbs. Protein is great fuel and carbs do not make you fat. And fat is beautiful, anyway, so focus on fueling your body to do the things that make you happy rather than trying to survive on fumes.\nNo, that dream about Kelly wasn't a fluke. You're queer, and you will end up having crushes on people of multiple genders.\nSpeaking of, get into online forums for queer teens and learn about yourself and the people who you'll find you have a lot in common with.\nIf a man in his twenties is interested in dating a high school girl, it's not because she's 'mature for her age.' It's because people his own age can recognize how predatory he is, and a seventeen-year-old who doesn't know better is better than nothing.\nThere's no penis in the world that is 'too big' to wear a condom. Period. Those things can fit over watermelons if you get the right brand. \"It doesn't feel as good,\" is a selfish excuse of a shitty argument, too, so stand your ground.\nGoing to church won't cure the skin-crawling, gut-punching feeling you get from going to church - don't completely take it off the table though. You'll find a really great group in college, and it will offer you the closure and confidence you need to go forward into the world as a spiritual woman.\nIf you're smart about it, alcohol is not as scary as the D.A.R.E. program made it seem. Start slow, and give yourself time to learn your limit. Only drink with people who know that a good time requires temperance.\nNever fry bacon in shorts, dumbass.\nDon't hold on to a mistake just because you've spent a lot of time making it.\nNow, a few things about higher education (I'll do my best to avoid spoilers):\nConcurrent enrollment is worth it for a lot of people - you're not one of them.\nDon't do online college classes. Just don't.\nChanging your major does not mean you're a failure.\nFour years is not a realistic standard for a bachelor's degree.\nThe graduation ceremony is not the important part... but you might want to double-check that your university has the correct email for you around that time anyway.\nIt's okay to get all the way through and decide to say, 'fuck it, that career would make me miserable,' and do something you love.\nI know that at this point you've already dealt with depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation for a few years. I won't lie and tell you that everything is going to be daisies and sunshine - in fact, a lot of the difficulties you've faced up to this point are cake walks compared to some of the things you'll make it through later on. Just know: I'm writing this at 25, next to a wonderful man and our dog, with three cats cuddling together a few rooms away. We've got plans to take our little family out of Oklahoma as soon as he's done with school and the multitude of possibilities is breathtaking.\nHold on.\nIt will be okay.\nWith more love than you can imagine,\nFuture You." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Monsters Of The Lake\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2995\n\nPrompt:\n\nInclude a scene in your story in which a character's body language conveys their hidden emotions." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The sun was just beginning to set over Wa’l’ta, casting the golden pillar across the water that the Wa’l’tani, the people who lived in Wa’l’ta, revered so. It was a chilly evening now that they found themselves firmly in autumn. Alijandra, a Wa’l’tani warrior, stood in front of a mirror, tying her hair up tightly. \nWa’l’ta had grown immensely in the past few generations, but it remained a small village compared to others of the land. Its warriors were not gleaming, silver-clad knights like those found in distant kingdoms, but rather a ragamuffin band of Wa’l’tani who preferred fighting to farming. But farming, not fighting, is what ruled here. The Wa’l’tani people had the expansion of their farms to thank for the newfound growth of their village. Food shortages were a distant memory now, and the surplus of crops had begun to put them on the map for trade with larger communities across the land. \nRecently, however, they’d been plagued by the Clariidae, monstrous creatures who, despite their humanoid shape, appeared to be some type of giant, deadly fish. Not only could they breathe underwater, but their teeth were like those of a shark: sharp, pointed, and extremely good at biting. At least, that was the word around the village. While the existence of these monsters was far from legend (they could often be heard shrieking their foul screech at night, and sightings of them swimming in the large lake where both species caught fish were commonplace), only Haiet, the captain of the fishing boat, had seen those teeth up close and lived to tell the tale. Others had only faced the Clariidae on land, where the monsters were quick to flee with whatever Wa’l’tani crops they had managed to stuff into their bags of braided algae.\nAlijandra tested the weight of her new sword; it was a decently-made, decently-balanced sword, but it still felt strange in her hand. She was more accustomed to daggers, which gave her superior freedom of movement. But hey, she thought, recalling the distinct, jagged, mother-of-pearl knives carried by the Clariidae, at least this thing’ll keep more distance between us. I hope that discovery of ore veins in the caves will lead to better quality weapons in the future, though… \nAnd with that, she headed out to join the others by the fire for supper and prayer. The Wa’l’tani gathered by the fire every evening to dine, share stories, pray, and enjoy the sunset over the water. Today was different, however - today Alijandra and her fellow warriors would join Haiet on the boat to thin out the lake monsters. There had been a nasty uptick of the beasts ever since the Wa’l’tani had discovered what a goldmine - literally and metaphorically - the cave system was. The caves had a plethora of underwater tunnels connecting them to the lake, so it was likely they had disturbed a Clariidae nest during their excavations. Now the things were more territorial than ever, and bolder in their thievery.\nWith the last bite taken and the last prayer whispered to the setting sun, the warriors prepared to head out. Villagers waved, sending them off with shouts of encouragement and thanks. The warriors waved, smiled, and pretended they weren’t nervous. \nWith little training and even less battle experience, none of them knew just how unprepared they were for what they were about to face. Even Haiet was completely and totally unprepared for the sheer number of monsters awaiting them in the deeper reaches of the lake. \nThe hunt quickly became a bloodbath, with human blood making up most of the mix. Sure, they managed to snag a few monsters in nets where they could safely slit their throats, but they hadn’t imagined the monsters would manage to pull off such a coordinated attack. It was as if the beasts were waiting for them.\nIn quick succession, humans were pulled off the boat and drowned by the vile creatures. Those who managed to cling to their comrades quickly learned just how sharp those monstrous teeth were as they gnawed through the arms in their way. \nWhen Oner, the young man next to Alijandra, was pulled overboard, she did what was either the bravest or stupidest (or perhaps both) thing she had ever done: she dove in after him. Her sword found its way to Oner’s captor, freeing him and further bloodying the already murky water. \n“Go,” Alijandra gasped as she and Oner shot up for air, pointing to the rope ladder hanging from the side of the boat. Oner gripped it and pulled himself out, though it was no easy task; they were in monster-infested waters, after all. \nHe worked his way up high enough for Alijandra to begin her ascent. She reached up and, just as her fingers brushed the rope but before they could close around it, something grabbed her from below, pulling her under the surface of the water once more. \nShe thrashed and kicked, struggling to see where her attacker(s) lurked through the crimson water. It didn’t help that the sun was almost completely set now, meaning even the clearest water would soon appear black. Flashes of fins and scales appeared all around her, just as cuts appeared all over her body. The impact of her sword and a fresh release of blood told her she had made contact. She prayed it was a monster, not a drowning companion. \nHer lungs demanded a fresh supply of air, but monsters swarmed above her - she hadn’t realized how much the weight of her sword had dragged her down. She tried to clear the way with her weapon, slow as it was underwater, until it was finally forced out of her grasp. Her heart pounded, her lungs cramped. How would she reach the surface without her sword!? \nShe decided sinking the last few feet to the bottom of the lake and pushing off with all her might was her best bet. \nThis just might work, Alijandra thought as she shot up through the water…until she felt the tug of the net around her ankle. One of their old fishing nets was anchoring her down in this watery grave. In the near-blackness of the lake, with fingers beginning to numb from the cold, and while stringing together all the curses she knew in her head, Alijandra tried desperately to free herself. \nHer body began to convulse from its need for oxygen, her foot still hopelessly tangled. \nThe last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was a strange pattern of colors. Seemingly infinite shades of blue, green, and teal danced across her vision, too close to focus on. The cold blackness of the water disappeared behind the vivid hues, only to be replaced with blackness once again as Alijandra’s eyes slowly closed.\nAlijandra awoke suddenly, coughing up water and gasping for air. For a moment she saw nothing but darkness around her and wondered if she was dead. Fighting for air, her lungs aching, her wounds stinging, she hoped this wasn’t the afterlife. This was far from the promise of The Golden Lands as told by her people, where the feasts were constant and aplenty, the air smelled of flowers and spices, and the setting sun shone a golden pillar across the water, always. This, on the other hand, was more of a damp-dark-nothingness. \nThen the smell of a crackling fire reached her nose, and her fingers began to feel the rough surface beneath her. It felt like rock…was she in a cave? Slowly she worked her way up to a seated position. The puddle of bloody water beneath her sloshed as she moved, the sound covered only by her continued struggles to breathe. The only light in the cave came from a small fire on the rock, built near the edge of a large hole in the stone, about 50 yards away from Alijandra. Squinting through the gloom, Alijandra noticed firelight dancing across the hole - it was filled with water! \nAn underwater cave, then, thought Alijandra. That’s how I got here. But, how…? The last thing she remembered was drowning. Who had brought her here? And where were they now? Why would they bring her here instead of back to the village, anyway? \nA slithering sound caught her attention. She looked around desperately for its source. “Um…hello?” Alijandra called out tentatively, sure that whoever her cavern companion was, they already knew she was there. “Are…you the one that saved me?” \nThere was no response except for the soft rustle of the hidden stranger moving around the cave, outside of the firelight’s glow. Alijandra paused, unsure what to do next. A chill ran up her spine, completely separate from the chill that came from being soaked through on a cold night, although in that moment both made her shake. \n“Well…if it was you, thank you. If not, I mean you no harm!” For a moment there was no sound; no response, no movement. Then, suddenly, a figure stepped into the farthest reaches of the firelight. \nAlijandra gasped. The figure was too patterned, too shimmering, too aquamarine. Lines of fins sprouted from the scalp instead of hair. Light shone through the webbing between the fingers of the figure. Oceanic colors danced playfully across iridescent - scales, were they? - as they caught the low light. Even in the thick shadows of the cave, it was obvious: this creature was not human. \nAlijandra crept closer slowly, cautiously, too curious not to get a better look but terrified of what awaited her. It couldn’t be, there’s no way… thought Alijandra as she inched her way towards the fire. Why would it save me? That makes no sense, there’s no way- Alijandra’s stomach dropped as she approached the figure. There was no denying it. Standing in front of her, with one jagged mother-of-pearl blade in each webbed hand, was a Clariid. \nAlijandra only stared at the creature. She was weak from drowning, she’d lost her weapon, and she had no idea if there were more monsters lurking in the waters below, hidden by the narrow, twisting path through the rock that formed the watery portal in and out of this cave. If I’m not hostile, maybe it won’t be either, Alijandra hoped. No sudden movements. The Monster Of The Lake broke the silence; thin lips parted, exposing those menacing teeth. Alijandra prepared herself for the screech she’d grown accustomed to hearing in the distance while sitting around the campfire, the only sound firmly associated with these monsters. Instead, the monster spoke:\n“It was me, and I don’t believe you.”\nAlijandra was dumbstruck. “It wa-I-w-y-...you can talk!?” \nThe creature stared at her through harsh, piercing yellow eyes. “As can you,” came the response, “although not as well as I thought.” \nAlijandra ignored the jab and pressed on “So, wait, it was you that saved me?” \n“Yes.” \n“...Thank you,” said Alijandra awkwardly. Silence stretched between the two again, this time broken by Alijandra. “...Why?” \nThe creature’s yellow eyes glanced to the side, only to quickly snap back to the Alijandra. “I…don’t know. My people say you haunt us, but I do not think that you all deserve to die. Now that you’re awake, I hope I did not make the wrong decision.” \nAlijandra’s brow furrowed at this. She meant to ask about the “my people say you haunt us” part, but she gestured as she spoke, which caused the creature to recoil into the darkness beyond the firelight and let out that horrible screech. Carried through the open air of the night, the screech was one thing. While not a pleasant sound, a distant chorus of them was strangely enchanting. But here, enclosed by the walls of the cave, the sound was horrendous. Alijandra clamped her hands to her ears as fast as she could, but it made little difference. A wave of nausea made her stomach roll as the sound drilled its way into her brain. It stopped abruptly; soon after, a webbed foot cautiously stepped back to the edge of the light. \nAlijandra realized something then, as the yellow eyes again locked onto her face and the Clariid held the knives at the ready: The monster was afraid of Alijandra! She almost laughed out loud at the thought. Instead, she asked “Why do your…people,” she had to bite back the habit of referring to the Clariidae as “monsters”. She continued “think my people haunt you?” \n“You take. You take everything. You take the land to grow crops you will not share. You take the fish from the waters. Now you want to take the caves. These caves are ours. The waters are ours. You can’t even breathe it!” The Clariid took a breath to calm herself before continuing on. “That’s why my people say you are monsters. You take and take and leave nothing left. You will kill all the world around you. That is what they say.” \nAlijandra’s cheeks grew hot from these accusations. “We take things? You steal from us!” \n“We steal because there is nothing else left!” The Clariid sighed. “My people tell the tales of the peaceful times, before your farms grew too large and you pushed your way into our waters. It wasn’t always like this.” Alijandra eyed the mother-of-pearl blades. Despite the vice-like grip of the webbed hands holding them, Alijandra didn’t think this creature would hurt her. Not now, at least. Sitting down, she looked up at the Clariid and asked “Do you have a name?” \n“Of course I have a name. Ailani.” Ailani paused before asking “Do you have a name?” \n“Yes, it’s Alijandra.” Once again an uncomfortable silence stretched between them before Alijandra said “I didn’t know that you used names.” \n“I didn’t know that you used names!” And then, for the first time as far as either of them knew, the two species laughed together. Ailani relaxed enough to make her way across the edge of the firelight to the watery tunnel. She knelt down and splashed water on herself, rehydrating her skin. Being out of the water was drying enough, but her proximity to the fire made her skin sting and itch with tightness. \n“What are you doing?” Asked Alijandra. Ailani considered answering, but she didn’t want to give away any vulnerabilities of her people to this human, even if she seemed not to be the monster the Clariidae feared. Instead she dove into the water, grateful for its cool relief as it rushed across her scales. She swam away quickly, in a moment disappearing from view. Alijandra peered after her then sat back, glancing around the cave. Um…What now? As far as she could tell, there were no other ways in or out, and she had no idea how long she would have to hold her breath to make it through the water. She attempted a deep breath, testing out her lungs, but was quickly sent into a painful fit of coughs. Sooo, that won’t work. She supposed she’d have to wait until the sun rose. Maybe then she would find another way out. All she wanted to do now was sleep, anyway. \nA demanding rumble from her stomach reminded her that she wanted to eat, too. She adjusted her position. Closer to the warmth of the fire, with rock firmly protecting her back, she lay down. Only then, closer to the light, did she realize that a thick salve had been applied to the worst of her wounds. She stung all over and was woozy from the blood loss, but thankfully none of her wounds seemed too serious. \nAlijandra nearly jumped out of her skin when Ailani’s head popped back up with a splash. She threw a braided algae sack onto the rock before climbing out and exposing its contents: Two fish, a clump of edible algae, and a vine of sourberries. Alijandra’s stomach growled again at the sight, which made Ailani freeze up. “That was my stomach,” clarified Alijandra quickly, “It makes that sound when I’m hungry.” \nAilani looked dubious yet intrigued. “All humans?” \nAlijandra nodded, which made Ailani burst into laughter. “You cannot blame us for thinking you’re monsters when your stomachs growl so!” she said before passing a fish to Alijandra, along with half of the algae and sourberries. Alijandra placed her fish by the fire and nibbled the rest while she waited. “Why do you do that?” asked Ailani, gesturing with her chin to the fish cooking by the fire. \n“It makes it safe to eat. Humans can get sick from raw fish.” \nAilani tried to hide her annoyance at this. So they encroach on our waters for fish they cannot eat without special treatment… She shrugged off the thought and began to eat her raw fish. Alijandra, in turn, tried to hide her fear every time she saw Ailani’s sharp, pointed teeth pierce through the fish like it was nothing. \nAnd so they ate, each too intrigued by the other to allow their discomfort to end the conversation. They asked each other question after question about the differences between their species, their histories, what it was like to live underwater, what it was like to live on land, and many more, until they could barely keep their eyes open. \n“You’re not going to kill me in my sleep, are you?” asked Alijandra half-jokingly as she settled back down on the cave floor. \n“Only if you try to kill me in mine.” \n“Fair enough.” \nAilani slipped back into the water, popping her head up only to say “Good sleep to you.” \n“You too.” \nEventually, the two creatures drifted off into a deep sleep. Tomorrow they would try to figure out a way to convince their peoples to coexist peacefully. Perhaps they could work out a system of trading crops for fish. But that was a worry for tomorrow. For now, two monsters had shed their masks and discovered that the face staring back at them wasn’t so terrible 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: To Whom It May Concern\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1390\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite from the point of view of a character writing a letter to their past or future self." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“What the fuck do you want?”\n\nThe question Jimmy’s brother asked was straightforward. The answer, however, was not. \n\n“My teacher—you see—my teacher, she gave us an assignment. I'm supposed to write a letter or something like that,” Jimmy replied, rambling while trying to maintain his composure. “And I thought you…”\n\n“Get the fuck out of here, you piece of shit. I don’t care about your fucking teacher or your goddamn assignment.”\n\nJimmy had thought his commonality with Jamaal would be an asset but, in an instant, he started doubting the choice. The two brothers had almost identical origin stories. Both had attended Jefferson high school. Both played on the varsity football team, and Jimmy had quickly become one of Ms. Silverman’s favorite students—just like Jamaal had been ten years earlier. Jimmy faithfully did his homework and listened to his mother, but so had Jamaal and yet later, Jimmy’s older brother had joined a gang, killed a man, and was now rotting in the state penitentiary. \n\nAs a youth, like most younger brothers, Jimmy had thousands of questions and, no matter what, Jamaal always had time to answer. It was a child’s memory that had brought Jimmy to Jamaal but the adult reality was far different. Walking into the prison had made Jimmy uncomfortable, being guided to the visitors room even more so, but seeing what had become of Jamaal was almost unbearable. With every fiber of his being, Jimmy wanted to hang up the phone and walk out the same door he had walked in, but for some reason he stayed.\n\n\n * * * * * * * * * * \n\n\nMs. Silverman had given the class an assignment. She had been teaching Creative Writing and made a point to tie all work to a useful skill the students might need in the future.\n\n“Creative writing,” she had said at the beginning of class, “is the gateway to polite society. Whether it be a resume, a project proposal, or even a letter, your writing will become your way of introducing yourself and overcoming a world prone to prejudicial misconceptions.” \n\nThe rest of the class descended into discussions about Instagram posts, Discord chat rooms, and greeting card notes, but the students were engaged. \n\n“I want everyone to write a letter to themselves,” she said, just before the bell rang. “It can either be to your ten year younger self or to your ten year older self.\n\n“Why?” Jimmy asked.\n\n“Because today is just a snapshot in time,” Ms. Silverman answered. “The journey is what’s important. How did you get to this moment? What does today tell you about tomorrow? It’s about time you knuckleheads thought about more than what you’re going to do this weekend.”\n\nMs. Silverman always called her students knuckleheads but she didn’t mean it, and her students knew it. They would talk shit about Mr. Briscoe in gym class and comment on how fine Ms. Gardner looked in her tight sweater, but no one disrespected Ms. Silverman. \n\n“Ms. Silverman, do you have a few minutes?”\n\n“Of course, Jimmy. What can I do for you?”\n\n“I don’t like the assignment,” Jimmy began. “It isn’t real. I can’t change the past or predict the future.\n\n“It could help improve your writing, Jimmy. You have so much potential. Just like—” Ms. Silverman paused mid-sentence. “I tell you what. Make me a better offer. What would you like to write?”\n\n“I want to write a letter from my ten-year-older self to myself today.\n\n“Advice to you, from you?”\n\n”Exactly, would that be okay?”\n\n“That’s a fantastic idea, Jimmy. I wish I had thought of it myself.”\n\n“I could go see Jamaal,” Jimmy said, as he stood to leave.\n\n“Jamaal?” \n\n“Yeah, he was just like me. Maybe I won’t. I don’t know. Thanks for your time, Ms. S. I’ll see you on Monday.”\n\n\n* * * * * * * * * * \n\n\n“Three questions,” Jamaal said, holding up the appropriate fingers on his right hand. “Then you get the fuck out of here and don’t ever come back.” \n\nWhat am I doing here? Jimmy thought to himself as he tried to figure out which three questions to ask his brother. Jamaal looked nothing like what Jimmy remembered. He had a prison tattoo on his neck and the letters K.I.L.L. inked just below the knuckles on his right hand. I’m so many ways Jamaal seemed to be the last person to go to for advice but Jimmy was going to try anyway.\n\n“What would you do differently if you had the chance?” Jimmy asked, finding his voice.\n\n“I wouldn’t get caught,” Jamaal answered with a grin, “What the fuck kind of question is that? What do you want me to say? I wouldn’t have killed that fucker? He had it coming. When you’re in a gang, little brother, it’s about respect. That piece of shit flipped me off—so I shot him.” Jamaal leaned back in his chair, made a gun with his thumb and finger, and pretended to pull the trigger. “That’s one.”\n\n“That’s what you regret? Getting caught?” Jimmy asked, horrified by the answer. “You wouldn’t change anything else?”\n\n“Well, fuck yeah I would,” Jamaal answered, making a fist and flexing his biceps. “I would have lifted more weights and come in here stronger. There are two types of motherfuckers in prison: those who get their dicks sucked and those who suck dick. If you don’t want to be a cocksucker, get strong. It’s better to have a bitch than to be one, know what I’m sayin’??” Jamaal sat back in his chair and clicked his tongue. “That’s two.”\n\n“So I have no hope?”\n\n“Hope? Fuck no. You’re black, poor, and stupid.”\n\n“I’m not stupid. You weren’t either!”\n\n“Shut the fuck up, bitch. You want advice? Join a fucking gang. Get strong because I’m your future.”\n\n“But—”\n\n“But nothing. That’s three,” Jamaal said as he hung up the phone and stood up. “Guard! Get me the fuck out of here. This pussy is pissing me off.”\n\n\n * * * * * * * * * * \n\n\n“Did you see your brother?” Ms. Silverman asked Jimmy as he turned in his letter.\n\n“Yes. He told me I didn’t have many choices.”\n\n“Oh no, Jimmy, I hope he didn’t…”\n\n“It’s okay, Ms. Silverman, he helped me a lot. I couldn’t have written this letter without him,” Jimmy said, handing Ms. Silverman an envelope. On the outside in block letters, it simply read: “To Jimmy, from Jimmy.” \n\nMs. Silverman pulled out the letter, adjusted her glasses and began to read. \n\n“You wrote this?” Ms. Silverman asked.\n\n“Yes, why?”\n\n“You’re seventeen.” Ms. Silverman looked back at the letter.\n\n“I know, but it’s supposed to be from me in ten years.”\n\n“Would you read it to the class?”\n\n“I can’t.”\n\n“The person who wrote this letter can,” Ms. Silverman assured him with her trademark smile and wink.\n\n“Okay.” Jimmy said, relenting and taking the letter back from Ms. Silverman.\n\n“Class, a few of you have been asked to share your letters with the class. I’d like Jimmy to go first.” \n\nJimmy cleared his throat and began. \n\nDear Jimmy,\n\nAs I thought about what advice I’d give you, I kept coming back to one basic fact: I don’t exist, not yet. No future is set by circumstance, no outcome is preordained. You will create me with every decision you make for the next ten years. You will determine our character, our personality, our ideas, our dreams, and our future. I think it’s also important to understand that it’s not just the choices we make but also the ones we don’t. But it will take courage. The kind of courage to stand up to peer pressure, to defy low expectations, to see the path that diverges in the woods and take the road less traveled. I guess what it really comes down to is who do you want us to be? Figure that out because the answer to that question will guide all the choices you make. You get to decide. When you do, your path, your choices, and your future will be clear. I am here waiting. I’ll see you in ten years.\n\nJimmy\n\nFinished with the letter, Jimmy looked up and around the room. All he heard was collective silence and all he felt was unexpected hope." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 did it, baby girl!\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1305\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite from the point of view of a character writing a letter to their past or future self." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Hey Baby C (Do I still go by that? Can I call you Baby C seeing as you are older than me?),\nI'm not sure how to address this letter. I'm not sure I'm committed to the idea, but I'm doing it. How are you? No, how are you really? Don't say fine because you want the questions to stop or you don't want to think about it. I know you, intimately, so don't bullshit me. I have a lot of questions and they're all heavy. Either I'm doing well enough to answer them, or I haven't thought about them in so long that I need this letter to kick me in the ass. \nDo I ever figure it out? Or rather do I get off my ass and try to figure it out? I have this crippling fear of failure but I also struggle with wading through the overwhelming weight of procrastination. Have I sat back and let life pass me by? Depressed, miserable, and jaded working a job I hate, in a shared space I despise, holding on to tendrils of family relationships that no longer serve me. Have I gotten away from her? Am I still wavering between the ‘I should love her, so I'm gonna hurt’ or have I finally reached ‘the pain and bloodline aren't worth the suffering’?\nI am so aware of my struggles now. I know what doesn't serve me, yet I am taking no steps to make changes or move forward. What am I so afraid of? Do I ever get past this fear to start living my life, as I like? Do I start taking steps to be me? Me without suppression, assimilation, or \nHave I figured out how to be happy? What I really need to know: is happiness ever attainable for me? I need to know one day I gt there. I am not suicidal, but I also cannot see continuing down this path to never reach peace. I can’t. I can’t live like that. \nI’m not completely hopeless. I know even if I wait the longest amount of time to open this I’ll be 36, exactly double my age now. I know I am impatient and too curious for my own good so I wonder how long I’ll make it before ripping this open? I’ll aim for 18 years but settle for 10 if need be. \nWhat is 25 like? Or 28? Or 30? Or 36 depending on when I remember/ find this letter and how long I am willing to quell my curiosity. What are the lessons I’ve learned since I left school and entered the world? What are lessons each age has taught me and if I haven’t made it to some of them yet, what do I hope to learn and accomplish? \nI can say now this is pretty cathartic. Letting out all the despair as I plan the rest of my life. I can now say I like this idea. I didn't believe it at the beginning but I’m fully invested now. Who knew Mr. Thompson was right? \nI spent so much time on the heavy I want to get into some memory tests. Can I remember all of my teachers from the past 4 years? What is the class song and flower? Where is the prom going to be held? What color is my dress? What is the date of graduation? I’ve gone over this information so much and seen these teachers every day for 4 years (in some capacity, this is a small school). I’m so invested in choosing a song, flower, and dress (Forever Young, Lily, Pink surprisingly). To date the most important decisions of my lifetime. They have to be perfect because these will be my life memories. All these memories lead up to the one date when my life as I know it will change. I will never come back to this place and that is unfathomable currently.\nI’ve memorialized my fears for the future, should I say how the world is currently? Habits I have now? My current likes, wants, and needs to see how they change in 10-18 years? Well let’s begin: I am 18 years old. I have a 3.7 GPA, and I am currently writing this letter for Mr. Thompson’s 3rd period AP English class. We’ll submit them and he’ll return them to us sealed with our grades on a separate form. Once we have them we will then do with them what we want; hide them ourselves. I plan on bringing this with me to college so I do not leave it packed up in my house. Putting it someplace I think about a lot now and as time goes on I pass by less and less and then in 50 years as new owners are cleaning out the house they find it and get to experience my senior year despair.\nI am currently part of the AP society readers; basically a reading after-school program for us nerds who want to read contemporary lit for free. I plan on attending Monroe State University. I haven’t picked a major but I’m hoping something comes to me soon. I spend most afternoons after school reading for society in the school library with the other members, my friends Davie, Megan, Curtis, and Pam. I spend weekends at the library reading too. I love books, I love being immersed in a story. I recently found a website where you can read stories on the computer. We do not have a computer but I can probably use the computers at college to keep reading online. It’s cool!\nAs nervous as I am about the future, I am excited to see new things. Leaving town, the state, and going somewhere new. Hopefully, I’ll get to see other parts of the country, other countries, places only the travel books have explored. I'm excited to be free from the thumb of those that only give me attention when they want to mold me into something I’ll never be and shun me when I’m not receptive to their vitriol. I just hope the future brings me peace. \nI’m going to end it here. From one Baby C to another (maybe), do it for me. I love you. \nShe stares down at the now tear-ridden letter. Not so much because the letter is sad it’s just…. Emotional. She can see what she can now identify as anxiety-riddled throughout this letter. She can she the tenacious young fighter she had to be and know now that fighting spirit did save her. She was in so many situations where she had to rely on herself for so long that she did have to learn to put that fighter in her back pocket, close but not always needed. \nShe did end up forgetting about the letter, in pieces. It would come to her mind randomly throughout the years: when she’s supposed to be cleaning the house, doing laundry, or really buckling down getting work done. But she cannot pinpoint anytime in the past few years she’s thought about it. But today on her 36th birthday an alarm went off on her phone, with detailed instructions on where to find said letter. And there it was, with all her other important documents, passport, birth certificate, and social security card, a little tattered and graying just resting at the bottom of the box. \nShe gets and grabs a pen and paper, and sits back at her desk.\nHey Baby C (You can still call me that),\nYou did it, baby girl! You found happiness. It was so much work but you’ve made it to a place where your day-to-day brings peace. She pauses and lets that statement settle. Her eyes well, her breath shaky and she smiles as more tears litter the return letter." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: WE CAN BE RUNAWAYS TOGETHER\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2056\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character discovering a surprising strength in either themself or another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I wanted to walk fast but I could not. Each time I took a step, a sharp pain struck as if shocking me with my teeth clenched hard, sure they would shutter. It had been three hours of walking, a walk that normally took me an hour stretched to hours of agony and pain. My hand was raised, wiping away my tears with the back of my shaking hand.\nAsk me how I was still standing and I would not tell you, but I kept moving until I saw the school gates. I moved a bit faster, knowing I was in no way presentable for school, but what could I do?\nIt was fifth period already, quickly wiping my face off all the sweat and tears along with the blood.\nThe corridors were so quiet and if I did not know better I would guess it was empty, but I knew better.\nThe school had just begun operating last year. It was the only school for miles with a population of three hundred learners, ninety-nine point three percent being males. I opened the door as gently as I possibly could but it was of metal thus it was futile, the thing making so much noise I knew I would be in for it.\nThe door opened, walking in with my head cast down. I wanted to hurry, did not want to disturb the class but my injuries prevented me from doing so. None the less, I rushed as fast as I could and made it to the back of the classroom where I took my seat and finally exhaled. The class had went still, my eyes cast down, just praying they would go on with the lesson and, luckily for me, they did so.\nMy eyes trailed to my hands which rested on the table. The bruises where the thick leather bull whip had passed as I had tried to cover my body burned as if oil had been poured on them. Just staring at them had fresh tears burn in my eyes, but I pushed them back because what would crying help me with. I wiped away fresh blood that had seeped from my open cuts and adjusted my seat, but my butt had got the worst of the lashes thus it just left me trembling badly.\nI could hear the teacher talking but everything was just spinning all around me and I could barely keep steady.\nI had no books, no exercises, which always got me in a lot of trouble.\nWhy was I still continuing with this?\nWith the limited spots available at the school, females were discouraged from continuing in high school. Learning was still new in my village and it was a constant struggle even for the boys themselves. Our parents did not see the use of it, but none the less, took what the missionaries had preached on the opening day of the school. The only thing that had persuaded the parents in the village to take their children to school was the promise that the children would get jobs after and have money to buy cattle, which was what wealth was measured by in the village.\nFemales, on the other hand, were supposed to do house chores, and find a husband just as they hit puberty. I was beyond that. My two sisters had been married off at the age of fourteen and I was free because of God’s grace. Thinking about it had more tears pool. You would think that years and years of abuse would deem me numb, but I was not and I was starting to give up. Each day I was given an ultimatum to stop going to school or endure hell, yet each day I picked hell. Each day I took all the work and beatings thrown at me to prevent me from going, yet still, I made it to class after all.\nI had no support with the only thing on my side being my brain, but even it was not enough at that point. I wasn’t learning anything in class. I could not write assignments and get feedback. I just sat in that chair and fought my tears back each and every day.\nThe bell rang out loud, having my ears whistle with me clenching my teeth. My eyes opened and I saw the beats of blood collecting under my tiny desk. I was shaking so bad and I knew I had reached my limit.\nNo one helped, no one cared because they all knew my situation and agreed with my father. All the teachers were male and could not understand why I kept coming back to school.\n“You are hindering a boy from coming to school who will actually be something. Look at how old you are. You are a shame to your family.” Mr. Gwebu had said one afternoon when I had walked into his class bruised and battered as always.\nTo everyone’s eyes, I was being disrespectful. In the community, they all sympathized with my parents because I was refusing to get married and plain right disrespecting them. Parents are always right. You should always listen when your parents talk, never talk back and never disagree. The words echoed in my head like a broken record playing over and over again.\nSome of my classmates went out to buy lunch outside the school gates but most just walked around chatting with friends. Most parents could not afford to buy their children school uniforms, none the less, give them money for lunch. Those that could afford that, was because their parents had sold a lot of cattle in order to buy them whatever they would need all through their school years.\nIt was a sight for sore eyes if you asked me. I would marvel at pictures in various books where school children would be happy, wearing proper school uniforms while we, on the other hand were a charity needing saving. The missionaries from the United States had built the school and equipped it with furniture and that being that. Only the teachers had books, but some of the parents would go to the city to buy exercises and books for their children so they could practice what they had learnt.\nMore and more of my classmates filed out until nothing but silence filled the classroom. My heart was beating too hard for its own good and I decided to just close my eyes and let whatever happens to happen. I was tired, I was tired of fighting and I could not do it anymore. I could not take it anymore. I was breaking and giving up.\nMr. Mthembu had extended his invitation to marry me a few weeks back. I knew after him no one would take me. I was ruined in the eyes of the whole community. No one wanted a wife that would not respect and take orders. No one wanted a woman who knew that it was wrong to be oppressed in the way our mothers and grandmothers were. Mr. Mthembu was old, already having four wives, and I would be the fifth and the second oldest. He had offered my father thirteen cows for me which had been why the beatings had got severe in the past weeks since I refused to take the last marriage offer I would probably get.\nMy head tipped up suddenly as I felt a hand on my thigh. A shiver ran up my body, my eyes wide open in fright of who it might be, but as I stared down at my thigh I saw a piece of bread being placed there. My heart stopped beating, I promise you, my lips trembling because I had not had a meal in four full days. Green mold was covering the corners of the bread but the tears could not help but fall.\nI turned to stare at the person who had scooted closer to me. In her hand was a small piece of bread with her large eyes on me.\nMbalenhle was the only other female in the whole school. She was not from my community and she got the same treatment as I did, totally ignored. Her clothes were always dirty and she had such a bad odor they always threatened to kick her out of class, but she always stood her ground and told them she had the right to learn no matter how bad she looked and smelled.\nShe was part of the reason why I kept fighting, because I knew that she was fighting her own battle. If she could keep coming to school, then I could do that too.\nShe wore the jersey and tunic we had been given when we started primary school five years ago. We had both already been in our teens, so it could still fit but barely. It had large holes in it just like mine, stains that could no longer be removed and could barely be called clothing, but it was all we both had.\n“T—h…” I could barely speak, my lips closing shut with her nodding her head in understanding. She brought her piece to her mouth and bit as I did the same. It was the greatest thing that had happened to me in months. My eyes closed but soon the small piece of bread was gone with the hunger having intensified.\n“Is your home situation getting worse?” She asked me and I swallowed before nodding my head.\nShe said nothing back, minutes of silence passing between us until she spoke again.\n“Have you reached eighteen?”\n“Yes.” I answered, just feeling better to be talking to someone.\n“You no longer need your parents, you can sign your own school papers.” She commented, with me frowning. Where was she taking this?\n“You can leave. I turned eighteen last year and left home. I don’t have a proper place to live, but it’s better than being married off to an old man. It’s better than being nearly killed by my father with his bare hands. I decided to leave and on weekends I walk to the city, wash people’s clothes to make some money which I use to get by with.” She finished as I turned to stare at her.\nI could not believe her words, chewing on them. The city was six hours from our village. I could not imagine anyone doing what she was saying. I could not believe it, yet as I stared at her face I saw that she was not joking. She had this fire in her and I just knew she could do it. It was as if I was staring at her for the first time. I saw her strength, saw her determination and it warmed me up. I suddenly realized there was no way I was giving up. There was no way I would let my father win after all these years of his abuse. I had a dream and I dreamed of finding a job. I would not buy cows with my money but I would buy myself a house in which I would not need a man to dictate my life. I wanted my children to have a better life than I had. I did not want to just be a man’s door mat where he would wipe his dirty feet any time he wanted. I wanted more, I needed more. Life could not be just that awful. Being a woman did not condemn me to just being a slave.\nI slowly stretched my hand, grabbed Mbalehle’s and squeezed it.\n“Where do you sleep?” I asked her with her smile growing.\n“Behind the school toilets.” She said, with me nodding my head. It made sense. The school gates were locked after six which made it the safest place for us to sleep. I nodded my head, biting my lip.\n“Can I please stay with you?” I asked her, my heart drumming hard and she brightened up like a Christmas tree.\n“Yes you can” She nod her head with me smiling for the first time in a long time. I knew the way would get even harder from there but I was not alone anymore and there was nothing that would stop us from getting the education and life we deserved." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Staked Plains Butcher and the Prairie Flower\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2964\n\nPrompt:\n\nYou confront the monster you’ve spent many long years hunting. Except they’re not exactly what you thought they’d be…" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The day was April 15, 1867, in the Texas swath of the Llano Estacado running from Northern Mexico to Canada. For two years I’d been following a trail of slaughtered Comanche, engaging any demonic fiends that sought to feed on what was left. Every victim I’d found had been scalped and disfigured, unrecognizable as human. And sometimes that was before they’d been defiled by the teeth of unholy scavengers.\n…\nThe last gunshot echoed across the moonlit valley of death that Abraham Strockland stood in the midst of, smoke curling from the large ebony revolver in his hand. Ahead of him, past the disfigured bodies of the Quahadi squaws that peppered the bone dry gulch, was a shambling form holding its bleeding gut, narrow bony back presented to the gunslinger as it struggled to stand. It looked like a sickly old man, naked save for the thick greasy brown fur covering its flesh. Surrounding it were its allies, four beasts of its own kind, lying beside the corpses they’d been scavenging as their heads soaked in the slimy contents of their own ruptured brain pans.\n“You’ve killed your last human, bitch of Thuvik.”\nIt turned its head, shaped like that of a ferocious wild dog, black eyes filled with rage as its snarling snout dripped with blood. The face of a Felgor Coyote, a cousin of the werewolf. This creature was a pure form of evil that sought only to fill its gut with human gore. It curled its lip with a growl and began barking at Strockland before his pistol fired, cratering its left eye and bursting the back of its skull in a black haze.\nAs the echo died over the grassy hills, Strockland gandered at the disfigured Quahadi women, ravaged children, and hollow horse carcasses sprawled around him, a number of them cleaned of their innards by the demonic scavengers now laying dead in their midst. Daisy voiced her discomfort with a neigh.\n“Easy girl,” Strockland said, giving the ivory mare a pat on the nose and a kiss upon her snow white mane. “I told you they wouldn’t get you, didn’t I?”\nThe wail of an infant reached past the ringing of his ears, drawing his eye to a fallen woman just beyond the dead ranks of the Felgor werecoyotes.\nThe poor girl’s immense beauty made the horrid violence committed against her an even greater crime. Despite the deep craters stabbed into her body and ruby scalp laid bare of flesh and hair, she was still trying to crawl as she clutched a wrapped infant to her breast. Her love for the weeping babe was giving her one last ounce of life.\n As Strockland approached, she raised her pretty brown eyes into his pale blues, using the last of her strength to push the weeping infant towards him, its body wrapped in cloth so that only its tiny scarlet face was exposed.\n“My husband,” she said in Shoshoni, the dialect of the Comanche. “War Chief Puhihwikwasu'u, Iron Jacket, return her to him…please.”\n“You have my word,” Strockland said, a hand on her slender shoulder.\nShe smiled at the tall man before reaching her hand out and caressing the face of her crying child. “You have my love, Topsannah.”\nThe beautiful young woman took her last breath and laid still, a smile of love etched across her cheeks until her day of decay.\n…\nIt was all wrong. Killing those Felgor Coyotes brought me no pleasure. No matter how much I would try to convince myself, I knew the truth. The coyotes didn’t kill those Comanche. They had only been picking the scraps of a far worse monster.\n…\nStrockland rode through the next half day with Topsannah in his arms, the babe having slumbered since the first sliver of sunlight rose from behind the eastern horizon and the heat crept in behind it. When he caught the glimpse of a roofline miles over the grassy prairie, he used his free hand to check the ammo load of both his pistols. After seeing the gleaming silver .45 rounds were loaded to his liking, he returned the pitch black instruments to their holster. \nThe tiny silver crucifix he wore thrummed like a quivering arrow against his tanned neck and as he brought his hand to it, he understood what it meant. The trail ended there. He glanced down into the face of the slumbering infant in his arm as an intrusive shadow of doubt creeped into his mind, making him wonder if he could adequately defend her from the horrid butcher living there. \nHe shook off the gloomy rumination immediately. He couldn’t just take Topsannah to Puhihwikwasu'u. After all, there wasn’t a way of knowing where in all of the Llano Estacado he was. He was sure to be in Texas, but only God knew where. The quivering cross on his neck told him that Puhihwikwasu’u would find or had already found the bodies of his wife and those of the other squaws bleeding out in that valley. The Felgor would’ve turned to dust by now, leaving little evidence as to who had caused such butchery.\nHowever, before leaving, the cross had also told him to leave a note for Puhihwikwasu’u because the chief could both read and speak Spanish thanks to many of the Mexican women he’d taken captive over the years. So, Strockland obeyed its direction as he always had and pointed the war chief to the cabin, the very cabin he was now in the threshold of.\nThe yard hadn’t been tended to for quite some time and the plains had reclaimed much of what was there, growing over an old plow, a garden, and a splitting block that had the rusty head of an ax buried within. The cabin showed signs of weathering from the Texas heat and perhaps even the occasional Blue Norther beating, but wasn’t very old. The timber still retained its strong whitish brown color.\nStrockland slipped from Daisy’s back, Topsannah still cradled in his right arm as he approached the front porch, a sight in the corner of his eye stopping him in his tracks.\nOff to the right of the porch was the only grassless square of land around, populated with three wooden markers ordered in descending size, words carved into each one.\nThe tallest of the three had the following words carved into it: Here lies Margaret Ann Thatcher, beloved wife and mother. August 15, 1836- April 9, 1865.\nThe middle, standing nearly as tall as the first, bore words of its own: Here lies Thomas Howard Thatcher Jr., beloved son. June 8, 1852- April 9, 1865.\nThe last gave Strockland the most pause, his stomach pitting more as he read it.\nHere lies Amber Margaret Thatcher, most precious and beloved daughter. December 27, 1864- April 9, 1865.\nAbraham Strockland read them all over again before he removed his beige hat with his free hand, closed his eyes as he knelt at the foot of the gravesite, placed the hat over his heart, and said a prayer over the poor souls resting in the earth before him. He asked God to bless those beloved and asked that they find comfort in His embrace. When he rose, he returned his hat to his head and climbed up the stairs of the front porch, hand clutching to his right pistol.\nDaisy neighed.\n“I’ll be fine, girl,” Strockland said.\nHe walked across the creaky porch before reaching out and wrapping upon the sturdy wooden door. The silver crucifix quivered like a strummed guitar string as the silence lurked over him. The dread in his stomach was so thick it was like a knife in his guts as he reached out and wrapped the door again, feeling the hefty pounding in his boots. This house bled with hatred and sorrow, oozing from every wall.\n“Mr. Thatcher?” Strockland called, wrapping again. “Is there anyone there?”\nThe silent dread returned.\nStrockland pushed the door, peeping in as it creaked open. Inside small spears of light stabbed through the roof and cut through the darkness, making lingering dust sparkle as it drifted through the stale air. On the right side of the room was a large bed made of lumber and beside it was another that was much smaller. At the foot of both was a sturdy crib of timber, glossed and shining. All of them were as well made as they were empty.\nStrockland stepped in, catching the glimpse of a firepit in the middle of the room, a shadowy man sitting before it with his back to the door as the flames ignited his flickering penumbra. The crucifix was buzzing like an angry bee around the gunslinger’s neck.\n“Are you Thomas Thatcher?” Strockland asked, sidestepping a wooden four by four holding the roof up. “Mr. Thatcher, I hate to intrude, but I’ve been traveling the plains for many days and need directions as well as a quick bit of rest if you wouldn’t mind.”\nThe man was twisting something in his right hand, the room filled with the smell of cooking meat as the fire hissed like a cluster of serpents. Strockland stepped back to the crib before laying the still slumbering Topsannah within, the babe yawning as the tall gunslinger turned away and approached the man he called Mr. Thatcher.\nAs Strockland grew closer, he saw little wooden figures of soldiers and carved cowboys lined up on a small table to his left, worn with use and covered in dust. On either side of Thatcher were piles of what looked like pelts and in his right hand was a stick he rotated over the blaze, sure to evenly apply the heat to whatever it was dwelling at its end. \nStrockland paused as he made out exactly it was roasting on the end of Thatcher’s stick.\nA scalp with long dark hair, glops of grease plummeting into the bowels of the fire with a sharp hiss. Without looking at Strockland, the man plopped the hairy piece of flesh onto the pile at his right side. Not animal pelts, but dozens of scalps of various sizes, many of them fresh and bloody. Strockland was able to pick out many that were too small to belong to any adult.\n“Mr. Thatcher, did you collect these yourself?”\nThe man grabbed a fresh scalp and ran the point of the stick through the middle before letting it hover over the glowing inferno.\n“Is that your family buried out front?”\nThatcher turned the scalp over as the flames licked up the leaking ichor. Strockland knelt down beside him and looked into his eyes, seeing that they were completely glazed over and blinking as scarcely as water flowed in the Mojave Desert. His hard face was beat red, the peeling flesh on his cheeks detailing the abuse the sun had delt his once pale cheeks.\n“The Comanche, were they responsible?”\nStrockland’s eyes lowered to the Henry Repeater laying across Thatcher’s knees, brown specks of blood sprinkled across the barrel, black gunpowder streaks staining the end, a sign of high use and no cleaning. The only way to get that much blood on one's weapon is by execution, up close.\nThe fire hissed as a fat glob of grease slid from the scalp and struck a pulsing log. The cross on Strockland’s neck thrummed again, making him sigh.\n“Mr. Thatcher, I’m not going to lie to you and pretend I understand the pain you're in right now. I’m not going to shower you with empty platitudes and pointless sympathy. I won’t even go on to accuse you of the butchery I know you’ve done, but I will give you honesty.”\nStrockland pulled a silvery locket from his pocket and cracked it open, holding out the little images of a boy and a woman inside. \n“This is my greatest fear. I fear everyday that if I lose them, I’ll look something like you. Numb to the hate. I might not know the pain you feel, but I fear it so. I don’t know what the answer to that kind of rage is. But I know that it makes you forget what’s important. This isn’t the man your wife married, nor is it the man your children called ‘father’. You aren’t even you anymore, Mr. Thatcher. You’re more like the kind I’ve been charged to hunt across this God forsaken wasteland.\n“And right now, what you’re doing is only making the evil terrorizing this land stronger. You’re putting my beloved in danger and I can’t let you do that. Nor can I let you avenge yourself upon the innocent.”\nStrockland stood up, reached beneath the back of his long beige trench coat, and fingered a small lever that released the huge silver knife he wore from its sheath. He placed an affectionate hand on Thatcher’s shoulder and twirled the knife into a reverse grip as the grieved man continued to tan the Comanche scalp. “I’m sorry.”\nStrockland lifted the blade into the air and brought it down on Thomas Thatcher’s neck as Baby Topsannah continued to sleep.\n…\nI believe that Mr. Thatcher was trying to say something in his final moments, for I saw the slightest silent twitch of his lips. A prayer perhaps. Of repentance so he could join his family in the great beyond. Or perhaps it was just my own imagination trying to put my heart at ease.\n…\nWhen Puhihwikwasu'u arrived with a band of a dozen horseback braves, Strockland was seated upon the steps of Mr. Thatcher’s porch, waiting.\nThe chief’s dark face was as hard as the iron described in his name, the deep grooves accentuating the rage dwelling in his eyes. Strockland was reminded of the late Thomas Thatcher as he studied the approaching brave. The white gunslinger raised his hand as a sign of peace and rose to his feet as the Quahadi warriors formed a wall in front of him, the Iron Jacket himself in the center, his black steed trotting to meet Strockland.\n“Tu habla Shoshoni?” Puhihwikwasu’u asked. \n“Si, yo habla muy bien,” Strockland answered.\n“You are the one that left the note?” \n“I am.” Strockland presented Topsannah to her father. The glaze in the war chief’s eyes vanished within his softening expression as he slid from his saddle and took the quiet babe in his arms. \n“The daiboo’ who killed my wife,” Puhihwikwasu'u said, looking Strockland in the eye. “Does he dwell there?”\n“No,” Strockland said, gesturing to the gravesite beside them, a tall fourth marker beside the three. “He sleeps with his family now. I saw to that.”\nPuhihwikwasu'u sneered. “You stole my revenge from me, daiboo’.”\n“There will be no revenge, Puhihwikwasu'u. Revenge is what got us in this mess in the first place.”\n“The daiboo’ have taken everything from us. The buffalo, our families. We will return them what they paid us.”\n“And when will you stop, O chief? When you’re even? Well, let me tell you something, I’ve been all over this prairie land and I can tell you there isn’t a lick of even ground anywhere out here. You’ll kill them, they’ll kill you, each one saying they just want to get even. It ain’t happened yet and it never will. What we have to focus on now is the real enemy.”\nStrockland pulled the curved knife of the Felgor from his belt and held it out to Puhihwikwasu'u.\n“I know you’ve seen them. The enemy is advancing. The real enemy. You may still be the Lords of the Plains, but this is the truth. These wars with the Daiboo’ have weakened you and the old lords have returned to finish you off. But we need you, even if all of us don’t know it yet. The enemy will hunt down all of humanity until his revenge against the Great Spirit is complete. A war with the white men to the east will only end in more death and make the real enemy grow in strength. Unless we take steps to end these wars and begin fighting the evil spirits invading our world, all peoples will be wiped out. Daiboo’ and the Nermernuh.”\nPuhihwikwasu'u retrieved the knife with his left hand, inspecting it with a narrow gaze before looking to the sleeping infant cooing just below his head. She opened her little eyes and smiled at the familiar face lingering above hers, provoking the war chief to smile back before lowering the knife.\n“Till we meet again, Daiboo’,” He said, returning to his steed and stepping into the saddle. “We go to prepare for the enemy.”\nThe two gave a salute before Puhihwikwasu'u pulled his horse back and rode in the opposite direction he’d come, his warriors following him over the sprawling Texas plains. Abraham Strockland watched until they became like ants and the sun began its course back west, hovering over the horizon. He took a deep breath and approached the gravesite once more, eyes falling to the newest marker he’d made himself, posted before a mound of dirt bulging higher than the rest.\nHere lies Thomas Howard Thatcher, beloved Husband and Father. March 7, 1826- April 16, 1867.\nAbraham Strockland knelt down, hat in his hand once more, and prayed for the souls of the fallen man and his poor family. He stood up and looked over the west, his crucifix thrumming again. Another task that must be completed in this never ending war that was his life. His eternal crusade. He whistled Daisy over from the right and after giving her a pat, a kiss, and a carrot, he mounted her and rode into the setting sun, holding onto the locket that beheld the images of his own beloved and the source of his greatest fear." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Gretta\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1006\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character discovering a surprising strength in either themself or another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "GRETTA\nLittle Gretta Bunnell from Austin, Minnesota. A girl whose greatest aspiration in elementary school had been to become the next iteration of her teachers. Her frumpy, dreary, bland teachers who were pleasantly content with the slowly suffocating weight of anonymous, irrelevant mediocrity.\nThe epiphany occurred in high school. Freshman year. First semester. Ms. Dowager’s third period PE class.\nIt was a grey September morning. September in Minnesota often meant intermittent snow flurries. Sporadic white flakes drifted and swirled on the cinder track encircling the school’s football field. Ms. Dowager stood wrapped in her coat with a clipboard and a stopwatch in her hands. She timed students as they finished the one-mile time trial. Gretta crossed the finish line and stood panting, her breath white plumes in the frigid air.\nThe results were posted in the girls P.E. locker room the next day. Gretta found her result, then compared it to Erica Summer’s. \nErica Summer was the freshman class It-Girl. A person seemingly born with, well, everything. Beauty, brains, athleticism and talent. Erica had these things and she knew it. She was unaware that she’d become an arrogant snob.\nGretta had shaved 20 seconds off her mile time, Erica only two. Gretta grinned. This was good.\nFeigning a casual attitude, Gretta approached the small knot of girls that always seemed to orbit Erica. She wanted to be part of that orbit and this was her chance. “Hey,” said Gretta. “How’s it going?”\nErica turned. “Uh, fine.”\nGretta maintained a forced smile. “I checked our miles times. I might give you some competition.”\nAn amused grin appeared on Erica’s face. “What’s your name again?”\n“Gretta. We’ve literally been in the same class since second grade.”\n“Gretta,” said Erica. “Listen, dear. You were born in the middle of the pack. It’s where you belong. Don’t try to be something you’re not. Okay darling?” She turned away.\nGretta nodded pleasantly as if she hadn’t been curtly dismissed. Her phony smile barely faltered. “Okay. I’ll see you around.” If anyone heard this, they made no reply.\nGretta walked away. As she exited the P.E. locker room that day an odd sensation gripped her. An alien sensation saturating her guts and making them wriggle. An invisible imp reaching into her chest and squeezing. Her face flushed and her breath became shallow. Sweat beaded her forehead.\nGretta sat through fourth period pre-algebra but didn’t register a second of it. She had checked out of the external world and was fully immersed in her own inner landscape. She replayed the exchange with Erica Summer. Fast-forward. Rewind. Zoom in. Pause. Play. Over and over. Scrutinizing Erica’s contempt. Her derision. Her absolute certainty that Gretta was a separate, inferior and pitiable subspecies. Who was Erica Summers to treat her that way?\nAt last, Gretta interpreted that new sensation bubbling and steaming in her core like a geyser about to erupt. It wasn’t a sense of despondent rejection, as she feared it might be. It wasn’t anger. Not completely. It was a unique motivation that Gretta discovered that day. She understood for the first time that hearing ‘you can’t’ made her decide that ‘I will.’\nGretta wouldn’t try to beat Erica Summer in the spring one-mile time trial. Gretta would humiliate and destroy Erica Summer. She would train until her feet bled and her muscles screamed. She would suffer month after month and mile after mile, battling pain and fatigue until she discovered the furthest limits of ability and tenacity. Then she would train still harder. Gretta understood this clearly as her peers now understood introductory operator precedence (which had been the classroom subject that day).\nAfter school, Gretta went directly to her room. She’d been saving money with daydreams of a used car. The pitiable amount of crumpled ones and fives and loose change was nowhere close to a car. That no longer mattered. Cars were irrelevant. Gretta did have enough money for a pair of running shoes. She collected it and took it downstairs.\n“Mom,” said Gretta. “Can we go to the mall?” \nThe following April, Ms. Dowager again subjected her students to the one-mile trial. It was first period and the sun peeked down at them through a lingering haze. The freshman girls positioned themselves at the starting line. Most gossiped idly or stood looking bored.\nGretta nudged her way to the fore and stood beside Erica.\n“Good luck today,” said Gretta.\n“Uh, yeah,” said Erica, not bothering to make eye contact.\n“Try to keep up.”\nNow Erica turned and looked. This peon was smiling at her. No. Not smiling. It was the joyfully sinister grin of a predator standing over wounded prey. This girl - Gina? Grace? - wasn’t simply willing to run. She was eager to race.\nMs. Dowager liked firing her starter’s pistol and found every reason to do so. She raised it now. “On your mark… Get set…”\nBang! And they were off.\nPace yourself, Gretta thought. She knew it wasn’t a sprint and that if she treated this as such, she’d be gasping by the third lap. But to everyone else it looked like a sprint.\nMs. Dowager noted this and smiled. Someone was showing some spunk. Some real gumption, by god. A damn rare thing freshman P.E. This girl – Gretchen? Gabby? – moved like she’d been fired from a cannon.\nIt was everything Gretta had hoped for and more. Erica tried – no, she struggled! - to keep up during the first lap. The two girls far outpaced all others and completed the first circuit in tandem.\nDuring the second lap, a panting, sweating and straining Erica Summers began to cry. Her pace flagged. For perhaps the first time in her life, she fell behind.\nOn the third lap, Erica Summer, usually as graceful as a young gazelle, stumbled and went sprawling into the cinders. She picked herself up and continued. Ms. Dowager suppressed a smirk.\nWhen Erica Summer began the fourth and final lap, Gretta Bunnell stood and cheered her on.\nGretta had already finished." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Anti-Heroic\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1627\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story during a team building exercise." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: Swearing, a nose bleed, puberty.\n\nThe gym coach points at A Group at the other end of the sports field. “Those lucky sons of b… people. People.” Students familiar with the effects of alcohol know that coach B is recovering from a good time. “Those lucky kids have superpowers. You don’t. You can’t run fast, or fly-”\n Above them the bright sun says it’s tough if you don’t want to sweat, deal with it. Grass beneath is having a bad hair day and balding in places. Clouds have better places to be. If the kids want rain on their parade, tough.\n “But?” Asks one kid wearing a T-shirt that belonged to his older brother.\n “No. That’s it. You’re a basic. Like me. Get ready. Get set. Go nowhere.”\n “Thanks for the encouragement coach, you’re an inspiration.” Says Donald, sighing and hoping no one can see pit stains he inherited.\n “No problem,” Coach Dixon slurs. “Alright. I’m supposed to teach you track. Go.”\n “Where?” Asks Donald, shrugging.\n “How do I know?” Mr Dixon asks, “just run somewhere. I need some water. I’m parched.” With that the coach wearing a ten-year-old tracksuit that was once red wanders off. They all know it’s not water in his bottle. It has vapour trails.\n “Dixon living up to his name again,” says Hilary. She thinks braces make her ugly because her sister teases her. She doesn’t know the boys look at her as voyeurs, not critics. “What do we do then?”\n “Watch A Group enjoying unearned glory?” Says Donald.\n “Shut up Donald, shit, he heard you.” A boy with rampant acne turns away from the powered kids because he knows what’s coming.\n\nArthur ‘Jet’ Jacobs flies towards B Group so fast there’s the crack of a sonic boom.\n “Got a problem with us Donna?” Jacobs asks, prodding Donald in the chest.\n “Just envious Arnold,” says the boy in second hand clothes.\n Arthur’s anger goes perfectly with the costume he has, sponsored by Spike, JUST DID IT. “My name is ARHTUR, moron.”\n “Mine’s DONALD, Adam, nice to meet you.” He smiles as if everything is going to plan. The stomach cramps he’s getting tell a different story.\n “ARTHUR! Say my name properly or I will crush you into the ground.” He’s hovering off the ground, face red from anger and fists clenched.\n Donald looks around and sees that B Group has deserted him, forming a circle at a safe distance. “Killing me sounds like a great way to mess up your scholarship to that academy. That’s your ticket into the big leagues, isn’t it? Marks on your record would screw you completely.”\n Arthur’s face pales. He wants the scholarship more than anything. The academy is the only dream he cares about.\n “I thought so,” said Donald. His smile is genuine now. “Here’s the deal. I hate you. I hate all you superheroes because you got the golden ticket to an awesome life and I got squat. If I tried my hardest for the rest of my life, I could never do what you can.” He wraps a hand around the collar of Arthur’s brand-new costume. “You know what my superpower is?”\n Raising an eyebrow, the flying kid thinks about it. If Donald had powers he’d be in A Group. He’d be popular. He’d be competing with him for the scholarship.\n “My power is that you can’t hurt me.” Donald points to the other kids from B Group. “Any of them could beat the shit out of me and my own dad wouldn’t give a crap. But you, you can’t touch me. Unless you want to be a villain? Do you want to be hunted? Neutered? Imagine never flying again. Imagine the rest of your powers taken away.\n Not having powers sucks. Having them and losing them.” Donald whistles. “That would suck from here to hell.”\n “I should beat you into a pulp. I could drop you from the sky,” says Arthur. He’s incandescent with rage.\n “You could.” Donald nods. “Why don’t you? Hero.” He looks around at Group B. “I tell you what though.” The runt of a boy walks up to another kid called Matt. “You hate me, Matt. Hit me.”\n “What?” Mathew stares at the weirdo who is having a suicidal argument with the strongest super kid in school.\n “Hit me,” says Donald. His face is a sculpture carved from insanity. “Smash my nose dumbass. Hit me.”\n “Get lost Donald,” says Matt pushing him away. The runt pushes back. “I’m serious. Get lost.” The boy in a faded blue T-shirt grabs Matt’s nipple through his shirt and twists it. “What the fuck!” Everyone is watching. Flushed with shame and anger, he balls his hand into a fist.\n “HIT ME DUMBASS,” growls Donald.\n Mathew floors the aggressor with a hook that bursts his nose like a balloon. Blood gushes down his face. The tap keeps pouring as the other kids gasp and swear.\n “Someone got their phone?” Donald asks, spitting out the blood that is flowing into his mouth.\n “Me,” says Hilary.\n “Take a photo.”\n She snaps a shot of him, burst nose, covered in blood. He snatches the phone from her. “Hey,” she yells.\n “I’m sending it to me. Now no one can delete it. It’s in the cloud.” Donald passes the phone back to Hilary.\n Arthur is the personification of confusion. “There is something seriously wrong with you dude.” He hovers higher, taking in the bird’s eye view of Donald’s leaking face.\n “Yeah. But I’ve got you now.” Donald grabs Arthur’s hand and rubs it across his face to cover it in blood. “Try denying you hit me. There’s a photo.”\n “What?” Hilary asks. She’s almost more shocked than the super kid.\n Donald grins, red between his teeth. “Say you’re sorry Alex.”\n “My name is Arthur.”\n “I don’t care. Say you’re sorry to me or I’ll make sure everyone sees that photo. I’ll tell them you did it.”\n “No one will believe you,” says ‘Jet’ Jacobs.\n “Sure? That sounds like a gamble. What’s second place on your dreams list? If you don’t get to be a superhero?” He waits. Arthur isn’t talking. “Exactly. Say you’re sorry and you can go back to your fellow super holes.”\n “I’m not apologising,” says Arthur but all his certainty is gone. He’s not flying.\n “Cool. I’ll go and see the headmaster then. He’ll be disappointed.” Donald shakes his head. “He had such high hopes for you.”\n “Fine!” Arthur growls. “I’m sorry.”\n “What?” Donald cups a hand to his ear. “Didn’t hear you.”\n “I said I’m sorry.”\n “Better, but not quite enough. Tell all of us that you’re sorry. You’re sorry that you were lucky, and they weren’t. It’s not fair.”\n “I’m sorry,” Arthur starts, looking around at B Group.\n “No. Individually.”\n Arthur raises a clenched fist. Donald just waves a hand at the mess of his T-shirt and shrugs. His smile is supervillain perfection. He does have a cat at home, and a swivel chair. The cat is one reason his trainers smell so bad.\n Face burning with shame that a basic human cornered him, Arthur apologises to everyone in Group B. They all nod, hoping it will be over soon. They’re scared of the super kids. Occasionally a kid with powers loses it and it hits the news.\n “Is that enough?” Arthur asks.\n “For now,” Donald says. “Just remember I have that photo and that it’s not going anywhere. Bye Anne. Enjoy the rest of your awesome life.” He waves a twig of a hand, covered in blood.\n Arthur flies away.\n “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Hilary asks, the moment the superhero to be seems far enough away. She knows that Jet Jacobs can still hear them. She also knows that somehow Donald beat him. Covered in blood and looking like crap, he beat the wonderkid.\n “I shouldn’t talk about it,” Donald pretend sobs. “I’m scared what might happen to me.”\n\nHilary runs to catch up with Donald after school. “That was amazing. What you did in gym. You’re crazy.”\n He has cotton up his nose. His face is purple. He’s wearing clothes from the lost and found. “Yeah, well.” He doesn’t know what to say. For one thing he’s liked her for years. He’s trying hard not to think about her, or the word hard. This isn’t the time for an erection, it rarely is but being a teenage boy, hormones don’t care.\n He shrugs.\n “It’s like your superpower,” Hilary says.\n “What is?” He looks at her.\n “Bravery,” she says. She’s blushing. “You didn’t give a shit.”\n “No. Trust me, I almost gave a shit right in my shorts. It was fucking terrifying. I don’t know why I did that. It’s just, coach is right. It’s not fair. I’ll never have a life like Jacobs.” He kicks a stone. The stone bounces off a tyre and smacks him in the shin.\n “You stood up to him, to all of them. He apologised to me. To all of us. You did that. He’s like a god and you made him say sorry. Do you know how powerful I felt right then?” She smiles, showing the white teeth and the braces.\n He wants to kiss her, but he doesn’t even know how.\n “No.”\n “I felt like I could do anything. Thanks for that, Donald.” She kisses his forehead and leans back, blushing.\n He has no response. His loins are trying to pitch a tent so he gives a squeaky, “thank you,” and starts walking away as quickly as he can.\n “See you tomorrow,” she says.\n “Yeah. Yeah.” There should be other words, but he’s thirteen and a girl just kissed him. She has his number. He rounds a corner and starts running. He’s no superhero, but he runs like the wind." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Stranded\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1115\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite from the point of view of a character writing a letter to their past or future self." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Stranded\n The sun is aggressively melting all that is around this ashen landscape which makes my bed today. A breeze blows through the ragged trees and dry twigs shoot from the ground bending to and fro. \n I’m all alone. Afraid of what may happen in the next hours I decide to hum to myself so I don’t fall asleep and miss an opportunity to be found. Instead of a warm soft bed to rest after the fight, I lay in the hard rocky dirt with little vegetation to shade me from this torturing sun. I’m not sure how I got here and I don’t know if I’ll see another day. With the remaining bit of strength available to me, I am writing a short note to whoever finds me or to my future self. An attempt to collect my carelessly thrown schoolbag has allowed me the opportunity to find a sheet of paper which I ripped out from my notebooks and a pen I had loosely left hanging on one of the inside pockets. I now am able to keep myself calm by scribbling these notes and waiting, wishing that I was sitting in cool café sipping fragrant coffee with friends. Except at the moment a bit of water may be a better choice to cool my parched lips and broken body. \n If I could go back to yesterday, what would I have done differently? What else would I do if I could have a tomorrow? By thinking about tomorrow, I hope I could stay awake. If tomorrow comes I have to remember to stay away from trouble. Never should there come a time where in trying to be polite to someone, I avoid running away. In trying to be polite to someone, I enter a dark place that I can’t come out of. Sometimes our capturers wear a warm smile, yet they really have dark intentions. We may know someone but that doesn’t mean they are our friends. It is important to be happy and meet as many interesting people as possible in fact. We should embrace opportunities to laugh and dance, love and be loved because in the act of feeling, the vibrancy of the moment creates the person we would want to be. Though I have attempted to live life well and take opportunities that came my way, there was and will always be some form of regret. Something that could have been done better or shouldn’t have lost so soon. That’s ok, the important thing is that time wasn’t wasted.\nLove is real, don’t lose heart, don’t give up.\n Have courage, keep focused, never look back. If I make it out of this hopelessness I hope I never let the memory of this time effect the potential for my future. It’s often said that we should study the past to avoid future error. Right? Unfortunately, mistakes will still be made. We may have all the answers, but our instincts could still lead us into falling into destructive patterns within complicated scenarios over and over. The pain I feel right now is so great I don’t know if I could hold on. How could I be writing about a future when there seems to be little hope of being discovered. All I want to do is remind myself not to take for granted all that I have had. My studies, my family, my goals. These things are important. Will I ever have a chance to a future? I could really use an angel right now but all I see is an empty sky. With little to do I start remembering a story from a children’s book I use to read quite often when I was getting ready for bed. The story takes place in a military hospital after the second world war. In this hospital at the end of each day, the nurses would distribute medicine to the many patients, and serve the last tea throughout the wards. At that time a silence filled the hallways and rooms. In that silence the patients that were able to fall asleep did, but the others who may have suffered discomfort would only dream of a restful slumber because their discomfort was so extreme these men and women would lie in wait as I do now. In that silence a man walked through the hospital unseen by security guards or nurses. As the story goes, if a patient had their hand raised high and their heart was pure, a man some believed him to be an angel, would ask the patient to rise and walk out with him enabling the patient to be rid of their pain forever. There was a sense of hope in this belief for the patients. They believed this angel opened the door to the gates of heaven and each person that walked with this man, who was more of a shadow than a human, would have eternal peace. I could never understand why this story was included within a bedtime story book. Many years now have passed since I held that old heavy volume of stories in my hands.\n There are many people that believe in reincarnation. Our bodies die but our souls continue. If my soul continues when I die, I hope my soul will remember that I tried to be good. If in a future life if I’m a boy or girl, wealthy or poor, I have to remember to always be wise to the world we see on our daily path. It is important to remember that the eyes of a person do not reflect their true character. Some may argue it is their mouth. Be careful. No matter what reality awaits us our soul will imprint the experience to its essence. Though time changes many superficial and materialistic elements in our lives, I must remember that a wrong decision will always be wrong, and once that decision is made there is little chance of turning back. The right path if taken will promise you a tomorrow. \n Confined to this place, this dirt floor of stone and dry bush, I feel tired. I imagine insects starting to eat away at my skin though I can’t tell for sure because my body is so numb with pain that I can’t feel myself trying to wiggle my toes. I lay here in wait and hope that my memories of this lifetime will shine on in the next existence. If there is one memory I’d make sure to never forget and hope it remains instilled in the deepest core of my essence, it would be to never trust the cute boy with the ketchup stained teeth. He is my 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: We're All just figuring it Out\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2101\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story during a team building exercise." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"On your tables, each group has a large sheet of paper, writing paper, pens and markers, yes?\" asked Marty, the team building and Adventure Ed. leader. The girls sort of half smiled at each other. \"What are you making us do?\" asked Julia,\n\"Well, that's what I'm here to tell you. We're going to do something that will be easy for some and not so easy for some of you, and that may be where the team building comes in.\"\n\"It's not going to embarrass us, will it?\"\n\"I hope not. It's competitive too Julia, so you'll like it! So here's what you're doing. In your groups of four, you're going to share each other's strengths and all the hundreds of positive things about yourselves that you feel will make your team the best.\" She observed a mixed response to the activity. \"Good, so far?\"\n\"Yep...yup...fine...whatever\", answered some.\n\"You're going to write these strengths and positive attributes down and once you have all these incredible things down about each other, your job is to combine them to create one imaginary, \"Ultimate Team Member\".\nThe girls seemed to brighten up and start to talk to their team mates. \"Wait, wait\", Marty interrupted them. \"There's more. This \"person\" should also have a name, a picture drawn of them...\"\n\"Oh man\", sighed Val. \"What if we really can not draw to save our lives?\"\n\"Well, then you'll have an awesome imaginary person who's a little funky looking!\" The girls laughed. \"Do the best you can. So you'll draw and label all the different attributes on the large sheet, then,...\"\n\"There's more?\", asked Julia.\n\"There's more.\" Marty smiled as she nodded. \"Then, your group will write a story about this person where you emphasize all the amazing things this person can do with all their - your-amazing characteristics.\"\n\"And then share?\"\n\"You're a clever one, Val. Yes. You'll share your \"Ultimate Team Member with the group and read the story.\nMarty was in her mid sixties and had worked at Springs, a therapeutic residential program for twenty years. The girls, between thirteen and eighteen years old were there for similar reasons. Most, but not all had experienced trauma. Most, but not all were adopted. Most, but not all, had families that loved them. And most, but not all, wanted to heal.\nThe girls involved themselves easily in the activity, talking over each other, laughing while one would eventually emerge as the leader and organize the group.\nNichole, a milieu counselor had come to join them in the dining hall.\n\"Hi Nichole!\", a couple of the girls shouted across the room.\n\"Hi-i-i\", she answered, waving to them with an encouraging smile.\nWhile Marty and Nichole spoke and watched the groups working, Nichole motioned to Marty to look over at Hailey, who was not participating. They watched as the other girls in the group tried to get her to rally, but she wouldn't even look up. Hailey pushed her chair back and crossed the room, slumping down against the wall.\n\"I got her\", Nichole said to Marty.\nNichole casually made her way over to Hailey and slumped down onto the floor next to her. She stayed quiet for about a minute.\n\"What's up?\" She noticed Hailey anxiously bouncing her leg.\"You're freakin' out, huh?\"\nHailey nodded. She had arrived at Springs earlier that same day and was clearly scared and uncomfortable.\n\"That's okay\", Nichole assured her. \"It's pretty much a thing when you first come. Hell, it's scary and lonely and new. That's enough to make anyone anxious, you know?\"\nHailey stared straight ahead. Her eyes began to well up. \"Can I call my mom?\"\n\"Not for three days, sorry.\"\n\"But I don't want to stay here.\"\n\"I know\".\nI just want her to come get me.\"\n\"I know.\"\n\"Why can't she?\"\n\"She can, but Hailey, I can guarantee you that she won't.\"\n\"Yes, she will.\"\n\"Nope. You wanna know how I know that?\"\n\"How?\"\n\"Because she loves you and she wants you to get better.\"\n\"I can get better at home.\"\n\"Nope. Your family tried that.\"\nHailey began to cry.\n\"Come on\", Nichole said as she got up. She turned and offered Hailey both hands to help her up, which Hailey allowed. \"Let's get some fresh air\", Nichole said and holding on to one of Hailey's hands, left the room. The girls at Springs needed attention and human contact as much as any four year old would, whether they got it at home or not. She took Hailey back to Burnham House to have some one on one time with her.\n\"So that was hard for you, Hailey. Tell me, what were you thinking about?\"\n\"I don't know. just how I don't know anyone and I can never do anything right, anyway. I mean, the only strength I have is swimming.Like that would help in team building. It's so stupid.\"\n\"What's stupid, honey?\", Nichole prodded her.\n\"It's stupid that I have nothing to offer so what's the point?\"\n\"Well, I think there may be a point-or even a few, let's think. So, while you were sitting there with your group, did any of them sort of struggle to just blurt out a bunch of great things about themselves?\"\nNo response.\n\"Oh, okay. What about the opposite?\"\n\"What do you mean?\", Hailey asked, somewhat agitated by where she thought Nichole was headed with this question.\n\"Tell me what you heard.\"\n\"I don't know.\"\n\"Oh, ya do so.\"\n\"Like, Sam was saying she's too loud and impulsive, and -I think her name was Kelly-said she's so tall she's a spaz at everything.\"\n\"Which made them all laugh, right?\"\n\"Yeah, but...\"\n\"No, wait, you don't get to say, 'yeah, but...\"\n\"No, but...\"\n\"You don't get to say 'no, but' either.\"\nNow Hailey was smiling.\n\"But no, listen...\"\n\"ohhh, there's that 'no, but again, but backwards!\"\n\"Oh my God, you're so frustrating, Nichole!\", Hailey said trying not to giggle. \"I know what you were going to say.\"\n\"Okay, smartypants, what was I going to say?\"\n\"That they were talking about stuff they were bad at.\"\n\"Hm. So, are you bad at stuff?\"\n\"Everything\".\n\"Except swimming.\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"Doubt it.\"\n“But you don’t even know me. Anyway, I don’t even swim anymore.”\n“A-ha. But I know about you.”\nHailey looked down. She wondered what that meant. Did she know what happened to her with the swim coach? \n“I know you’re caring and considerate.” Nichole said as she sat up to face Hailey on the couch they were sitting on.\n“My mom told you that?”\n“Mother knows best! So, are you?”\n“I guess”, Hailey said shyly.\n“And you’re not half bad at Art.”\nHailey continued to look down. She took a deep breath.\n“And you can sing and you like to do plays and stuff.”\n“So?”, Hailey muttered.\n“So, these are strengths, dude!”\n“That make the “Ultimate Team Member”? You’re funny.”\n“I am funny sometimes , but this isn’t one of those times. I’m perfectly serious.”\n“They need people who are good at sports and really strong and like, fast runners.”\n“Now you’re the funny one. What if the team had to come up with a skit and paint a background. Remind you of anyone good at that stuff? Eh, Hailey?”\n“Okay, okay, I get your point.”\n“Well, good, because I’ve been working pretty hard here to reveal to you who you are, ya know. Which is a kid with “strengths and positive attributes”. \n“I guess.”\n“You’re not used to hearing that.”\n“Nope.”\n“Or, feeling that any of that matters?”\n“Nope.”\n“You still want to go home?”\n“Maybe”\n“Oh, come on, you’re killin’ me “Smalls”!\nWith a sense of relief, Hailey looked up at Nichole. “Okay, I’ll stay.”\n“Woo-hoo”, yelled Nichole, smiling at Hailey.\n“Nichole?”\n“Hailey?”\n“Thanks.”\n“You bet, kid. Anytime.”\n\n\"What a great job you're all doing. I can't wait to see these awesome imaginary people!\", Marty said as she walked around the dining room. \"Cool, cool, cool, as Sara would say.\"\n\"Mart-eeey!\", answered Sara, blushing.\nOnce the girls were done creating their \"Ultimate Team Member\", Marty debriefed them. \"So, what did you think?\"\n\"It was fun\", Sara chimed in. \"But it wasn't that easy.\"\n\"How come?\"\n\"Because we're pretty used to seeing ourselves as kind of damaged, you know?\"\n\"And so coming up with strengths was hard?\"\n\"Really hard\", added Kelsi.\n\"Well it kind of depends on how long you've been here though\", added Abby. \"If you just got here, forget it!\" They all laughed.\n\"Yeah, poor Hailey\", echoed Lexi. \"Is she okay?\"\n\"She will be\", said Marty. \"What else?\"\n\"Well, it was kind of nice because we were also coming up with strengths that we saw in each other that the person didn't really think of as a strength.\" said Abby.\n\"And so, you all did come up with a bunch of strengths. What else was hard about that?\"\n\"Well\", Lexi began. \"Like Sara said, we're so used to seeing so many faults and things, like, the whole fact that all of us are even here!\n\"And what did you find out as a group when you thought about your flaws or things you don't like about yourselves?\"\n\"It kinda didn't matter\", Val volunteered. Because, it's like, when we had to put our strengths together to make the person, we obviously came up with more as a group than we could ourselves. So they just didn't really matter that much anymore.\"\n\"So as a group, you are capable of more than you would be working solo\". Marty offered.\n\"Yeah\", the girls agreed.\nBut Marty, wait. Who is the \"Ultimate Team Member\"? asked Val.\n\"Looks like a four way tie, doesn't it? Let's see, who did we have? We have Esmerelda, TippyToes, Winifred and Georgette. Yup, all of them!\"\n\"Cool\", said Sara, \"Cool, cool\".\n\nHailey was playing cards in the kitchen with Nichole when the girls returned from team building. Marty approached her. \"How're you doing, Hailey?\"\n\"Better, thanks. I'm really sorry.\"\n“Nope. Don’t have to be. We're all just figuring it out.\"\n“Okay.\"\n“It will get easier, I promise. Have a good night, I’ll see you tomorrow.”\n“Yup, thank you, Marty.”\n“You’re very welcome.”\n“Good night, girls”, Marty said to the rest of the girls who were now busy getting their snacks.\n“Good night, Marty! Thank-you!”, they said in unison.\n\nIt had been twelve years since Hailey had been at Springs, or, “the Springs”, as the kids liked to call it. She was now twenty-seven, married and pregnant with her first child. She sat down in her favorite leather recliner and pulled out a journal from an end table. It was a tradition at Springs that when you left, you had a “good-bye book”. Hailey thought she hadn’t even looked at it in ten or so years. She slowly opened it, remembering everything she had learned about herself, about her perceptions and about relationships. She opened it to a random page.\n“Dear Hailey,” it read. “I’m so proud of you. You finally get to go home and you so deserve it. When I first met you, I can remember how you said you fought your mother tooth and nail about coming here, and now you’ve been crying for a week because you have to leave. Don’t worry. Me too! You’ve learned a lot here, Hailey. You’re now able to see other people’s points of view and think about how things affect them, not just you. And you’ve worked through so much, Sophia said you were even thinking about getting back into swimming! I’m so happy for you. Hey, remember in last year’s production you were singing that song and the mike just freaking fell right off the stand? That was so funny. And you just casually picked it up, kept singing and put it back. You could never have done that before Springs, you would have freaked out and never recovered! LOL. It’s been so great to watch your progress in the last eighteen months, Hailey. You’ve not only allowed yourself to feel competent, you’re actually confident, too. Remember your first night here when I said I was working hard to reveal to you who you are? Well, it’s been hard I know but you totally did it. You’ve revealed the person you always were, and I know it feels good. And let me tell you, it definitely looks good on you, ya little hot shit!\nTake what you’ve learned and stay you. You will trip and fall on occasion, we all do, but you know how to handle it now. Keep in touch, Hails. \nI love you kid!\nLove, Nichole" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Letter.\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2701\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone making a deal with the devil." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My name is Jonathan Young. The strange event surrounding my disappearance left a lot of unanswered questions. It was not an abduction, suicide, or murder; and not even God, because neither he couldn’t stop the evil I’d unleash.\nStarting from the beginning, my childhood was a bed of Rose-stems and thorns. Growing up with my parents was difficult. I was the odd one out of the family; and it’s not that was a bad kid, I was introvert -and it was misinterpreted as contemptuous and dismissive behavior.\nOn the other hand, my sister Annette, she’s two years older than me, seemed to be everyone’s favorite.\nNo; I’ve never felt left out. I was not the jealous brother. Annette was a very dynamic woman, fearless, outspoken, and highly intelligent. My parents praised her repeatedly trying to motivate me, but I was set on my ideas; I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to become an artist.\nSince my young years I displayed a tendency for drawing and painting. After college, I enrolled in a fine arts school.\nAs was expected, it did not settle well with my father, who wanted me to take over the family business. He owned a jewelry store, and had repeatedly tried to educate me, and teach me the tricks of the trade, but I had no interest.\nAs a businessman, my father was highly successful, but on a personal level, he was an aggressive, abusive alcoholic gambler and a cheater.\nMy mother knew all about him, but she was in love with him, and love is blind. She had said, the one and only time we talked freely and openly.\nA few weeks after my twenty-first birthday, I decided to move out and explore this great big world.\nI wanted to get away from the everyday fights, and my mothers’ cry for help. On a few occasions I had called the police, nonetheless she said she’d slipped and fallen on the front porch stairs to excuse the bruises and the black eye. On another occasion, she said that nothing had happened, and I was just a dysfunctional kid.\nI invested my time in my basement studio, painting portraits, landscapes, but none was exciting as creating surrealistic images. I was still exploring the world of canvas and I was excited by the possibilities.\nI participated in a few contests, and I won top prizes. I’ve made the decision to move to my own place to follow my dream.\nMy parents made it clear, if I move, I shouldn’t be expecting help, I’ll be on my own. I left and never looked back.\nI moved into a basement studio. My first apartment, my dream of becoming a recognized artist -and be independent, free of the toxic home was becoming a reality.\nDriven by determination, I worked frantically, and two months later, I displayed my work in a small neighborhood gallery. My first exhibition, my first success.\nI displayed nine paintings, and I sold every single one. I was finally independent with the cash I had earned from my art -and very proud of myself.\nHowever, my success was short-live. In less than two years, I had to face my first eviction from my spacious two-bedroom loft apartment I had moved to. I moved back into a studio, and three months later I was evicted again, and again, and again.\nMy last apartment, a moldy, wet basement room I rented for seven-hundred-dollars in a rundown apartment building on sixth street and Market, in the heart of tenderloin. I painted, I produced painting after painting after painting, trying, and trying, but it was useless. I was getting raving reviews but no sales.\nIn hope for some cash, I put on my happy face and visited the convenient liquor stores in the neighborhood offering to cover the graffiti covered storefronts with artistic designs at a very cheap price. Some laughed, and some said no.\nOne rainy November day, I returned to my apartment, and I faced another eviction. I had no resources, neither my father, my mother nor my sister returned any of my desperate calls for help. I was alone, hungry, homeless -and desperate with no one to turn to for support.\nDisappointed, I started packing my most prized possessions. Magazines and newspaper clippings of my glory days, then, an article caught my eye.\nROBERT LEROY JOHNSON: An American blues musician. Born on May 8, 1911, and died on August 15, 1938, at twenty-seven-years-old. Throughout his short and poorly documented life, influenced generations of rock and blues musicians, also have given rise to much legend, including a Faustian myth.\nAccording to legend, as a young man living on a plantation in rural Mississippi, Robert Johnson was ranted with a burning desire to become a great blues musician. In a dream, he was instructed to take his guitar to a crossroads near Dockery Plantation at midnight. There he met by a large man, the Devil, who took the guitar and tuned it. The Devil played a few songs and returned the guitar to Johnson along with the mastery of the instrument, in exchange for his soul.\n“The Devil?”\nIt was my fifth eviction, and though I was determined to make it, the idea felt like a dream destined to remain a dream.\nI knew the procedure well. In three days, the Sheriff will knock on my door and for one more time I’ll be on the streets.\nDesperate, I sat on the floor and read the article one more time. The thought of why not? I have nothing left to lose; it crossed my mind.\nI’ve decided to read more about the Robert Johnson story. I went to the library.\nThe limited information only intrigued my imagination, and I explore books on the occult.\nIt was two days before the landlord change the locks and throw me on the streets.\nI gathered my best brushes and canvases and went to the closest country crossroad.\nI’ve arrived a few minutes before midnight, I set-up my tripod with a brand-new canvas and on the stroke of midnight a large and very tall man appeared out of the thin air. He took my paint brushes one by one he smelled them and licked each one of them. He then painted the painting I call the gates of Babylon. It hangs above my bed -and it’s painted by the Devil himself.\nLate afternoon the next day, the owner of the gallery who hosted my last exhibit knocked on my door and handed me a check of fifteen-thousand-dollars. All my paintings were sold, I had escape been evicted.\nI returned to work. Horrifying images of my childhood nightmares parallel to Francis Bacon and Lovecraft emerged on my canvases. A year later, I purchased a three-bedroom home on Pacific Heights. I’ve become the artist everyone knew. My paintings hung in prestigious galleries, private collections, and museums. The fame, the money, the high life, the respect, and the recognition it was all that it mattered.\nBut everything has a beginning and an ending. I had reached the peak of my career, and it was time for payback.\nThe agreement was, after I reach the peak of my career, he’ll have everyone who owns me. In my desperation, I did not read the fine print, but suddenly, it all made sense.\nIt was at the same time mysterious and unresolved murders headlined the media, which refused to publish photos of the macabre crime scenes.\nNonetheless photos appeared on the Internet. Bodies sliced in half, and others eaten alive. Judging from their facial expressions, others had been pulled apart. Then in one picture, I saw one of my paintings. I downloaded every picture available to examine them closer. Only then, the meaning of He will have who owns me, make sense.\nMy paintings. All the horrifying monstrous depictions of monsters and mutilated faces, one by one, were coming to life to kill. To kill in the name of the Devil. And I was the only one who could stop it. \nI tried countless ways and methods, but all failed. They won’t burn. I sliced the canvas into pieces, but the pieces came back together, and the painting repair itself.\nI had read the thirteen unwritten laws of the black arts.\nThe curse ends at its source only after completing the cycle; was the fifth. But what if the source was eliminated before the cycle was completed? Will the curse end?\nI couldn’t allow the massacre I’ve unleashed to continue. I spent the night trying to find a way to stop it. Perhaps after all my paintings have come to life and kill in the name of Devil, the curse will end, but there were hundreds sold around the world. They were in museums and private collections.\nThroughout the night I contemplated, thinking that it has to be another way, or maybe the curse must come to a complete cycle before it ends, regardless of if the source, me, eliminated. Perhaps after all my paintings have come to life and killed in the name of Devil, then killing myself might not be the solution, nevertheless It was a chance I had to take.\nI gathered all the paintings in my studio, along with all my paint and brushes, tripods -and even blank canvases and drove to the crossroads were everything started.\nHere I was three years later, returned to the place where I’ve given my soul for fame and glory.\nI piled my paintings, my brushes, paint, and pallets in the middle of the intersection, right where he had appeared, and I poured gasoline. A strong gusty wind blew some of my semi-completed canvases flew away. I chased them and put them back on the pile. I struck a match, which was immediately extinguished by a gust of wind. I tried again, and again, and finally I started the fire. I got on my knees and for the first time in my life I prayed to God. Then I poured gasoline all over my body and jumped on the burning canvases. I felt the touch of the hot flames engulfing my entire body and felt like a relief; I closed my eyes and prayed to God, nevertheless the Devil protected his assets, and a downpour extinguished the fire.\nI questioned if there was another way to end the curse, but none of the occult books in my collection offered any solutions.\nConfession? Yes, a confession could be the answer. Confessing that I’ve sold my soul to the Devil for fame, money, and glory would be the right thing.\nI called the Grace Cathedral on California street and I set up an appointment for the following day at three in the afternoon with reverent John who is the Dean of the cathedral.\nPrompted for my three o’clock appointment with reverent John, at two forty fine I parked my car in the parking lot, took one painting and reluctantly, I walked towards the Cathedral. Nonetheless, the Cathedral seemed to be getting further away. I ran, and the more I ran, the church kept getting further and further away. I knew it was just an illusion. He was only protecting his assets.\nI closed my eyes for a short minute, and then I looked around, I was standing beside my car with the painting in my hands, had I even moved away from the car?\nThere was fresh dirt and grass on my shoes, so it was not an illusion. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. Was I standing with the painting in my underarm for one hour and a half? Or the fact that I was at the cathedral was even real?\nI left the painting in the car and walked to the cathedral; I felt nauseated, a strange dizziness took over my body. I climbed the front steps and the closer I got to the door; the dizziness intensified. Then fear, unlike anything I felt before, agonized me. I turned around -and walked back to my car; I retrieved my painting and returned to the Cathedral. This time I made it to the steps. I reached the door, nonetheless I was unable to walk, breathe or talk; I placed my hand on the door handle.\nThe painting became heavier -and felt hot, like molten lava. Strangely, I could feel the intensity of the heat, but it did not burn me. Then the creature slid out of the canvas, and right before my eyes, the gruesome creature grew two, five, eight, fifteen feet tall.\nWith its fiery eyes looked at me for a few short moments, then spoke.\n“Don’t.” Its voice sounded inside my head. It was an ear-piercing growl. I tried to ignore the fear -and I continued into the cathedral.\nDark clouds covered the sky and a rumbling sound of thunder echoed, a wave of fire consumed the surroundings, and heavy rain immediately started. I mustered every ounce of strength I had left -and pulled the heavy double door.\nDarkness! The otherwise brightly lit nave was as dark as a moonless night. Another illusion? I wondered.\n“This way!” A voice sounded next to me. It was soft -and soothing. Someone took me by my hand and guided me into what seemed to be a tunnel.\nThe reflection of a flame glimmered on the wet and shiny walls, a faint scent of melted candle wax, but there was no one. I held my breath and squinted, trying to distinguish some noise, some shadow, nothing; there was no one next to me. Nevertheless, a hand was guiding me somewhere. Was I blind? No -I wasn’t. in the distance far ahead of me there was a light. A dim flickering light.\nI tried to walk faster towards the light, but the invisible hand, held me back.\n“You’ll get there, but not just yet.” The voice sounded. I knew I had heard that voice before, but who was that familiar men.\nI walked for what seemed hours, but I never got close to the light. I stopped and looked behind; I was still at the door, and though seemed I had walked for hours, I had not moved away from the door.\nThe rain had stopped, there was a small pile of ashes lying on the steps of the church and it was all that remained after the fire, the creature I had created, deployed at me, the rain washed away my ashes.\nI was dead. Burned by my creation in the same way as my victims had died.\nWas I in Hell? Where is the tall man to whom I gave my soul for fame, money, and glory?\nHad I become a ghost destined to roam the Earth trying to end the curse?\nVague silhouettes appeared out of the thin air.\n“Why?” a voice asked. I recognized my grandmother, and my childhood friend Justin, who had been killed by a drunk driver the day we graduated high school, asked. “Why?\"\nWhy? I’ve asked the same question. But I knew the answer. Greed, hunger for success, money -and fame.\n“Come.” The voice sounded. I turned to see the man with the familiar voice. It was me. It was me guiding me through my success, my mistakes, and the choices I had made.\nI walked in places I had lived and talked to people I had met. My customers, my victims. I felt their pain, the agony of being eaten alive by my monstrous creations. I was there at their time of death. I tasted their blood in my mouth and their pain in my soul. So! This is Hell.\nHell is to live over and over all the emotions, the feelings, the pain, and happiness; of your Earthly plane, but where will this end? If there is an end, or perhaps another life to redeem myself?\nHeaven and Hell, God, and Devil, are within. Good does not exist without Evil, and Evil without good.\nGod and the Devil are in the heart of humanity, there always been and there always will be. But in the end, it is your choice, and you have a lifetime to choose. I have chosen Hell. What about you?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Letter between Selves\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1308\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite from the point of view of a character writing a letter to their past or future self." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dear Future Self,\n‘Previous-self’ speaking here and I just wanted to say I’m sort of sorry. No, I mean I’m really sorry. I know I haven’t treated you well and now you are dealing with the aftermath of those choices. For what it’s worth though, it was fun. I had an absolute blast partying with my friends in high school, college, drinking into the early hours of the morning and feeling invincible. I thought we couldn’t be hurt; nothing bad could happen to us. I know you were being mistreated, but please understand I felt so alive and free. We would drive around in fast cars while using our bodies with stimulants, sugar, fast food, alcohol, and whatever else we could grab our little grubby hands on. \nI would barely sleep to cram in last minute studying for an exam the next day. I would drink a bunch of caffeine and bounce back after another 'all-nighter' to do it all over again like it was no big deal. I would try drugs, pills, sex with strangers, anything and everything to just feel; to just feel anything in general really. I know you don’t understand. I know you don’t get it. You always think of future consequences and the “long-term plan” and “long-term solution” and never have any real fun.\nNow I hate to think you are paying the consequences of my selfish actions, really I do, but I don’t feel guilty for embracing life to the fullest. I know you feel that I am selfish and greedy with impulsive desires and actions that I carry out without even considering you or your feelings. But to be honest I do care. I would think about you ‘future-self’ from time to time.\n“Like what am I doing to myself?”\n“Am I hurting my body or killing myself?”\n“Am I limiting my life?”\nHonestly, you were more like a passing glance, a stubborn, annoying little insect that wouldn't go away.\nYou wouldn’t ever let me truly enjoy my fun freely.\nYou were always in the back of my mind waving your finger at me telling me to be a good little girl.\nWell future self, I wanted to feel alive or at least a slight resemblance to happiness or joy but you think it was all superficial and a waste of our days. You would rather sit in a boring room with a book living out your long miserable life with lots of wrinkles and weak bones to do anything with. I don’t know how you expect us to be happy with a life like that ‘future-self’.\nAll the Best,\nPrevious-Self\nDear Past-Self,\nYou are right; I do think you are selfish, greedy and impulsive without considering me or my feelings. If you did, you would then NOT do those actions and abuse us with toxins, poisons, fast food, drugs, and alcohol. Did you ever think that maybe I am not feeling as well as I could be right now because of all of your choices and actions? Do you ever take accountability for what you do or am I supposed to be the only responsible, accountable one?\nYou see because of you and your choices, I am now 25 years later dealing with stomach ulcers, fatty liver disease, and obesity. Not to mention I am also pre-diabetic, have to have a root canal in a few weeks, and I am at my heaviest and have never weighed this much before. I barely have any friends because they all settled down from the party scene and started having families of their own with kids while you just wanted to continue partying.\nNow I cannot party at all and have to take extra measures taking care of our health.\nAnd to make matters worse, all those great memories you’ve had, haunt me now because my life currently feels like it never measures up. I used to love reading a book by myself in a quiet room at home or just watching a movie but now I need more stimulation for happiness it seems. I look at the long-term plan because what you do now will of course affect you in the future; what comes up must come down you know.\nDo you remember when you did that 'all-nighter' before an exam and you drank a whole pot full of coffee?\n-Well that tore a small cut in the lining of your stomach which eventually led to the stomach ulcers we now have that we are currently dealing with. You no longer can have coffee or any other caffeine or acidic items like oranges or lemonade.\nOr do you remember when your friends dared you to do the cinnamon challenge and you were coughing up cinnamon for weeks? It became disgusting and I used to love cinnamon and now we can't enjoy it.\nI remember when you got so messed up you were sick all night; unfortunately, I remember several nights like this.\nMaybe you couldn’t enjoy yourself fully because you felt a morsel of guilt each time you partied and abused your body; maybe it had nothing to do with me. Did you ever think of that? I bet deep down you know you were doing something wrong because it will inevitably affect me, your future self, who is also you.\nDo you remember when you were driving too fast and almost hit someone crossing the street? Or when your friend almost toppled the car over taking a turn too fast? Or when you impulsively got that tattoo you now hate or quit that job you disliked right before they gave everyone huge raises and changed management? You act too quickly and give up too easily. If you would only hang on a little longer to see what the eventual outcome may be, you would learn a little patience ‘past-self’ and see how all good things come with time.\nThis one makes me so embarrassed I don’t even like thinking about it or bringing it up to be honest Past-Self! Do you remember when you drank so much you were so drunk at our friend’s condo that you accidentally slipped in their bathroom and hit the toilet reservoir so hard you managed to somehow break it, causing water to come out everywhere and leaking to the second floor with everyone from then on knowing you broke the toilet?\n-I think this one speaks for itself.\nYou don’t think about how I will remember these events or what you do. You act so careless and immaturely. I wish you would grow up. I wish you would see things my way. You blame me for not being understanding but I get you; you just want to have fun and have a good time in the moment. You don’t think about tomorrow or next year. Think about how powerful we could be if we did think about the future and had your ambition?\nI know you can be quite entertaining, fun and heck, you can even be the life of the party when you aren’t thinking of me but we really need to work together or something because we can’t keep going like this. I think we need to strike a truce; a balance.\nI can’t live life without a little risk or fun and you can’t live without taking care of yourself with some safety or precautions. So, how about we try to communicate in a civil way and check in more with each other moving forward?\nDear Future-Self,\nYou know I don’t like being called ‘Past-Self’ because ‘Previous-Self’ is not only my true name but also more distinguished sounding. I will consider what you said at the end of your rant and will be more civil and attempt to check in more. That is all… Good idea.\n-Previous-Self\nDear Previous-Self,\nThank you.\n-Future-Self" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Yummy Brownies and That Night\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1082\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who wakes up in someone else’s clothes — or utterly weird apparel they don’t recognize as their own." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I woke up late, which is odd for me because even on weekends my body wouldn't let me sleep past seven. I suppose it was because of school. I got in this weird habit of wanting to be there on time. So, anyway I dragged my behind out of bed at ten and headed for the shower. I was still feeling groggy which is also different for me. I headed for my bathroom and turned on the light, and what the heck! I was dressed in a princess dress!\nI scrambled my brain for answers and couldn't find any. The last thing I remember was leaving work and going to my friend Lisa's house. Her cousin was visiting and they wanted to hang out and watch movies. Her cousin had made brownies and they were so good, and I had skipped lunch so I had two. I took off the dress, and after my shower decided to pay my friend and cousin a visit and get some answers.\nWe lived two doors down from one another, so it was a short walk. I went to the back door and let myself in. It was really quiet in there and that was unusual because Lisa was kind of loud. I walked upstairs to her room, and her and her cousin were still sleeping. I wanted answers, so I shook Lisa's shoulders. \"mmmshey\" she said. \"Lisa, wake up!\" She opened one eye and looked at me. \"Come on\", I said. \"I need answers!\" She threw off her blanket and she was completely dressed in a princess dress, complete with glittery heels. She looked down at her attire in shock and said, \"What the heck?\" She got out of bed, almost tripped on her heels, kicked them off and turned her attention to her cousin, Missy, who was beginning to stir awake.\n\"What's going on?\" asked Missy innocently. We both spoke in unison asking what happened and why were we in princess attire. She said she would explain everything after a shower, and coffee. So, I left those two upstairs to shower and change, and I headed downstairs to make a pot of coffee, and grab some pop tarts.\nAfter about thirty minutes, I heard them on the stairs. After we all had coffee and something to eat, she proceeded to tell us the story. She told us she baked the brownies with pot, and while we were sitting there with our mouths wide open in shock she said that before she could tell us, half the pan of brownies were gone. \"That does explain why I can't remember hardly anything after I got here.\" Lisa said she couldn't even remember me getting there.\nMissy said after that we had gotten the munchies and wanted to walk down to the convenience store to get snacks. So, we started walking and I got distracted by a bluebird, and wanted to bring it home. The bird did not have the same feeling, and let me know in loud squawks. Seeing the bluebird reminded me of Snow White, and I thought it would be wonderful to be a princess. Lisa agreed, so on the way to the store we stopped at a secondhand shop and we each picked out princess gowns, giggling the whole time. Missy said she was cracking up.\nWe got to the store, picked out munchies, flirted with the stock boy. We told him we were real princesses, and if he kissed us he would turn into a handsome prince. He just told us he needed to stock the shelves. We were mad because we were royalty and shouldn't be treated with disrespect. We told the manager, and he just laughed at us. We grumbled about that almost all the way home.\nWhen we were almost home, two of your school friends drove by and stopped to talk. They looked at each other because I guess by the way you were acting it wasn't normal. They offered to take you two for a ride, which you agreed. I was scared so I pretended to cry, and said \"please don't leave me alone. We had plans.\" You two felt bad and told them maybe some other time, and they sped off looking very angry.\nWe got back to your house, ate some munchies, watched half of a movie. You guys wasn't in a sitting down kind of mood. So, we went upstairs and put on the princess gowns. We put a record on and danced until we were dizzy. Then you got the idea that you wanted to find a handsome prince. The stock-boy was out, the two car jerks were out, so then we decided to go outside to look.\nAt this point in the story, I have to mention that without me knowing you each had another brownie. Outside, one of you spotted a toad down by the creek, so you ran to catch it. You both had heels on, which made it impossible to run in your state. So, you tumbled down to the creek, and the toad jumped in the water. The neighbor came out at this time, and said \"I know your parents are in the city for a party, but I will call their office if you don't quiet down!\"\nSo, I wrangled you both inside the house with the promise of ice cream sundaes. We made huge creations, and ate them while finishing the movie. I think you were both getting drowsy so I recommended bed. You said okay, and started to head out the door. I asked where you were going, and you said your bed was at your house. And called me silly. I asked you to help put Lisa to bed, and I would walk you home. You agreed, and we pulled her upstairs, you gave her a sloppy kiss that made her giggle and we went back downstairs to walk you home.\nWe started walking to what you said was your house, but your neighbor said you lived next door. We went inside, supposedly your parents were at the city office party too. We went upstairs, where we ran into your brother, who laughed and said, \"you're messed up\", pointed me to your room and I flopped you on your bed.\nI walked back to Lisa's house and that was our night. We were both mad that she did that without telling us, but we forgave her, and will always never remember being a princess." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Blue Suede\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1204\n\nPrompt:\n\nThink of an item of clothing from your childhood, and write a story inspired by that." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was invisible and I liked it that way. Our high school loomed and brooded - old like a three-story mountain on a hill. A kid like me could stay pretty small and unnoticed here and that was my plan. I was a freshman and freshmen learned how to 'fade.' I didn't linger in those high school hallways. Most freshmen would agree that’s not a good idea. All kinds of drama and intrigues could happen in a high school hallway and also in the boys' room so most of us freshmen moved fast.\nMy brother David was a senior and I would look for him in the hall between classes. Usually, he would ignore me but sometimes he gave a tiny nod to me - imperceptible to most humans unless you knew what to look for. My brother was a ‘cool’ dude and his yearbook was bombed with signatures and well wishes and predictions and cartoons. I definitely respected him although he sort of hated me because I was still sharing a bedroom with him. Anyway, high school is tough for a lot of kids so this business I am describing is probably a lot like you remember too - looking in the mirror, combing hair, wondering if you were good-looking or not and what to do about it. I used to wonder what people thought about me but I’m sure very few other people do that. \nWe weren’t a poor family but far from rich. My Mom used to say we were rich in love so I saw that as a dead giveaway that we weren’t the Rockefellers. Anyway, for years we slept four kids in a room so I knew that maybe money was a thing…kids notice what you’re wearing and we wore hand-me-downs and the occasional new shirts to jazz things up. Now that I made it to high school, clothes were more important to me. Some kids showed up looking like fashion models. They sat at a special lunch table for the well-dressed. The rest of us were winging it. My brother Dave worked nights as a dishwasher at the ‘Round the Clock’ restaurant and brought home the big bucks for his wardrobe and motorcycle parts and Alice Cooper records. \nAs for me, things in high school were going pretty good - I was relatively incognito and I had a few nice friends. \nI was safe in my obscurity and enjoying life as a freshman unmolested and happily average. \nThen came Christmas break (Winter Break) nowadays but back then we called it Christmas break so it was during this time that I made the worst fashion decision of my young life.\nMy Grandmother came alive at Christmas, she was a Christmas nut, she loved everything about it and so did I but she had an agenda.\nMy Grandma Jenny came to live with us on and off for a year or two and this was one of her years with our family. She had the upstairs bedroom which my brother Dave had been ejected from - and sent down to my room which he hated but I’m repeating myself. Jenny would sit in that bedroom and clip and circle and plan all kinds of shopping adventures. My other Grandma Bubba was also very generous but she never visited and sent a box with mostly harmless apparel like hats and gloves and socks. Jenny was the Grandma who knew boys’ fashion. She would drag us to the mall and we hit every young men’s store in the place. By day's end, we were exhausted from trying on pants, shirts, suits, you name it. David refused to go. She took us shoe shopping and here is where this story gets interesting - to me at least because I have no recollection of trying on or buying those shoes. Maybe I am blocking it out? They say humans block out especially traumatic events and things so this could be that sort of thing. Anyway, my new shoes, my school shoes, were Blue Suede Saddle Shoes with 1 ½” heels. David was the first one to witness the unboxing. As older brothers know, this kind of thing presented a solid hour or two of teasing and he wasted no time in getting started. In fairness, he did stop to advise me to return them, or lose them or do anything but wear them to school. I have two younger brothers too but they were not involved in the mirth. My Dad said nothing of course he was not a fashion guy and my Mom called them ‘cute.’ So it came to pass that I wore those shoes for the rest of the school year. My heart was pounding as I got on the School Bus and I was already experiencing the kind of adolescent dread that only a fourteen-year-old boy can summon. How did I buy these shoes I wondered? I was mad at my Grandmother, I knew I was going to be in for it at school and I knew that my ‘incognito’ high school survival strategy was over. I would have to adapt.\nCynthia said, “I like them, Paul.” She was super nice and one of the only girls I knew well enough to discuss serious matters with. She thought I was brave which really sent me spinning. Brave!\nIt was over quickly. The worst of it. Lunchtime meant that I had to descend three flights of open stairways into the commons - everyone would sit and watch kids coming down those steps and it was open season for freshmen. They would lean and linger and sit there in front of the lunchroom and taunt us. “Hey, Elvis.” (haha) original. “Sing the Hounddog,” another comedian - it’s funny how you can focus all your adolescent insecurity into something as mundane as a pair of shoes but I could feel my face red and my palms wet. \nBlue Suede Shoes. Elvis Presley.\nTime passed and gradually I toughened up and I got used to it. Winter beat those shoes up and they were stained by snow, ice, and salt. My Dad bought me some Adidas for Track practice so I had another choice. \nBut I still wore the shoes and one day this happened and this is a true thing - an upperclassman threw his arms around my neck and shoulders and leaned in on me. I was waiting for a punch in the arm but he said “nice shoes” and sure enough he’s wearing Blue Suede shoes too. \nPeople noticed. Cynthia did and she got her version of the shoes but with red suede and she rocked them. This shoe thing was catching on and things got better. School got better and kids seemed nicer and life got easier and I stopped looking in the mirror so much. \n\nMy grandma Jenny (she’s gone now) but still probably shopping somewhere…used to say to “wear life like a loose garment.” I loved that old saying but I don’t think it would apply to shoes. Nothing’s worse than loose shoes. Well, squeaky shoes are bad but that’s for next week. \n\nOh and best of all, I wasn’t invisible anymore and I liked that very much." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sins of the Father (and Mother)\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2225\n\nPrompt:\n\nThink of an item of clothing from your childhood, and write a story inspired by that." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sins of the Father (and Mother)\n\nIt is a well established fact of life that parents will occasionally, usually unintentionally, embarrass their children. This is often accomplished, in most cases by the dad, simply by choice of attire. Kids do not want to be seen in close proximity to a parent who likely secured their latest colorful outfit at the clearance sale rack at the “Nerd Department” of Kohl’s.\n\nSuch momentary discomforts suffered by a child are to be expected and over time can be forgiven. My tale of woe is not the result of unintentional acts of geeky, parental behavior, but rather the result of a carefully planned course of action designed to inflict maximum humiliation. This cannot be forgiven.\n\nMuch of what you will read here is based on hearsay, in some cases double hearsay, and in an instance or two, triple hearsay, or so I’ve heard. A fair amount of conjecture is also sprinkled in, as well as a spoonful of sheer guesswork, but I deem it all reliable.\n\nPlanning Stage\n\nMy parents met in high school. That was 10 years before I was born, but I have reason to believe that is where we find the genesis of the diabolical deed. My uncle says he knows a guy who once bought a used car from a guy who had the same study hall as mom and dad. I never spoke to him directly, but he swears that he overheard mom and dad whispering words like \"bunnies\" and \"boxers\" on multiple occasions. Coincidence? I don’t think so.\n\nMy parents celebrate their anniversary on February 14th. As such, Valentine’s Day is a big deal around my house. Even my dad gets all squishy about it. Coincidence that Phase One of the dastardly act was launched on Valentines Day? I don’t think so…more like it was their gift to each other.\n\n Critical to the success of the scheme was the fact that dad and my gym teacher both are active members of the local Lions Club. My dad joined Lions 5 years before implementing the demonic deed. Proof of premeditation? I’d say.\n\nIt is also significant to note that my mom and the mother of the beautiful Janet served on two PTA committees together, thus giving them plenty of time to scheme. Consider too that my dad and Jack’s dad were in the same bowling league. Do you think more than bowling for average was going on? I do.\n\nThe complexity of the plan staggers the imagination and underscores the degree of depravity behind the dastardly deed.\n\n\nExecution\n\n“Happy Valentines Day, honey! We got this nice gift for you.”\n\nThe tone was sweet, much in the mode of Brutus asking Caesar to stop by for a visit. The package was beautifully wrapped, much in the tradition of the keepsake the Greeks left for the Trojans. The impact would prove to be greater than the consequences of either event. Even today, after the passing of so many years, I still lament that, in the immortal words of Lloyd Christmas, “I didn’t even see it coming.”\n\nA good laugh was had by all. Pink boxer shorts covered with red hearts in a variety of sizes, a multitude of hopping white bunnies, and the words “Honey Bunny” plastered all over them.\n\n“Thanks mom, very funny.”\n\nIf I had only known. I would have immediately shredded the garment, burned the fragments, and buried the ashes in the backyard, somewhere in the vicinity of the final resting place of Fred the hamster and AJ the turtle. But those were the naïve, trusting days of a 13 year old, so I thanked my parents and placed the “Honey Bunny” boxers at the bottom of my sock and underwear drawer, firm in the belief I would never wear them.\n\nThey say timing is everything in the world of humor. The same can be said for successful pranks, especially those of a malicious nature. Like a cat waiting to pounce on its unsuspecting prey, patience is key. In this case, the clever prankers quietly strategized for months before implementing the conclusion of their sorry scheme.\n\nFreshman year in high school is a vulnerable time for many teens. Around mid-October, I was working through some self-confidence issues as I tried hard to “fit in”. I felt I was making good progress, and then it all came crashing down with unspeakable, humiliating, and endless consequence.\n\nI had a restless night. I heard sounds in my bedroom, mysterious, foreboding sounds. In my semi-conscious state, I couldn’t identify the source. But now I know with absolute certitude that someone, mom or dad, I can’t be sure which as both strenuously adhere to the self-serving principal of plausible deniability, was rifling through my sock and underwear drawer. The next morning I discovered that there is indeed something worse than the proverbial “empty cupboard”- a drawer with a lone pair of boxer shorts- yes, you guessed it, the now infamous “Honey Bunny” boxer shorts.\n\nHow could this be? I know there were at least 3 pair of non-Honey Bunny boxers in that drawer, and now, poof, they’re gone? This was beyond suspicious.\n\n“Mom! Where are my boxer shorts?! The only pair left is the stupid Honey Bun shorts, and I’m not wearing those!”\n\n“They’re all in the laundry. You’ll have to wear the Honey Buns, honey bun.”\n\nShe sounded so sincere, so sweet, so honest. I bet she practiced that for days. My own mother!\n\nWait, let me think. It’s Thursday. My Physical Fitness course has classroom instruction on nutrition and healthy lifestyles on Thursdays. I won’t have to change into gym shorts today. No one will know I am wearing the Honey Buns. I’ll know, and there is a certain degree of discomfort associated with bearing such a close relationship with hearts and bunnies, but no real harm could come of it. But that I could only have grasped the extent of the devious intricacies of the plot.\n\nMy last normal day of high school was, well, pretty normal. In fact, it was above and beyond normal. My buddy Jason had informed me that Janet (the object of heartfelt obsession since my very first day of high school) would in fact agree to go to the Freshman Dance with me should I ever be able to muster up sufficient courage to ask her. Now this put my mind on a whole different track. I could think of nothing besides Janet, the dance, and how I would go about asking her. The troublesome reality of what was yet unseen vanished in the fog of fanciful romance.\n\nLooking back on it, I am still undecided if it was merely cruel fate, or had either Jason or Janet, or both, with the prodding of their parents, assumed the part of co-conspirators. The role that the irresistible powers of distraction played in the event seems way too “convenient” to have been a matter of coincidence. Jason steadfastly denies any part in the whole sordid affair, and the shroud of embarrassment has precluded any attempt on my part to communicate with the beautiful Janet.\n\n“Attention! Due to maintenance work in the gym scheduled for tomorrow, Mr. Hall’s Physical Fitness class will be held in the gym today.”\n\nHow difficult would it have been for my dad to learn of the schedule change from my gym teacher during a night of bowling and beer guzzling? Difficult? No, I’d put it in the column of highly probable…and sinister.\n\nIt never registered. Every electron flashing through my brain was focused on my only reality at the moment- Janet, Janet, and then some more Janet. As I stood in front of my locker, I was completely oblivious to the fact I was wearing the Honey Buns and the ensuing doom soon to be unleashed.\n\n“Hey, Jack. What do you think we’ll be doing today?”\n\n“I think we're still on…oh my God.”\n\nMy blue jeans were off, and there they were, for all to see- the dreaded Honey Buns. Jack was not a disciple of the cautionary admonition, “Loose lips sink ships”, and he was certainly not one to let a rich opportunity to publicly ridicule a classmate pass him by. He pounced with remarkable relish.\n\n“Hey guys! Take a look at this! Pink underwear with hearts and bunnies!”\n\nOh my God. The moment I heard the words and the accompanying clamor for all to get a good look, I knew I was doomed. A nearby junior meanie grabbed my blue jeans and my gym shorts and took off, leaving me standing there defenseless and humiliated in my Honey Buns for the remainder of the period. They say the laughter could be heard in the girls’ locker-room clear across the other side of the gym. I would later learn that nearby neighbors in their homes questioned the cause of the jubilant uproar emanating from the high school.\n\nIt was an emotional stoning. My classmates showed no mercy. Even my gym teacher, previously perceived to be a nice man, laughed to the point of tears. Verbal descriptions of the event would have been damaging; the presence of camera equipped cell phones guaranteed long term and widespread devastation.\n\nI felt like I was on display at a Carnival side show. Tardy students were flagged down in the hallway and brought in to take a look. Word of the spectacle somehow reached the faculty lounge and a number of the adults quickly abandoned their role of caretaker of children and rushed in to get a good laugh.\n\nGirls giggled and pointed in the hallways the remainder of the day. Teachers smirked and muffled laughter. The Principal gave me a sympathetic look, shook his head, and said, “I was going to say that all things will pass, but then I saw the picture. Good luck, son.”\n\nAftermath\n\nThere are figures in history who are defined by one singular event, some good, some not so good. The good: Bobby Thompson’s home run, Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon, Lindberg’s trans-Atlantic fight. The bad: Bartman interfering with the foul ball in the Cubs’ playoff game, a candidate for national office flubbing the spelling of ‘potato’, Will Smith’s slap-down of Chris Rock. The ugly: me in my Honey Buns.\n\nSimilarly, there are permanent nicknames that carry a positive connotation, such as Zorro and Batman, while other monikers are less desirable, such as Humpty-Dumpty and Butt-Head. And then there is the truly regrettable- Honey Bunny.\n\nFrom that day forward my christened name languished on the trash heap of history. I would forever be known as “Honey Bunny”.\n\nEvery kid in that high school called me Honey Bunny. Teachers did the same. My parents discarded the name they once picked out and went with Honey Bunny. The Greeter at Walmart shoved a cart in my direction saying, “Here you go, Honey Bunny”. The ultimate humiliation came when the priest in the Confessional slid open the little door and asked, “And when was your last confession, Honey Bunny?”\n\nI fought it at first. I tried wearing disguises to school, wigs, phony glasses with the fake nose, occasionally a dress, a lovely chiffon with gold trim. It only added to the ridicule. I pleaded with my parents to send me to the Catholic High School across town. We checked it out, but my hopes were quickly dashed when the admissions counselor greeted me with, “We’d love to have you here at St. John’s, Honey Bunny.” \n\nI finally realized there was no point in resisting, so I embraced it. If I were to be Honey Bunny, I was determined to be the best Honey Bunny I could be. The next day, just after the final bell at the end of the school day when the hallways are the busiest, I jumped up on a chair, raised my arms above my head, and shouted, “I am Honey Bunny! Hear me roar!” That only made things worse.\n\nSo, I sit alone and dejected, each day growing more and more accustomed to a life of ridicule and anguish. At long last, I have concluded that nothing can be done to improve my present circumstance. I turn then to the future. It is my heritage, it is my right. Should I ever find a woman charitable enough to take “Honey Bunny” for her husband, and should we have children, I will be certain to pass along the sins of my father…and mother.\n\nI am not so cruel as to inflict anything as damaging as Honey Bunny boxers on my offspring, but I will be sure to dish out ample doses of embarrassment when opportunities arise. I already have a few things in mind. Whenever we are in public places, I’ll hit them up with distasteful nicknames like “Princess”, “Speedy” and “Buster”. I will make certain that my kids are the last to know there is no Santa, thereby guaranteeing they will be the brunt of a few laughs in their elementary school classrooms, maybe even high school if I can pull it off. And any time a child of mine distances himself or herself from me because of my wardrobe selection, I will quickly close the gap and repeatedly shout, “I’m this kid’s dad! I’m this kid’s dad!”\n\nI don’t know if we can call this payback, but I feel better already." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: David of Żegota\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1289\n\nPrompt:\n\nWhat was meant to be a great bonding vacation turns sour when an uninvited guest tags along." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mama and Papa are packing clothes into suitcases—one of Mama’s dresses, Papa’s trousers, one of his shirts, your nightgown. When you ask what they are doing, they pause for a long moment before Papa answers, “We are packing to go on a trip soon.” \nYou remember, vaguely, the time you rode the train over fields and rivers, and through towns and forests. The world flashed past outside the crystal-clear window, which was smudged with your small fingerprints by the time your parents urged you to your feet. They held your hand and tugged you along the narrow hallway, down the little metal steps, and through the bustling station. Then over cobbled streets, until there was a sandy place with an enormous expanse of cold water, and that was the sea.\n“Are we going to the sea again?” \n“Yes,” Papa says, “we will be going to the sea, I think. But it is a secret. You cannot tell anyone that we are going.” \n“Can I tell my friends where I have been when we come back?” you ask.\n“Yes, perhaps you will be able to tell them when we come back, my dear.” \nA knock at the door makes Mama and Papa jump. They frown and motion at you not to move or make a noise, but whoever is knocking does not stop and go away. A voice calls out, “It’s Irena.”\nMama goes to the door and opens it, and a lady with a boy comes in quickly. Mama locks the door behind them. \nThe lady has bright blonde hair, but the boy has dark hair. With one hand he clutches the lady’s hand. His other hand hangs at his side, clenched in a fist. He turns his wide brown eyes on you.\nYou have never seen him. He is not one of your friends. None of your friends have come to play with you for a long time.\nMama and Papa speak with the lady in hushed voices, and she gives Papa some papers. When they all nod to each other and look solemn, the boy looks up at the lady’s face and looks solemn, too. \nShe kneels down in front of the boy and speaks to him. He looks frightened. Then the blonde lady is out the door and gone, but she has left the black-haired boy behind in your apartment.\n“Come and say hello,” your mama and papa tell you, beckoning. \nThe boy is wearing old, threadbare clothes. As you hesitantly come closer, you can see and smell that though his clothes look clean, he needs a bath. Grime is caked on his wrists under his sleeves and on his neck under his shirt collar.\n“I don’t want to play with him; he’s dirty.” You scrunch up your face. “And he smells bad.”\nThe boy’s face crumples, and his eyes shine with tears.\n“Hush, don’t say that,” Mama scolds, and comforts the boy. “You musn’t say such things, dear. He’s your brother in Christ.”\n“My brother? He isn’t. He doesn’t even live here.”\n“Now he does,” Papa says, “and you must call him your brother.”\n“What’s your name?” Mama asks the boy. \n“David,” he answers, drying his eyes with the clean white handkerchief Mama has handed him. He hands it back smudged, his gaze on the faded rug beneath his feet. \nYou are sent to bed early. When you ask for a bedtime story, Papa tells you, “Not tonight. You need to get lots of rest for tomorrow. Remember, we are going on a secret trip.” You ask for your nightgown, but Mama says you must wear your clothes to bed. You have never gone to bed in your clothes. You wonder if this is because of David. But then you remember that you saw your nightgown in the suitcase before he came. \nThe next morning, Mama rouses you early, and Papa sits you down at the kitchen table with David and tells you both to eat quickly. \n“Is it kosher?” David asks.\n“Yes,” Papa says, and David eats like he hasn’t seen food in days. \nYou steal peeks at David, who no longer looks or smells dirty. “Is he coming with us?” you ask, turning to look at Mama and Papa, who are going through the suitcases again. \n“Yes, of course he is, darling,” Mama says, looking up. “We couldn’t leave him here all alone.” \n“What about his mama? Where is she?” you demand. “She has left him all alone with us.”\n“David’s mama,” she answers quietly, “cannot take care of him any longer. It is not safe for him to stay with her. It is safer for him to be with us. But you must not tell anyone how he came here, or that he is not your brother.” She gets up and takes your hands in hers, looking into your eyes. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”\n“Yes, Mama,” you say, and she lets go. \n“Eat your food, and then go and pick one of your toys to bring with us. Just one. It needs to fit in one of the suitcases.”\nAfter the one toy has been crammed into the suitcase (you did not give it much thought, after all, you will be coming back and can play with all of them later), Papa grasps your hand, and Mama takes David’s hand, and they pull the two of you out the door, locking it as they leave. In the hands not holding yours and David’s, the battered old suitcases dangle. \nYou want to hold Mama’s hand, but she’s holding David’s, and there isn’t room in the narrow, dark hallway of your apartment building for her to walk with a child on both sides. But there is enough room for a child on one side and a suitcase on the other. You try to ask to switch places with David, but Papa shushes you, saying, “Not now, dear.” You wonder if this is all because of David. At least he is the reason you are not holding Mama’s hand right now.\nYour feet trip on the cobblestones as Papa walks too fast down the street. You can’t see Mama and David because they’re behind you, so close that sometimes one of them is stepping on your heels.\nA train whistles, and you turn to look at the station, getting ready to go up the steps at Papa’s painfully quick pace. But instead, you’re pulled along beside the chain link fence separating the station from the street. \nThrough the fence that didn’t used to be here, you can see people standing on the other side of the tracks, crowded together. People who look like David did yesterday: dirty, frightened, solemn, with wide, dark eyes. Yellow stars blaze on their sleeves. \nDavid says two words in a tearful, anguished whisper you can barely hear.\n“Eema. Aba.” \n“You must hush now, my darling,” Mama tells him.\n“Why can’t we take the train?” you ask.\n“The soldiers are using it for something else,” Papa answers, his voice choked.\n“I want to ride the train,” you insist.\n“No, you don’t want to ride that train,” Papa says sternly.\nSomeone sniffles behind you, but you can’t tell if it’s David or Mama. \nObediently, you hurry your steps to keep up with Papa. \nIrena Sendler was a Polish woman who worked with the Żegota, the Polish Resistance, to smuggle Jewish children out of the Warsaw Ghetto and place them with families to hide them. She was arrested by the Gestapo in October 1943, but refused to divulge any information. The Żegota bribed German guards for her release on the way to her execution. Irena was given the honorific \"Righteous Among the Nations\" award by the State of Israel in 1965." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Saturday Night Activities\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1217\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who wakes up in someone else’s clothes — or utterly weird apparel they don’t recognize as their own." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The teapot was screaming in my kitchen as I sprinted in to turn off the heat. It was dark outside, with only the large pendant lamp fixture over the table creating a soft glow. The tile of the floor was cold on my bare feet as I moved swiftly as I had done a thousand times. I pour the hot water into two mugs and everything feels so quiet and peaceful.\n“Ahem.”\n I’m leaving Jack waiting eagerly at the table for the tea.\nI quickly add a pinch of sugar to both cups, despite Jack hating anything sweet, and give the dark mugs a swirl as I make my way over to the old wooden table.\nI place the mug in front of Jack and in return he smiles at me.\n“You are always the sweetest, is there anything you won’t do for me?”\nHis grin always had a way of putting me at ease, his eyes looking at me like there’s nothing he can’t make better. We had been seeing each other for about a year now and everything has been perfect. \nI smile with a slight blush. There really wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him. He had been there for me at my lowest point.\n“We have to get rid of Anna,” Jack says abruptly, still smiling.\nI sit for a moment. Here in this kitchen, I had completely forgotten other people existed. It felt like this particular moment was isolated from the world and there was only Jack and I…\nAnna. Who is Anna? I stare blankly back at Jack.\n“Rachel, I need you to do something for me,” Jack is still smiling as he says this, however his smile is different.\nI freeze. The room seems to shift before my eyes and an uneasy feeling starts creeping in. His eyes are no longer comforting. I notice how hollow and emotionless Jack instantly looks. I'm unable to breathe. The air is being sucked out of the room.\nSimultaneously a chill slowly creeps down my spine as I realize this kitchen is not mine, this table, these mugs are all unfamiliar. With a sudden panic I notice how cold I feel. But above all, I’m terrified. Terrified about what Jack is about to ask me to do. \nI woke up with a sudden jolt. I’m soaked in what I come to realize is the morning dew on the grass.\n“Where...” I slowly mutter to myself as I’m taking in my surroundings.\nGrass, patio, green chairs, large oak tree... I realize I’m in my backyard.\nThe sun is still buried behind the mountains so it must be sometime before 6 AM which means my parents will still be asleep. Thank God.\nI slowly pull myself up to my hands and knees to take stock of my body and belongings.\nAfter things with my sister, Kayla, I’ve had a rough couple of years. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve blacked out, although waking up in my backyard is a first. I’ll have to tell Anna, she’ll get a real kick out of this.\nPurse, check. Old Samsung phone, check. License, check. So far so good.\nLast time I lost my iPhone, my parents had had enough so they got me a Samsung flip phone circa 2006 until I could prove I was responsible enough for an expensive phone. I don’t love it, but there were certainly pros to the Samsung my friends had lovingly named ‘Flippy’. For one, there’s no such thing as “find my friends” or any location tracking apps where my parents can religiously check where I am. With every previous iPhone they insisted on knowing where I was at every single moment. If I ever turned my location, there were consequences.\nWith Flippy, they had to put their trust in my vague “I’ll be out for a bit” in exchange for saving some money.\nI start to slowly move myself to my feet and I can’t help but stumble a bit. Ouch. This is going to be a bad hangover. My parents had become accustomed to my rebellious behavior and lack of presence on Sunday’s due to my Saturday night activities.\nSundays used to be a day where my mom, dad, Kayla and myself would always be together. It ranged from Sunday hikes, Sunday dinners, Sunday beach outings to just binging Game of Thrones. It was Kayla’s favorite day until she went missing… STOP. I can’t think about this right now. The thing about hangovers is with all the discomfort in your body, you tend to let your mind wander in order to distract itself. Not today. I can’t. \nI make my way to the backdoor to find the key I hid under the mat. Not my parents favorite spot, but better than being woken up by your drunk 17 year old daughter banging on the door.\nWith light feet, I tip toe my way upstairs, past Kayla’s closed bedroom door and into the safety of my room.\nI flip on the light as I head into the bathroom Kayla and I used to share. I can smell the booz on my breath, so a shower it is.\nI stop to glance at myself in the mirror.\nWhat a site: my light brown hair in clumps from the grass mattress, my mascara running down my eyes and what’s this? A nice little cut across my face! My parents will love that.\nI continue my self judgment down my body, a nice bruise on my ankle, my clothes soaked and muddied from my night time sleeping spot and.. this isn’t my jacket.\nI stop at the light blue jean jacket. This isn’t my jacket. I take it off and scan it over. There’s a scribbled ‘AM’ on the tag and I realize I’m wearing Anna’s jacket.\nWhen did she give me this? In fact when did we separate last night?\nI’m now coming to realize I don’t remember a whole lot from the night before.\nTypically with a night of this caliber, Anna and I will sleep at one another's house.\nAll well. I grab my phone and shoot her a quick text to let her know I have her jacket and call me when she wakes up.\nI shower away the night before, slide into bed and check my phone hoping for a response from Anna. Nothing so far. She probably went home at a decent hour and is sleeping like a normal person. Despite this, a pit in my stomach begins to form.\nAs I’m about to put my phone on my nightstand, it buzzes with a text from Jack.\n“Hey beautiful, did you make it home okay?”\nKind of an odd time for Jack to be awake given it is about 5:45 in the morning.\n“Sort of.. I had a weird dream about you. It kind of freaked me out.”\nIt takes him a few minutes to respond back, “Rachel you know it’s just a dream”.\nI put my phone back up on the nightstand, unable to respond.\nI try to close my eyes to get some sleep, but I can’t shake the feeling something is wrong. I’m not sure if it's the hangover or the less than comfortable sleeping arrangement from earlier, but either way, something doesn’t feel right." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Vacationing in the Poconos\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2859\n\nPrompt:\n\nEach year, your character's family goes on the most exotic vacations. Finally they discover why — their family are assassins." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Officer, my given name is Arturo Barcelli, but I Americanized it to Arthur. So be sure to use that one. Arthur Barcelli. Under occupation put down that I am a businessman from Woodbury Heights. Yeah, put that down, businessman. That is what I do for a living. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. I know what you think I am, but you are wrong. What happened in the past is the past. I’ve done what I can to put distance from me and that summer in 1968 when we went vacationing in the Poconos. You can’t hold that against me. I had nothing to do with it. Honest, I was only thirteen years old at the time and I only found out all about it after the fact. If you have some time, I will tell the whole truth.” \n“Where should I start, boys? I guess I will start at the beginning where all stories start.”\n I grew up in a charming neighborhood in Camden, New Jersey during the 1960s with my parents Don and Celia Barcelli in a two story four bedroom split level home with my two brothers Lance and Vincent. My father never told me what he did for a living. My mother wasn’t much help in the matter. She thought he worked as a dry cleaner. Go figure. Uncle Gino, who later I would find was no blood relation of ours, used to come over for dinner sometimes. He and my father would slip off to his private room to talk business while me and my brothers would watch television. We all knew when Uncle Gino came over, we’d have spaghetti for dinner. Ma would make a big pot of it. She made the best spaghetti of anyone in the neighborhood. \nNever once did I question things my father told me was just “family business” and “none of my business.” My father never revealed anything he and Uncle Gino talked about behind closed doors. As I think about it now, I don’t remember hearing Uncle Gino ever saying a single word until after our vacation in the Poconos. Back then the only thing that I remember paying attention to was Barbara Eden in I Dream of Genie. My two younger brothers, however, were still into Ernie and Bert. \nI clearly remember when my father called home to my mother. I was on summer break from school. It was hot and sticky as it always was during the summertime in Camden and I was bored to death.\n“Papa called.” Mama informed us as we watched soap operas on the television as we tried to stay cool in the sweltering heat. “He wants to go on vacation.” \nVacation? Papa never took time off from business to take us all on vacation.\n“Where?” I dared to ask.\n“Some place in the hills of Pennsylvania.” She shrugged. “He wants us to pack right away. He wants to leave when he gets home in an hour.” \nHoly cow, so little time. Mama got the suitcases from the storage room and gave each of us one suitcase to pack. It was up to me to help Vincent and Lance since I was the oldest. \n“Artie, make sure you help your brothers.” She said as she left to pack for herself and papa, but I was already helping them pack their Batman underwear. I was excited at the prospect of getting out of Camden and going into the hills of Pennsylvania where I hoped it would be cooler. \nWhen papa walked into the house, we were all packed waiting for him. He seemed very irritable like he got when one of us boys messed up.\n“Cele, are we ready to go?” He asked, glancing at each of us. \n“We are all packed and ready to go.” She confirmed. \n“Good. We need to shove off, pronto.” He looked at his watch and rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand. “We’re going to take my Lincoln.” \nNone of us had ever been inside my papa’s business car. To us, papa’s Lincoln was as big as any of our bedrooms. We all walked out suitcases out to the open trunk. Even with five suitcases shoved in the truck, there was room to spare. The three of us boys got into the backseat as mama got into the front passenger’s seat. Papa left the motor running and he put the car in reverse as soon as he got into the driver’s seat. Papa spoke Italian to mama so us boys would not understand what they were talking about.\nPapa drove to Interstate 95 and drove north to Hackensack where he would get on Interstate 80 west to Lake Harmony. With the radio blaring rock ‘n’ roll music to keep us quiet, papa kept quiet as he sped down the highway with mama sitting next to him, holding his hand. None of us boys had any idea what was going on and even if we did, it would not make any difference to us now, we were on our way to Lake Harmony in the Poconos. \n“I haven’t talked about that vacation for quite some time, officer. Really. It would be the summer, I would earn my chops about being a grown up and the truth that everyone was protecting me from. You heard me right, protection was what he was trying to do for us boys, but in the end it all came crashing down on him like a burning building. Excuse me while I light up. It relaxes me.” \nLake Harmony was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. Papa drove through the night, so we arrived at our cottage around six in the morning when everything was waking up including us boys. Yawning, I emerged from the car taking a deep breath and drawing in the aroma of the world coming to life in the early morning sun. The water was as clear and smooth as glass. I could see a few bugs flutter over the water near the cottage.\n“We have a boat.” Lance pointed at the rowboat tethered to the dock. \n“Maybe we could take it out on the lake.” Vince tugged at mama’s arm. \n“Maybe.” She smiled down at him. \n“Do we have a television?” I asked.\n“No television.” Papa snapped.\n“Why not?” I whined.\n“We are here, in this beautiful place to enjoy the outdoors.” He shook his head as he would when I brought him a less than satisfactory report card. \n“Can I go wading in the water?” Lance asked, looking up at mama.\n“Sure. I will go with you.” She nodded.\n“Can I sit in the boat?” Vince asked.\n“Sure, sure.” She bobbed her head. \nWith my hands shoved in my pockets, I toddled down with the three of them as papa went into the cottage with his suitcase. When he reached the door, Uncle Gino was there waiting for him.\n“Are you alright?” He asked. I had never heard such a deep voice.\n“I’ll be fine. As soon as this all blows over, we will go back.” I could hear papa respond.\n“If this blows over.” Uncle Gino shook his head as both of them went inside. \nThe water had a green tint. I put my unshod foot in the cool water. Tiny fish swam away when I put my foot into the soft sand under the water. Vince pretended he was a pirate shouting words like, “Avast, matie” and “Ahoy, cap’n.” \nMama had Lance by his hand as he walked into the water near me. He squealed with delight when his toes sank into the sand. \n“This place is beautiful, yes?” Mama asked me.\n“Yes, it’s wonderful.” I shrugged.\n“What is the matter?” She bent over to look me in the eye.\n“I dunno. Uncle Gino is here.” I said as if I had to pull the words out from down below.\n“Yes, I know.” She nodded.\n“Why are we here?” I managed to ask. \n“Your papa wanted to come.” She watched as Lance tossed a stone into the water.\n“What is here that he wants?” \n“I don’t know, dear.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Does it matter? This place is better than home where it is so hot.” \n“I guess.” I shrugged as I kicked the water.\nPapa and Uncle Gino sat in Adirondacks chairs and drank some of Uncle Gino’s homemade wine. Both of them were speaking in Italian so we would not eavesdrop in on their private conversation. Sitting on the shore near the dock where Vince was still playing pirates, I watched them. Even though I could not understand a single word either of them said, I could tell something was up by their faces. Both of them appeared to have very grave expressions as they spoke in their native language. When I glanced at mama, who could understand what they were saying, I could tell she was deeply disturbed by their conversation. Granted I was only thirteen years old and just beginning to understand some of the subtleties of the adult world. \nIt was later that same day when I learned my first lesson. I saw Uncle Gino approach the cottage with a couple of other men all dressed in three piece pinstripe suits. Then I heard my mama scream. I ran through a cloud of fireflies to get to the door. When I got there Uncle Gino and the two other men were gone.\n“Your papa is dead.” She sobbed. I heard a car pull out of the driveway. It would be the last time I would see Uncle Gino until the other day.\n“What happened?” I asked hoping that she was mistaken, but with eyes wet with tears, she told me what had happened. Even as she told me, I knew what she said was not the truth. The very notion of my father falling overboard and drowning seemed unlikely. \n“We must go, Artie.” She sat on the couch dabbing her eyes with a tissue.\nAt the time, I did not want to leave. Our vacation at Lake Harmony had become a celebration and a much needed break. \nWith a heavy heart, I put the suitcases in the trunk of my late father’s car. There were birds chirping in the pine trees and I could see ripples where the fish had come up to snatch flies daring to fly close to the surface of the lake. Tied to the dock, the boat we never got to ride in, bobbed in the waves. \nAs I got into the car, I felt as if someone had robbed me of all of this. Lance and Vincent’s eyes were still full of sleep as they got into the backseat of the car. Mama’s eyes were red from crying. \n“Oh Donnie.” I heard her sigh as she made the sign of the cross with her rosary in her hand. I got the rare privilege to sit in the front seat next to my mama. Her fingers moved along the beads of her rosary as we pulled out of the driveway.\nA few days before I would go to St. Lucy’s High School, the police came to the door asking for mama. Mama told us boys to go to our rooms and close our doors.\n“Your father was a hitman.” Owen Martz cornered me in the boys’ room at school. \n“Was not.” I had no idea what a hitman was, but I suspected it was not a good thing.\n“Was to.” He sneered with Bruce Wallace and Dexter Butterfield standing menacingly behind him. “He hit Don Franco Carrelli while he was swimming laps in his pool.” \n“What are you talking about?” I could feel the sweat running down the back of my collar. \n“He worked for the mob as a hitman.” He held out his finger like a gun. He put his finger on my forehead and acted as if he pulled the trigger. \nWhile we were doing our homework as mama prepared dinner, I asked, “Mama, what is a hitman.” \nIt felt like all of the air had been sucked out of the room. She stopped and glared at me like only a mother can do.\n“Who told you that?” She said through her clenched teeth. \n“Some of the guys at school.” I answered. “They said papa was a hitman.” \nI never saw the slap she delivered to my right cheek, but I felt the stinging of her open palm against my skin.\n“Your papa was a good man.” Her voice was a low growl as she spoke. I knew in that instant that Owen was correct in our encounter earlier in the day, but I did not say a word, because I knew she would strike me again if I said anything. Lance and Vincent stared at me as mama continued to prepare dinner as if nothing had happened. Neither one of them dared speak fearing the same retribution from mama if they did. \nFather Becker, the principal, was in his office when I came in the next day. He made it a habit to know the names of all of his students by name even though it was still early in the school year. “What can I do for you, Artie Barcelli?”\n“Father, I wonder if you know what a hitman is?” I sat in the chair he offered to me. The welcoming smile on his face disappeared as he closed his office door.\n“I do.” His voice became deep and somber. “My brother turned away from Jesus and works for the Carrelli family. The Carrellis run the mob here in Camden.”\n“I have been told my papa was a hitman.” I confessed.\n“Was?” \n“He was killed when we were vacationing in the Poconos.” I hesitated before telling him this.\n“I see.” I could see that this conversation made him uncomfortable. He ran his finger around his collar. \n“The police came a few days ago to tell mama they had found him at the bottom of Lake Harmony.” I squirmed as if the chair I was sitting on was being set on fire and I began to wish I had not asked Father Becker what a hitman was.\n“Since then officer, I have done extensive research into the matter. It seems that some men are destined to repeat the sins of their fathers. When I saw Gino Genovese a few weeks ago, I was overjoyed, because you see, he was the thug who hit my papa.”\n“As it turned out, after papa hit Mr. Carrelli, Franco’s family hired Uncle Gino Genovese to carry out the hit on papa while we were vacationing at the lake. Even after I found out the truth, I did not plan to become involved with this. But once I found Gino out walking around after having done this during one of the happiest memories of my childhood, I could not turn my back on the opportunity. He had retired, so he wasn’t as careful as he was during his days with the mob. He did not recognize me either, so I was able to tail him until I was ready for action. I bought a Glock and some ammunition at this pawn shop in Camden. It was easy to conceal that gun in my coat pocket. As it turned out, I saw him while he was on his way to a friend’s house. I could not believe how easy it was. As soon as he saw me, he smiled and held out his hands. I pulled out my Glock and fired it until he began to dance like an out of control marionette. I left no doubt. You see, I am not a professional like my father was, so I wanted to make sure I had done it right. His eyes were open when I walked up to him bleeding and lying on the sidewalk. He was still alive after all that, but I knew he was not long for this world. I put in the other magazine and fired a single bullet into his forehead at point blank range. That put an end to it. I threw the gun into the river and skipped out to find Lake Harmony. I didn’t get very far, did I? I didn’t even get out of New Jersey before I got stopped. ”\n“Funny, when you’re a kid, you think you have things figured out, but everywhere you look, you see what they want you to see. You begin to believe all the crap they’ve been feeding you.”\n“Last year, mama passed away after a long battle with cancer. Once she was gone, I began my search for Gino Genovese. I did not want her to know what I had done. I did not want her to think that I was just like my old man.”\n“And the real kicker is that both of my brothers, Lance and Vincent, became cops in Newark. \n“Me? I was a for-hire delivery man. Yeah, go figure. Up until I pulled that trigger, my record was squeaky clean. You’da had nothing on me. Nothing.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Leah's World\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2098\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that centres around an Instagram post." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was Tuesday morning and time moved slower than usual. Leah consulted her watch. In the time it had taken for the clock to go from 10.30 to 10.50, she had; brushed her teeth, dried her hair, applied her makeup, downed another Celsius energy drink\n( Sparkling Grape Rush ) and, also according to her watch, walked approximately 632 steps, mostly around her own room. She was excited. There was still ten minutes left until she could post her recent picture. In reality the picture was almost a full week old, take at last weeks boat trip with the family — but on Instagram time flows differently.\n\nThe trip had been fine. Her parents argued as they always did, not in anger , but in that ”Are you still here?” - sort of way. Her brother Peter agreed to take some pictures of her in the water and she’d allowed him to tease her for it. But now that Leah was becoming the more prominent figure out of the two of them, he had eased up on the teasing. Not only because he was older now; he would turn eighteen in the fall; No, it was in his best interest to be nice to her. She was an Instagram star after all.\n\n54 steps later and the alarm went off to the familiar upbeat song Can’t stop the feeling! by Justin Timberlake, which meant it was only five gruelling minutes left until the picture would go live to all of her followers - and the world. Leah wondered how it could be that time moved so slowly right now, when just six years ago she’d been a child and obsessed with the Trolls movie ( in which Justin voiced a character ), which felt like yesterday. She was only nine then, a complete unknown. She still loved the song though. And Mr.Timberlake, although an old man now, suddenly made her feel all kinds of ways.\n\nThere is a method to posting on social media — a science really. Mondays through Wednesdays between 11 a.m to 1 p.m was the best time to post a picture. People were scrolling on their way to work or at lunch so the chances for exposure greatly improved during those hours. Leah hadn’t missed once in eleven months.\nLooking at the picture for the gazillioned time while the butterflies rose in her stomach, she wondered if the amount of freckles was too much —or just right. She still had time to make some last minute changes, if she felt she needed to, 58 seconds to be exact. Earlier she had warmed up the image in Lightroom on her phone, added some reds and orange tones and softened the skin so that her goosebumps didn’t show. It was horrible in the water that day but she had an idea, grabbed a hold of the railing and lowered herself down in the freezing cold; wet her hair a little, tilted her head to the side and smiled for the camera while her brother rolled his eyes and her father snorted disapprovingly. Leah thought she looked cute. And cute is currency for a fifteen year old. \nIt was time. She had decided on a caption days earlier.\n\n”HOW ’BOUT A SUNKISS?”\n”Blessed\n\nShe lay down on the bed and hit share.\n\nIt was the beginning of summer break but the weather was bad so going outside was pointless and boring. Her parents went to the beach house anyway and after a masterclass in passive aggressive nagging dressed in sugary compliments, they allowed her to stay home alone for two whole days. Peter was still at college and wouldn’t return for another week so she had the house all to herself. \nScrolling through her feed Leah was delighted to see the likes and comments staring to come in over her Sunkiss-pic.\n\n”Hey gurl, you look hella fine!” - Bammie 99.\n”Lea is my spiritanimal!”- Cathyanne.\n”Noice!” - AdamDrivrfan.\n”You are freakin gorgeous queen!” - Trish.\n\nLeah smiled to herself and replied to Trish’s comment with the usual:\n”No YOU are!”\n\nHer phone rang.\n”What you doin?” Beccas voice sounded like she’d just woken up.\n\n”Nothing. Just scrolling around. Posted a cute pic a moment ago.”\n\n”I know. I saw.”\n\nLeah jumped up and walked over to the window.\n\n”This weather kids sucks huh? You thinks it’s gonna rain?”\n\n”I really don’t care”, Becca said. ”Have you started another Instagram account by the way?\n\nLeah reached out the window to feel if any drops would hit her hand. \n\n”No? Why would I? I’m gaining followers like crazy. I’m at fourteen thousand now, so yeah, nah.”\n\nBecca was silent at the other end. Leah could smell the jealousy coming through the line. She looked at herself in the mirror and winked.\n\n”Ok. Then someone else is doing it and using YOUR profile picture!” Becca didn’t sound half as upset as she thought she did.\n\nA jolt of anger shot through Leah and she sat down on the bed and put the phone on speaker.\n\n”What are you talking about?” she snapped and pulled up Instagram. She saw her account — Leahslife. It looked the same.\nOn the profile picture (which was due for an upgrade) she sucked in her cheeks making a fish mouth while pulling both her pigtails on either side, making her resemble an amphibious Pippi Longstocking. It was cute.\n\n”I don’t know”, Becca said. ”But I got this follow request and thought it was you.”\n\n”I haven’t sent you anything!”\n\n”Then who’s LeahsWorld??”\n\nLeah was perplexed. If someone did this it it had to be for the followers and the likes. She’d heard about others having their accounts faked but their accounts were usually much bigger. Was she really becoming THAT famous?\nShe had to report the fraud immediately. She typed Leahsworld in the search bar. It was the first result that popped up. The same profile picture.\n\n”Did you find it?”; Becca asked. ”Did you see —”\n\n”I’m hanging up now.” Leah said and ended the call.\n\nIt was worse than she’d imagined. At first she thought that the fraud would’ve simply stolen some of her pictures and posted them as their own. But apart from the profile picture, these were not hers. Leah prided herself on keeping a clean feed, with color coordinated images in an order that FIT together. She spent literally HOURS in Lightroom, Photoshop and Snapseed; pushing and pulling light and colors around, adding effects, removing blemishes and so on. The fraud did none of this. In fact, the pictures posted on THIS account were bad. Really bad. She pressed follow and decided to send the creep a message. A piece of her mind. A damn smackdown.\n\n”Stop stealing my name and profilepicture asshole! Get your own! I am reporting you and having you banned from Instagram permanently!”\n\nLeah didn’t know if banning someone from Instagram was even possible but she wanted to scare the kid. It had to be a kid. Probably someone from school. She quickly scrolled through the first couple of pictures. There were maybe about twelve of them; dark, blurry and grainy, hard to make out. If people thought SHE was the one posting these she would be mortified. And fade into obscurity once again. Maybe.\nShe sat down at her desk and opened Safari on her laptop. On Instagrams homepage there had to be some information on what to to in situations like this. How to report someone, possibly even find out who was doing this to her.\n\n<Ping>\n\nBecca texted her. It just said: Rude!\n\n<Ping>\n\nHer phone lit up again. Expecting it to be another text from Becca, she went to turn the sound off. Then she saw that it wasn’t a message at all —but a notification from Instagram. Leahsworld had just posted another picture!\n\nGetting real angry now, Leah grabbed her phone. At first she couldn’t quite see what it was; A house, a yard, a few trees, a window; out of focus and random and — she froze.\nIn the picture, through the open window on the second floor; she saw a hand, reaching out. The caption read: Storm brewing?\nLeah stood up so fast her chair spun away from her like ballerina on wheels. The fraud had been outside. Just moments ago.\nAfter quickly pulling the curtains shut she peeked through the window. The street was deserted. No cars, no people, nothing.\nLeah sat down again, heart racing, and dialled up Rebecka on her laptop.\nShe answered on the first signal.\n\n”The fraud is outside my house!”, Leah yelled. ”Taking pictures! Right now!”\n\n”What are you gonna do? Call the cops?” Becca sounded alarmed but excited.\n\n”I don’t know yet”, Leah said, continuously scrolling through the pictures again, looking closer now. ”There has to be some law against —”\n\nHer heart sank. At first she’d been too hasty when looking at the images and couldn’t make them out. They all looked terrible and sloppy. Now as she studied them she could see what they were. Pictures of her. Taken in secret.\nThe first three images were taken from a distance: Leah walking, Leah yawning, Leah eating in the cafeteria, Leah mid chew.\nThese were all awful but it was the fourth one that really made a chill run down her spine; Leah, sleeping; in her own house; in her own bed.\nPeter! It had to be him. Who else would have access to her in this way? He obviously came home earlier from school and decided to pull a prank on her. What a piece of shit he was!\n\n”Leah? Do you want me to come over?”\n\nShe had expected Becca to come over later anyway no longer felt like it. She would call Peter up and chew his ear off! He was probably down in the basement laughing.\n\n”It’s my damn brother”, Leah said. ”I’m gonna kick his ass! Talk later!”\n\nShe left the call and dialled up Peter instead. He didn’t answer immediately. Probably panicking, she thought, growing angrier the more she thought about it. Finally he came online.\n\n”Yeah?” He sounded hoarse and tired.\n\n”What’s the matter with you? Do you think you’re funny?!”\n\nPeter was quiet for awhile before responding.\n\n”What are you talking about?”\n\n”Are you high or something?” she continued. \"I know it’s you, so you can stop pretending and take the account down right now!\"\n\nShe could hear him chuckle in the background. \n\n”Why are you yelling? Did mom not stock the fridge with Yoo-hoos or something?”\n\nLeah was fuming now.\n\n”Shut up! Mom AND dad is gonna know about all of this when they get home. It’s NOT funny Peter!”\n\nHe sighed.\n\n”Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but if you have something to tell them you can do it yourself.”\n\nLeah heard him turn away from the phone and call out. \n\n”Mom! Leah’s on the phone. Throwing a fit!”\n\n”Just stop it! They’re at the beach and you know that!”\n\nPeter smacked his lips.\n\n”And so am I. Here’s mom.”\n\nLeah stiffened in her seat. Her mothers voice sounded far away.\n\n”Honey? Is everything ok?”\n\nSuddenly her throat was dry as sandpaper.\n\n”Mom? Peter is with you?” \n\n”Oh sure. He came earlier, we picked him up at the busstation just an hour ago. You’re welcome to come too if you want?”\n\nSuddenly Leah couldn’t breathe. The room felt smaller than usual.\n\n”Leah? Are you there?”\n\n”Mom. There's something happening here. I’m not sure what —”\n\n”Leah, I’m losing you honey. Maybe the wifi is bad —”\n\nThe connection was broken. \n\nLeah sat still for moment. If it wasn’t Peter doing this then who was it? Should she leave for the beach house anyway? She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She shouldn’t get spooked this easily. It was just some dumb kid. \nBut the beach house was nice. \n\n<Ping>\n\nShe jumped. The sudden noise from the phone startled her and she felt instantly embarrassed. It was probably just her mother texting her.\nLeah looked at the screen and a wave of nausea welled in. \nIt wasn’t a text message. It was a notification. \nLeahsworld had posted another image.\n\nWith icy fingers she opened Instagram. And her heart almost stopped.\nThis post was not dark and grainy as before, but bright and well lit. It pictured a bedroom, a window with the curtains shut — and the back of a young girl sitting by her laptop. Leah could even see the closet doors, framing the picture with pitch black borders.\nAnd she screamed." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Posted Two Minutes Ago\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1069\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that centres around an Instagram post." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jason King liked my Instagram post. The one I posted two minutes ago. This can mean one of two things.\nHe’s casually scrolling through the app. \nPossible. \nOr he turned on the notification to tell him when I post something. \nSeems unlikely.\nBut!\nJason asked me to borrow a pencil to take a math final we had yesterday. He didn’t ask Amber Prescott or Courtney Hall for a pencil. Both are more popular and sat closer to him in math class. \nDoes this mean something? \nI study the picture in question. It’s one of my favorites. My friend, Tyler, had snapped this shot of me at lunch. My long brown hair was uncharacteristically shiny. I was sipping an iced coffee, my legs crossed to show off my thrifted Doc Martens. \nOmg. \nJason is in this lunch hour too! Is this a sign? Did he like my photo as code? Like, “we share the same lunch hour, do you wanna sit by me and/or make out sometime?” Is that what him liking this picture meant? \nAm I overthinking this?\nHighly probable. \nSitting on my bed speculating isn’t productive. \nI need advice. \nRacing to our lanai, I rush past my mom, not bothering to answer her question about what I wanted for dinner. \nCan’t she tell I’m in the middle of a crisis?\nWith my phone to my ear, I pace around our pool deck, knowing Tyler will pick up. \n“Hey, I was just about to call you…” Tyler says into my ear. \n“I’m sorry to cut you off, but listen,” I pause for dramatic effect, “Jason King just liked my Instagram post!” \n“Wait, which one is Jason?” Tyler asked after a moment. \nThis is not an appropriate reaction. \n“Tyler! Catch up! He’s in our lunch hour, yesterday he asked to borrow my pencil, he’s tall, gorgeous,” Tyler interrupts me. \n“Oh, yep, all you had to do was say that dreadful pencil story. You made me listen to what he meant by it for hours,” Tyler snickered. “So, Jason liked your Insta post, what should we do…” I can hear the smile in his voice. Now that he’s caught up, we are on the same page. \n“Should I like one of his?” I ask. \n“No! Too desperate. Or it could turn into one of those things where you both just like each other’s stuff online and then in real life it’s awkward.”\n“Like what happened with Hector?” I put a hand over my mouth as soon as I say the words. The exact situation happened with Tyler and the guy he liked. Whenever they pass each other in the hall they pretend like the other doesn’t exist. But they heart every post the other uploads. It happened recently, and I hope Tyler doesn’t mind me bringing it up. \n“Exactly. I call Hector my Insta boyfriend. That’s all he can ever be,” Tyler sighs dramatically. “Anyway, I think you should just message him. Say something simple. Since you just had a final together you could ask him how he thinks he did. He already made the first move. Now it’s your turn,” Tyler tells me reasonably. \nI stopped pacing. Tyler has a point, I should talk to him. \nBut here’s the thing, having crushes on boys is fun. I love the way my stomach dips when the boy I like looks at me. \nActually talking to a boy, though? \nThat’s an entirely different thing. \nWhat if Jason doesn’t live up to the version of him that I already have of him in my head? \nBoys never do. \nI can’t just do nothing. \n“Gwen…” Tyler can tell I’m overthinking this. “Come on, if you like Jason talk to him. Talk to him like he’s just a regular person. It won’t be awkward if he’s the right guy.” \n“What if it is awkward?” I asked my best friend. \n“Then you and I can go to the mall and look at clothes we can’t afford to buy and talk about how we only need each other,” Tyler says. \n“Thanks, Ty,” I reply. \nI put my phone on speaker and pull up the picture Jason liked. \nThis Gwen looks confident. Her eyes are carefree. She wouldn’t obsess over some guy liking her picture. \nShe’s the girl I wish I was. \nMaybe I can be her… \n“You still there?” Tyler says into my ear. \n“Yeah sorry. Alright, I think I’m going to do it,” I click on Jason's profile. My thumb hovers over the message square. \n“Really? Go, Gwen!” The surprise in his voice confirms what I already know. \nTyler didn’t actually think I’d do it. \nNeither did I.\nMaybe that’s exactly why I need to. \nI tap the message button. \nO. M. G. \n“Tyler!” I scream into the phone. I’m being louder than necessary, my next-door neighbor probably thinks I’m being murdered. \n“What? What happened?” \n“Jason King is typing me a message!” I yell. It’s hard to believe that the three little dots are real. I’m not imagining things though.\nJason is messaging me!\n“You have to read exactly what it says when he messages it!” Tyler tells me, matching my excitement. \n“Of course.”\nI hold my breath. The world stops spinning as I wait for what this boy has to say. \nMaybe I can finally have my first boyfriend…\nMy heart stops beating. \n“Tyler! He sent it!” I close my eyes and try to calm my breathing. \n“What did he say?” Tyler asks impatiently. \n“Hey, Gwen!” I stop reading his message. “He used an exclamation point! Is that good?” \n“Very good,” Tyler encourages. \n“I like your shoes in your new photo,” I read from the next line. Tyler cuts me off. \n“He complimented you! That’s a good sign!” \nI read on. \n“Anyway, I’ve noticed you hanging out with Tyler Armstrong,” I pause in confusion. \n“Jason did not say that, you’re messing with me,” the Tyler my crush is talking about says through my phone. I read the rest of Jason's message silently. \nThis cannot be happening. \n“Gwen? Come on, you’re pranking me,” Tyler says in a strained voice. I read my best friend the rest of Jason's message in an emotionless voice. \n“I was wondering if you could tell me if he’s into guys. I’m sorry if that question seems wrong or intrusive. It’s just always awkward asking someone that,” I finish. \nTyler and I both sat in silence. \nNeither sure what to say next." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Void\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1472\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that centres around an Instagram post." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Snap.\n“So, like, if I don’t get my geometry grade up, my parents say they will ground me,” yourbaebailey pouts her glossed lips.\nSnap.\n“That’s so lame,” mira_miranda rolls her eyes in solidarity.\nSnap. \n“On god!” Snap. “Which filter? Clarendon looks so good on my skin, but juno makes my eyes pop!” \nFlush. \nBoth girls sigh in irritation. The stall door swings open, and another sixteen-year old steps out. yourbaebailey and mira-miranda refuse to move away from the mirrors, and the mirror lights.\n“Uh, excuse me? I need to wash my hands.”\nTwo pairs of eyes framed by impossibly long, wispy lashes blink. \n“I guess I’ll just use the sanitizer in the hallway.”\n“Uh, anyways,” yourbaebailey flips her blonde hair, styled in perfect, beachy waves. She pulls her phone up to create the perfect downward angle to elongate her neck. mira_miranda points the selfie ring light to highlight the artistic contours of her friend’s face.\n“Hello, beautiful people of Instagram! It’s your bae, Bailey! I’m so excited to share that I now have 100,000 Instagram followers. Woo! Hit me up on Tiktok to see more of my fabulous life. Love you!” Lips pucker, and she freezes to get the exact frame.\n“Babe, that was perfect,” coos mira_miranda, running her hand through her wavy dark hair. She’s ready for her turn since yourbaebailey promised to cameo on her next post.\n“Let’s do it again. This time fan me so my hair has more bounce.”\nmira_miranda tightens her berry-colored lips. Again? “I really have to go. Unlike your parents, mine really will ground me for failing a class. ‘Bye, babe.” She blows a kiss and leaves without a look back. \nyourbaebailey rolls her eyes and mutters, “Selfish bitch,” under her breath. The perfect reel must be achieved. She climbs on the sink, phone in hand, to open the window. She hopes a breeze will come through to give her that messy-but-not-messy look. \nJust as her fingers grip the window pane, her shoes slip. To be fair, they were never intended to be used on a ceramic surface. If only a photographer was there to capture her fall: golden hair flowing, eyes bright with surprise, arms gracefully extended. Her foot kicks the selfie ring light on her journey to the floor. \nyourbaebailey braces for the pain of landing on tile floor. Yet the pain never comes. She falls and falls into blackness until slowing to a gentle stop. All is empty. All is silent. \n* * \nOutside the bathroom door, Dani steels herself. “Just stand up for yourself. So what if she’s the most popular girl and has like a million followers. You need to wash your hands” Dani takes a deep breath and reenters the bathroom she had left only a few minutes before. \nIt’s quiet. She releases her breath and heads to the first sink. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the tipped-over tripod. \n“What? Hello? Is anybody else in here?” She shakes her wet hands and walks the path between sinks and stalls. The tripod and a Burberry backpack lay on the ground, under the sole window in the bathroom. Only one person would bring a selfie ring light tripod to school. If it belonged to any other person, she would have brought the items to the office. Dani rolls her eyes and leaves the bathroom.\n * \nyourbaebailey does not show up to geometry class. Mr. Thompkins marks her absent without a thought other than relief that he will not have to battle her phone for attention. mira_miranda is upset that yourbaebailey did not tell her that she was skipping class. Even if you have to attend class, your best friend should still invite you to play hooky, right? The rest of the class barely registers her absence in their fight to keep their eyes open. \n * \nWhere the hell am I? What kind of creepy school basement is this? yourbaebailey turns her head side to side, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. She checks her phone. No cell service, but she has WiFi. The screen times out. Looking into the black mirror, she notices that her hair has more body than it has ever had before. Despite being in a void, her face has the perfect lighting. She snaps a selfie and posts it to Instagram. #lost #explore #selfie. Immediately, her phone lights up with notifications. \n * \n“If angle A is 90 degrees, then the sum of the other angles must be . . .” Buzz. mira_miranda’s phone interrupts her concentration. She glances at the notifications.\n“Really?!” \n“Ms. Lopez, do you have a question.”\n“Uh, Mr. Thompkins, I’ve gotta . . . I’ve just gotta go.” mira_miranda stuffs books, papers, and pencils into her bag and runs out before her teacher can say anything.\nHow could she? mira_miranda has been with yourbaebailey since the beginning of her online life, supporting her, taking pictures, liking and commenting to boost the algorithm, and this is how she repays her? She takes the perfect picture without her so-called BFF. Her blond hair ripples like the ocean. The background is empty and black, yet that makes her skin glow as if radiating its own light. Already the hearts and comments are pouring in. @yourbaebailey ong, girl, you are so beautiful! Damn! @yourbaebailey can get it! She scrolls rows and rows of love, adoration, and obsession. \nHow could she do this without me? \nShe enters the bathroom, the door slamming behind her. Tears sting her eyes. I’ve taken picture after picture. Held up lights and fans. Learned how to photoshop. She promised that it was my turn. She promised. \nmira_miranda sees that influencers have started to copy the plain black background with less success. (You really need a void to achieve that effect.) The ring light tripod and the Burberry bag catch her attention. Ugh, she must have left them when she snuck off campus. The years of bitter jealously cause mire_miranda to snap. She folds up the tripod and throws it into the large trashcans in the hallway. She takes the expensive plaid backpack and hides it in the trunk of her car, smiling at the thought of yourbaebailey searching furiously for these items.\n * \nDays go by. The account @yourbaebailey has grown to 500,000 followers. Celebrities and influencers have copied her style. Her first post from the void has been reposted thousands of times. The likes, comments, and shares sustain her. If I keep this up, I can have a million followers by June! It seems as if all of her dreams are coming true. She continues to post selfie after selfie. \nHer parents, away at one of their vacation homes, see and like her posts and assume she is fine. Her teachers aren’t paid enough to care about a few absences from a student with access to everything at her fingertips. Her friends think she is pulling some stunt for clout, and rumors speculate that she will soon reveal that she is living in a hype house with other influencers or she is dating some A-list celebrity and has to keep it quiet. \n * \nDriving back from an SAT tutorial, mira_miranda’s can’t stop thinking about how ungrateful yourbaebailey is. She never told me that she is dating someone famous! I did all of that for her, and she couldn’t even share one of my posts!\nHer foot grows heavy against the pedal. She has one hand on the wheel and another holding her phone, scrolling through all the void-like selfies which have taken over Instagram. It’s not even that original. Oooh, an all-black background! Whatever. She probably has like a million studio fan blowers and ring lights to get that look. No, she probably photoshopped it. That fake bitch. \nBump! Thud! \nShe lifts out of her seat at the impact of hitting the speed bump. The second sound comes from her trunk. What was that?\nShe pulls over in a parking lot to check. It’s yourbaebailey’s bag. mira_miranda grabs the leather straps and stomps to the nearest dumpster to be rid of it. As she lifts the bag to chunk it, she feels the corners of a laptop. A devious idea forms. \nShe sits on a curb stop. Within seconds, she logs in. yourbaebailey has not updated her password since we got Instagram in sixth grade. A few seconds more, and the password is now “yourbaebaileysux.” She tosses the laptop and bag into the dumpster and drives safely home. \n * *\nPassword updated? What? yourbaebailey types “MrsHarryStyles” into her phone again and again. Wrong password?!? She opens her mouth to scream but finds she has no voice. The comments and likes stop. Her numbers of followers and views drop. That glow emanating from her dims until she becomes the void." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Sculptor of Lyon\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2049\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone with a Midas touch: everything they touch turns to [fill in the blank]." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW: body horror, gore.\nJacques heard someone enter his 5th floor studio, heard the heavy groan of the old wood door, heard the tired thing thunder back into place, slamming with a finality that said ‘no more’, and it was the only thing that stopped him from pitching forward from his balcony into the street below.\nRich heels snapped against the scuffed parquet floor, and the boards underneath strained against the weight of every step the stranger took.\n“Hello?” came a man’s voice.\nJacques relit his cigarette for the fourth time and looked out over Lyon. His studio was the top floor of a tower, sitting in the crook of the Saône, and he had a lovely view of the Pont de la Feuillée. They still called it ‘the new bridge’ even though it had been reconstructed nearly a decade ago, in 1841. He could just see one of his lions from this angle – a stoic beast, carved of marble, watching over the people of the city as they crossed the bridge. One of his first commissions.\n“Hello?” came the man’s voice again. It was curious but calm, familiar but unrecognizable. A voice that tugged at his memories and hid at the corner of his eye.\nJacques huffed. If he should fall from his balcony, he’d tumble five floors and strike the cobble below. With luck, head first. But, it would leave a mess for his landlady. And besides, he had company. Ah, but the Pont de la Feuillée – if he snuck out at night, he might throw himself to the mercy of the Saône, and let it wash away the greyness of his life.\n“Hello? Jacques?”\n“Out here.” He flicked the last of his cigarette over the railing. “On the balcony.”\nThe steps drew close, and only once Jacques felt the presence of another beside him did he turn. And Jacques startled.\nBeside him stood a man dressed head to toe in rich reds and blacks, accented with gold buttons and chains and jewellery. His boots were buckled with gold, his hands were covered in black satin gloves, and upon his head sat a broad-rimmed hat with a white feather in the band. The clothes screamed wealth, if not style – though perhaps they whispered a style to come.\n“M. Desrosiers!” Jacques cleared his throat. “Pardon me, sir, but I was not expecting you.”\n“No matter.” M. Desrosiers smiled and patted Jacques on the shoulder. “I’ve come to take a look on my commission.”\nSomething cold shifted in Jacques’ bowels. The commission: it was the one thing he didn’t want to think about, and the one thing he couldn’t stop thinking about. It was beautiful, it was hideous, and for better and worse, it was the only thing that kept him alive.\nIf it hadn’t been for the chance encounter with M. Desrosiers three months ago, on a moonless foggy night, when Jacques planned to get well drunk and then to go looking for trouble, whether in the dark alleys of Lyon or in the waters of the Saône or by means of the loaded pistol he kept in his pocket, he might finally have been done with it all. But when they ran into each other just outside Fournier’s, M. Desrosiers insisted they enter the bar and share wine. And when Jacques told him of his misery, of his heartache, of giving up, M. Desrosiers insisted further.\n“I can’t do it anymore,” Jacques said. “Every breath I draw is torture. All I want is to hold her again, to feel her skin against mine.”\n“There’s no greater pain, than that of the heart,” said M. Desrosiers. “But this is the well, from which we draw art. Tell me, what do you intend to do with the piece?”\n“I don’t know. I will smash it.”\n“Impossible,” M. Desrosiers said. There was no alarm in his voice, just a statement of fact. “I’ll not hear another word. I’m commissioning you to finish it.” And the price he offered, coupled with the wine, was not something Jacques could refuse.\nJacques lit another cigarette. “This way, sir.” He took his patron to his workshop, a dusty place filled with statuettes, busts, blocks of various stones and wooden frames, a place dominated by a column, of a man’s height, covered by a white cloth that promised severe edges. A stool sat before it, and hammers and chisels littered the floor, scattered like afterthoughts.\n“Show me,” said M. Desrosiers, circling the covered statue.\n“It’s not finished.” It cannot possibly be finished.\n“Art never is. Reveal it.”\n“It’s grotesque.” A cruel mockery.\n“Impossible. Your hands are magical – they sing to the stone. Come, do not keep me waiting.”\nJacques tarried only a moment longer, and then listlessly he pulled at the cloth.\nThere was a radiant gasp. “Marvelous,” said M. Desrosiers. “She’s simply magnificent.” He touched the cold marble, placed his hands on the midriff, ran his palm up the perfectly smooth abdomen. Cupped an ice cold breast.\nJacques felt his throat harden.\n“Mm,” said M. Desrosiers, his thumb and forefinger cradling a nipple. “Such attention to detail! So like the real thing!” His hand slid to the abdomen again, and then began sliding lower, following her contours, following the map of her muscles and flesh, lower, ever lower–\n“Sir!” Jacques grabbed the other’s hand. “Sir, please. It’s unfinished. Very delicate.”\nM. Desrosiers locked eyes with him for just a moment, but then a wide grin bloomed on his face. “Of course! Of course! How boorish of me to interfere with the genesis of art. But I tell you, you have made an exquisite piece here. It’s so like life.”\nJacques felt the cold in his guts roil. He beheld the work that consumed him: the statue of Camille. The torso of Camille, rather. She stood on the stumps of her hips and she had no arms. Neither had he been able to bring himself to carving her head, her precious face. Not yet. Not ever, perhaps.\nBut lifelike? Yes, Jacques had to admit that was true. He knew the map of her. His fingers had traced her every path, and he’d drunk deeply of her, gotten lost in her shallows. He couldn’t count the nights they’d spent in soft embrace, or the fervent daylight moments they’d stolen together. There was no greater love, he knew, and she was forevermore his heart.\nIt was M. Desrosiers that had introduced them. M. Desrosiers, his enigmatic patron, the man who discovered Jacques, who secured his first commissions and helped him build a name for himself. The man convinced of magic hands, convinced that there was nothing they could not sculpt. The man who knew very well what he was doing, when he brought Jacques and Camille together, and then left them alone.\nAh, but this! This cold, dead stone – it merely looked like Camille, once. Looked like her, before her death, before her murder. It was hard and unyielding, and had none of the vibrant warmth of the real thing, of his muse. This – this was a horrid effigy and no more.\n“You have outdone yourself,” M. Desrosiers said. “Truly, your work honours my niece.”\n“It’s unfinished,” Jacques whispered.\n“I have a hunch it soon will be. I’ve a sense for these things, as you know. No magic hands myself, but a sense about art, yes. Now come, we will celebrate your progress and looming breakthrough.”\nM. Desrosiers brought libations. They started with wine and moved on to absinthe, and all the while M. Desrosiers talked about his views on art, and how through it, he firmly believed, man could pierce the veil.\n“Through force of will alone,” he said, “to create. Like God.” Jacques’ vision swam but M. Desrosiers seemed cogent no matter how much he downed. “But the conditions must be right. We must truly want it, as only the empty heart of the artist wants.”\n“Soon,” M. Desrosiers said. “You are my most prized sculptor in all of my stables. Soon, you will prevail. I don’t doubt it. Now, I leave you to it.”\nJacques finished what remained of the bottles after his guest departed, deep in the black of night. The man was strange, and always appeared at just the right time, or just the wrong time. It was M. Desrosiers that introduced him to Camille, and then later, introduced him to the news of her death. It was he that found her. Strangled, they said, among the rose bushes on the family estate. The murderer, never found.\nIt was he… Jacques didn’t know if it was he. M. Desrosiers was the last to see her alive – that didn’t mean anything. Besides, it was disrespectful to harbour such suspicions about the man who funded him. Besides, it was too terrible to consider, if. If M. Desrosiers had played a role. If instead of doing something about it, Jacques had merely taken those funds.\nJacques downed the rest of the absinthe, and settled into fitful, fanciful dreams. In his mind Camille came back to him. He embraced her statue and in the moonlight, she turned into his lost love. They danced through the night and laughed and he twirled her faster and faster.\nA thousand questions filled his mind – how had she returned? What was the other side like? Did she still love him? Did she know he still loved her? – but all were strangled by his pressing need to hold her, to have her. They loved like it was their last day, their first day, their only day; and he fell asleep in her embrace, tangled in sheets, feeling the warmth of her touch once more.\nBy morning, that touch had grown cold.\nHe awoke to a piercing headache and found himself draped over the unfinished statue, the headless, faceless cadaver, the armless and legless corpse. The pale imitation of a woman whose voice he could barely remember, whose touch he craved more than breath itself.\nCold, cold, cold.\nBut soft.\nHe gripped her shoulder and found his fingers sank into the marble, deformed it like – like skin. Grey skin, pallid skin, and webbed with dark veins, nearly black. He rose to sit, tried to lift her, and found she bent backwards, as though she had a spine. As though she were flesh. Dead flesh.\nJacques recoiled, swore. What was this? he wondered. Was this the drink? Had his mind finally broken?\nThat was when he noticed himself sinking into his bed.\nHis sheets, bunched in his tightly closed fist, had themselves grown soft and veiny, and covered in irregular tufts of hair. And the bed – a large slab of fibrous meat, heaved under his weight. His other hand sunk into it and something cracked. He pierced the surface, exposing a shattered, brittle bone, and a gush of foul blood.\nJacques screamed. The bed heaved under him as he leapt to the floor, and the parquet beneath his feet turned almost at once into a meshwork of impossible fingers, too long and too short, with too many joints, fused at all angles, all writhing and snapping and cracking under his panicked retreat.\nEvery tool he touched turned into a shivering mass of malformed bone and sinew, screaming of wrongness, and every wall he stumbled into blossomed into a rippling bruise, a labyrinthine organ, a tortured thing filled with fluids. The air in his studio grew hot and moist and blood and other things dribbled from a thousand open sores.\nHis shrieking unending, he charged for his door and the stairway beyond, but no sooner had he placed his hands on the heavy wood than it cracked into a web of ribs, hiding a colossal, misshapen heart of dozens of chambers, each beating a deafening drum and spurting gore everywhere.\nJacques turned and fled for his balcony – too late. The balcony itself became a broad, lolling tongue which rolled back and kept him inside, and thousands of jagged, splintered teeth erupted from both the ceiling and the floor.\nThe whole tower shuddered, ground against itself, writhed in fury and meaningless pain, and collapsed under its own weight. It pitched forward and splattered into the Saône, with a finality that said ‘no 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: Roommates\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1010\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that centres around an Instagram post." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“You can’t be serious…” Ava groaned, scrolling through social media. She just saw the new post from her band teacher on Instagram. It was a picture of the band room with the caption: “Band Practice Tonight!” She hated that her band teacher used Insta to send out news. He was trying way too hard. She shook her head, it was so cringe.\nJen, Ava’s roommate, looked up from her book, “What is it now?”\nAva sighed, “Band practice got moved up to tonight instead of tomorrow…”\nJen shrugged, “And?”\nAva shook her head, “You never pay attention, do you? Tonight is my date with Kell.”\nJen rolled her eyes, “You’re always so dramatic. Just reschedule it. And by the way, I have more pressing things to remember besides your nightly plans, like trigonometry, for example. While you’re trying to decide what fun thing you’re going to do tonight, I’m going to be stuck in a classroom for three hours taking an exam that is worth thirty percent of my grade. Thirty percent! My teacher is officially a sadist.”\nAva pressed her head against the wall, “You don’t understaaand. I already had to reschedule our date twice. Any more and he’ll think I’m avoiding him.”\nJen tapped her fingers against her desk, “Is that a rule? I haven’t been on many dates.”\nAva slumped against the wall, “I mean, it’s not written in some dating codex, but it would be a shitty thing for me to do to reschedule again. I would basically be saying that band practice is more important than him.”\n“Well isn’t it? You’ve been doing band for six years and you’ve only been doing Kell for six months,” Jen replied.\nAva gasped, “Jen!”\nJen chuckled, “What? I’m just speaking the truth. Fine. I did makeup for the school play last semester. I can probably make myself look like you, I made Carl Henson look like an old man so this should be a piece of cake by comparison. Then I can go on a date with Kell looking like you while you go to band practice.”\nAva huffed, “No! I’m not letting you go on a date with my man! Besides, he’d never buy it.”\n“Why not?” Jen asked, “I’m sure I’d be good at it, pretending to be you, that is. I could probably give him more stimulating conversation than you do, and other stuff.”\nAva crossed her arms, “No! Off the table. Besides, don’t you have an exam this evening?”\n“Eh, I’ll just say I’m sick. But if you don’t want me to help how are you going to juggle both? Why not just skip band practice?” Jen asked.\nAva rolled her eyes, “I can’t. I have a performance next week, remember?” She scrolled down to another Instagram post by her band teacher announcing the recital, “You are coming to that, right?”\n“Why should I? You didn’t come to my academic decathlon,” Jen accused.\nAva groaned, “But that’s so boooring. All you do is scribble answers for four hours.”\n“It’s eight hours, and it's much more dynamic than that, there’s a rapid answer section, a written section, a challenge section, and a…”\nAva interrupted, “I’m sorry, you lost me at academic. Now back to my problem. So skipping either event is out of the question… oh! Remember that time you tried to get that boy to date you with that nerdy puzzle thing?”\nJen blushed, “No, what are you talking about?”\nAva smirked, “You know what I’m talking about lovergirl! Do you still have the stuff you used?”\nJen’s flush deepened, “Please, don’t make me relive that embarrassment.”\nAva grinned, “Do you still like him?”\nJen hid her face in embarrassment, “Please stop…”\nAva leaned close, whispering, “I can help you win him over if you help me with this.”\n“You’re not a miracle worker, Ava. Besides, you know how that puzzle thing went. He didn’t like it, he’ll never go out with me.”\nAva shook her head, “Boys are just idiots, that’s all. He didn’t get the right message, but I can change that. You’ve seen my track record, trust me.”\nJen sighed, “Fine… they’re just a bunch of stupid riddles, I don’t know why you’d want them.”\nAva smirked, “You spent a whole week making those, and they were scattered all over campus. You estimated the whole series would take two hours to complete.”\nJen’s eyes lit up, “Oh.. you want to delay him two hours, don’t you?”\nAva grinned, “Exactly, by then I’ll be done with band practice.”\nJen scratched her head, “And you think he’ll enjoy it? Benedict didn’t.”\nAva chortled, “Benedict? That’s the name of the boy you like?”\nJen shrank, “What? It’s a perfectly fine name.”\nAva chuckled, “It’s exactly the kind of name I imagined your crush having, that's all. And that’s why I’m going to reward him for answering each riddle, with these…” She took out a bunch of letters, “I made these in my visual art and culture pathway. On the letters are a bunch of little Avas saying cute things to him!”\nJen nodded in approval, “Not bad. But I’ll have to dumb down the riddles a little. He’d never get them otherwise.”\nAva huffed, “Hey! You take that back.”\nJen shrugged, “What? I bet you couldn’t figure them out either. Not even Benedict could complete them, and he's smart like me.”\nAva rolled her eyes, “Fine… and make little cheat hints he can look at so he can actually finish.”\nJen chuckled, “Good idea. He’ll need them.”\n“I’m going to ignore that,” Ava replied.\nJen cackled to herself before getting out her riddles, beginning to dumb them down.\nAva whispered, “Hey, Jen…”\nJen blinked, “What is it now?”\nAva smiled, “You’re not a half-bad roommate.”\nJen grinned, “Thanks, Ava. But you owe me big time for this. You’re going to have to come to my Academic Decathlon.”\nAva groaned, “Ugh, seriously? I take it back. You’re a terrible roommate.”\nThe two burst into laughter. Ava smiled to herself, not a half-bad roommate at all." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Gardener\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2039\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a person buying a house plant." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Chi-ching! Another plant sold. This one is an Orchid that I have named Steve. I can't help it! I need to have something to do for the three hours I'm here every day! So… I name the plants. Stupid, I know, but I get bored easily. I look up from the homework I resumed and notice the Woman who bought Steve staring at me expectantly. She is probably in her 70s, with gray hair, thin lips, and wrinkles. \"Have a great day,\" I say in a not-so-cheery tone. She stands there and glares at me. I don't know what she wants until I look down and see Steve still sitting next to the cash register. I mutter a half-hearted \"sorry\" as I hand her steve. \"Hmph!\" she scoffs and then leaves. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and yawn. It's hot, nearly summer in New York, and I'd much rather be anywhere else, but I remind myself I'm here for a reason. My mom just bought both me and my twin new cars for our birthdays, so she says that in order to do an after-school activity, we have to pay for them. Jacob doesn't care. He hates sports (unless of course, they are video games) but I play lacrosse, and I can't let my team down! So that's how I ended up here, at \"Maggie's Garden\" from 3 to 6 pm, 5 days a week. Thankfully, tomorrow is Saturday and I'll have a whole two days to myself. \nNo one is around, so I sneak a glance at my phone, it's 5:43 pm. In other words, 17 minutes till I can leave. I spend most of the rest of the time working on my math homework. Five minutes before I can go, someone walks in the door. \"Welcome to Maggie's Garden\" I mutter, the garden coming out more like \"garhen\" as I stuff my mouth with sour cream and onion Pringles. I chew, swallow, and ask, \"How can I help you?\" The woman just stares at me blankly for a second, and then asks \"Aren't you the new high schooler we hired?\" I am so confused, first off, how does she know that!? Second, why'd she say \"we\" I'm about to ask when, as if she's reading my mind, she says \"I'm the owner\" she gestures around, \"you can call me Ms. Maggie.\" These words take a while to sink in, but when they do, I think I'm under mind control. I get up super fast, stuff my homework and pringles into my backpack, and try to get the wrinkles out of my shirt while stammering, \"It's very nice to meet you! Yes, I'm the new worker- I mean the person you hired- I mean- uh um\" I'm still fumbling for words and jabbering my mouth off when she laughs and says \"it's nice to meet you too.\" \nShe smiles, and her smile is beautiful! I'm not saying that in a weird way, yuck she's probably thirty! But it's a very pretty smile- that's all. \"What's your name?\" she asks \"Alex,\" I say without missing a beat. I used to struggle with that, back when I first came to realize that I'm non-binary. I'd say, \"I'm Bea- I mean, Alex.\" my mom kept telling me that I was more than welcome to keep my old name. I can tell it hurts her even now to say \"Alex\" instead of \"Bea\", and \"my kid they/them\" instead of \"my daughter she/her\". \"Well Alex, I have a big project this weekend,\" Ms. Maggie says \"we're remodeling the shop, and we need to move all the plants out. How'd you feel about $300 to help out all day tomorrow?\" I nearly scream, but I hold it in. 300 dollars!? But I have plans to go to the movies with some friends tomorrow. I decide that this is WAY more important and say \"I'd love that so much!\" Uhg, I realize I sound like a total suck-up, so I quickly add \"Let me ask my mom first.\" Ew! No way that made it any better. \"Ok,\" she says \"Just text me once you ask your mom.\" She hands me a \"Maggie's Garden\" business card that has her contact information previously circled in red sharpie. \"now get out of here! It's past your work hours\" She fake scolds me. I grab my backpack, rush for the door, and for the first time since I've worked here, I don't mutter thanks. I practically scream it.\nI come home to the smell of chicken nuggets and Chick-fil-a sauce. Mom must be too tired to cook tonight. I grab an 8-pack from the counter and head to my room. I open the door to find my twin brother Jacob plopped on my bed, looking at his phone. He looks up, \"hey my little baby sibling,\" he says. He was born 6 minutes before me, so he claims that he can call me a baby if he wants. I roll my eyes, \"Get out of my room\" I groan. \"Aw but it's Friday movie night.\" He scrunches up his face in an attempt to make a \"please, I'm begging you, look how cute I am\" face, but to me, it just looks like he's constipated. I sigh and open my laptop to Avengers Infinity War and press play. We lay there on our stomachs in silence for a while, and then he says \"Alex, I think I'm gay.\" This is no surprise to me, so I just say \"ok\" and continue watching. \"You're not like… mad or anything?\" he asks. \"Bro\" I pause the movie and sit up, \"you do realize you're talking to your non-binary sibling, right? Of course, I'm not \"mad\", I knew it all along\" I offer a smile, but he just frowns \"What if mom's upset that all her kids are gay? And what do you mean you knew it all along?\" he asks. I decide to answer him with a question of my own. \"How many 16-year-old boys have Justin Bieber posters all over their bedroom walls? And Sarah is most definitely not gay.\" I let out a snort. \"Even if she was, mom's not the kind of person who would be \"upset\" about that.\" He sticks his tongue out at me \"I only have one poster, thank you. But you're totally right about Sarah\" we both burst out laughing. Sarah is our 12-year-old sister, who is the most stereotypical tween you will ever meet. We laugh for a little longer and then I hit play on the movie.\n\nBLEEP BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP! \"Uhg\" I groan as I roll over and turn off my alarm. I don't remember falling asleep last night, but I guess I did because my alarm clock reads 6:30 am. I texted Ms. Maggie last night and she said to be at the store at 7:30. I have an hour. I give myself another minute before getting up from my bed and dragging myself to the bathroom. I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and decide to pick out some shorts and a tank top I never wear since I'll probably get dirt all over them. My mom is in the kitchen when I head in, \"Morning Alex! Are you going to the movies with your friends already?\" Crap! I forgot to freaking tell her!? I could lie, but I decide to just give it to her straight \"oh- no I canceled my plans. I have an all-day job at Maggie's.\" I say \"Oh honey, that's great, so very responsible of you! Saving up for that lacrosse team you want to join?\" She fires these words all at once and they mush together in my brain (I'm still tired, ok!) and so I just mutter \"mhm\" and grab the cinnamon toast crunch from the pantry. As I'm pouring the milk into my bowl, Sarah and Jacob come down the hall into the kitchen, Sarah looking perfect as ever (I think she slept in her makeup), and Jacob looking tired and groggy. Jacob lays down on the couch while Sarah grabs a protein bar, \"Mom. Me, Sophi, and Emma are gonna meet up at the park ok?\" Sarah says. She, Sophi, and Emma have been tight since kindergarten. \"Ok, hon! Tell them they're welcome to come over for lunch!\" Mom replies. \"I will!\" Sarah yells. \nThe door slams and it's quiet again, other than Jacob, who's managed to fall asleep again on the couch and is snoring so loud I think the people two apartments down can probably hear it! I check my phone, it's 7:15. \"I gotta go, mom, Love you!\" I kiss her on the cheek and leave. As I close the door to our apartment, the shiny black -1803- catches the sunlight and glints. Any other day I wouldn't think much of it- but today, I know this is the start of a great day.\nI pull my jeep up to \"Maggie's Garden\" and see many people lugging all sorts of plants. I see Ms. Maggie hauling a fiddle leaf fig tree named Sharol out of the glass front doors of the store. I park my jeep and run over to help. I grab the other side of Sharol and we carry it to one of those portable shed things, already filled almost halfway with plants. We find a spot for it and plop it down, \"thanks for that!\" Ms. maggie says. I nod and ask \"what do you want me to do first?\" \"Start in the flower section\" Maggie replies. Everything goes smoothly for the first few hours. I even manage to carry a pot made of bisque clay! (I can't stand that texture!) and then the inevitable happens. Right around noon, I'm carrying a succulent to the shed when someone says, \"Lunch just got delivered! I don't think twice, and jump up and down for joy! I'm starving. But as I'm jumping, the succulent slips out of my hands! I try to catch it, but it's too late! It crashes to the ground, and the beautiful pot shatters into pieces! Before I can do anything, though, I start crying. Polly- that beautiful succulent, is dying! I've never cared this much before! I'm 16, and crying like a baby! It's just a plant. I try to calm down, but the tears keep coming! It's like a tidal wave of emotions has crashed over me. \nBefore I know what's happening, Ms. Maggie has her hand on my back, rubbing it around in circles. Not going to lie, it calms me down enough that I can choke out \"I-I'm s-s-s-s-so sorry\" I start crying again and Ms. maggie helps me to my feet. She hands me a tissue and sits me down on a bench. \"It was just a plant,\" she says. Was. she says it as if all hope is gone for Polly to survive. But I have an idea. I wipe away my tears and sprint to the back of the shop, where a bunch of pots with no plans in them sit. I grab a teal pot and go around the front of the shop to fill it up with dirt. Now I grab the succulent and stick it in the pot. It fits perfectly. \nWe finish moving the plants around 2:00 that afternoon. Other than me dropping the succulent, everything went well. We close the shed and lock it, give everybody high fives, and most people leave. Some tall bearded guy is sweeping up the spot where I dropped Polly, and a blonde girl is peeling off her gardening gloves. Ms. Maggie hands me Polly. \"You saved her, so therefore you can keep her,\" she says, and smiles.\nOver the next few months, I accept many new jobs as a gardener, and my room fills up with more and more plants. I even use some of the money I made to buy myself the fiddle leaf fig tree (Sharol) for the corner of my room! I've had to spend 16 years trying and failing to discover my passion and, finally, I have. Life isn't always easy, but when you find and do things you love, it makes it a whole lot better." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ms. Glen's Garden\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2240\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a person buying a house plant." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Community service sucks. Community service sucks even more when you're sixteen and this was supposed to be your spring break. Community service sucks, even more, when you're assigned to slaving away in some random old woman's garden all day while your friends get to do things like chill out on the beach and stay up all night. But the part that sucks the most? Knowing I'm only having to do it because of my own mother, to begin with. Apparently, I smoke too much for her to handle anymore (which I think is a little bit dramatic, but whatever). I'm not sure how rebuilding an old widow's garden for the majority of my spring break is going to fix what I don't even consider a problem, but it's not like I really got to say much in the final decision-making process.\nIt turns out, that when you're under suspicion of being a so-called 'addict', nobody really cares what defenses you have to give. When you're a low-life, you're going to be treated like one. Even though you're not actually one; people in Crestview just don't get it. And thanks to that, now I don't get to enjoy my spring break. Well, that's what my mom and probation officer want, anyway. Of course, I'm still going to spend my break the way I want to, I'm just kind of limited to hours after 7 p.m. now; that's why tonight my plans start at 7:01 and don't stop until I say they do. Screw whatever chance of a curfew my mom thought she had left.\n\"Jay! You gotta go!\", Mom's voice cuts through the house like a shrill and I roll my eyes. \"Yeah.\", I yell back down. Today's the day my service starts and I couldn't be more ready for something to be over. I slipped on my \"VOLUNTEER\" vest and give myself one last look in the mirror and think to myself \"this orange is so vibrant I might be able to be convinced that I'm high right now\". As soon as my feet hit the hallway carpet outside of my bedroom, I immediately felt Mom's gaze on me from the bottom of the stairs. I turn to her and notice a couple tears welling up in her eyes. Apart from me wanting to feel bad because I know that she really is just worried about me, I can't. Instead, all I feel is an annoyance. I mean, come on. It really isn't this serious for me to smoke a little weed. \"Mom. Chill out.\", I say as I brush past her in the stairway. She takes a deep sigh and I immediately regret what I said. Not because it's untrue-- she does need to chill out-- but because I don't want to deal with the conversation I'm about to cause. I know I'm in for it.\n\"I'm so sorry that I never wanted to send my child to be rehabilitated.\", she finally says.\nShe's kidding, right? \"Rehabilitated?!\", I yell in genuine disbelief.\n\"Mom, I'm going down the street to help Ms. Glen plant her garden, not to a fuckin' rehab center. And yes you did want to! You're the reason why I'm even going anyway!\"\nMy heartbeat was so heavy that I'm sure even she could hear it from the outside. Mom puts her hands up in surrender and takes another of her characterizing deep sighs.\n\"You are the reason why you are going. When my only two options as a mother are to either bail you out and sign in court that you'll do some community service or let you stay caught on a simple possession charge, I really think I did you a favor in what I chose. I am so sorry you have to sacrifice some of your time now to save yourself in the long run. There's a difference between doing what I want and doing what's necessary, Jay. One day, I really hope you realize that.\"\nWith that, she was back in the kitchen cleaning and I was out on the front lawn estimating that the walk to Ms. Glen's would take me about four minutes from my porch to hers. It's the second house to the last on the left side of the street, and all stark white besides the red shutters. Her nephew still power-washed the exterior for her and knowing that made me wonder why he couldn't have just been the one to come rebuild this garden for her. I'm pretty sure the only reason Mom even chose me to do it for my supposed 'rehabilitation' was that she expected me to enjoy giving back so much that I would start volunteering on my own and bringing her fruits and vegetables once they grew or get inspired and start my own at home or something. She loved putting unrealistic standards like that on me and saying it was just her 'seeing all of my potentials'.\nUp until her husband had died almost eight months ago, the Glens' garden had been the pride of the south end of our cul-de-sac. Every summer the vegetables would grow in surplus and we'd all take trips down to their house for watermelons, carrots, tomatoes, you name it. This summer was going to be the first without Mr. Glen's green thumb to get us through the heat, but luckily my mom got way too involved in my life just in time to force me into being the one to take his place. I just hope Ms. Glen's not too much of the talkative type now that she doesn't have anyone else to riff off of. I just wanna get what I have to do done and go catch up on the fun I should have all day, every day of the next two weeks to have. I mean, really how fair is it that the same people I \"smoke too much\" with are still all together at Nathan's right now doing exactly that, but I'm stuck here walking up an old woman's front porch steps to clock in for the day.\nI'm greeted with a \"Well, hey honey.\" when I walk through the banisters and when I look to where it came from I see Ms. Glen sitting in a rocking chair in the right corner of the porch. \"Uh... hey.\", I stumble. \"I'm supposed to be here to help you start this season's garden?\" She gives me a squint and I took that as my chance to wish she would've said she had no idea what I was talking about.\nShe didn't, though. Instead, she pried on me over what I'd done to \"wind up\" in my \"position\". I might not be able to feel guilty about my mom's overreacting, but what I do feel guilty about is having to tell a seventy-three-year-old woman whose husband just died from lung cancer that I'm only here to help her with her garden because my neighbor caught me smoking and couldn't keep his mouth shut. Seriously, who calls the cops on a kid for doing something literally every kid does? That was literally all the justification Mom needed to criminalize it, and she wasted no time in doing it.\nSpeaking of wasting no time, that's exactly what Ms. Glen did when she put me out the back door with an illegible but long list of things to get done. When Mom said \"help Ms. Glen\", I didn't know she meant to do everything for her. I understand she's old and whatever, but she isn't dead--because if she were, I'd be at Nathan's. The only words I could make out from her elderly chicken scratch were 'tomato cages', 'fertilizer', and 'squash', so those were the only things I was even going to bother getting done.\nIf I could drag things out long enough, I'd be able to finish maybe one of those three by tomorrow. Realistically, for every eight hours of work I was supposed to be doing for the next ten days, I was only going to do about an hour. That should have been plenty for Ms. Glen to be thankful for, and as long as the eighty hours technically were accounted for Mom couldn't even argue anything over it. Besides, it's not like I was actually being supervised. Ms. Glen could barely walk, let alone have the energy to even stand and watch me from her window all day. I began to think that maybe this wouldn't be so bad if I could actually get away with sitting around outside all day and just pretending to work.\nUnfortunately, my deep thinking was interrupted by a familiar voice coming over the Glen house's fence. \"Jay? What you doin' down here?\", was what it said and I knew exactly who I'd be met with once I turned around-- Carter Venice, aka the worst person to have possibly seen me here. Still, I turned around.\nCarter and I were friends, it's just that you can imagine how annoying having to explain the situation to him was. \"Damn, so you not gonna be over at Nate's any this week then?\", Carter asked me and I rolled my eyes hard. \"Not 'til after 7. But by then I'm sure everyone will have moved on to something else for the night, ya know.\", was my reply. Carter did know because he was a part of the 'everyone' who couldn't sit still for too long and constantly needed the next thrill. That's how I wanted to be spending my whole spring break too but now I couldn't even take a trip overnight since I had to be at Ms. Glen's by noon every day.\nAs we were wrapping the conversation up, I noticed Carter's eyes start to wander to the far right corner of the fenced-in backyard behind me.\n\"Bro, what are you looking at\", I finally asked him and he just pointed and asked me a question back.\n\"What is that over there?\". I followed his finger's direction until my eyes met with a flourishing green plant tucked over into the side of the yard, but I didn't have an answer for him.\n\"I don't know? I haven't done anything yet and I have no idea what she wrote on the to-do list she gave me. Why?\"\n\"Dude, no. Look at the leaves.\" I readjusted my eyes and looked again.\nHoly shit.\nMy silence must have given my reaction away because Carter was the next to speak again. \"There's no way that's what I think it is, right?\", was what he said, and I didn't even know how to respond.\n\"I don't think so? It's gotta be something else.\"\nThere was just no way Ms. Glen was growing marijuana in her backyard.\n\"Well go dig it up and let me take it home and find out.\"\nI turned around to face him again. \"What?\", I laughed, but he didn't. \"Oh. You're serious?\"\n\"Why wouldn't I be serious?\"\n\"Bro, why would you? You actually want me to go pull that whole plant up for you right now?\"\n\"Nah, bro. I want you to go pull that whole plant up for us. Us and Nathan and everyone else bro. Come on. You're already the bummer of spring break, you might as well bring some good with you when you can finally show up. Ya know.\"\nI hated how easily he convinced me, but he was right. I was going to be the one missing out on what everyone else was doing, so I might as well make the best of it and get something good out of this. Stealing an old woman's weed plant would definitely make everyone forget I ever had this stupid restriction anyway.\nThe next thing I knew, I was behind a shovel hacking away at roots and ripping the soil from under the plant. The leaves were pointy and spread out, and the whole thing was practically growing green. If this wasn't weed, it sure was a good imposter. I grabbed a spare terracotta pot from inside the shed and placed the plant inside before delicately handing it over the fence to Carter.\n\"Take care of it. I'm serious. That's about to get us through high school.\" I joked as he walked away. For the next seven hours, all I could think about was whether or not Carter had told anybody or done anything with it yet. Finally, my eight hours of bullshitting were officially allowed to be over and I could go hang out with everyone, but when I walked through the back door my hastiness to leave was halted by Ms. Glen who was standing at her kitchen island with her walker waiting for me.\n\"Did you get a lot finished for me?\", she asked.\n\"Oh yeah. Tons.\", I lied and turned to finish exiting her home.\n\"Did you see the Japanese maple I wrote down about?\"\nThe what? Oh. That must have been what 'Vopamese naple' on the list meant.\n\"I did.\", I lied again.\n\"Doesn't it look nice over in that shaded corner? Bill planted that years ago for me, and now that he's gone it's my favorite. That's why I put it first on your list. I want extra good care taken of that one.\"\nI froze. The shaded corner? That's where...\n* * *\n\"Carter?\", my voice floats through the phone. \"Google green Japanese maple and then meet me at Starkey's flower shop.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: PROTEGE\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2103\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a character receiving a hug or words of comfort." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "PROTEGE\n\nMax left the building on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse feeling exhilarated following his meeting. As he stood beneath the panoply of red flags, all proudly displaying the swastika emblem of Nazi Germany, he took in a deep breath of the frigid November air. Finally, he had a clarity of purpose; a reason to look forward to the future with real optimism.\n\nEver since he had returned home from university, Max Brandt had been listless, unhappy, unsure of what his life might have in store for him. His father, Gerhardt, a wealthy industrialist was ailing and confined to bed, having suffered a second heart attack and was keen for Max to take over the running of the family business; something Max was loathe to do. He hated the idea of being stuck in an office poring over invoices amid the mundanity of machine production. He was young and idealistic and, from the moment he had been able to read, had devoured books of romance, chivalry and heroism. Even at university in Bonn, where he had excelled in economics, his real passion had been for the novels of Walter Scott, Mallory’s Morte d’Arthur, the old tales of Teutonic Knights. He was sure this accounted for his own interest in fencing and which had, indirectly, led him to meet with Reinhard Heydrich, the most feared man in Germany.\n\nJust two weeks previously, Max had accompanied his friend, Wilhelm, to his local gymnasium in search of sone much needed exercise; the first time that Max had ventured out since his homecoming and he was surprised when, in the changing room afterwards, two men in black SS uniform had burst in and conducted a quick search before ushering in another tall, blonde man. Wilhelm had leant across and whispered fearfully:\n\n“Heydrich. Gestapo”.\n\nThough the name had meant nothing to Max, he had recognised the face for he’d seen him at a soiree hosted by Frau Schaeffer at her Berlin home just days previously which Max had attended with his father; the same night, in fact, that Gerhardt had suffered his second heart attack. That evening, this man, he now knew as Heydrich, had played a solo on his violin that had been simply mesmerising. Max had wanted to introduce himself and offer praise for this virtuoso performance but, his father suddenly taking ill, had prevented this.\n\n“If he fences as well as he plays the violin, then we should go up and watch”.\n\nWilhelm was astounded.\n\n“You know him, Max?”\n\n“No, but I’d like to. Come, let’s watch him practise”.\n\nIn the sports hall, as they took their seats, there was a heated discussion taking place for it appeared that one of Heydrich’s practise partners had injured his hand and could not participate and another had not yet turned up. One of the club administrators approached Wilhelm and Max.\n\n“He’s not happy. He’s training for the Nationals and now has no partner. He’s cursing the club for the lack of alternatives but I’m keeping well out of it”.\n\n“Sabre or epee?” Max had enquired.\n\n“Sabre. Why?”\n\n“Well, I’m quite proficient with the sabre. I would be happy to step in”.\n\nThis news had been swiftly relayed to the great man and Max had found himself facing one of Germany’s finest swordsmen. Though not of Heydrich’s standard, Max had, nevertheless, acquitted himself well enough to earn the gratitude of both the club, for salvaging their reputation, and, also, of Heydrich, himself.\n\nIn conversation, Max had mentioned the soiree and who his father was and one thing had led to another and, Heydrich had invited Max to visit him at his office with a view to potentially joining the S.S.\n\nAt dinner, later, Wilhelm had been aghast.\n\n“You cannot be serious, Max. He heads the Gestapo and the S.S. They say he’s a monster”.\n\n“Nonsense, Wilhelm. The man was quite charming and any man that can play the violin with such emotion cannot possibly be a monster”.\n\nAnd so it had proved. At Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, Heydrich had thrilled Max with his vision for the future, his personal role in helping the Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, restore Germany to its former greatness. For too long, the Fatherland had been oppressed and under the thumb of the British and French but, now, they had embarked on a great task, a mission, to resurrect their great nation. Max had been enthralled and, when Heydrich had offered him the opportunity to join the S.S. and work alongside him in this daring undertaking, Max had accepted with alacrity.\n\nNow it only remained for Max to inform his father. It was not something he looked forward to, knowing, only too well, the expectations that Gerhardt had for his son. Max’s home life had always been bittersweet. Gerhardt had been almost fifty when Max had been born and had been so engrossed in his business that the boy had never really come to know his father properly. Instead, he had been content to lock himself away in his room, transported back to medieval days by virtue of his beloved books. As for his mother, Leni, she was a drunk and spent most of her time in her wing of the mansion, apart from her husband and child. Max could not recall a single time when she had actually spoken to him, never mind shown any affection. With two parents such as these, it was little wonder that he had grown up oblivious of loving feelings and showing little empathy for others. His happiest memories had been when his mother had been sent away to a clinic whenever her alcoholic consumption had become too much. With her out of the house, it had seemed as though a dark shadow had been lifted.\n\nReturning home, Max climbed the great staircase to the top landing, at which point the house divided into two wings. He took the left wing in which his own bedroom was situated along with his father’s. Knocking gently, he entered the darkened room and closed the door gently behind him.\n\n“I’m awake, Max”.\n\nHe crossed the room to his father’s four poster bed and looked down at the ashen face of the old man. The only light in this great room came from the fire burning brightly in the other half of this vast chamber which had been set out like a drawing room. Fine Turkish rugs covered the parquet flooring, three walls were covered in books. A beautiful room; one this ailing man loved dearly.\n\n“Tell me of your day. Did you go to see Petr at the office, as I asked?’\n\nMax took a deep breath and sat on his father’s bed.\n\n“Nein, father. I had another appointment and have been offered a job elsewhere. One I have decided to take, actually”.\n\nThere, he had managed to get it out. He felt relief though tensed still for he knew that his father would be shocked.\n\nSilence prevailed. Either his father was too stunned to speak or he hadn’t heard him correctly or, God forbid, he had suffered a relapse. Max leaned in closer, peering to see if the old man’s eyes were open.\n\n“I heard you. I don’t know what to say. What job could possibly steer you away from your destiny? I have spent my life building Brandts so that I could hand it over to you...”\n\n“Father, we both know that Petr Franck has run Brandts for years now. You left everything up to him. How could I possibly do as good a job as he? Besides, I can still keep an eye on things. I just don’t want to be hands on. Please, father, don’t make this difficult. Allow me to do what I have set my heart on”.\n\n“And what exactly is this thing you have planned”.\n\n“I was invited today to meet with Herr Heydrich...”\n\n“Heydrich? The Heydrich? The swine who heads the Shutzstaffel and the Geheime Staatspolizei? That swine?”\n\n“Calm yourself, father. He said that he knows you. That you have accepted contracts for the Reich...”\n\n“That was business, you fool. For Brandts. For you. The man is a brute, as are all these Nazis...”\n\n“He was most civil to me. He spoke of the plan to restore the Fatherland to its former glory...”\n\n“Restore? Those fiends will destroy Germany. You cannot work for them. You simply cannot!”\n\n“I’m afraid that I have already given my word. I’m sorry that you are not accepting of my wishes but...”\n\n“You are Jewish!”\n\nThese words were literally spat from Gerhardt’s mouth with such venom that Max was covered in phlegmy spray. He looked at his father with anger and disgust.\n\n“What are you saying, you stupid, filthy old man? How can I possibly be Jewish? You are not Jew...You mean that...mother?”\n\n“No. Not Leni. She is not your mother. I...I had an affair with a woman, my secretary. She became pregnant. I needed an heir. I paid her to have the baby...you...but I brought you home to rear you in this house. She is your real mother and she is Jewish”.\n\nMax’s senses were reeling from this. Was his father making this story up just to stop him from joining the S.S.?\n\n“But...Leni...she...”\n\n“Hates you. Despises you, almost as much as she despises me. She shut me out from that day, turned her back on you, too. Started to drink. But I insisted, even though I knew the price. You see, now, why you cannot be a part of this Nazi gang of thugs? What would happen if they found out the truth about you? I did it for you, Max. So that, one day, Brandts would...”\n\nMax, knowing that, somehow, his father was telling the truth, saw his entire world crumbling around him. His hopes for the future being washed down the drain. Looking at this old man, spit dribbling onto his unshaven chin, he felt only revulsion and a deep, long buried hatred. He had never been a proper father; cared only for his business. This man had cursed him, scarred him for life.\n\nLeaning forward, he reached for a pillow as if to bolster his father’s head. The old man looked up at him, his watery eyes searching for a sign of forgiveness for his shattering confession but there was none. Emotionless, Max placed the pillow over his father’s face and pressed down. The lack of strength in that frail, ailing body offered little resistance and he was dead within seconds. Replacing the pillow, Max stood and walked from the room as if floating. A strange sense of euphoria sweeping over him.\n\nAt the top of the staircase, he encountered Leni, the woman he had, until moments ago, regarded as his mother. A mother who had treated him with scorn and contempt his entire life. She was, of course, drunk. But her cunning instincts detected something in Max’s face; something very awry.\n\n“You know! He’s finally told you! After all these years. How does it feel, Jew boy?”\n\nOnce again, emotionless, Max reached out and grabbed hold of this woman and threw her bodily down the staircase. As her head cracked against the wood panelling of the first landing and he stared down at the blood oozing from her splintered head, seeping into the carpet, Max felt a new wave of euphoria sweep over him.\n\n\nOne week later, Max stood at the gravesides as both his parents were lowered into the ground. It was a bitterly cold December day and the trees scattered around the cemetery were barren, the sky grey, threatening snow. One by one, the wealthy and great of Berlin lined up to offer their condolences at the dual deaths, so cruel to have occurred on the same day. Gerhardt Brandt, of course, was expected to expire so nobody had been too surprised. Leni Brandt, though, had been much younger than her husband and had been so pickled and preserved from her years of alcohol consumption that she had been expected to long outlive her husband. Of course, that was provided she had continued using the private elevator and not try and descend the staircase.\n\nMax accepted the sympathy of each mourner, feigning sorrow. He knew them all, acquaintances and business associates mostly but he was surprised by the sudden appearance of the man dressed in black uniform. How good of him to attend like this. Reinhard Heydrich, Hitler’s Hangman, held both of his arms open and Max felt compelled to fall into them. They hugged and Max, for the first time ever in his life, felt a bond, a deep connection as the tears fell from his eyes." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dolly and her daydreams\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1301\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who loves cloud gazing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "We called her Dolly Daydream.\n“Oh, that’s Dolly.” We would scoff, usually to some curious person who had never met her before, “Don’t bother talking to her. She won’t hear you.”\nIn those instances, she would smile to herself. She would hear us, she always heard us. She simply chose not to respond. I guess we never understood that just because her head was above the clouds, it didn’t mean that she couldn’t peer down on us every once in a while.\nShe preferred it up in the sky where the atmosphere was warm and comforting, rather than down here in this violent, bitchy world. Who could blame her really?\nBut credits where credits due, we had a point about her. Dolly wasn’t the most normal teenager. She always wore a lazy smile on her thin lips, but it would never reach her sapphire-coloured eyes. A murkiness lingered in those blue, twirling orbs, like a barrier between her and us. And she always moved with no sense of urgency, like she had all the time in the world.\nWhen she walked, her small, almost-skeletal, body would float side to side like a broken leaf in the wind. Her fingers would wiggle as her hand flexed open and shut, as if she was trying to ground herself into reality as she moved. Then her eyes would flutter shut, her head lolling side to side. Everyone would hold their breath, believing she would faint any minute. But then her eyes would flutter back open, and she would continue her haunted dance across the corridor towards the next classroom. Towards her next daydream. \nAnd although Dolly posed no physical threat, we were all intimidated by her silence. Rarely did she speak, and when those chapped lips did move to say something, they would immediately curl back up into her familiar lazy smile. Dolly’s brain was like a high-bolted security safe that only she had the key to. And even then, we all doubted whether she even had it. She seemed so lost all the time.\nIt was a Tuesday morning, in late June when the game started. In that stuffy classroom, tensions were high as the heat licked at our sweaty teenage bodies after the previous lesson, P.E. As usual, Dolly was exempt from that class for some reason unbeknownst to us. Reader, I will admit that my friends and I were irritable. Irritated at nothing in particular, but we would soon find something. We were teenage girls, with teenage girl problems. You name it, we had it. Period troubles, boy troubles, friendship issues… Combined with the heat after a taxing lesson of cross country, we were out for blood.\nThe real kicker? Even though Dolly didn’t join in the previous P.E lesson, she was allowed to sit next to the open window, her head resting against the chilled glass.\nWe were jealous. We wanted that cool, fresh breeze.\nAt the time, we were not particularly angry at Dolly. But then she started humming some unfamiliar song. And although this was quite normal for Dolly, it irked us on that day. It felt like she was taunting us that she felt relaxed enough to disappear back into her own world, whilst we were all stuck in history class, sweating our tits off. Her fingers delicately lifted in the air swaying along to the song only she knew, but her eyes never parted from the sky, up towards the clouds.\nShe always had a strange fascination with those fluffy things in the sky.\nAnd, Reader, this is where the game started.\n“What do you think she’s thinking about?” My friend besides me had asked. Thirty years on, I do not remember her name. All remember is that she would hike her skirt up until she was one blow of the wind away from flashing the whole school. Her face was cakey and thick with makeup, and she applied so many layers of mascara that it looked like snapped spiders’ legs resting on her cheeks whenever she closed her eyes.\nI had shrugged. As if she heard us, Dolly’s lip twitched, and her eyes glazed over more. She even leant forward in her seat to get a better view of the clouds. Something was calling her in.\n“She’s cloud watching.” My other friend had said matter of factly. This one had platinum blonde hair, with streaks of copper- I don’t think this was her intended look but back then, when we had no money, box dye was a better option than going to a professional hairdresser.\nThis friend’s name began with A, I can’t remember much more than that.\n“Pathetic.” Spider-eyed girl had scoffed. Her lips curled in disgust as if she was so much better than Dolly because she was grounded. It was then A’s eyes lit up as she shuffled closer towards us.\n“I think.” She had begun confidently, “She’s thinking about cows jumping over the moon.”\n“Like the fairy tale?” I had cut her off, but I quickly zipped my lips when she glared daggers through me.\n“I hadn’t finished!”\n“Sorry.” I squeaked, sinking further into my chair.\nA continued her hypothesis,\n“She’s thinking about cows jumping over the moon, and then they fall through the sky, down, down, down, past the shining stars, next to the comets, besides the planets, until they finally fall down to earth. They then jump into the clouds, creating a splash. Like jumping into a swimming pool. The world’s biggest diving board!”\nSpider girl choked on a laugh and fell forward in amusement. Her eyes watered as she giggled; some dark splodges of mascara stained her waterline as a result.\n“No way,” She grinned when she had collected her thoughts, “look at that one!”\nWe all tore our heads in the direction where she pointed not so discreetly. The cloud was roughly shaped like a heart.\n“She’s thinking about what it would be like to be in love. There’s probably a sexy, mute guy somewhere in this town. I recon she’s thinking about all the love making they will do in the future.” She conspired. It wasn’t uncommon for Spider girl to link everything back to sex- we were teenagers after all.\n“Ew, gross.” I had scowled, shaking my head. Then, I leant forward, studying Dolly’s eyeline to try and figure out which one she was looking at.\n“I’m taking a spiritual standpoint.” I had confessed, much to A and Spider girls’ disapproval.\n“That one there, the big round one with the line of cloud going out of it? That looks like an elephant.” I had breathed out, almost mesmerised myself by the uncanniness, “So, in the Hindu tradition, elephants bring the rain. They are the clouds themselves and they use their trunks to shower us in rain. I think that’s what she is thinking about.”\nI sat back in my seat almost triumphantly, crossed arms, with a knowing smile. But I didn’t know. Truth be told, we never knew what she was thinking about as she peered up into the sky with her lost, dazed look. \nI had stopped being friends with those girls not long after. You know how teenage girls and their friendship groups are… But the game lived on in my heart.\nAnd even today, as the sun beats down on me and my family laying in the sun, I peer up at those fluffy clouds in the sky and create my own stories. I even force my children to join in, much to their groans of disappointment. They’d rather run around, playing tag or some other violent game. But I won’t have it. We must all play the cloud watching game.\nAnd perhaps one day, I will guess correctly. I will learn what it is like to be Dolly with her daydreams." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Steveguns Beat Rayguns\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1370\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a trip to see a natural sight that’s usually only ever seen in photos." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Rayguns, have you heard of those?” The teacher asked, looking around at the blank faces. “Rayguns are what old people called laser weapons, mostly because an American president called Ronald Raegan wanted to have loads of them in space. Sadly, that never happened and we got a bunch of half-baked star wars films instead.”\n “Rogue one was really good sir,” said a pimply boy who raised his hand after talking.\n “True,”Steven Gunn admitted, nodding. “But only because they had the nerve to kill everyone. Try doing that with a three-film deal and more inevitably after.\n What was I saying?” He clicked his fingers. “Ah.\n Laser weapons. The stuff of science fiction, right?” He looked around the room again. Muted mumbling and nods replied. “WRONG!” His bark made one boy fall of his seat. The girl next to him accidently broke up with her boyfriend due to a twitch of the finger and autocorrect. She would forever be thankful for the incident, eventually.\n “First world nations have been chasing laser weaponry since the idea originated in the nineteen-forties. The big problems were cooling a high temperature laser and battery capacity.\n Thanks to the smart phone half of you are using to ignore me.” Mr Gunn pinged an elastic band at a boy who was watching animated porn. “Research into battery capacity was supercharged by huge businesses with far better funding than government laser weaponry departments.”\n No one was listening. Mr Gunn pulled his first prototype from the drawer in his desk, aimed at the nearest phone and fired. The blast cut right through the phone and hit the porn enthusiast’s hand. The hand did several things at once.\n Some of it vapourised.\n Some of it turned to ash instantaneously.\n Due to the water content of the boy’s hand and the temperature of the laser, the rest exploded.\n Superheated remains covered the students around the boy before he had collapsed to the ground.\n “Let me be very clear nose pickers and pencil lickers. This is a school for assassins. I am your teacher. I am a psychopath. Ignore me and I will kill you. DO I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”\n Mumbled agreement was drowned out by the sounds of students in the splash zone screaming.\n “You signed the non-disclosure agreement. We take that very seriously here. Go to the nurse and some of you might survive. Go. Now. The rest of you pay attention.”\n “That was amazing sir,” said one girl leaning forward in her seat at the back of the class.\n “Thank you.”\n “You’re a maniac sir,” she said. Her black lipstick spread to reveal a murderous grin.\n “My mother used to say that,” said Steven.\n “She changed her mind sir?”\n “No. She died.”\n “That must have been hard for you,” said a boy at the end of the front row with blood on his blazer.\n “Yes. She put up a hell of a fight.”\n\nSteven Gunn held up his weapon.\n “This is the most advanced weapon on the planet. It uses technology stolen from three different government research projects from around the world. This is the Stevegun.”\n “The Stevegun?” Asked a girl with pigtails, sounding entirely unimpressed.\n “Yes. The Stevegun. Not the Raygun. My name is not Ray. I invented this. I get to name it. It’s the Stevegun.”\n “Why not the Steveray? Then it sounds like stingray and its-”\n “I have already named and branded it. Dammit that’s better though. Where were you when I made the stickers?” Steven thumped the desk. “Don’t distract me. I have ADHD and a laser weapon. You’ve seen the results.”\n Everyone looked at what was left of the pornography addict in the front row.\n “Magic teachers are going to tell you that’s there’s nothing better for assassination than magic because it can kill from miles away without leaving fingerprints and DNA and all that bullshit. Wrong.\n This weapon.” He aimed around the class. The children slammed their faces into their desks to be out of shot. “Will change everything. The range of a laser is enormous. There is no need to account for wind or recoil.”\n “What about the curvature of the earth sir?” Asked the girl with pigtails and a pink skull tattoo below her eye.\n “What about it?” Steven asked, frustrated.\n “It would limit the range of the weapon, whereas magic can operate at any distance with the right ingredients.”\n “Ingredients?” The teacher scoffed. “Get out of my class if you’re going to talk about ingredients. I’m not here to talk about baking cakes.” He put the gun down on his desk. All the students sighed with relief. He wiped smears off the lenses of his glasses and picked up the gun again.\n “Now I want cake, fucking hell.” He reached into his drawer and ran fingers lovingly over shuriken and throwing knives. Picking a shuriken that was shaped like the petals of a flower he threw it absent minded at the poster of a soldier on the far wall. The already mutilated head of the paper soldier received another deadly papercut but held firm to his paper and ink rifle.\n “Or doughnuts. With strawberry jam. They put blackcurrant jam in some of them now and it’s not the same, you know?” He scratched his brown hair with the cold metal of the gun.\n “Anyway. Curvature or no curvature, a Stevegun kicks ass and I’m going to teach you how to use them over the next few weeks. Now that you’ve put your phones away, I can get to the basics. Come to the desk so that I can demonstrate how to replace the battery.\n Skirting fluids that were still steaming and releasing a vomitus stench, the kids eagerly rushed to the front of the class.\n “Open a window,” he pointed at a boy whose acne scars were a perfect map of the constellations above Barcelona. “This place stinks of deep-fried moron.\n The basic advantages of Steveguns are simple. They can be charged using renewable sources of energy, so they’re good for the environment. I’m all for killing people but we’ve only got one planet, right?\n Two, in daylight the beam of a Stevegun is virtually invisible until the target explodes.\n Four, range. If you can see it, you can hit it. If it’s a misty day and it’s out there, you can hit it anyway. Just don’t use it in a multistorey car park unless you’re certain where you parked. That’s just embarrassing.”\n “What was number three sir?” Asked the constellation boy.\n “Excuse me?” Steven looked at the teen, tugging at his jeans with his free hand.\n “You jumped from two to four in your list.”\n “Did I?” Steven aimed the gun at the boy’s forehead and looked around the class.\n “No sir, I just remembered what you said for number three.”\n “Tell me then. I’ve forgotten myself.”\n “Steveguns are awesome,” said the boy in an ‘I’ve wet myself’ tone.\n “Correct. Well done. Go to the toilet or home, whatever. Get out.” The boy ran from the room. “Who wants to see the aurora Australis?”\n Hands rose timidly.\n He smiled.\n They were afraid of him.\n Steven liked that.\n “Look outside class.” He shot the light switch. The wiring caught fire, but he ignored it. That’s what the sprinklers were for.\n Outside the window were dancing lights of unequalled natural beauty.\n “It happens because of light from the sun hitting the magnetosphere. I think.” He aimed his gun out of the window and fired into the sky. The red beam was visible for miles up. “Pew, pew.\n Next order of business is you paying your one hundred thousand dollars for your own Stevegun.”\n “Can we still divide it between students that were injured?” Asked the girl with the pink skull tattoo.\n “That wasn’t the price for the whole class little girl. That was the price per person. I have crippling debts to pay off. Stealing from governments does not come cheap. Don’t worry. It’ll be worth it when you’re incinerating your targets from miles away.”\n His students muttered about the exorbitant cost, both physical and fiscal of his class. He wasn’t listening.\n “Pew pew.” Red lines shot across the sky, drilling holes in the moon and the knights that marched across it." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Mystery of the Missing books\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2238\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character on the hunt to solve a mystery who uses their local library (or librarian) as a source of information." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Mystery of the missing books\nThe local library was a wooden structure on the edge of town, which had served as the town’s drinking hall during the boom days of the colonial times. That was when the town had been a thriving center of trade between the islands around the mainland. It boasted of a schoolhouse, a Church, a government building, a City Hall, and a flourishing marketplace, with the attached bar and saloon. Nestled along the shores of the river, mountains and forests surrounded the town. The foothills of the mountain range, where the vast river originated, were coveted for coal and stone mining. Extraction and exploitation of resources were not an environmental issue in those colonial days. No one ever gave any thought to the destruction of the ecosystem that provided water to surrounding areas.\nSince the end of colonialism, the town had fallen into disrepute. Most of the residents left in search of better opportunities elsewhere, leaving the current population numbering under one thousand. The government building, once standing proud in its colonial glory, now hung limply in the center square, its unpainted walls crumbling and untended. The Church boasted a single pastor who tried his utmost but had somehow lost most of his flock. The schoolhouse remained, but only because a few of the town’s parents insisted their children needed somewhere to go during the day. It was only because of a few families banding together to insist with the local council that the school’s teachers be properly trained, that a schoolhouse even existed. They also lobbied for and got a functioning library, although most parents weren’t particularly endowed with an urge for the written word. Were it not for the push from the school principal, there would have been no library.\nNo one could ever describe the town’s population as being enlightened into the twenty-first century, but they were relatively content to go their unsophisticated way. Most of the townsfolk were families of fishermen and mineworkers. Some ran the small clothing and novelty stores on Main Street. Few residents opted to work at the town council. The sheriff’s office had an attending officer summoned in from the mainland when needed. Crime was not a common happenstance in the town. Since independence, many of the houses had become rundown, most of them mere shuttered structures, their wood devoured by termites. Overall, most would describe the town as forgotten by the rest of the world. The one commodity that wasn’t lacking, however, was internet broadband.\nOn one Wednesday evening, message alerts lit up four cell phones. Maya was in the kitchen helping with dinner when she heard the ping. She picked up her phone.\n “Maya-Arlina Josef, those potatoes will not scrub themselves,” said her mother sternly. “If you don’t put that phone down and get them done, you will have all the time you want to play with that thing when I send you to your room hungry. You hear me?”\n When her mother used her full given name, Maya knew that any ensuing threats would not be idle ones. She scraped and scrubbed more vigorously, glancing surreptitiously at the screen on her phone as she did so.\n “Meeting twenty-thirty loc lib.”\n Maya frowned. Johnny, the leader of their group of four, was calling a meeting. This was unusual. Not the use of the twenty-four-hour clock, thought Maya with a smirk, knowing that Johnny liked to show off his use of technical terminology to impress them. Summoning them to a meeting at night was unusual. 8:30 that night. Maya glanced at the wall clock. It was already 6:30. Thankfully, Maya’s mother was going to be out at a Church meeting that evening so she could slip out after making sure her younger siblings were asleep before she left.\n A few minutes after the scheduled time, Maya ran up the stairs of the local library and headed to the back, where Johnny had found the unused utility room where they could meet in secret. Paul, Lisa and Johnny, the other members of the foursome, were already there. Maya hesitated upon seeing Miss Haston, the local librarian, standing in the center of the room. \n “Sorry I’m late. Maisie wouldn’t go down until read to her,” Maya panted, referring to her younger sister. She kept darting questioning glances at Miss Haston. \n “Okay, now that you’re here, we can start.” Johnny looked around the four eager faces of his classmates and nodded. Maya often thought that Johnny was over the top and so dramatic. But, just as often, he proved himself right. Besides, she was proud to belong to this group, started by Johnny, where they acted as teenage sleuths, often forestalling minor disasters that befell their small town. “Well, you’ve all heard about the book consignments that have been mysteriously disappearing,” continued Johnny in his most fiery tone.\n They all nodded, looking at Miss Haston. She nodded at Johnny. “Children, I have only agreed to come here because Johnny assures me you might help to shed some light on the matter. However, I’m not sure I’m comfortable exposing you kids to any danger.”\n They said nothing. Miss Haston continued. “I need to know if your parents have noticed anything in the town that is suspicious. Any information you can bring me is all that I require from you.”\n The four teens shrugged. Miss Haston continued. “Merchant Briggs has purchased the land adjoining the library, and the rumor is that he is looking for more acreage, which would include the library.” \n The teens looked at each other. What had that got to do with anything? Miss Haston continued. “All I need from you is any information your fathers might have mentioned about strange happenings on the docks. You must not involve yourselves in anything other than information. This is a dangerous situation and I do not wish to be responsible for your safety.”\n She looked at the group. All nodded, except Johnny. Miss Haston seemed not to have noticed. She continued. “Your fathers all ply the barges to the mainland. If they mention anything out of the ordinary, please come to me. I will handle the rest. Is that clear?”\n They all nodded, except Johnny.\n Miss Haston took her leave, and Johnny continued the meeting, using his most big-boy voice.\n “So, my mom was at a town council meeting, and she learned that Miss Haston was going to be fired. They are blaming her for the undelivered consignments.” \n “Why would they blame her?” asked Paul. \n Johnny shrugged.\n“Surely, they don’t think she’s behind the missing consignments?” queried Lisa.\n Again, Johnny shrugged, looking at Maya, who really had nothing to add. She shrugged.\n “Whatever the reason, they’re blaming her,” said Johnny. “We’ve got to find out where the consignments are so we can save Miss Haston.”\n “How do we do that?” asked Maya skeptically. “Where do we even start looking?”\n “I know that the book consignments come on the hopper barges from the mainland on Thursdays. We can keep a lookout and find out what happens after they’re unloaded. We watch the docks when the barges come in.”\n Maya shook her head. “No, Johnny,” she said worriedly. “Miss Haston was clear that all she needed was information. She insisted that we were not to get involved.”\n Johnny glared at her. “Maya, the reason we founded the “Fearless Four” was to save our town. This is what we do.”\n “But Johnny…” Maya started.\n Johnny cut her off. “If you’re not in, say so!”\n Maya bit her lip. She didn’t like it, but she wasn’t about to wimp out on them. “Yes, I’m in.”\n “Ok, then. Tomorrow is Thursday. We meet at the docks, behind the ridge of hills. O-Five-Hundred.”\n “Why doesn’t he just talk like everybody else?” Maya muttered impatiently, earning herself a nudge in the ribs from Lisa.\n They continued to discuss the situation, with Johnny leading the discussion. “If this concerns the Briggs’ it has probably to do with the mining. We must stop them. My Dad is on the Eco Council and there is a big problem in our town with land excavation. The mining has gone out of hand.”\n“What can we do about mining?” asked Paul reasonably. “We are only kids, after all.”\n“Yes, we are,” agreed Lisa, who was the most clearheaded of the group. She turned to Johnny. “There’s really not a whole lot we can do, Johnny.”\n“We’ve got to try,” responded their fearless leader. “Fearless Four, remember? We must be responsible for our environment, mustn’t we? Besides, if we don’t find out what’s going on, Miss Haston loses her job, and we lose our library.”\nThey dispersed soon after, their misgivings assuaged somewhat by Johnny’s common-sense bravado.\n At four-forty-five the next morning, before the sun began its ascent into the sky, four windows along Forest Crescent creaked upward as the four teens climbed over the sills and dropped to the ground. They met behind a clump of trees in the woods that lined the waterfront, almost a hundred and fifty yards from the docks and the water’s edge. From their hiding place, they would have a clear view of the arriving barges and fishing trawlers when dawn finally broke.\n “Dock 3A, Pier 4,” whispered Johnny, a pair of binoculars trained towards the incoming traffic along the waterway.\n “What about it?” asked Paul, who couldn’t see for the surrounding darkness.\n “It’s carrying four large cartons that I recognize as the book consignments,” responded Johnny.\n “How do you know what they are?” asked Maya.\n “I’ve seen the empty boxes in the blue bins on garbage pickup,” said Johnny with certainty.\n Dawn was finally breaking through the mountains, and they could now discern the barges coming in with their cargoes. The barge captain pulled alongside dock 3A. A group of men began to unload the cargo. As they watched, a lone figure, a cap pulled down over his head and covered in a black plastic cape, approached the docks and the unloading crew. The four teens watched as the leader of the unloading crew stopped to address the lone figure.\n “He’s handing an envelope to the crew boss,” muttered Johnny, the binoculars stilled trained on the docks.\n “What’s in the envelope?” asked Paul.\n “I don’t know,” responded Johnny. “But he’s pointing to the book cartons. This is very suspicious.”\n “Perhaps we should get Miss Haston,” stated Maya.\n “We don’t have time,” responded Johnny. “It looks like they’re unloading now.”\n Half an hour later, the four cartons were unloaded and carried to a black SUV parked behind a line of trees, hidden from the dock house. \n The four teens scrambled down and got on their bikes, following the receding SUV, pumping the pedals as fast as their legs would allow.\n “Follow me, I know a shortcut,” shouted Johnny suddenly.\n “How do you know where they’re going?” asked Lisa, breathless from the exertion.\n “I’ll take a guess,” responded Johnny. “The Briggs’ farm is on the outskirts of town.”\n They continued to pedal. Passing the deserted residential streets, they skirted the promenade around the center of town, and headed out towards the opposite edge of the island. In the distance, they could see the SUV and they realized Johnny was right. The SUV was heading to the farm. \n When they reached the metal fence around the property, they left their cycles in the surrounding woods and crept towards the barn where the SUV was parked.\n A lone figure, whom they recognized at Lonnie Briggs, the eldest son of Farmer Briggs, was hefting the cartons, one at a time, into the barn. The teens waited until he left and then crept towards the door. They peeped through a dirt encrusted window.\n “Those are the missing book consignments,” cried Johnny excitedly. “We’ve got to get them out!”\n “Are you crazy?” responded Maya and Lisa together. “How do you propose we do that? On our bikes? There are about twelve large boxes in there!”\n “What do you suppose they’re going to do with them?” asked Paul.\n “Burn them!” exclaimed Johnny with conviction. “They know if they get caught with those books, they’ll be in a shit-load of trouble.”\n “Still doesn’t mean we can get them out of there on our own.”\n “You’re right,” conceded Johnny reluctantly. “Lisa and Maya, you two go back and find Miss Haston. Tell her what we’ve found out.”\n “What will you do?” asked Maya.\n “Paul and I will keep watch here and make sure nothing happens to the books.”\n “How will you stop them?” asked Lisa reasonably.\n “I don’t know,” responded Johnny. “We’ll figure something out. Now go!”\n Maya and Lisa cycled back into town and headed straight for the library, where they found Miss Haston. They quickly explained what they had found.\n Miss Haston called in the out-of-town sheriff before gathering up a couple of teachers from the schoolhouse. Together, they headed to the Briggs farm.\n Luckily, they were in time to stop the destruction of the books. Miss Haston was right. Farmer Briggs wanted the property to enhance his stone mining business, from which he stood to profit considerably. In foiling his plans, the Fearless Four saved the town from a possible environmental disaster that would have been a certainty with the stone mining that Merchant Briggs was intending.\n Miss Haston was effusive in her gratitude to the Fearless Four, nominating them for medals of bravery for their part in saving the library." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Case of Timmy Tomtittat\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2259\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character on the hunt to solve a mystery who uses their local library (or librarian) as a source of information." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Normalton Public Library was one of the few grand buildings of the small town: a ‘bastion of knowledge and wisdom,’ the poetically-inclined called it. The stone lions guarding the entrance yawned and stretched before settling back down on their pedestals. \nIt was overcast. The wind blew down empty streets.\nThe stone feline on the left turned its head lazily to watch a patron trudging up the steps.\nShe was a girl in her teen years with brunette hair. A smattering of freckles ran from the bridge of her nose to below her brown eyes. Her young face was contorted with concentration as a large raven sat upon her left shoulder. \nNeither bird nor girl paid the enchanted lions any mind as she pushed the library doors open and strode in. \n“Tomtittat...” The girl repeated to herself, muttering the syllables over and over again. The name was so familiar to her. \n“Hello, Yvette.” The librarian’s voice stirred the girl from her thoughts. Yvette looked at the librarian behind the desk: A lizardwoman with perenez glasses upon her snout. “I’m afraid we have no new myssstery novelsss yet. You’ve read them all.” \nThe girl waved off the librarian. “That’s alright Mrs. Strode. I’m not sure what I’m looking for myself.” \n“BOOKS!” The raven on Yvette’s shoulder cawed loudly. Mrs. Strode looked up from behind her large front desk, stopping her ceaseless stamping of library books.\nYvette put a hand to the raven. “Shh, Cole, this is a library.” \nMrs. Strode regarded the young woman. “Well, young witch. You jussst let me know if you need help.”\nYvette nodded, she did need help but she had no idea where to look for the help she needed. The library was always a place to calm her mind. She walked across the carpets and through the stacks. \nThe books whispered to her - sometimes literally - to be read: promises of secrets and wonders. The wind outside was moving the trees in a waving motion, their shadows playing on the stacks of books, the building creaking softly.\nTurning a corner she saw an old satyr gentleman had fallen asleep in his chair with the newspaper still open. A little fae girl and a young human boy were reading a picture book together in the childrens’ corner. The atmosphere brought a sense of calm emptiness to the young witch and she began to recall the events that brought her to the library to seek answers. \nWhile it was calm in the library, Yvette’s small town was in the midst of a crime wave. Several homes and businesses had reported robberies in the past few days. At every site there was no sign of entry but a key item had been stolen: something noticeable. \nA prized painting, a record player, a TV... Always just one item, but an item that would be missed. At every robbery site, the culprit had left a calling card: Bright red paint on the wall or floor - and once the ceiling - spelling out the word: ‘Tomtittat.’ \nWho or what was ‘Tomtittat’? \nThe word seemed vaguely familiar to Yvette, as though she had heard it in passing once. Yvette’s father - the chief of the small town’s police force - was being run ragged trying to find out who or what was behind the robberies, interviewing and collecting notes late into the night. Mayor Gravewhisper was leaning on him extra hard to do something, especially since the vampire’s favorite statuette had been taken and his office defaced.\n“TOMTITTAT!”\nYvette walked for a while and found a desolate section of the library. She sat at a long table. After a few moments she realized that this must have been a very old section: the lights were all candles and torches instead of electrical there.\nYvette was only a high school student, but she had a knack for stumbling upon mysteries and getting to the root of them. This crime spree left no doubt in her mind that the perpetrator was either a skilled spellcaster or an extremely gifted thief. From the investigations, there was no residual energy from spells being cast. \n“How did you do it?” Yvette wandered aloud as she extracted her personal spellbook from her pack. She perused the pages looking for keywords, looking for exploits a thieving mage would use. \nTomtittat. \n“Tomtittat...” \n“Tomtittat?” Mrs. Strode asked as she passed by with a cart full of books she was returning to the shelves. \nYvette frowned. “Haven’t you been following the local news? There’s a serial robber on the loose.” \nStrode waved it off. “Ahhh, I have been bussssy cataloging. What’sss a robber have to do with Tomtittat?”\n“That word is their calling card.” \nStrodes tail thumped against the floor. “‘Tomtittat’ isss a figure from mythology. A trickster mage, if I recall.” \nYvette started nodding slowly, then more vigorously. “I’m vaguely recalling the story.”\n“One moment,” Strode said as she left the young witch before returning with a stack of fables. \n“Read up, dearie.” \nYvette skimmed the stack of short books. Tomtittat was indeed a trickster and fiend: half fae and half human, he was skilled in the magic arts and had a flair for the dramatic. Whoever the thief was, he must have identified with the character. It was a good factoid but not enough to solve the case. \nCole the raven was pecking at a pack of cheesecrackers someone had left on the table. Yvette regarded her familiar, gave him a quick pet, and did what her father had taught her to do when a case was stumping her: “Reconsider the evidence.” \nNo residual energy, no sign of a break in. A lot of familiars were medium-sized animals: cats, birds... could a familiar sneak into a house and unlock a door? Cole could do it but only if a window was left open, or there was a crevice wide enough - ravens were fairly large for birds.\n“Interesting,” she said to herself, leaning back in her chair. “If I could figure out what kind of familiar they used, I could narrow the list...”\nSomeone had used a familiar to gain access to the buildings, or they were just really good at picking locks. But for some reason the use of a familiar just seemed to resonate with Yvette. Perhaps it was their insistence to go by the moniker of Tomtittat. \nTomtittat in the stories was half-human, half-fae. \n“They're half-human and half-fae and have a familiar!” She muttered to herself, Cole didn’t even bother looking up from his little pile of crackers nearby. \nWho fit that profile and would have a familiar that could breach buildings easily? Once they were inside, they could open a door with some strenuous concentration by their master. She stood and walked back through the memorized hallways of the library to the Familiars section.\nIt was more well lit here, but as it was a Satyrsday - completely empty. She saw one book fly too close to Cole, who cawed in annoyance when it ruffled his feathers. Another book - gray and furry - growled as she passed. Yvette walked to the front of the aisle, ducking a few books leaping from shelf to shelf and grabbed a harmless-looking, but rather thick, book off the shelf.\n“Mellerman’s Guide to the Interaction of Fae and Familiars,” she said to herself. “Mellerman, have you been getting - ” she huffed - “heavier?” She dumped the book onto a nearby table and turned to the index, causing Cole to readjust himself on her shoulder.\n“Half-fae, Familiar interactions with. 128.”\nShe turned to the stated page and began reading. “Because fae are too strongly bonded with the lifestream to have familiars - lest they themselves be absorbed - half-fae rarely have them, and when they do, they tend to be smaller creatures such as mice or creatures that are less than an ounce. Most mages employ larger animals, thus making mice and shrews and other such beasts very rare as familiars, limited mostly to half-faes.” She closed the book and reluctantly hefted it back to its resting place.\n“That narrows it down, I think,” she said, scratching Cole’s neck feathers.\nYvette wondered if the library kept census records, perhaps she could really narrow down her search. The witch sleuth hadn’t made it very far when Cole squawked. \n“MOUSEY!” Cole cawed. Yvette looked to see a mouse with glowing green eyes and a large metal ink stamp in its mouth. \nThe familiar! \nMrs. Strode was shouting in a non librarian voice, “Where’s my stamp!?”\n“Go get him Cole!” Yvette ordered her familiar. \nThe raven cawed and flew after the mouse as it skittered between shelves. Yvette ran along with the familiars as her footsteps echoed in the library. The mouse skittered under a book cart and Cole cawed in frustration. Yvette kicked the book cart over and hardbacks clattered to the floor, a few of which moaned in pain. \nThe mouse gave a pitiful squeak as it tried to skitter away again, but the raven was quick to snatch it by the tail and held it aloft. Acting quickly Yvette found an empty coffee mug and had Cole drop the rodent within, as she followed up by sliding a book over the top of it. \n“Gotcha you little pest!” Yvette grinned. \nCole hopped about happily, as he seized the stamp in his beak. Triumphantly, girl and raven strode to the front desk. \n“Your stamp Mrs. Strode,” Yvette smiled as she approached the lizardwoman. Mrs. Strode cocked her head curiously as Yvette dropped the item into her scaly hand. “Would you happen to have a jar? I have a naughty familiar here, with an even naughtier master.” \nThe reptile woman was all too happy to provide a jar. The mouse familiar scratched uselessly at the glass. Putting on her best tough cop impersonation Yvette spoke to the mouse. \n“We’re taking you downtown, bud,” she said, the mouse cowering in the corner. “They’ll trace you back to your owner, and probably find a stash of stolen items.”\nNot far from the library, in Normalton’s maltshop, a half-fae warlock with wild yellow hair in a purple, double-breasted suit was giggling to himself as he slurped on his chocolate malt and gyrating to the jukebox, making other patrons move away. Soon his faithful mouse would return with that stuck up librarian's stamp. \nAaaaany minute now.\nThe young man cocked his head, he should have been back. \n“Hey Timmy, you alright?” The harpy waitress asked. \n“Don’t call me Timmy!” He said, his green eyes flaring. “And, no, I’m not all right. Hang on,” he said, knocking over his malt as he stood up. He made a ruckus as he ran out the door, almost knocking the harpy over in the process.\n“H-Hey! Get back here, you haven’t paid yet!” \nThe warlock stamped up Main Street, drawn to where he could sense his familiar. Timmy could sense his little familiar’s heart like a distress beacon, beating hard. Up the stairs past the animated lions he went before slamming the doors open, waking them both up as they roared in confusion.\nThe wind was still moving through the otherwise quiet town.\nHe marched right up to the circulation desk where he saw his mouse in a jar. He sucked in his breath at who he saw on the other side. \n“Yvette! Of course, I should have figured a nosy girl like you would get involved. You’re going to wish you didn’t have that habit one of these days.” \nYvette turned. “So I take it that’s a confession, Timmy?” \n“Don’t call me Timmy!”\n“‘Tomtittat’ then? You have quite the ego.” \nIt was at that moment that Tim realized how much his foot had sunk into things. Scowling, he conjured up a stun spell as Yvette called forth a pair of shadow tendrils that she cracked like whips, missing Tim but sending wind whipping through the stacks. Mrs. Strode duck below her table with a feeble, “not again...”\nThe two spellcasters faced off as the few library patrons scrambled for cover, except for the old satyr who seemed like he would sleep through it all. \nTimmy hurled his spell and Yvette ducked the spell before advancing with a darklash, Tim shielded himself but it buckled from the impact and in desperation the warlock gave Yvette a magic shove that sent her reeling backwards as if she’d been gut punched. \n“That all you got?” Yvette growled. \n“I’m just getting started, honey!”\nPOOM! \nTimmy screamed, falling over and writhing. Yvette’s ears were still ringing as she looked over at the circulation desk to see Mrs. Strode with what looked like a smoking shotgun.\n“Mrs. Strode?!” Yvette said, astonished and somewhat horrified. “Did you just... kill him?”\n“It’sss just rockssssalt, dearie,” Mrs. Strode said, rotating the gun and blowing the smoke away. “Magesss hate rocksssalt.” \n“Why do you even have a shotgun at the circulation desk?”\nThe reptile woman took out a handkerchief and gave a quick polish to the firearm. “A dark mage tried to sssummon a demon in my library once.” \n“It was only that one time!” the satyr called over from beneath his newspaper, not even bothering to lift it off his face.\nMrs. Strode put the shotgun back in its hidden shelf under the desk and stood up, holding a phone receiver. “I am calling your father, Yvette. Now we can add assssssault to hisss rap sheet.” \nYvette shook her head. “I’m going to renew my books on time from now on.” \nIt began to rain outside." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: “Boys in the Woods”: A Miller South Teens Short Story by Tori L. Day\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2861\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in the woods or on a campground." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The next morning, the boys were still asleep, yet something was different. Finn rolled over and stuck his hand out. He arched his eyebrows when we felt a blade of grass around his fingers. He opened his eyes and saw a dandelion in his face and closed them. Suddenly, his eyes popped open and he sat up and looked around. He let out a scream that woke the others. They jumped up and saw that they were in the middle of a forest.\n\"What happened?? What is going on?!\" Finn shouted.\n\"Where's the hotel?\" said Dylan.\n\"Surprise!\" yelled Mason. He emerged from a tent and went over to the boys. \"Good morning. Hope you all had a good sleep. As you can tell, we are out in the wilderness and we're completely lost.\"\n\"Mason, what is going on? We can't be out here,\" Dylan pointed out. \n\"Sure we can. Why? 'Cause, this is what Mother Nature intended for us.\"\n\"I think Scott's been watching too much television,\" Sam quipped.\nFinn then asked. \"You mean you brought us out here in the middle of nowhere and expect us to live like scavengers?\"\n\"Yeah. Ain't it great?\"\n\"What are we gonna eat for food?\" asked Brian.\n\"Never fear, gents. I always come prepared for situations like this.\" Sam pulls out a Ziploc bag filled with cocktail wieners. \"Ta-da! Weenie anyone?\"\n\"Nice, Sam,\" Brian commended.\n\"Smart thinking,\" Dylan added.\n\"No!\" Suddenly, Mason snatches the bag from Sam and hurls it over the cliff. The boys went over and watched the wieners fall. \n\"ARE YOU INSANE!?! Those took me hours to broil!\"\n\"Sorry, boys, but there will be no processed foods on this trip. From now on, it's hunting and fishing. Just like our ancestors.\"\n\"Next time we get dragged out here, I'm not sharing food with any of you guys.\"\n\"Here, I'll call Xenna and have her come pick-'' Dylan notices something wrong. His digitalwatch was missing. It was replaced with a normal watch. He chuckled nervously and went over to Mason. \"Uhh, Mason, where's my watch?\"\n\"Yeah, mine's gone, too,\" said Brian.\n\"I took all of our digitalwatches and phones and gave them to Ralph. They're in his office as we speak.\"\n\"What?!\"\n\"Mason!\"\n\"Are you crazy, man??\"\n\"If by \"crazy\" you mean \"creative\", then yes.\"\n\"What about MIRV?\" said Brian.\n\"I gave him the day off.\"\nMeanwhile, MIRV was having a pint of oil with two yellow Jaguars.\n\"So...do you two frequent here often?\"\nBack in the forest, Mason walks over to Finn and Dylan wraps his arms around them. \"Listen, guys, I've been doing a lot of thinking. What good is being cooped up in a hotel when we have all the freedom out here? Being outdoors gives us a chance to connect with our instincts. Think about it: why waste money buying pizza and tacos all the time when nature provides all the free food we need? Like this pine cone. Nature's natural source of fiber.\" \nMason attempts to eat the pine cone, only to struggle and look ridiculous while doing it. After multiple tries, he finally bit into it...and spit out the pieces. His friends couldn't help but watch Mason make a fool out of himself. \"Mmm, delicious,\" he muttered. \n\"Look, Mason, we don't know what kind of prank you got us involved in, but it's not funny,\" Dylan scolded. \"Can you please take us home?\"\n\"Come on, Dylan. It'll be fun,\" Mason reassured. \"We have an opportunity to show that we're capable of embracing the Wild.\" He walks over and stands proudly over the cliff. \"Today, we're no longer secret agents living in a fancy hotel. We will follow in the footsteps of our primal ancestors. Let no obstacle stand between us and survival.\" A mouse appears, only to be eaten by a snake. The snake was then caught by a hawk which was then caught by a mountain lion.\n\"Why am I getting the feeling this will end poorly?\" said Dylan.\n\"So, what'll it be, gentleman? Are we agents or are we gonna be men?\"\n\"....men,\" the boys groaned. \n\"Alright. That's what I like to hear.\" Mason goes over to the tent. \"Come on. Our stuff's in the tent.\"\nWhen Mason was out of sight, Sam quipped: \"So, how long you guys think it'll take Scott to crack?\"\n——————————————————————\nFor the afternoon, the boys spent their time hiking up mountains and roaming on trails with their bags. Mason was enjoying it, but the others? Not so much. Sam used a rubber band to flick a pebble at Brian's head. Brian looks at him angrily and Sam pretends to be oblivious. Finn was too busy daydreaming about food and Xenna to notice the tree that he was running into. \nAfter crossing a stream, they came across a vacant cave. Finn went to check it out when he heard a low growl and backed away. After that, they continued their hike through a field. A butterfly flew next to Mason and landed on his hand. He looked back to see more butterflies with Brian, Dylan, and Finn. Sam was covered from head to toe in them. After all the butterflies left, the boys stumbled upon a path that was blocked off by a pile of logs.\n\"Yes!\" Mason exclaimed.\n\"Uhh, why is this a yes?\" asked Finn.\n\"Guys, this is our chance to show that we're perfectly capable of surviving anything in the wild because we are...\"\n\"....men.\" The boys proceeded to move the logs from the path. As they were digging, Brian moved a log out of the way and got covered in the fire ants. \"Uh, Mason? What are these red ants?\"\n\"Why, Brian, they're not red ants. They're...\" He looks to see the same ants crawling on his hands. \"FIRE ANTS!!\"\nThe boys began to scream and roll around in the dirt to get the fire ants off. They ran from the log pile and back down the opposite way. While running, Sam tripped and collided with the others, causing them to roll down the hill and land in a nearby lake. After that fiasco, Mason emerged from the lake and looked around. \n\"We're alive! Whoo! See guys...\" The boys then emerged from the lake as well. \"I told you we could do it. Sooo...who's hungry?\"\n——————————————————————\nAfter a long hour of picking ants out of their clothes, Mason decided to fish in the nearby lake. He and the others stood out in the middle using sticks they sharpened to look like a makeshift spear. For the past three minutes, they caught nothing but shoes, tires, and other miscellaneous junk.\n\"Don't worry, you guys,\" said Mason. \"Once we grab some fish, we'll be good to go.\"\nFinn just groaned and lifted his stick from the water. Attached to his spear was just a boot. He took it off and continued to hunt for fish.\n\"Man, there's nothing in this lake. Let's just go somewhere else,\" Sam groaned.\n\"Where? We're, like, in the middle of nowhere,\" Finn replied. \"And unless you got a backup phone on you, this is probably the only lake that's in our reach.\" He slaps a mosquito and resumes fishing.\nOn the other side of the lake, Dylan and Brian were fishing and swatting away mosquitoes too. Sam scratched his leg fiercely. \n\"Man, what is in this water? I feel like something's gnawing on my leg.\" He lifts his leg up and his eyes grew big. His leg was covered by black, blood-sucking worms. \"AAH!! LEECHES!! LEECHES! THERE ARE LEECHES IN THE LAKE!!\"\nSoon, all of the boys lifted their legs and freaked out over the sight of the leeches. One by one, they ran out of the lake and over to a set of bushes. They began to remove the leeches from their legs and any leeches that caught on to their arms. Mason went over to Finn and removed the leeches from his back.\nAfter getting the leeches off, Dylan shuttered and said: \"Alright. Did we get them all?\"\n\"I think so.\"\nAfter getting rid of the leeches, the boys walked out of the bushes and sat on the edge by the lake.\n\"So, what are we gonna eat now?\"\n\"Well, there might be some deer or pigs in the forest. Maybe we'll wait until one goes.\"\n\"Oh, great. That's nice,\" Sam snarked. \"So, we'll wait until food comes to us. Is that right?\"\n\"Well, do you wanna continue searching in the aquatic landfill? I mean, come on, what could happen while we wait?\"\nSuddenly, a pack of mountain lions emerged from the bushes and surrounded the boys.\n\"Mason?\"\n\"Yeah...?\"\n\"Is this what you had in mind for food?\"\n\"Not really.\" Soon enough, the boys found themselves being chased throughout the forest by the cougars.\n——————————————————————\nLater on, after the boys lost the mountain lions, they sat around a fire, itching, and scratching their bodies.\n\"Cheer up, guys,\" Mason began. \"So, we got covered in leeches, chased by cougars, and caught poison ivy, but it's not so bad.\"\n\"Mason's right, guys,\" added Brian. \"This could be really good for us.\"\n\"That's your hunger talking, Brian,\" said Dylan.\n\"Oh, yeah.\"\nSuddenly, Finn's stomach growled. He cradled it and let out a slight groan. He had never been this hungry. \n\"Hey,\" said Brian. \"Dylan.\"\n\"What?\"\n\"I'm so hungry.\"\n\"I know. Me too.\"\n\"Hey, you guys know what'll sound good right?\" asked Finn.\n\"Moo shu pork...\" The three boys high-fived each other.\n\"Yo, if we ever get out of this, I wanna splurge and go to that Chinese place up in Queens,\" Brian explained.\n\"You mean \"the Quiet Garden\"?\" \n\"Yeahh...\" Brian signed. \"I want them to make their dumplings bigger than they do so I can hold it like a baby.\"\n\"What I want is the barbecue pork pizza that Gino has,\" said Finn.\n\"Or how about we get some dumplings, line them up in the pizza, and then eat it like a big burrito?\" said Dylan. \n\"Yes! It's like we're the same person!\" Brian exclaimed. \"Okay, we could stuff dumplings in another set of dumplings, and then those dumplings in more dumplings, and then place them in the pizza, roll it up, and then deep fry it, and then serve it with teriyaki and duck sauce!\" Brian moans as he facepalms himself. He sighs and says, \"Keep it together, Brian.\"\nListening to their thoughts, Mason hung his head low. He didn't expect to hear their complaints. He thought getting his friends out to the Wild was a good idea. Now, he's starting to doubt his own plan. He missed the hotel, Ralph, and the girls. He can only imagine what they were doing now. Soon, he began to crave food himself. In fact, he was starting to smell food. He took a long sniff and his eyes widened.\n\"Hey, you guys smell that?\" The boys began to sniff as well.\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\"Come over here. I smell something.\" Finn walks over to Mason and sniffs again. \"You smell it?\"\n\"Smells like pork.\"\n\"Wait. I smell it, too,\" said Dylan. Soon, they heard a rustling of a bag and looked over to Sam. He was huddled to the side, fumbling with something. The boys went over and circled around Sam.\n\"Sam.\"\n\"Yea?\" He muttered.\n\"You wouldn't happen to have more of those weenies, do you?\"\n\"...no?\" \nFinn went over and took a bag from him. \"He's got weenies!\"\n\"Give those back!\" \n\"What??\"\n\"You had more weenies and didn't share with us??\"\n\"I'm sorry! I was gonna share, but I couldn't help myself.\"\n\"Wait,\" said Dylan. \"Problem: there's only three.\"\nBrian buts in. \"Oh, great. I want it.\"\n\"No,\" said Mason. \"We are gonna share it.\"\n\"No way. You're the one who got us in this mess,\" Finn pointed out. \"If anyone's gonna eat them, it's us.\"\n\"Now, Finn, don't let Mason starve over this,\" said Dylan. \"All we wanted was for us to test our survival skills.\"\n\"Oh, yeah? By getting us lost? By making us get poison ivy? By cutting us from our girlfriends and every food that was in a 5-mile radius from our hotel??\"\n\"Now, Finn. Let's calm down-\"\n\"You calm down, idiot! All of this started because you watched that stupid commercial!\"\n\"Hey, don't call me an idiot!\"\nAs the argument heats up, Dylan tries to get through to them. \"Guys, stop!\" \n\"Well, then, what should I call you? A dummy? A dunce? A fool? Come on, I can go all night.\"\n\"Hey, while you guys fight, I'm just gonna grab my bag of weenies back.\"\n\"Oh no!\" Finn snatches the bag from Sam. \"You aren't gonna finish eating this after you almost ate the whole bag!\"\n\"Well, let me eat it,\" said Brian when he took the bag from Finn. \"In case you forgot, me and Dylan haven't eaten either.\"\n\"Well, get in line.\"\n\"Give me the wieners, Finn!\"\n\"Make me!\" Soon, both boys were fighting over the bag. \n\"Alright, guys,\" said Mason. \"Guys! Stop fighting!\" \nMason and Dylan try to pull Finn and Brian from each other. Sam just stood back, watching everything unfold. Mason was able to pull Finn away but lost his balance when he tripped on a twig. When they fell, Finn lost his grip on the wieners, and they went into the fire. \n\"No!\" Finn frantically used a stick to try to fish the wieners out, but only got a melted sandwich bag. \"NO!! That was our only source of food, and it's gone!\"\n\"Since when was it \"our\" source of food?\" Brian rebutted. \"You were the one who wanted to eat them!\"\n\"Didn't you hear me the first time? I was gonna also share with you guys.\"\n\"Yeah, right. Like you were gonna share after tackling me.\"\nFinn directs his attention to Sam. \"This is your fault as always! If you haven't been so greedy and actually shared your weenies with us, we wouldn't be starving!\"\n\"What are you blaming me for?! Mason was the one who dragged us out here in the first place!\"\n\"Hey, I wanted us to have a good time! You guys ruined the fun when you started to complain and fight over boiled sausages!\"\n\"For the last time, I don't boil my wieners. I broil them. There's a difference between broiling and boiling something!\"\nSuddenly, the boys began to argue and yell at each other. Before anything serious could happen, they heard the powerful cracking of thunder. Then, raindrops began to fall and grew heavier, putting out the fire.\n\"Oh, well, ain't this sweet?\" Finn quipped. \"We have no food, our fire's out, we're lost, and now, we're wet!\" He walked over and sat under a tree.\n\"Come on. Let's go under this tree.\" The boys followed Dylan and sat under another tree. Finn, still steamed, sat away from the others.\n\"Finn? Finn, why are you over there? Finn!\" Finn just ignored Mason. \"Great.\" He got up and went over to sit with him. \"Hey, Finn.\"\n\"Go away, man. I'm not in the mood.\"\n\"Finn, I'm sorry. I didn't think it would happen like this. I should've just asked you guys before dragging you out here. Look, if it makes you happy, we'll go home when the rain stops.\"\nThe anger in Finn's face soon vanished. Even though this day had been disastrous, they were still brothers regardless. \"Hey, bro. I didn't mean what I said. About calling you an idiot and all.\"\n\"No, man. You were right. I was being dumb to think we could be wild men and survive out here. We're probably gonna die out here and the worst part is no one's gonna know.\"\n\"Hey, don't worry, bro. We'll get out of here. Who knows, the girls at the hotel probably noticed our disappearance and are looking for us right now.\" \n——————————————————————\nWhile Mason and Finn were talking, the other boys were sitting on the other side, hungry and miserable. Suddenly, Brian began to smell something. \"Hey, guys. You smell that?\"\nDylan sniffs the air and says: \"Yeah, soggy hair and sadness. Come on, man. This is no time for jokes.\"\n\"No, literally. Smell again. I smell meat.\"\n\"Hey, don't look at me. I lost all of my wieners,\" said Sam. \n\"No, it's not wieners. Mason! Finn! Come over here.\" The two boys went over to others and sniffed the air. \"You guys smell that?\"\n\"Yeah,\" Mason replied. \"It kinda smells like burgers.\"\nFinn's eyes widened. \"Burgers?\"\n\"It does smell like burgers!\"\n\"It's probably a diner somewhere close!\" \n\"Come on!\" \nThe boys got up and followed the smell through the forest. It was too dark for them to see anything, but the beautiful thought of eating thick and juicy burgers kept moving. They were too focused to see a cliff coming up. One by one, the boys fell and trampled and fell down a hill and crashed into a bush. They rose up from the bush to see a beautiful sight: a gorgeous diner up ahead. \n\"Food!\"\n\"Telephone!\"\n\"And a decent bathroom!\"\n\"Come on, men. We feast...on hamburgers!\"\nThe boys whooped and cheered as they ran down the hill toward the diner." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mrs. Libro\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1073\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a librarian that doesn’t fit into the common librarian stereotypes." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mrs. Libro, in many ways, was born to be a librarian. She was special, she knew everything about every book, even though she never read any of them. Good Reads was her bible. She surfed through daily, finding the best of every genre from Christian to classics, comics, even cookbooks. Mrs. Libro memorized The Great American Read, all 100 of America’s most-loved books. She was a walking, talking card catalog.\nHowever, Mrs. Libro was not a typical librarian. She was loud, VERY LOUD, truck driver loud. Each day her voice would resonate throughout our school library and beyond. She haunted students who did not return books, hunting them down to track her beloved titles. Mrs. Libro could be heard from one end of the school to the other. She could not be ignored, she was a force.\nJuan was a chameleon, blending into the background of every class and school assembly. One of many students at Lincoln High, his ambition was to get through the day unnoticed, unseen. He wore his black hoody like an invisibility cloak. Covid had been a gift to Juan, a dream come true, an escape, an excuse to be hidden. Coming back to school was a shock to his system, but at least he could hide behind his shiesty mask, all but his eyes buried under the black cloth. Even then, Juan put in his air pods and put down his head to retreat.\nJuan was careful to do just enough to get by. Assignments were something to weigh carefully, doing the minimal amount necessary to pass, but no more, playing the system, following the 50% rule. He meticulously completed half of his assignments, achieving a 65. Juan was a master at evading staff and students alike, disconnected, disjointed, isolated. Sure, a few teachers had tried to connect with him, tried to talk with him, tried to find out what he was about. Juan shirked away, nodding and avoiding eye contact, grunting responses, even skipping class to get some peace.\nHis main problem was the cafeteria. All the noise and chaos, all the students herded together, all the smells of government meat, it was all too much. Juan needed an escape, he had an idea. Juan headed to someplace he could find silence, the library. Little did he know what he was getting himself into.\nGliding down the stairs past the check-out desk, Juan kept his head down avoiding eye contact, making his way to a back table in the far reaches of the library. Yes, that would be perfect. He had just slunk into a chair and put his head down when a voice rang out.\n“HELLO OVER THERE, NO HOODIES IN THIS LIBRARY, WE FOLLOW THE DRESS CODE IN HERE. GET WITH IT OR GET OUT!”\nJuan lifted his head as a reflex, he was caught in Mrs. Libo’s stare. She continued, “YEAH, I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION. RIGHT?” He shook his head yes, she did have his full attention. He dreamed she would just go away. That did not happen, but she did stop yelling, sort of.\n“YOU have heard of the DRESS CODE? NO Hoodies, NONE. Yeah, I know they have given up on it out there.” She waved her hand frantically toward the hallway, rolling her eyes.”In here, there are rules, NO gum, NO eating, NO phones, NO video games.” She paused for a breath. “Reading, BOOKS, that is what we have in here!”\nWho was this lady? Juan slipped off his hoodie and realized every student was staring at him. His skin crawled, sweat beaded on his brow, he was about to take off when a book was thrust at him.\n“OKAY, try this book, if you don’t like it, I’ll find you another.”\nJuan grabbed the book for shelter and hid behind the words. Afraid to look out at all the eyes on him, he did the only thing that made sense, he read the book of black-out poetry. Surprisingly, Juan did not hate it. \nMore surprisingly, Juan came back the next day. Mrs. Libro smiled and yelled, “NO HOODIE”. She handed him another book. “I noticed you getting into Newspaper Blackout. Here’s Steal Like an Artist. Same guy, you might like it. Here, his stuff is on this shelf.” Mrs. Libro darted across the library, Juan followed.\nOn Friday, Juan took out two books. \nJuan never went back to the cafeteria. He became a regular. Juan continued to be invisible in all his classes, but that just wasn’t possible in the Lincoln Library. \n‘\nMrs. Libro was greeted with a head nod each day. She left piles of books, demanding to know the quality of each. Juan answered, what else could he do. One day Mrs. Libro scolded him when he folded down a page. Juan smoothed down the page, he apologized in his classic one-word style, “Respect” he said, smiling. \n“RESPECT!” Mrs Libro shouted for all to hear. “THAT'S RIGHT. EVERY BOOK IS A TREASURE. RESPECT” \nOnce again, everyone was staring at Juan. He just laughed and walked away with his books. From that day on, Juan greeted Mrs. Libro with a sparkle in his eye and the word, “Respect”. Right up to the day he graduated.\nYears passed, Lincoln Library continued to be a perfect place for misfits, loners, dreamers, really, for anyone willing to read and use bookmarks. Mrs. Libro continued to banish students in hoodies. Principal Sweat provided funding just to keep Mrs. Libro out of the main office, she remained quite loud. She also received funding through Donors Choose, her library was bursting with titles, new and old. Mrs. Libro had lots of books and she still knew about every one of them.\nOver the summer a collection of books by up and coming young writers arrived at Lincoln High. Mrs. Libro, of course, immediately came to inspect the books and to shout at the custodians, “TO DO THEIR JOBS FOR GOODNESS SAKE”- students were not the only people she yelled at, no one was safe. Principal Sweat hid in his office. She insisted the books be moved behind her desk instantly so she could start processing them. Mrs. Libro ranted incessantly, which of course, the custodians ignored. She roared on and on until suddenly she fell silent. Now, this was unusual, the newest and bravest custodian peered over her shoulder. One of the new books was open to the dedication. It read:\nTo Mrs. Libro-Respect." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Despatches From the Home Front\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2115\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Post Office Telegraphs. Augustine Madlain to Imogen Eley — (Received 3 August 1914) \n\nBelieve war entry likely STOP Paris in uproar STOP Holiday enthusiasm STOP All very exciting STOP ᛭ Auggie\n\n\n10 October, 1914\nDear Auggie,\n\nI was so glad to receive your letter last week. Imagine your marching in shirts and ties through the countryside — suppose a cow, for instance, had seen you? What must the poor creature have thought? And I don’t think it’s fair of you to complain of learning to cook “like women-folk.” You say it’s hard on fellows but I see right through your dignity and know the truth — that for you, it’s all rather fun. It’s lovely how a thing as terrible as war can really be made into a sort of game for “able-bodied young men” (so goes the fashionable epithet): first the privilege of actually being present in Europe when whatever-his-name is killed, then the chance to form great social parties to wait in line at the recruiting office, and now what seems like boxing matches, shooting practice, and mess with chums every day. Whew! Suppose you never want to come home?\n\nI myself have been quite well. I take Nelson on long walks each morning (our dog, of course, not the fallen hero) and try to enjoy the out-of-doors, learn from nature, that sort of thing. The afternoons are mainly spent sewing and reading by the little brook in the park. Mostly I enjoy penny dreadfuls but I’ve been trying to better myself and consume one book of real literature for every three novels. I’m reading Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur just now — it’s very slow going. Sundays are for church, where my mother and I pray for you and Keith unceasingly.\n\nBy the way, I read your letter out loud to Mother (well, most of it, of course) and we agreed it was splendid to hear that you and Keith are in training together. She said it was like losing both her infant sons and then learning they’d been “salvaged from the wreck” and “raised as one in a foreign land” (you know how she is). I had to remind her that you are not her son as, after all, you and I aren’t even engaged. She looked at me so archly (it was really insufferable) and said it was only a matter of time. What cheek! (Although can one’s own mother give one cheek?)\n\nAnyway I choose to believe the rumors of a swift, victorious conclusion to this conflict, that you’ll be home by Christmas, and that we’ll have a spring wedding (only teasing of course) thanks to my two brave, glorious, wonderful boys, no matter what that gloomy old Lord Kitchener predicts.\n\nGod save the King! Love conquers all!\n\nYour own and loving\nJenny\n\n\n21 September, 1915\nDear Auggie,\n\n“Deployed” — how strange it is to think you’ve finally left English shores. I am not sure how the autumn goes in France (and you thought you could put me off the scent with your vague “somewhere on the continent” — I’m not all that dull, you know) but in Surrey the days have cooled, the trees have put on their red hats, and boys in rough shirts and neat trousers plough the fields and sow barley. Your descriptions of infantry living conditions are all rather dreadful but I hope you will get to see some real fighting soon to put all these small unpleasantries out of your mind.\n\nMy taking a position in Sir Philip Woodard’s household has been something unfortunate although necessary. I suppose anyway it’s nice to feel that I’m contributing to the war effort. Since Keith was not home by last Christmas (and, incidentally, neither were you, my love) and cannot of course provide for poor Mother, then isn’t my taking a job in his stead the same as if I were dug into the trenches myself?\n\nSir Woodard is fifty-two years old and so too elderly for military service, but I can’t help disdaining him for all that. He is quite rich and drives (what else?) a German car. He’d bought it before the war of course but I think he should have got rid of it anyway on principle, out of zeal for Merrie Old England and the Empire and our boys overseas and so on. His bonnet ornament too is a very indecent bronze engraving of a mermaid with bare and erect breasts.\n\nOn about my fourth day as a housemaid he asked if I’d be willing to marry him. I told him my concerns about the car and the mermaid. I was very upfront about it. Then he asked would I marry him without the car. So I tossed my head as scornfully as I could and told him that my fiancé (you won’t mind I’ve begun calling you my fiancé, will you? It sounds so much more romantic than “beau” and I knew he’d take us more seriously this way) was a captain of the 21st Division, thank you very much, and I’d rather have one honorable fiancé in the army than dozens of wealthy old husbands safe from harm in their luxurious beds. I thought he’d be properly shamefaced but I think he was only amused.\n\nI promise I’ll read The Song of Roland for your sake, once I finish the latest Sherlock Holmes. I continue to hope in the forecasts of imminent victory.\n\nYour own and loving\nJenny\n\nP.S. Nelson (the dog not the admiral) is not fond of Sir Woodard and I was obliged to leave him with Mother. She’ll spoil him and never take him on walks — I fear he’ll get fat, fat, fat!\n\n\n1 July, 1916\nDear “Captain Madlain”,\n\nI’m surprised at the tone of your last letter. I’m very sorry about chlorine gas and barbed wire and machine guns and things but I don’t think it excuses your accusations. Firstly, I am still employed by Sir Woodard because of his great generosity, not because I enjoy his company in a capacity greater than that which is demanded by master and servant. I can keep Mother very comfortably and will send her on holiday to Bath for the first time in over thirty years — I believe that is enough said. Anyway he isn’t so very old as you put on, younger than my father would be were he still living.\n\nSecondly, I do try to understand and sympathize with your troubles, but since I have never actually experienced bombardments or fields of corpses it is hard for me to feel much else other than desire. Yes, desire! I wish I were a man and could be there rather than here. I think you should feel grateful that you’re not cooped up like poor Keith with the ’flu. (I’m slogging it through Shakespeare at the moment and he seems to believe men have a real physiological need for warfare. Do you expect Othello would have had the time to murder Desdemona if he’d only been off fighting someone else?)\n\nThirdly and lastly, I have never in my life wished you ill. I’ll describe to you however my feelings on a certain afternoon after I accompanied Sir Woodard (no fits, please) to a memorial service in honor of mothers and widows of the dead from our township. The priest and the mayor intoned their names with wonderful gravity and I kept a close eye on the women the whole time. Can you believe it — I was jealous, actually jealous! Their sorrow seemed to touch them with a sacred dignity that sent real chills up my spine. Their sons and husbands were heroes and they themselves partook of that heroism. I was covetous, ravenous for just a crumb of it!\n\nOn the way home I suppose Sir Woodard noticed I was flushed and unusually silent, as he asked me why I thought these “fools” (most of them were volunteers) had chosen to leave such beautiful women simply in order to march to an unnecessary death. I seemed to hear the brass bands booming behind me, the Union Jack flapping merrily in the breeze as I replied: “For Honor.” He laughed in my face (I suppose I was rather ridiculous — suppose you’d have been there — would you have laughed yourself? oh I hope you wouldn’t have had the heart to laugh at me just then) but the spirits of King Arthur and Saint George and Henry IV on Crispin’s Day were with me.\n\nPrayers for a speedy return, though I must say it sounds grim.\n\nSincerely\nMiss Imogen Eley\n\nP.S. Or was it Henry V? You know how I get these sorts of things muddled. Either way, my patriotic sentiments had reached such a pitch I wished I had dozens of “fiancés” to send off to France, never to return. xxxxx J\n\n\n23 July, 1916\nDear Auggie, dearest Auggie, loveliest, darling Auggie,\n\nIt’s been three weeks since I sent my last letter but I haven’t received yours. I pray it was lost or will cross paths with this one over the channel or that you were simply too upset with me to respond. Mother and I have heard dreadful things about the Somme. I need to explain some things to you because I’m really afraid I’ll never get the chance to explain myself to you again.\n\nIt was wrong of me to speak flippantly of your sufferings, but it was for two reasons: to cheer you up (though I don’t suppose this was successful), and to hide my own misery. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep it a secret from Mother and Keith because I don’t want them to feel badly for sending me to work, and I’ve kept it a secret from you so that you won’t decide you don’t love me anymore (I’ve met other girls in my situation who have suffered such a fate).\n\nThe truth is, Sir Woodard has taken advantage of me several times. He’s threatened to dismiss me and accuse me of loose conduct to any future employer if I complain. I have tried to convince myself of my civic duty to keep my chin up, take care of Mother, and see the job out to the end of the war, but I often find myself wishing desperately that I were a man and a soldier. I was envious of you, of all people, and was not as sympathetic to your sufferings as I might otherwise have been. Perhaps I should have told you sooner, but I thought I’d rather withstand all such insults in silence than risk dishonoring myself in your eyes. I don’t care anymore! I don’t care about anything as long as you are saved.\n\nOh Auggie, each night I grind my teeth and bite my tongue till it bleeds to keep from crying out. I pray you might turn coward, preserve your life even at the cost of Honor, at the cost of my own life, even if I never set eyes on you again, even if I never know whether you have survived, even if you love another woman and I am forced to watch. I don’t care. I don’t care! I love you Auggie, body and soul. I have always known that man was not made for warfare but for love; Othello was not meant to kill any more than Desdemona was meant to be killed.\n\nYour own and loving, eternally and forever\nJenny\n\n\n31 July, 1916\nAuggie\n\nplease answer me\n\nJenny\n\n\nPost Office Telegraphs. Military Secretary’s Department to Imogen Eley — (Received 3 August 1916)\n\nDeeply regret to inform you that Captain Augustine Madlain Infantry is officially reported as killed in action July first STOP dead in the trenches STOP perhaps instantaneous perhaps not STOP pity and pride once stirred by deaths of principle now exposed as twisted hateful false STOP all sorrows the same sorrow all deaths one death since the beginning of death STOP treachery to have forgotten even one instant the crush of suffering immemorial yet who is culpable when ignorance is only defense STOP where is that Honor which sent him to the killing floor STOP sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal STOP the symbol signifying nothing unless grinning mockery is a something STOP and what could you mean by soul without flesh to be ensouled or what by heaven if there never was an earth STOP he is dead and all the world with him STOP the world ceased by a single cessation yes STOP and who is it making that noise like a wounded beast it is you you you you you STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Amber letter\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2961\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A heavy shudder shook the window panes as she wrote. The rushed keys of the typewriter pounded in unison as mortar after mortar fell decimating the city. London was falling but the letter had to reach him by morning. Emily wrote as fast as her fingers could but the ink on the ribbon seemed to fade after every turn of the paper. She couldn’t run out of ribbon at this exact moment but try as she might the ink would not stick to the paper.\nShe jerked the paper from the typewriter and ran to the next; abandoned by its typist. The rushed words still seemed to swim in front of her. She aligned her page and resumed her familiar position as her fingers struck the letters with its usual rhythm.\nThe heavyset man sat motionless as he waited. Lord Archibald became agitated as the news from the front was delayed in its arrival. He was certain he heard his butler, Patrick, come through the door. He expected the man to be as punctual as the soldier inside of him.\n “Patrick, has the post arrived?” Archibald hollered down the hall.\nPatrick wasn’t excitable but as soon as the amber envelopes arrived he became energized. The mistress in the letters was unknown to him, but her flair for words excited him more than anything else. He felt a little ashamed to scramble through Archibald’s letters but the gluttonous man didn’t deserve the admiration he was afforded.\nPatrick secretly despised the old soldier sitting in his wing-back chair. He watched closely as the man yelled his inquiry. The whiskey glass filled to the brim sat next to the old man untouched.\n “The mail Sir.” Patrick handed the packet of letters to the old man.\n “I had a rather inconvenient morning Simmons.”\n Archibald looked over the rim of his spectacles at the handsome young man, looking for any sign of discomfort.\n Patrick knew that Archibald expected deception at every turn and should he seem rattled the nasty secret he carried could be uncovered.\n Archibald was satisfied that Patrick knew nothing and that pleased him. He turned to the letters in his aging hands. He untied the ribbon and let the letters fall into his lap searching for the familiar amber envelope that stopped arriving a few weeks ago. He recollected the letters in a heap and continued.\n “I had a terrible dream. I was standing on the front lines at Normandy, looking to see if there had been any action at all. It was all gone, the ships, the German soldiers, all of it. The beach was clear, just as in my youth with the noonday sun shining brightly on the azure waters.”\n Patrick frowned heavily, angry that such silly dreaming can cause any distress at all.\n Archibald could sense the anger emanating from his young butler. He shoved slightly in his chair knowing that he had touched a nerve.\n “Do you think it frivolous Patrick?” he challenged.\n “No Sir, it sounds rather beautiful knowing what the beach actually looked like.”\n “Do you not wonder why the dream was rather unsettling?” Archibald challenged.\n “No Sir, my opinion is of no importance. Have a drink sir and catch up on your reading.” Patrick had no desire to know more and started to walk away.\n “Patrick.” Archibald commanded.\n “Yes Sir.” Patrick paused mid turn.\n “I know what you’ve been through. I experienced my own tragedies in France during the previous war, expected it to be the last, but alas here we are yet again. My dream was unsettling because it is incorrect. I was angry when I awoke to find the dream mocking me. I wanted you to know that.”\n Lord Archibald seemed rather honest and his insistence upon the explanation triggered a sense of panic in Patrick’s heart. He felt the pain in a flutter of emotions as images flooded his mind. He lost Lionel on D-day. He felt nauseated just thinking about the moment his younger brother by eight years boarded the Higgins boat ready to take him to the shores of Normandy. The beach was crowded by swarms of men, falling one after the other as they were bombarded by German artillery. If only he could have taken his place and suffered instead.\n “I know Sir, thank you.” Patrick turned quickly and left the old man to his letters where he surely delved into the action of the war he was no longer able to partake in.\nEmily rushed through the rubble down to the train station hoping to get a nice spot. The nights were freezing and the tunnels offered little warmth. This time she would avoid the open tunnels gushing icy winds though its corridors. She held the letter tightly in her hands wanting to re-read it again, its poetry running like a river over her tattered soul. She didn’t know who her correspondent was but she was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t Lord Archibald.\n The man was ancient in his sixty year old body. He might have been a valiant soldier once but his time in the trenches ruined his legs and he would forever be in a wheelchair, maimed beyond belief. She felt sorry for the man she was supposed to be corresponding with.\nHer agency was a secret one. Writing to heroes of old, stroking their egos and enticing them with a little action, not much from the battlefront but rather form the bedroom. She despised her job, but the current trend was paying the bills and during the war her modesty had to give way in order to survive.\nWhat she didn’t expect was the response to her eighth letter. Emily was following her usual pattern when the response changed. She instinctively knew that the man replying was indeed not Archibald himself. The handwriting was almost identical and one could see an imitation was attempted, but the prose failed. It was a little startling at first, but as their correspondence grew it became real, more personal than anything she had ever encountered. She found herself slipping away into the arms of a stranger she longed to embrace.\n“Emily!” she heard her name called above the clamor.\nEmily spotted Margaret waving at her from the opposite track. Emily pushed through the crowd and climbed the stairs that led to the opposite platform to find her.\n“Where have you been?” Margaret demanded.\n“I had to finish the letter to Archibald.”\n“You are incredulous, writing to a poor old man only to deceive him with your affections.”\n Margaret didn’t agree with Emily’s line of work. Even though they grew up in the poorest district of Manchester; they had more etiquette than the Queen. \n“Selling your soul to pay for your bills is not the way we were raised.”\nMargaret tilted her eyebrows at her awaiting an answer but Emily just smiled, trying to avoid the accusation once again. She rolled out her bed and made herself as comfortable for the night as possible. The shelling had ceased and she had hoped that this night would be their last in the tunnels. She admired Margaret but still hated her a little for her condescending nature. Emily wasn’t a reject and she didn’t sell her soul to the devil. She scoffed at the thought but remained quiet.\nAs soon as the crowd settled and silence engulfed the cavernous tunnel she re-opened the letter and read softly to herself. The words spoke of unification and all her heart wanted to do was say yes, but her mind told her otherwise. If she attempted to meet the man that spoke softly in prose to the empty void in her heart she might be disappointed. What was the purpose of a meeting if it would mean the end of their conversations? She had learned a long time ago what men were really like. They speak nothings into your ear until they have you under their spell. Then they break you and discard you, leaving you to mourn the loss of their embrace as the war takes them for fodder.\nTears started to roll down her cheek as the thought obliterated the image she had been building in her mind; an image of being loved and cared for. Maybe even a person who honestly wanted her for who she was and not for her fabrications in the confines of a bedroom.\nThe tunnel shook violently as a stray missile crashed into the earth hundreds of feet above them. Emily hardly noticed as she re-read the letter over and over expecting the hero to come to her rescue, but always the cold nights kept him away.\nArchibald tried to twist onto his other side but the lack of movement from his legs inhibited him to utter frustration. He pulled himself up into a seated position, lit the lamp by his bedside and opened the drawer. Lying neatly in a pile of eight letters were the last vestiges of his desire. The amber letters were the only remaining items he cherished. Archibald knew that they must be a fabrication of affection but still he held onto them as if it promised vitality. \nMore than once he started to write, demanding new letters but dreaded to be written to by another lady. It was evident that his correspondence had stopped and that something dreadful must have happened to the lass he preferred. She would never just stop writing. London was a pile of rubble and still some mortars fell from time to time. Sole pilots brave enough to cross the channel into enemy territory.\nArchibald was furious and yet he knew that these would be his last letters he would ever receive. A solitary thought crossed his mind. What if he asked to meet the girl? Admittedly she would be a shadow of the woman in the letters, but if he promised protection and offered money, she might agree to come and live with him. He so longed for company, especially that of a young woman.\nEmily shook off the restraint of aching fingers as she stood to deliver her latest envelope to her employer. With every letter she handed over to the editor she felt the grime of prostitution stick to her fingers. Words were like actions, although it was entirely fictional, she still felt the betrayal of her virginity.\nShe dusted off her shoes, sticking to her cheap polish, readying herself to go home. The shelling had ceased and the news from the front grew more positive by the day. Soon the war would be over and time to rebuild would ensue. But it meant little to her. She would still be writing her dirty letters to broken men hoping to make a pretty penny to buy bread. \nShe was about to leave when her employer called her to her office.\n“I have a very big proposal for you young lady.” Rose was radiant as she explained the news in simple terms.\nEmily was excited but was overtaken with surprise.\n“You mean to say that I will be going to see Lord Archibald at his estate in the Lake District?”\n“Not just to visit but to live. Imagine a new life away from the broken walls of London. A life filled with opportunity and even love.”\n“Love, I dare say that Lord Archibald only knows my depraved mind. My letters aren’t exactly filled with hope or opportunity, if you know what I am saying?”\n“Emily, the man needs a companion, not a lover. He is unable to use the lower part of his body; the offer is solely platonic in nature.” Rose was unwavering.\nPatrick was surprised to find Lord Archibald dressed to the tee and ready to apprehend the day. It had been months since he even dressed in anything other than a pair of slacks and a faded shirt. He had ample helpers and Patrick feared that his presence would not be required for much longer. He entered the parlour to find Archibald awaiting him with a thick envelope in his hand.\n“Good morning Sir, what is the purpose of the packet in your hand?” he asked dubiously.\n“Simmons it has come to my attention that you are a well versed young man and to keep you here as a butler is rather selfish. You are capable of so much more. I have decided to let you go. I have arranged for lodging in a cabin on the USS Trinidad. You will leave tomorrow afternoon. It will take you to New York. An old friend owes me a favour. He will collect you from the harbour and set you on a train to Los Angeles where you can work as a scriptwriter, a position I feel would be far better suited to your character and flair. Do you accept?” Archibald waited for the impact of the news.\nPatrick was stunned. This was a childhood dream and now the road was paved for him. How could he refuse, yet his heart was still in London. Was he able to leave the woman he loved behind?\n“Well Simmons, are you alright?” Archibald was worried for a moment, afraid that the tethers of the war would keep this young man from a future many would grab hold of in an instant.\n“I accept Sir. Thank you.” Patrick smiled broadly.\n“I need you to do one more thing for me please. Just one last favor before you leave for South Hampton. I have a visitor coming tomorrow morning; a young lady from London.”\n“A lady Sir?” Patrick was surprised.\n“Yes, I had been corresponding with her and she had agreed to come and stay with me. Keep me company of sorts. It is a far better option than the war ridden city could ever offer. Please collect her at the station, accompany her to the car and see her off before you board your train. I would be forever in your debt.” Archibald smiled and handed him the envelope filled with a year’s wages.\nEmily realized that her entire life could actually fit into a single suitcase. She had few belongings and even fewer dresses. She used the last of her money to buy a pretty frock accompanied by a bonnet and satin gloves. She had never felt more beautiful and yet she dreaded the life she was about to step into. A life lived in a colossal estate with only an aged paraplegic to call home.\nThe thrill of the latest letter was overshadowed by the reality of her predicament. She would never again have to write a dirty letter, but she feared that her dirty letters were about to become her reality. The thought repulsed her but she had to admit that a privileged life away was worth far more.\n The train lulled her to sleep and before she knew it she was dreaming of bombs falling and her life ending in a sudden flash of fire. She jerked awake as the train came to a standstill at Windermere station. The premonition of her death seemed a reality. She wanted to remain seated, take the train farther to Manchester and disappear back into its dingy neighbourhoods, but she knew that it was even worse than London.\n She picked up her suitcase, handed it to the porter and straightened her dress, put on her gloves and settled her bonnet on her head. Her blonde curls threatened to fall from its clips.\n Standing in the doorway the young woman tried to rescue her unruly curls when the gust took her bonnet from her head. She grabbed the hem of her dress and held it tight as the wind blew. Patrick observed her as she stepped from the train, placing her small feet on the rungs of the ladder steadying her against the wind. When she looked up and her eyes met his, Patrick’s heart imploded.\n“Good day miss.” Patrick looked into her eyes and she stopped short.\nShe was exquisite. Was she really the girl from the letters? Would she even think of asking who he was? Was he going to tell her?\n They stood on the platform un-moving, silent. The wind gave another breath as the train departed leaving them alone on the platform.\n The sun caught a glimmer off the man’s glasses. Emily watched in amazement as he removed them to reveal clear green eyes that conveyed a familiarity that was unnerving. She knew this man. It was the man from the letters, it had to be. But how was it possible? He reached out to her and without hesitation she took his hand and moved closer. \n Patrick embraced the girl in a tender kiss and knew immediately that he would never be able to live without her. She in turn held onto him as if she was already betrothed to him. The world stood still and nothing was more important than this union, formed in an instant but predicted by fate.\n Lord Archibald waited excitedly in the parlor unable to contain his emotions. He heard the car coming down the graveled drive and he found himself pushing for the front door before the new butler could even properly open it.\n The car door opened but only the driver exited. He handed a confused Archibald a note written in Patrick’s hand.\n Dear Lord Archibald.\nIt is with a sad heart that I have to inform you that the girl had never arrived.\nI have to thank you again for your kindness and the precious gift that you have given me.\nKindly yours, Patrick Simmons.\n Archibald cursed under his breath and felt the pain of rejection once more. He ordered the butler to bring him a glass of whiskey as he retired to the drawing room, alone." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Forgotten Book\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2298\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character on the hunt to solve a mystery who uses their local library (or librarian) as a source of information." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“How can I help you?” The Librarian said kindly. I was at the library. But I should introduce myself first. I'm Elizabeth Parkers. Born in Canada, and raised by Canadians, I'm a single child, and I'm in Grade 11. Pretty cool (In my opinion, of course). You might be wondering why I'm in the library. So I'm someone who wants to be an explorer when I grow up. And I already found my first mission! To look for a very mysterious book. And the only thing I know about it is that it's in a town called Gloomwind. Let's go back to the Librarian now.\n“Do you have a book about a book in the town called Gloomwind?” I asked.\n“Yes. It's right here. Follow me,” she said, leading me to a section in the library.\n“Here you are. Tell me if you need anything else,” she said, going away. I looked at all of those books. How the heck am I supposed to find the book in this? I muttered to myself. And then I got an idea.\n\n\n\n“You want me to come with you to find some stupid book?” Emma asked, staring at me like I was crazy. I nodded.\n“Look, Emma, it might seem stupid, but imagine what could happen if we actually found it?” I replied. She sighed.\n“But we're not going alone. We're bringing two more people with us. And I get to pick who,” she said. I nodded.\n\n\n\n“Seriously? Of all the people you could have chosen, you choose the most annoying and obnoxious boys in the school?!” I cried.\n“Yes. At least they're smart,” Emma said.\n“But so many girls are smart,” I reasoned.\n“I don't care. Either they're coming or I'm not going,” Emma declared.\n“Fine. But you're doing the talking,” I grumbled.\n\n\n\nLucas burst out laughing.\n“You want us to come with you to find some stupid book?” He repeated, laughing. I rolled my eyes.\n“Yes. Come on. You've got to,” Emma pleaded.\n“And what are we going to get if we come with you two?” Elijah asked, raising an eyebrow.\n“Ummmmm… I could do your homework for a week and Emma could do Lucas's homework?” I offered.\n“Hey! Why am I supposed to do his homework? I have homework too, you know!” Emma cried.\n“We're only going if you both do our homework,” Lucas said, wiping tears from his eyes.\n“Whatever,” Emma grumbled.\n“Where do we start?” Elijah asked me.\n“The library,” I replied.\n\n\n\n“What are we supposed to look for?” Lucas shouted from a section.\n“Shh! Are you trying to get us kicked out?” I scolded. “We're looking for a book that tells us about a town called Gloomwind.”\n“This is rubbish,” he muttered.\n“Keep looking,” I said.\n“I found something!” Emma said, coming to me.\n“Great job!” I praised her, giving her a high five.\n\n\n\n“How the heck do we say this?” Elijah said, trying to pronounce the word: Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.\n“Let's ask someone,” I suggested, looking for a Librarian. I finally found one.\n“Excuse me, but do you know how to pronounce this word?\" I asked, showing her the book.\n“It's pronounced: klan·vai·uh·puhth·gwin·guhth·guh·geh·ruh·thwuhn·draa·buhth·luhn·\ntuh·si·lee·uh·gow·gow·gowk,” She told me.\n“Thank you,” I said, and then tried to remember how she said it.\n“Did you find out how to say it?” Elijah asked when I came back to the table.\n“I think it's pronounced like this: klan·vai·uh·puhth·gwin·guhth·guh·geh·ruh·thwuhn·draa·buhth·luhn·\ntuh·si·lee·uh·gow·gow·gowk,” I said.\n“In the book, it says that's where we're supposed to find the book,” Lucas informed.\n“Does it tell what the name of the book is?” I asked.\n“Yeah. Well, I think it's called The Book because that's what it says,” Lucas.\n“Does it tell the author?” Elijah asked.\n“Nope,” Lucas replied.\n“Wait, where's Emma?” I whispered.\n“She was right here,” Lucas said, looking around.\n“We have to find her!” I said, frantically looking for her.\n“No need. We'll take you to her,” someone said. And then everything went black.\n\n\n\n“Where are we?” I asked, trying to get up. But then I realized that my hands were tied behind my back.\n“How would we know?” Elijah said, struggling to break free.\n“We'll tell you where you are, as long as you help us find The Forgotten Book,” someone said. He came forward, holding a knife. I turned pale.\n“What forgotten book?” I asked, trying to play dumb.\n“Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Why else would you be in the library?” He said.\n“We… we were doing our homework,” Emma lied. The man scoffed. And then he slapped Emma in the face.\n“Why would you do that?” I yelled. I instantly regretted saying that. He grabbed my hair and aimed his knife at my neck. As he did that, I heard footsteps. And then I realized that Lucas wasn't with us. Suddenly, the man who grabbed my hair fell to the floor. Behind him stood Lucas.\n“I told you it was a good idea to bring Lucas and Elijah!” Emma cried happily. Hardly, I muttered under my breath.\n\n\n\n“Why are you staring at me like that?” I asked Lucas.\n“I'm waiting for you to say thank you. I mean, if I hadn't come, you'd be dead by now,” he bragged. I rolled my eyes.\n“Whatever. Do any of you guys know where we are?” I asked.\n“Yeah,” Elijah replied.\n“Wait. You do?” Emma asked.\n“Yeah. We're in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,” Elijah said.\n“And how the heck do you know that??” Lucas asked.\n“I used my phone,” he replied. I rolled my eyes. I feel like I rolled my eyes quite a lot. Likewise, I should keep track.\n“What should we do now?” I asked.\n“We should find somewhere to spend the night. It's getting late,” Emma said. She was right. It was getting late.\n\n\n\n“There is absolutely no way I'm sleeping on the floor,” I said.\n“Well too bad. You're sleeping on the floor,” Elijah said.\n“No,” I said.\n“Yes.”\n“No.”\n“Yes.”\n“No.”\n“Stop! Rock, paper scissors. Whoever wins sleeps on the bed. I did it with Lucas, and he won,” Emma said, breaking up the fight.\n“Rock, paper, scissors!” Elijah and I said together. He was rock. I was paper.\n“Yay!!!” I shouted with joy.\n“Whatever,” Elijah said, putting a pillow on the floor.\n“I can't wait for tomorrow!” I said.\n“Why?” Lucas asked.\n“Because we're one step closer to finding The Forgotten Book.”\n\n\n\n“The forest is completely harmless. Just don’t touch anything,” Lucas said.\n“Are you sure there aren’t any snakes?” I asked, peering into the forest.\n“There’s a fifty percent chance they won’t bite you even if you see one,” Elijah replied. Emma whimpered.\n\n\n\n“Stop. For… a… few…. minutes,” Emma huffed, wheezing like a pig with each step.\n“How could you be tired already? We didn’t even walk that much!” I said, helping her up.\n“We’re taking a break, or I’m not going any further,” Emma declared, crossing her arms across her chest. Elijah and Lucas rolled their eyes and sat down.\n“What time is it?” I asked.\n“It’s time for you to check your phone,” Elijah told me.\n“I’m too lazy to check my phone,” I reasoned.\n“Why do you have a phone then?” Lucas asked.\n“Because I wanted one,” I replied.\n“You know what? Let’s keep on going. At least it shut you guys up,” Emma said, getting up. Elijah, Lucas and I rolled our eyes.\n\n\n\n“This… is…. delicious!” Emma said, stuffing her already stuffed mouth with food. Lucas gagged. We were so exhausted after walking through the forest that we went to the closest restaurant after. Emma was addicted to it.\n“Are you going to save a spot for dessert?” I asked. Emma nodded vigorously.\n“Are you done eating?” Elijah asked me.\n“Yeah,” I replied.\n“How? I mean, we haven’t eaten anything all day,” Lucas said, shocked. I shrugged.\n“Are you at least going to eat dessert?” Emma asked.\n“Yeah… I guess,” I replied.\n“Well then, what do you want for dessert?” Emma asked.\n“I’ll take chocolate ice cream,” I answered.\n\n\n\n“Aaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!” Emma shrieked, waking me and the others up.\n“What happened?! Why are you screaming?” Lucas said, holding a pan in his hand.\n“Why the heck do you have a pan in your hand?” I asked.\n“I thought someone was attacking her or something,” Lucas replied.\n“I’m not screaming because of that! Look at the book!” Emma cried. Me, Lucas and Elijah looked at the book and shrieked.\n“Why is there light coming out of it?” Elijah asked.\n“How would we know?” I said. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.\n“Who could that be?” Lucas asked.\n“I’ll check,” I said, walking to the door and opening it. It was the hotel manager.\n“Hi? Is there a problem?” I asked.\n“I’ve gotten a few complaints about you guys being too loud. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to stay somewhere else. I expect you guys to get out now,” he said, closing the door. I stayed still, not knowing what to do.\n\n\n\n“I still can’t believe he kicked us out like that!” Emma said, shivering.\n“I can. I mean, I would as well if I got a complaint that someone was screaming in the middle of the night just because they saw a book that had light coming through it,” I replied. Emma snarled.\n“I think we should continue the hunt. I mean, we could get closer to the book or wherever we’re supposed to find it,” Elijah said.\n“He’s right,” Lucas said, looking in the book. Suddenly, a folded piece of paper fell out of it. I picked it up and opened it.\n“It’s a map! Leading exactly where we need to go! And we’re actually really close!” I said, looking at the others.\n“Lemme see,” Emma said, pulling it out of my hands.\n“Hey! I’m not done with it! I saw it first!” I said, taking it back.\n“I want to see it, too!” Lucas demanded.\n“What about me?” Elijah asked, pulling the map out of my hand. Lucas tried to take it, but then we all heard a rip.\n“You ripped it!” I groaned, taking the map. “What are we supposed to do now?”\n\n\n\n“Taping the map together was a great idea,” I said, observing the map.\n“Stop!” Emma yelled. Me, Elijah and Lucas all stopped walking.\n“What in the world is wrong now?” Lucas said, annoyed.\n“If I didn’t say stop, you guys would’ve been dead by now! Look down!” Emma replied. We all looked down. We were at the end of a cliff.\n“Emma, you really are a lifesaver,” I said.\n“Excuse me? I saved your life too,” Lucas replied.\n“What are we supposed to do now? I mean, there’s absolutely no way we can jump over that,” Elijah said.\n“And It’ll take forever to find a way to cross this,” Lucas remarked.\n“We’ll help you,” a female voice said. We all turned around and saw a young couple standing behind us.\n“Who are you?” I asked.\n“I’m Lily, and this is my husband, Mark,” Lily responded.\n“I’m Elizabeth,” I said.\n“I’m Emma,” Emma told.\n“Elijah,” Elijah mumbled.\n“And I’m Lucas,” Lucas informed.\n\n\n\n“Thank you!!” I cried. We had made a bridge to cross the cliff.\n“You're welcome! And good luck!” Lily said. And then we were off.\n“Are we close?” Emma asked Lucas who had the map.\n“Yeah. We just need to find a cave,” Lucas replied.\n“I don't think we need to find it. Look,” Elijah said.\n“Awesome,” I exclaimed.\n“Turn on your phone flashlights,” Lucas instructed. We all did what we were told to do.\n“Now be careful. We don't know what might be in this cave,” Elijah said, walking into the cave.\n“Yeah right. I mean, what could possibly be in this— Aaaaaaaaaaa!” I shrieked.\n“What?” Emma cried.\n“Spider!” I cried, hiding behind Emma.\n“Oh brother. It’s just a spider!” Lucas said, stomping on it.\n“Is it gone?” I whispered.\n“Yes. You can stop hiding now,” Elijah said, pulling me away from Emma.\n“Don’t touch me,” I snapped.\n“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Spider!!!!” Emma shrieked.\n\n\n\n“I hate this cave, I hate this world and I wanna go home,” Emma muttered under her breath.\n“I can’t wait to see Lucas or Elijah when they’re scared of something,” I said.\n“Same,” Emma said. Lucas and Elijah rolled their eyes.\n“Look!” Emma said suddenly.\n“It’s The Forgotten Book!” Elijah gasped. Lucas rushed toward it, but I stopped him.\n“There might be traps. Let’s go slowly,” I told. We all walked slowly towards the book. The ground slightly shook underneath us. Finally, we reached the book.\n“Well, that was easy,” Lucas said. But as soon as he said that, the ground started to shake violently.\n“Uhh, I think it’s time to run,” Elijah said.\n“For the first time, I don’t disagree. Run!” I cried, grabbing the book and dodging a huge rock. We ran as fast we could until finally, we were out of the cave.\n“I’m never going back in there! Even if it was for a million bucks, I’m never going back!” Emma said, gasping for air.\n“Wow,” I gasped, looking at the book.\n“What?” Elijah said, coming toward me.\n“It’s telling me what my future is,” I replied.\n“What does it say?” Emma asked.\n“It says I’ll have a dog, two kids, and I’ll be married to—” I stopped and looked at Elijah, shocked. He and I both turned red.\n“O … M …. G!!!” Emma cried.\n“Aww. Lovebirds. How does that song go, Emma? Lizzy and Elijah sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First—”\n“Stop!” Elijah and I said together. We looked at each other.\n“Wait, If it tells you your future, would it tell mine?” Emma asked. I smiled.\n“You’re married to Lucas in the future!” I told her gleefully.\n“No!” Emma and Lucas shouted." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Metamorphosis\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1110\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who critiques things for a living, or acts like they do." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Most people would agree that a teacher’s job is to encourage and nurture their students. Most people would agree that a middle school language arts teacher should encourage creativity and self-expression. Most people would agree that all teachers should encourage their students to love learning and that it is the teacher’s job to get the most out of each student, recognizing each student’s unique talents and gifts. Mrs. Smart was not most people and she most certainly did not agree. \nMy first day in middle school was to be my debut into higher education. I had aced my way through elementary school and was now onto bigger and better things. I was smart and confident and loved learning. What could go wrong?\nMy forte was writing and I was in luck. My first class was LA, middle school lingo for language arts. I had been much praised for both my personal narrative and my informative pieces. Yes, I was very knowledgeable about the rainforest and Laura Ingles and could enlighten you through my insightful manuscript. I was going to be a journalist, no doubt, or maybe a poet laureate. I was going to make my mark on the world by writing. My brilliance thus far had been unquestioned. My teachers had cheered my writing, inspiring me to continue on boldly.\nHow fortunate I was that LA was in the first and second period, a double block. Did I mention my love for literature? The stars were aligned, Newberry Award here I come. I ran into the classroom and quickly set up in the first row. I was not going to miss anything. My Trapper Keeper was displayed with my colorful pens set in a row. My writing would be both wonderful and beautiful. Let the learning begin, elementary school had been a mere warm up. I was grinning from ear to ear.\nAs the bell rang, Mrs. Smart marched into the room and meticulously inscribed on the board, NEWSELA. She swiftly turned and directed the class to leave everything behind as we headed to the library to participate in our first Newsela session. Our class was to enhance our performance on the upcoming standardized testing. We were to train and train hard. The software would identify our weaknesses and improve, we must. I wiped the sweat from my brow and the tear from my eye as I walked away with my first 65 at the end of the period. At the time, I was floored. Multiple choice questions just did not fit my learning style, I was a talk it out, discuss each detail kind of kid. I second guessed every question and over-thought every word. I was exhausted, but not defeated. Mrs. Smart reported that we would be writing next period, my chance to excel was at hand.\nBack to the safety of my desk and Trapper Keeper, I smiled as she announced our topic, “What did you do over the summer?”. I raised my pink pen to begin and stared at my paper, hundreds of happy thoughts whirling in my head. Yes, I would write about my summer in Cape Cod. \nBANG! BANG! BANG! What was happening? Mrs Smart was knocking on my desk and staring down at me. “We Use Black Ink Only In This Class!” I shook my head up and down, embarrassed to talk as the class stared at me. Suddenly, I could write nothing. Luckily, Mrs. Smart allowed us to complete the assignment as homework. I felt sure I could redeem myself. Such was not to be the case, Mrs. Smart marked my paper from top to bottom with red ink. Criticizing my introduction, supporting details, and everything in between. \nLA became a daily chore and a reminder of every inadequacy I possessed. I was not being singled out, no one could escape her scrutiny. Mrs. Smart believed her job was to make kids smart by pointing out every failure. Only by critiquing every error in red ink and deducting points accordingly could she really get through to her students in a meaningful way. Mrs. Smart believed in making students feel stupid, as a strategy to encourage study. \nMost people would agree that a teacher’s job is to encourage and nurture their students. Most people would agree that a middle school science teacher should encourage creativity and problem solving. Most people would agree that all teachers should encourage their students to love learning and that it is the teacher’s job to get the most out of each student, recognizing each student’s unique talents and gifts. Mrs. Nature was like most people, but even better.\nOn the first day of school, sixth grade science just drifted by, Mrs. Nature did not even register. I hid in the back of the class and just floated through. I was weary of middle school after the LA debacle. I still went through the motions and completed my assignment but the joy was gone. I had noticed my teacher’s purple hair and dimpled smile but I was haggard, just not ready to put myself out there. Luckily, she looked the same and acted the same everyday. She brought out the best in us all, from fun experiments to classroom discussions. Science was a place of fun in her classroom. Before Mrs. Nature’s class, science was a throw away subject to me, something teachers sometimes snuck in at the end of the day, but nothing important. Now it was a passion. Maybe everyone felt special in that room, I know that I did. \nMidway through the year, I was an A+ science student and planning on becoming a doctor. Mrs. Nature encouraged me to go to marine biology camp. I found my people and my animals there. One thing led to another, I was chosen to participate in Bioblitz and I won my school’s Invention Convention, competing at the state level. I received a commendation from the State of Connecticut for my magnetic folder so students could never lose their magnetic pencils again. I was accepted to Taft High School, one of the best high schools in the country, likely in part due to my scientific advances and definitely because of the confidence I gained as a result of my accomplishments. I became the middle school class president, making morning announcements each day. I had left my dream of being a writer behind and moved onto new dreams.\n Today as I soar off to Louisiana State University as a Biology major, I appreciate the academic turn I took thanks to Mrs. Smart and Mrs. Nature. But as I write my quick memoir, I wonder if maybe Mrs. Smart was wrong." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Comet Of Love\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1195\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in the lowest rated restaurant in town." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I could not believe I was at Comet Pizzas. It had to be the worst place in town. I didn’t expect to go to some five-star steakhouse or anything but seriously? This place has been shut down twice by the health inspector. The last time I ate here I was five at Becky Smith’s birthday party and got food poisoning. It was brutal. Twenty screaming five-year-olds all puking. \nI was here for my first date with Scott Owens. Ever since he moved here at the start of the year, I’ve had a crush on him. Me and about half the girls and some guys in our grade. More if you counted the whole school. I was so thrilled when he asked me out. I thought we would just go to the movies or something. Maybe grab a slice of pizza from any other place in town. I know he just moved here, but he had been here for a few months at least. He couldn’t have picked better? \n“You excited May?” I faked a smile and nodded at Scott, scared if I spoke I would let my true feelings show. “I’ve wanted to take you out since the first time I saw you.” I didn’t have to fake my smile for this. Scott was super cool and hot, and for some reason he liked me. May Nelson, the total dork. I smoothed out my skirt and followed him inside. \nOh god, the smell. \nThere were a few people there. It was so dirty. Like this was seriously concerning. How could Scott think this was an ok place to bring a date? \n“Um, I just have to go to the bathroom real quick,” I told him. Scott nodded. \n“Cool. I’ll see if I can get us a table.” He gave me a smile and I totally melted. \nI walked into the bathroom and almost threw up. This was awful. There was literally a pair of dirty underwear on the ground next to one of the stalls. I gagged and pulled out my phone. I looked up Comet Pizzas and sure enough, it was the lowest-rated restaurant in town. I then called my best friend Erin. She answered right away. \n“Are you ok?” Erin said sounding very concerned. \n“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that... well Scott brought me to Comet Pizzas.”\n“Wait, I thought Scott liked you?” Erin said and I couldn’t help but laugh. \n“Yeah me too! I don't know, he must not have realized how gross it is here. I’m hoping he’ll realize and we can bail.” Erin laughed. \n“Fingers crossed. I’ll pray for you.”\n“You don’t pray.”\n“Yeah, but Comet Pizza is that bad. The last time I went there I was ten after a soccer game and spent the whole time puking. So prayer.”\n“Ok Erin,” I said rolling my eyes. At least I was smiling. I said goodbye and prepped myself to go back out there. \nIt did smell less in the restaurant than in the bathroom which was good. Scott had already gotten our table and he waved me over. He stood up when I got to the table and didn’t sit back down till I did which I thought was the cutest thing. \n“So, um, why did you choose this place, Scott?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual way. Scott smiled and his whole face lit up. \n“So, my uncle is actually the owner. I’m living with him while my parents are overseas. My mom is a scientist and she’s in Africa studying different types of monkeys. So here I am. Anyways, whenever we visited here growing up we always ate here. It’s nice cause it’s super familiar when I’m away from home. I figured you’ve probably eaten here before so I thought it would be nice for you too.” Ok, it’s official. I’m an awful person. \n“Yeah, um, I came here for some parties and stuff over the years. I don’t live that close though so not too much.” This is at least true. I live on the other side of town and since Scott picked me up he doesn’t question it and instead just nods. \nWe continue chatting and I find out we have a lot in common. The food wasn’t too bad and seemed fully cooked which is an improvement from the last time I came here. The night was actually going perfect until Comet Pizzas proved its low rating and I started throwing up. It was bad. I started crying and ran to the bathroom. Scott called after me but I ignored him. \nI hate this place!\nThere was a knock on the bathroom door then Scott poked his head in, his eyes closed. \n“May? Are you in here? I don’t want to open my eyes because it’s the girl's bathroom but are you ok?”\n“Go away, Scott,” I said, wiping my eyes. I dug through my purse for my mints and took three. “I’m gonna have someone pick me up you don’t have to drive me home out of pity.”\n“Pity? What? May you got sick. That’s not your fault.”\n“You’re right! It’s this stupid restaurant's fault! Everyone knows this place is awful Scott! The real reason I don’t come here is that every time I have I’ve gotten food poisoning!” I covered my mouth with my hand. I can’t believe I’ve just said this. I expect Scott to get angry and leave but instead, he laughs. \n“Are you alone?” I frown but nod. Then I remembered his eyes were closed and spoke. \n“Yeah.”\n“Ok good.” He opened his eyes and walked in. “May, I know the food here sucks. I have taste buds. But my uncle begged me to come here tonight and even offered to give us a free dinner.”\n“But...” I just stared at him for a minute trying to find words. “I thought you loved this place?”\n“I was trying to make it seem like I didn’t realize how awful it is so you wouldn’t be mad at me for bringing you here. Every time I come here I pray that it’s better. Pro-tip, the chicken doesn’t taste too good but I’ve never gotten sick from it.” I laughed a little. I had thought it was weird that he got chicken at a pizza place. \n“Look,” Scott rubbed his neck seeming nervous, “I really like you. And I want to go on a lot of dates with you that aren’t here. Would you be ok with that?” I nodded, smiling. \n“Yeah. I would be.” Scott grinned at me.\n“Cool. Now, I have an extra toothbrush in the car because I thought someone might get sick tonight. I’m gonna grab it for you because I’d really like to kiss you.” I blushed. I’ve never kissed anyone before. \nBut a few minutes later when we left, my teeth freshly brushed, Scott pulled me close to him and kissed me softly. \n“Can you promise me something” I whispered when he pulled away. He nodded. “Can we just get takeout next time?” Scott laughed and kissed me again. \n“I think that can be arranged.” He promised, pressing his forehead to mine. \n“Perfect.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Prom Blight\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1463\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the narrator or a character saying “I remember…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Prom Blight\n“I remember my prom. What a night… Changed my life… Never forget it.”\nLisa’s mother fussed over Lisa’s hair and reminisced. Tonight was Lisa’s prom.\nExpecting another pointless story, Lisa tuned her mother out. Recent conversations with friends carried more weight. Matthew, her date, would be there soon.\n‘This is prom night! Why so gloomy?’ She had too many mixed feelings.\nHer friend, Hannah, knew why prom was the biggest social event of the year. Simplified, both boys and girls believed sleeping with their date was the prime reason for prom night. Only not much sleeping would take place.\nSo wide spread had this attitude become, most accepted it without question. Contrary opinions got labeled ‘terminally unhip.’ No one wanted to be ‘old fashioned.’\nSome believed the boys invented this mandate. Being clueless about human relationships, boosting their sexual self-esteem became the priority. The momentary pleasure would add colorful sprinkles to the sponge cake of their male egos. A prom night conquest would cinch bragging rights for the rest of their hormone addled lives.\nMany doubted their brains were the organ employed when hatching this plot.\nA contingent of girls in Lisa’s class felt they’d suffered through too many sex-ed classes. Theory lacking hard data sunk into empty rhetoric. The time for experimenting had arrived. Girls are the future, after all. They held the power and were ready to wield it. Describing one’s self as ‘fierce’ had become all the rage.\nLisa wondered how ‘prom’ and ‘fierce’ would reconcile.\nHannah proudly stated, “Girls have control. I have what he wants. He’ll beg like a puppy for a treat.”\nLisa always imagined prom being a Cinderella night of dancing with a beau. Had that myth been shattered, leaving stark reality atop the rubble? Or had they been sold a bill of goods? Had a sexual power-play replaced a romantic ideal?\nWhen younger, Lisa spent happy hours playing with her Barbie and Ken dolls. Choreographing scenarios, she sensed how difficult such liaisons could be.\nLogistics could not be ignored. Intimate locations for two at a public event? Ease of access, and timing…? All needed planning. Spontaneity wouldn’t do. No cake walk, these challenges began looking more like a Mission Impossible episode.\nLisa had questions. “What are the chaperones doing all this time?”\nUnfazed, Hannah responded. “You expect the counselors and parents to care? Just another boring night to them. They’ll be flirting and out smoking cigarettes.”\n“But where? The rest rooms…? How romantic. Yuck…”\n“You’ll be back before the next dance.” Hannah yawned. “Anyway, that’s plan ‘B.’ Eddie’s planning a ‘picnic’ under a tree in the cemetery. No one goes there at night.”\n“Of course! And that’s what back seats were made for…”\n“And beds of pick-up trucks!”\n“Don’t make me itch. Nothing like pulling alfalfa out of your three-hundred dollar dress.”\n“The well-heeled will take limos. Bubba’s handing out condoms to his buddies.”\n“So, it’ll be a group grope. Like a Chinese fire drill. Take a number. Four chairs, no waiting? A barbershop quartet in a limo?”\n“The drivers will stand watch outside.”\n“While whistling the theme to the Lone Ranger.” Hannah laughed. Lisa continued, “It’s a pissing contest. Guys are so full of themselves.”\n“That’s their weakness. And our edge. They’re dancing to our tune.”\n“I forgot it’s a dance. There’ll be dancing?”\n“Of course. As a backdrop. The song list is mainly hip hop. The main event is off stage.”\nLisa balked. “I want romance. I’m not going to break dance in my dress.”\n“Don’t worry. Plenty of old stuff too.”\n“It’s like a horse race… no intimacy, no romance… no love.”\n“You’re copy of Miss Manners must be dog-eared to death…”\n“What’s the winner get? Extra points for speed? Duration?”\n“Lisa, you’re getting it backwards. They can distract themselves all they want. Let them bring graphs and tape measures, stopwatches, calipers… who cares about stats?”\n“They’re using us, Hannah. 1st base, 2nd base, 3rd and home. What size is his bat? Oh, no! Heaven forbid there’s a strike out!”\n“Focus, Lisa. You’re forgetting we’re in control.”\n“We are?”\n“You know the story. Rub the lamp and get three wishes…”\nLisa didn’t know what to think. Matthew acted normal, as usual. He asked what color her corsage should be. His parents were loaning him their car so they could ride in style. ‘With a bigger back seat?’\n‘Was she supposed to be surprised? Or feel taken for granted? Had Matthew benefited from Bubba’s ‘generosity’?’\n‘Is this what prom had always been? Should she get with the program? Or get her dreams?’\nHer mother handed her a mirror. “What do you think?”\nShe couldn’t believe it. “Wow! How do you do it, Mom? It’s perfect.”\n“You take after me, so I did for you what I do for myself. Time to get dressed.”\nYesterday, Lisa asked Matthew his plan. He said, “To have fun, fun, and more fun. You like dancing? We’re gonna tear it up.”\n‘What did he mean by that?’\nThe ‘here and now’ returned when her mother said ‘doofus.’\n“I’m sorry, Mom. What?”\n“I said, ‘he was a doofus.’” \n“Doofus? Wow, Mom. Pretty strong language from you.”\n“You should have heard what others… Everyone said he got his cummerbund in a knot.”\nThey both cracked up.\n“What happened?”\n“I already… Is your head in the clouds? Oh, you’re preoccupied… I just rambled on about the doofus turning up at my prom. Nothing important.”\n“I’m sorry. What did I miss?”\n“Such a magical, beautiful night. Thousands of butterflies filled the air. Everyone stood in the twilight watching them dance when this… fool runs by in the altogether. Like a ‘Midsummer’s Nightmare.’”\n“What? You mean the doofus?”\nShe nodded. “Guess he thought he’d impress us by streaking the dance.”\n“Were you impressed?”\n“Some things you just cannot unsee. I’ve honestly never seen such an ugly bottom. And hope never to again… Not that I’ve seen that many…”\nLisa couldn’t stop laughing. She’d never heard her mother talk like this.\nHer mother handed her a tissue.\n“I just finished your make-up. Don’t let it run.”\n“Thanks, Mom. I can’t get the image out of my head.”\nHer mother shook her head. ”Some things are private… never shared.” Lisa tuned in. “You know, I sprouted early. Taller than everyone. Kids called me Gulliver.” Lisa nodded. “My Dad always said, ‘don’t slouch.’ My prom date, who later became your Dad, joked about my height…”\n“Bad Dad.”\n“I let him know it hurt. And his response said it all. He made me feel precious. We barely knew each other. I liked him, but didn’t know how he felt.”\nLisa had never heard this.\n“It turned into a storybook night. Your father made me feel cherished, honored, seen, cared for… He didn’t conquer me. He won me.”\n“Wow…”\n“I felt we were the only ones in the ballroom… I wasn’t a trophy, or grabbed from a bag of chips… Didn’t want the night to end.”\nStarry eyed, her mother looked off.\n“The band played so many favorites. We adopted songs for themes, which we sang for years.”\n“I love hearing you and Dad sing. It’s so cute.”\n“The world stopped that night... Those were Gidget years.”\n“What?”\n“A coming of age movie. A girl goes surfing… That’s the backdrop for the real story… A time of innocence and mystery.”\nHer mother began tidying.\nShe said, “We had good times… Still do.”\nLisa stood before the mirror. “How do I look?”\nHer mother beamed. “Perfect!” Then she made a little frown. “Wait! I almost forgot…”\nShe left and returned in a moment. Standing behind Lisa, she secured a delicate silver necklace with a tiny mother-of-pearl heart pendant.\n“Oh, Mom…”\n“I wore this to my prom.”\nThe doorbell rang.\n“Get your shoes. I’ll answer it.”\nShe opened the door to Matthew, who held a small corsage box. He smiled and bowed.\nShe laughed. “So cute! That’s what my prom date did.”\n“Is Lisa ready?”\n“Soon. Come in. You look great. Have a nice time.”\n“Promise.”\n“Take care of my baby…”\n“Of course. Always…”\nLisa made her entrance. Mouth agape, he blinked.\n“Matt?”\n“My God, you’re even more beautiful than usual.”\nLisa grinned. “You look great, Matt. Wear the tux more often…”\nHe helped Lisa pin the corsage, a perfect match to her dress. A little clumsily, he kissed her cheek and beamed at her.\n“You look the perfect couple…”\nHe took her arm. “May I have the next dance?”\n“We’d better go.” Lisa hugged her mother and whispered, “Thanks, Mom…”\n“Have fun, kids. Bye…”\nLisa’s mother waved as they walked to his car. He held the door for Lisa. They laughed together as she got in.\nWistful, she watched them drive away.\nIt was a magical night." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Addiction\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1395\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a memory of yours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“May I use the bathroom?”\nI waited with my raised hand for Mr. Westeadt to excuse me at the same time during his history class for the nth time. I never took more than a few minutes, so he was never suspicious of me doing anything bad like doing drugs or skipping class. He sighed and gestured to the door. I hurried out without my backpack or any of my belongings that weren’t already in my jeans’ pockets. I never took them; I already had everything I needed. I made sure nobody was in the hall as I stepped into the solitary unisex bathroom. Couldn’t let other people see me. Couldn’t risk getting caught. And the unisex bathroom was closer to the classroom than the girls was, so win-win for me.\nI didn’t look at the mirror as I washed my hands. I never did. Too afraid to see my expression. I dried my hands and emptied my pockets of most of their contents. Phone, cloth bandage, medical tape, a random piece of gum that my friend Ashley gave me that morning, and the razor.\nI set them on the counter and began to unbutton my jeans when I stole a glance up at the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, looking disappointed and sad. That was extremely odd. I didn’t think I was making that face before I looked into the mirror, but I ignored it. It wasn’t important. I looked down to where I should see myself unbuttoning my jeans in the mirror, but my hands were at my sides. My heart stopped when I saw the reflection shake her head sadly. I freaked and fell backwards, crawling until my back was flush with the wall behind me. I stared at the face- my face- that looked down at me on the floor.\nThe last item that I had taken out of my pockets fell off the sink and rolled towards me: the pill bottle that contained the Vraylar prescribed to me on the label. It was fuller than it should have been, considering how long ago it was refilled by the pharmacy. My reflection, if I can even describe it as a reflection, looked down at the bottle before looking back up at me.\nI struggled to stand back up, using the wall as support. My face, or “it’s” face, I think…maybe “her”? I don’t know what to call the reflection, but the face I saw gave me a small smile and pointed to the bottle on the blue tile. I reached a shaky hand down and picked it up. She (?) pointed down towards the sink, or the faucet I suppose. I slowly approached and placed the bottle back onto the white porcelain. She gestured for me to open it and take one. I shook my head and quickly shook my jeans off, reaching for the razor. She slammed her fist against the other side of the glass, but only a little thud sounded.\nI avoided her gaze as I stared down at the hundreds of scabbed lines, all varying lengths, which littered the front of my thighs and stopped a few inches above my knees. I made one more little line no longer than a couple inches a quarter of the way down. I sighed at the feeling of relief it gave me, how it fed my addiction and sedated my craving. I looked up at her just as I was about to make another, and she…she was crying. At me? For me? For us? But why did it matter? Why did it hurt when she looked at me like that? Why did I even care? Like she ever even made herself known before now.\n“Well, what do you want from me,” I yelled. “You’re never here to stop me any other time. Why the fuck do you care now?” She opened her mouth as if she tried to speak, but I couldn’t hear anything and shook my head in confusion. She cried harder.\nI put the razor back on the sink and bandaged both thighs, even though I only did one in a tiny spot because she had distracted me. I rushed to put my jeans back on. I needed to hurry back to class before my absence was concerning, and I planned in my head to just do a few extra lines when I took my daily “bathroom break” in Miss Healey’s class later. But when I looked up again, she was furiously crying. She forcefully pointed at the bottle again, urging me to take some. I lost it as I grabbed the bottle and shook it in front of the mirror.\n“You think this will help? That isn’t even why I do it anymore. You think I will get better from these like they’re fucking magic?” My voice was practically a scream. I only then noticed the clear wet drops on the sink. She was making me cry now. I never cried when I fed my addiction. “God! You just..! You aren’t helping! You’re just-!” Anger overwhelmed me and I threw the bottle onto the tile and slammed my fists against the glass, where two spiderwebs grew from the spots. “You’re never here for me, dammit!”\nI fell to the floor in a crying fit, going into a fetal position and rocking back and forth. I sat there for what felt like hours, tormenting myself by desperately trying to figure out why I couldn’t stop. I never cared to wonder why before. She made me ask myself. She made me look for the reason I kept drawing my blood. It hurt to realize the answer. I had none. Not a single one.\nI felt cylindrical plastic tap my side. I looked down at the bottle, still sobbing and picked it up through my blurred vision. I struggled to stand again and looked at her. She put her small hand against the broken glass and nodded. I threw the cap off and spilled four pills, the necessary daily dose, onto my palm. I shoved them into my mouth and took a drink from the faucet. Raising my gaze, I saw her hand and tear-stained smile. I placed one of my bleeding hands to hers and felt the warmth emanating from her through the cold mirror.\n“Please,” I whispered, “just…please don’t leave me. Please.”\nShe shook her head and silently mouthed the words “I won’t.”\nI picked the razor back up and glanced at her finger pointing toward the toilet. I took a few shaky steps toward it and threw the small piece of metal inside. It took much more strength than I want to admit to push the lever down and watch it swirl away with the water. I walked back over to the mirror and slowly put my phone, bandage wrap, medical tape, and the stick of gum in my pockets. I picked up the bottle and stared at it for a while. I heard a tap tap from the mirror and finally placed the orange plastic in my back pocket, covering it up with my baggy sweater once again. I took a few paper towels from the metal dispenser and attempted to dry the last of my tears and blew my nose. I made eye contact with her through the mirror once more.\n“Thank you,” I barely managed to say through my blurry vision. She gave me a loving smile.\n---\nAfter confiding in one of my closest friends who knew of my past addiction, he told me to submit this story I write. He told me that this would be healing for me; that sharing my story was important and effective in my journey; that this will solidify in my mind that I have finally gotten through and beaten the addiction that ruled my life for eight years. I still feel the tiniest bit of desire every once in a while, when I look at the hundreds of scars on my legs, and I most likely will feel that need for the rest of my life; through writing this I have realized that I am strong enough to never go back. Because of that, and because of the good that writing this has done for me, I dedicate this story to everyone who has been affected by any method of self-harm, directly or indirectly." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sessions 2, 5, and 9\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1322\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a memory of yours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“You said you had some things you wanted to talk about, Helen. Tell me, what’s on your mind?”\n “I don’t know, I guess I’ve just been feeling really burnt out lately. I feel like I keep repeating the same chores every single day. I have no way to liven things up.”\n “I see. What about your friends? Why not ask them to hang out?”\n “They’re all busy. Half of them are out of state, the other few live too far away to meet up.” \n “I can see how that could be a problem. What are you doing for fun?”\n “…”\n “Sounds riveting.”\n “I was thinking.”\n “Okay, okay.”\n “…”\n “Are you still thinking?”\n “No, no, I got something. I’m working out now. From home, of course, but that’s something right?”\n “That’s good! I want you to keep doing that. Every time you get that burnt-out feeling in your stomach, do something that’s just for you. Sing a song in your room, have a dance party, take a drive into town. Work isn’t everything, right?”\n “Yeah, I hear that.”\n\n---------------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n “Helen, how are you today?”\n “Good, good. The rain made traffic pretty bad today, though. I’m sorry that I was late.”\n “No, that’s okay. It’s been a slow day. What’s going on?”\n “My birthday passed recently, so I guess I’m one year older.”\n “That’s exciting! Did you do anything big?”\n “No, I didn’t want to ask anybody to come. Some people are still pretty scared of the virus, and I wouldn’t want to force them or anything.”\n “Well, did you at least do something with your family?”\n “We had some pizza and watched movies. It was all right. I’ve never liked big parties anyways. My friends sent me happy birthday texts though.”\n “That was very nice of them. I wished you could have done more for your party. It must have been hard.”\n “Nah, I’m used to it. Don’t worry about it.”\n\n---------------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n “Hi, this is Becca! If you need me, please leave a message along with your phone number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a blessed day!\n ‘Hi ma’am, it’s Helen. Could we schedule my appointment earlier than next Tuesday? It’s gotten pretty bad recently, especially with what’s been happening. I just really need to talk to someone who isn’t my mom. Please let me know if you can work me in. You have my number. Thanks.\n\n---------------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n “I remember what it was like before all this stuff happened. Like, it was sort of simpler back then.”\n “Can you be more specific, Helen?”\n “Well, I remember being really excited for recess for one. That was always the best part of the day until I got older.”\n “What sort of games did you play?”\n “Well, we started out with the usual make-believe stuff. I think we pretended we were horses for a while? It was weird. Oh, and we did freeze tag too until someone pushed another kid into the mulch. The teachers outlawed it after that.”\n “Your teachers outlawed freeze tag?”\n “They said we were being too violent or something, I can’t really remember. We also had a honey-suckle bush near the playground fence, but one time someone saw a snake near it, and they outlawed that too. I think they cut it down after that.”\n “I think we’re getting off-topic. Let’s rewind a bit. You were saying that life was simpler back then. What other examples can you remember?”\n “Uh…math was definitely easier. Adding and subtracting were the easy days. I wish I could go back and tell my younger self that.”\n “Speaking of which, if you could go back in time, what else would you say to yourself?”\n “Gosh, that’s…kind of a loaded question. I’d probably say to pick your friends carefully, and to keep studying hard even though it sucks.”\n “What else?”\n “Um, let’s see, I would probably just…man, I don’t really know. I’d want to tell myself how terrible things would get later, but I don’t know if I could do that to my…what, ten-year-old self?”\n “What do you mean, ‘terrible things’?”\n “Do I really have to explain that to you?”\n “I’d like you to try.”\n “…fine. I’d probably tell myself that the world can be dangerous, and maybe a little scary, and it won’t always be nice to ten-year-old girls.”\n “…”\n “…”\n “What else?”\n “You are really pulling my teeth here, ma’am.”\n “Come on, tell me. Or rather, tell yourself.”\n “Ha, very funny. What do you want me to say? That the world sucks and it really doesn’t seem like it will get better? That she’ll grow up in a world that constantly implodes on itself every other day, and if something terrible happens, she just prays it isn’t close to home? That by the time she’s in high school, she’ll know all the perfect places to hide if things go wrong? And, even if she’s safe, who knows if her friends and family will be?”\n “…would you really tell that to yourself, or the younger version of you?”\n “No, obviously not. In this completely hypothetical situation, I would probably tell myself to invest in Apple.”\n “You know, a lot of kids your age think the exact same things.”\n “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”\n “What I’m trying to say is that other people have the same fears as you. They have the same paranoia and negativity because the world hasn’t given them anything else to feel. It can be hard to try and go through life as if nothing is wrong, especially when you are at an age where the weight of the world seems to be on your shoulders.”\n “I guess.”\n “How about this. Let’s pretend you are still telling your younger self all those things you just mentioned. Can you think of anything, anyway, to put a positive look on things?”\n “You…want me to put a positive spin on wars, shootings, and crimes against humanity?”\n “That is not what I meant, and you know it. I want you to get your eyes off the constant negativity in your life and tell me something good that has happened in the last ten years.”\n “Okay, fine. I guess I would tell her that school still sucks, but you can get through it. The internet is your friend, and don’t stress about the English class, because your sister will help you out. And that sometimes the world isn’t all sunshine and rainbows like adults want you to believe. There are terrible people and there’s no way around that. But if you try your best to be kind to those around you and treat them like you would want to be treated, then you’ll be doing your best.\n “That was very sweet, Helen.”\n “It was cheesy, and I hated saying every word of it.”\n “Maybe, but it was true. I think you’ve grown a lot since our first session together. I’m proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.”\n “I guess.”\n “No, I want you to say it.”\n “I’m…proud of myself.”\n “With more gumption this time?”\n “I’m proud of myself and what I’ve accomplished.”\n “Never stop telling yourself that, and I think you’ll be just fine.”\n “…Becca?”\n “Yes?”\n “How did you stop being scared? When did you start looking at the world like you do, like it’s not broken?”\n “I don’t think you ever stop being scared. The day we become used to violence is the day we lose our humanity. You have to keep your empathy and your kindness. It’s okay to feel scared and hurt by what we see. We just can’t let it consume us, right?”\n “Yeah, I guess so.”\n “Alright, so you’ve got some homework to do.”\n “Keep telling myself that I’m proud of what I’ve done so far, and all that mushy nonsense.”\n “Call it whatever you want, just believe it. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Call me if you need 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: Hopeless Gimmering\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1294\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "August 3rd, 1849\nReached this lonesome valley today, a real marvel under God's sky. The land stretches endlessly, its only partners being distant mountains and a beckoning stream's song. The journey was a trial, boots laden with mud, spirits weighed by tales of men who came and departed with empty pockets.\nIn my pocket, though, is this curious shiny stone. Not yet gold, but whispering of its presence nearby. Camp's set, the daunting task ahead clear as day. Many a man ventured, few struck gold. Yet, tales of fortunes and the promise of a new dawn keep my spirits aflame.\nAs I sat by the campfire, the flames dancing in rhythm with my thoughts, I pondered upon the stories shared by old miners at the tavern. They spoke of the land's deceptive allure, the many who'd lost their way, consumed by gold fever. Their tales, sometimes cautionary, other times hopeful, echoed in the wind and the rustling leaves. It served as a reminder, grounding me in reality but also igniting a fire of ambition within.\nAs night wraps its blanket, doubts slither in. What if this valley's all but dreams? This here's a gamble, no doubt, but life's always been one. With dawn's first light, I'll be at it, hopeful, diggin' for more than just dreams.\nYours with grit, hope, and a pinch of fear,\nDaniel H.\n-\nAugust 10th, 1849\nA week has unfurled since my arrival in this wondrous valley, and the solitude of the place has allowed for deep introspection. The camp's seen improvements, resembling more a determined miner's outpost than a mere traveler's rest. I've erected a stronger tent, fortified against the unpredictable weather. The fireplace, now bordered with stones, blazes with a fiercer warmth, casting away the valley's night chill.\nThe stream, with its ever-present murmurs, has been my daily companion. Each morning, I follow its trail, its ripples guiding my path, my tools singing along with the promise of gold. With every sifted pan, I feel a growing intuition, a miner's sixth sense perhaps, that tells me I'm inching closer to a significant find. Some bends in the stream seem particularly promising, with sediment layers that hint at the treasures they might conceal.\nDuring one of these explorations, I came across a peculiar rock formation, which old-timers often spoke of as nature's signpost to underground riches. It fuels my optimism, making me believe that I stand on the precipice of discovery.\nNightfall brings with it contemplation. There's a balance to strike, between ambition and patience. While the promise of gold lights up my dreams, I remind myself that the journey, with its trials and learnings, is just as valuable.\nTomorrow beckons with the allure of hidden treasures. The valley, with its secrets, awaits my endeavor.\nYours with renewed determination,\nDaniel H.\n-\nAugust 17th, 1849\nSeven sunrises since my last entry, and what a transformative week it has been! The valley, with its quiet whispers and teasing glints, finally unveiled a prize: a gold nugget! As it lay in the palm of my hand, shimmering with the promise of a changed destiny, my heart raced with a mix of disbelief and elation. The weight of it, both literal and symbolic, was the manifestation of dreams and whispered tales.\nWith that nugget as both proof and motivation, a fervor took over. I became a man possessed, digging tirelessly, as if the very soil called out to me. Day blended into night, the sun’s arc barely registered, as my spade and pan worked in a ceaseless rhythm. Each new mound of earth seemed to promise another nugget, another piece of the golden dream.\nBut nature, with its immutable laws, reminded me of my mortal limits. After what felt like a full day's cycle, exhaustion's grip tightened, rendering my limbs heavy and my vision blurry. Frustration mounted with each empty pan, the initial joy replaced with the biting sting of unmet expectations. I found myself sprawled amidst the very dirt I'd been turning, the weight of my zeal pressing down, leaving me gasping and spent.\nTonight, the solitary gold nugget lies beside me, a symbol of both triumph and warning. The valley's treasures are elusive, demanding respect and patience. As I drift into a recuperative sleep, I resolve to heed the lessons of this week: the promise of gold is powerful, but I must remember to listen to both the land and my own body's boundaries.\nYours, humbled and reinvigorated,\nDaniel H.\n-\nAugust 31st, 1849\nFourteen days since my pen last touched this journal, and the valley's song has grown louder, more insistent, echoing in the deepest chambers of my mind. It feels as if the land itself is alive, whispering secrets only to me. Last night, as moonlight painted the valley in silvery hues, my eyes were drawn to a cliff's face. And there, amidst the jagged rock, I saw it – a glimmer, a promise, a golden lure beckoning me closer.\nIt’s a treacherous climb, that much is clear. But that pocket of gold, even from this distance, looks vast, enough to change any man's destiny a hundredfold. My mind races with visions – grand mansions, respect from peers, luxuries only the rich know of, and most importantly, a legacy for generations to cherish.\nI've been feverishly preparing. Ropes, spikes, and all the tools I believe I'd need to scale that cliff and extract the gold. Every moment not spent in preparation, my mind wanders into fantasy: lavish feasts, clothes finer than any I've worn, and a life far removed from this rugged wilderness.\nYet, there's a nagging whisper, drowned mostly by the allure of the gold, that cautions me. The cliff's dangers are manifold, and the howling winds seem to carry tales of adventurers who met their fate in their quest. But the pull, oh, the pull of that gold is unlike anything I've felt. As I lay down tonight, my thoughts are a swirling tempest of ambition, greed, and anxiety.\nTomorrow, I take on the cliff. They say fortune favors the bold. I'm about to find out.\nYours, on the precipice of greatness or folly,\nDaniel H.\n-\nSeptember 7th, 1849\nI chanced upon this journal today, nestled beside what I initially assumed was a slumbering traveler. To my dismay, it was a lifeless prospector, a man named Daniel H. according to his writings. Beside him lay chunks of gleaming gold, scattered like stars against the earth, evidence of a dream both realized and shattered. A closer inspection revealed a more somber tale: his climbing gear, torn and frayed, could not bear the combined weight of the man and his newfound fortune.\nIt's a heart-wrenching scene — the tangible weight of his dreams becoming the literal weight that sealed his fate. Reading through Daniel's entries, I'm struck by his passion, ambition, and the descent into obsession that these mountains can incite. The fervor with which he sought gold was commendable, but his story serves as a grim reminder of the balance between ambition and caution.\nIt may seem opportunistic, but I've gathered the gold. Daniel's arduous journey, his sleepless nights, and his ultimate sacrifice won't go in vain. This treasure will grant me the means to live life to its fullest, to grasp opportunities, and perhaps, to honor this stranger by fulfilling some of the dreams he penned down so eloquently.\nPerhaps I'll venture east, away from these treacherous terrains, to start anew. Every coin I spend will bear testimony to a man's relentless spirit and the cost of unbridled ambition. As the sun sets, casting a golden hue reminiscent of the metal that changed our fates, I whisper a silent prayer for Daniel H.\nTo a future born out of another man's dream,\nB. Thomas" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Boulder\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1003\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a memory of yours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Boulder\nBy Magdalena Brynard\nThe sky churned from golden hues, to amber and drawing to a close in a deep crimson. A steaming mug of coffee sat beside me on the table. I was fond of watching the sun set and rise over the ridge surrounding our ranch. My fingers absentmindedly searched my face as I stared ahead; they stumbled over a small rift in the curve of my chin.\nA sudden flash of light engulfed my senses as my mind awoke to a smooth white field surrounding me. Ice cold spittle shot me in the face initiating a riot of sensations I had never felt before. The brisk air was burning my nose and reddened my cheeks a dark rose color. I sped faster and faster on the ice, the ski’s wobbling under my feet. The friction between ice and ski was almost tangible. I could feel the rush of adrenaline as it pulsed through my head and my arms.\nUnrelenting thoughts crushed my vision. I tried to focus on the smooth slope, turning my left foot in and quickly regaining balance before the right foot swerved out. The sudden turn took me by surprise; I was able to turn my set of skis for the first time. It felt smooth and even, much like a trapeze artist flying through the air; tumbling and turning to perfection. I was elated to get it right.\nI made myself a promise that morning as I stepped out of the lobby into the open air. Today was the day that I was going to prove that I can ski. I was a freshman and not the most popular at the given time. With an all-star track runner for a brother, life was challenging to say the least\nIt never truly occurred to me that I have only been on the snow once before, and that that moment might have been the most embarrassing of my sixteen years on earth. I recalled how confidently I put my boots on, testing the slick white surface under the hard outer shell. I tied each buckle of my boots tight enough to secure my foot without cutting off my blood circulation. I remembered my training, making sure I had the correct order in which to secure the buckles. Andre was watching and I could not afford to seem unprofessional. My heart thudded against my rib cage. A small line of sweat ran down the side of my left brow; I ignored it.\nI double checked each piece of the ski binding, not wanting to look as unprepared as I felt. I made sure that the heel pieces of the ski binding was in the downward position ready for me to have the outer shell of my boot click fast into position. I aligned my boot with the toe piece of the binding and put it in place. The click seemed to echo over the field. I kept my balance steady with both ski poles as I moved my foot forward and backwards, confident that I knew exactly was I was doing. I lifted my left foot and placed the front of my boot into the toe piece. \nAs soon as I pushed down onto the heel piece securing my boot, the unfathomable happened. The movement was so quick I could hardly believe it. My body tried to even out the odd sensation it was not accustomed to, but to no avail. My feet slipped from under me and all I really remembered was the laughter emanating from Andre’s mouth. My first impression was shattered and I knew that he would henceforth never look my way again. This was to be the skiing weekend of my life, a school trip I was never supposed to forget for being a triumph, not dilapidated embarrassment.\nI was struck with shame yesterday, but today I was proving my worth on the beginner slope. My own exuberant laughter echoed in my head muffling a distant cry from my brother. Out of nowhere, a giant boulder jumped in front of me. Fear and disappointment paralyzed me. I could do nothing but stare as the boulder grew in size. Again my brother cried out to me to simply fall over, but I froze. It hit me before I knew it. The impact sent me flying. I was lucky not to have made a ballet split at that exact moment; I might have shredded more than just a fragment of bone off my chin. \nHelp arrived before I knew what really happened. Everything was a blur, all I remember was the blood on my hands and the broken ski goggles sitting askew on my face. The tear on my chin was awarded seven stitches and more embarrassment than I could bear.\nBack in the doctors rooms I expected to see my brother hovering over his little sister, but instead I stared up at Andre. I was stunned. He was the last person I had imagined to see after the most horrific moment of my young life. I felt embarrassed and sore to say the least. I tried to avoid eye contact by pretending to need the nurse, but I failed miserably. I had to look his way at some point. He was smiling, not mockingly but warm, kind and gentle.\nI was still giggling to myself when I emerged out of my reverie. I still felt the chill in my bones as I thought back to that moment. It was to be a shift in my life I was not prepared for. I might have a great imagination but the reality of what happened far outweighed the possibilities of a life half lived.\nMy husband was curious to know what I was thinking, and all I could say was ‘the boulder’. A single word was all he needed to be momentarily transported back in time to the weekend we fell in love; a memory not only cherished, but forever etched into the curve of my chin." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: 13 Years Ago\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1392\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a memory of yours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I had almost forgotten about it, until one day I see a golden envelope sliding under my door. I get it in my hand and turn it around. ‘Class of 2009’ is written neatly on the front. I sigh of boredom as I open it and take out the invitation. Reunion. How nice.\n“That is an event I’ll be avoiding at all costs.” At least that’s what I’ve said to Maggie when we were on the final year of high school, one day talking throughout a break.\nAnd I believe I’ll keep my word. We haven’t even finished the year, and most were already making plans how we’d be on the reunion.\nHigh school for me was a bit of a nightmare with some doses of normality. You see, I was not a top athlete, nor a pretty face or school’s most popular and maybe president, to have a cool time in high school. So, most of the time I was spending it in the library, where the people who visit it are counted on the fingers of one hand.\nMy phone’s ringing brings me back from my thoughts. It’s Maggie.\n“Did you get it?” she asks full of expectation before I could even say hello.\n“Yes.”\n“What are you going to wear?”\n“I don’t think I’m going…”\n“WHAT? Are you insisting on that crap you said that day? Really…”\n“Is not that, only. You know how bad I am at social gatherings, why this to be different?”\n“Because HE will he there.” Maggie says from the other end of the line, and I bet she has that playful smile on her face. “Aren’t you curious to see how he is now?”\nOf course, he will be. The highlight of the year.\nStephen was a deviously handsome pain in the neck. And he knew it. Top volleyball player, top student, with a face and physique that could only be sculpted by the gods. That jawline oh his could cut you even by looking at it.\nThe first day of my final year in high school we exchanged some very non-complementary words. I was trying to be polite and nice, and he was a natural ass, so I told him back. The rest, you can imagine. And what better could I ask for, when I enter the classroom and I see him right in front of me.\nThe first couple of months were terrible. He was ruffling feathers every time a teacher was asking me a question. At first, I thought that maybe I had given a wrong answer but then he kept doing that even if my answer was a hundred percent correct. He was so annoying! Long story short, we had established our sentiments for each other, that were nothing else that hate and disgust.\nWhen December came, the school announced the tournaments that will start beginning of the year, so any interested students should declare their sport in order to form teams etc. I was good in tennis, however there was not going to be a tournament on that since there was no other participation from another school.\nOne day, the sports teacher asked me to try for the handball team, he said I have strength in my arms. I went for the trials and managed to get the position of the goalkeeper. I remember the look on his face when the sports teacher came during lecture and asked for me because we would start training.\nChristmas break was here. I was so happy that finally I’ll have some time to relax, away from high-school drama and a particular person that causes it.\nOne night, I was going to the movies with some classmates from the art class. At some point my phone was buzzing, so I got out to answer it, and bumped into Stephen. I literary fell on him. He greets me and I realize he’s with a girl that introduced herself as his girlfriend. We exchange pleasantries and I go back. It felt strange, having him talking to me like a normal person but I’m sure he did that because his girlfriend was in front.\nThe holidays are over, and school starts again. And I might have believed that miracles happen, and Christmas spirit has done it. Every morning he greets me, accompanied by a nod of his head. Maggie was not a believer until one day she was right next to me, when Stephen enters the building and says good morning to me. She was on cloud nine, but I prefer to keep my feet on the ground. As much as I want to believe it, this is not Stephen. Something’s up.\nHis new behaviour continues. One night, a classmate had invited the whole class to her birthday party at a club. Although at first, I was super stressed about how packed will be in there, the good thing is that she had reserved the whole club for her, so it was only us. Splendid! \nI was having nice time, sitting on a couch, enjoying my drink and cigarette. Stephen was on the bar stools further down, smocking cigars with his close friends that were in our class also. At some point, Maggie comes to me and sits on the couch.\n“What happened between the two of you and you haven’t told me yet?” she asks aloud.\n“What do you mean? Nothing happened!”\n“He doesn’t get his eyes of you! Don’t you see?”\nI turn to where he is sitting. His back is turned to me.\n“He doesn’t see me. He’s sitting with his back at me. You must be mistaken.”\n“Oh, don’t you try this on me little one! All night is turning and looks at your way. There was no one else sitting here except you. I told you he likes you!”\n“You’re drunk!”\nAfter that night, he kept looking at me and during lectures. I was always sitting at the very back of the room so, he was always choosing a seat further up and on the opposite site so he could turn and sit with his back on the sidewall. The rest of the girls sitting on my direction were going crazy, especially since the news that he broke up came out. I don’t deny it, I liked his attention, but I knew something was wrong.\nSchool’s volleyball team went to the final, where we won. After the match, he even came to give me his shirt. I could feel the eyes of the other girls, throwing daggers at me. This kept going for the rest of the year until about two weeks before the school year end.\nOne day I was passing outside the boys changing rooms and I heard them all. I was the bet he and his friends had taken. As he had already dated all the girls in school, except those in long-term relationships, I was the only one left. What better that the new girl?\nA part of me felt good because I was right about his sudden change in behaviour towards me. However, a part of me felt terrible and it was my fault. I had let myself enjoy that game of his, more than what was allowed. On the next break I stayed in class, thinking about how I should tell him. When I turn and see him walking to sit next to me, I think that is the time.\nI told him everything. He didn’t deny it. He apologized and we kept it cool. His only question was if I would want to date him after all that happened, if they were true. I haven’t answered that question ever. It still troubles me. Although I knew something was fake about it, his eyes were telling exactly the opposite from a point onwards. Maybe he felt something along the way?\nMaggie’s screaming brings me back from my memories.\n“Hello? Are you there?”\n“Yes, please stop screaming.”\n“Guess what! You’re coming with me to the reunion. He will be there, and he’s been asking about you lately. Nick told me. So, cut the crap about everything you might try to say as an excuse. I don’t buy it.”\nWe hang up and I remain with the invitation at hand, gazing out of the window. Will he still be waiting for an answer after so many years?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Last Of The Bright Young Things\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2002\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a letter, or multiple letters back and forth." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Friday 7th October 1932 - Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool\n\nDearest darling Herbert,\n\nWhat excitement we have had! \n\nMother and I boarded our train on Thursday. The conductor was a charming man. I swear he held my hand for just a moment too long. The weather was terrible, of course, but we were heading for the sun, and neither of us cared one jot. Then the thunderstorm started, which terrified Mother. She shrieked like she had seen a dozen mice with every rumble and flash. It was good fortune we shared our carriage solely with a group of nuns from a silent order. Their luggage labels showed they were heading on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. One wonders how they afforded first-class travel. Mother was distraught, but the ladies were charming and prayed for us throughout the storm. At least, I think they included us in their prayers as they constantly waved their crosses and prayer books at us. I'm sure they did not mind my cigarette smoke. They were only menthol, after all.\n\nIt was a disappointment you could not be with us. What a comfort that would have been. Such a shame you could not leave your poor Mr. Ross. If only the dear old thing had passed away when expected. Oh, how terribly callous that must sound, but you know, Herbert, our dear neighbour, is suffering so much. I wish you could ease his pain. Well, I shall say no more on that subject.\n\nWe arrived safely in Liverpool just in time for dinner at our hotel. It is a divine place. If the weather had improved, I should have joined a group of handsome young men for tennis. We met them in the hotel lounge last evening. One of them is the cousin of Ronnie Montagu. Do you remember him? The red-headed chap who flirted with me outrageously last August. I'm sure you were jealous, as you did not say a word to me all evening. Instead, I tested the water in the swimming pool this morning. I have a daring new costume! Do you like the photograph, and are you shocked by your brazen fiancee? Perhaps you will sleep with it under your pillow and dream of me. \n\nEarlier this afternoon, Mother and I took a walk, but several men were begging in the street! Can you believe it, darling? Why were they not at work? One of them said to Mother that he had not eaten for two days. He had the most dishevelled and unpleasant appearance, so we returned to the hotel for afternoon tea.\n\nTomorrow, we will board the ship at 3.00 pm. I do hope you will write soon.\n\nYour adoring Dorothea.\n–0–\nSaturday 8th October 1932 - London\n\nDear Miss Dorothea,\n\nThank you for taking the time from your busy day to write to me. I am glad you and her ladyship arrived at your hotel without incident.\n\nMr. Ross is much improved today. Dyspepsia is a most painful condition, but I do not believe it to be fatal. While I appreciate he seems, to you, to be of advanced years, I have no reason to expect his imminent death. I would be most distressed if you thought I cared about the legacy I shall receive on his passing. I assure you; Miss Dorothea, I do not need the money. It is sad Mr. Ross does not have a family to benefit from his generosity.\n\nThe photograph you enclosed was indeed daring. I will keep it locked away as I would not wish the housekeeper to see it. She is subject to heart palpitations.\n\nI am very grateful for your friendship Miss Dorothea, but may I politely request that you not refer to me as your fiance? Her ladyship would not approve. I am sure this is your wonderful sense of humour at play, and in time, you will find a suitable young man of your own social class.\n\nI have heard people are starving in the streets of many of our northern cities because of the depression. Exports of coal have fallen, and the mines have closed. They report that one million men are out of work. As a result, the ports have fewer merchant ships, and the Liverpool dockyards are laying men off. I am sorry that you and her ladyship had an unpleasant encounter.\n\nToday I am driving Mr. Ross to the House of Commons to meet Mr. Ramsey MacDonald. The Prime Minister wishes to discuss further limitations to importing foreign goods. I shall take a walk around the National Gallery while I wait.\n\nI wish you a pleasant voyage.\nYour humble servant, Herbert Morris.\n–0–\n\nMonday 10th October 1932 - RMS Lancastria, Cartagena\n\nDarling Boy, \n\nI had to share the news, such excitement as I have ever known. We have had a rescue at sea! Dozens of dear little Belgian sailors surround us. Their ship sank this morning. I do loathe the Bay of Biscay. It makes one feel a little drunk, reeling from one side of the boat to the other, and poor Mother could only keep down a little turtle soup, a small portion of pheasant pie, and only one dessert! I believe the crew is sharing their rations with the Belgians. \n\nThere has been an appeal to the passengers for donations to help the sailors, who will be ashore tomorrow morning. Mother has a fur coat that has a little blight. I am sure she will not miss it. The change to our itinerary has upset Mother very much. She is looking forward to reaching Lisbon. She has instructed our steward to fetch the captain at once.\n\nMother tells me that Mr. Ross is worth some £100000! I am delighted for your good fortune, my darling. We shall have great fun when we are married. When do you think that might be? I hear that Mr. Ross has a diseased heart. I am sure you take great care of his medication. It would be sad if he were to overdose accidentally. \n\nWrite soon, my beloved. I long to hear your news.\n\nYour adoring, Dorothea.\n–0–\nFriday 14th October 1932 - London\n\nDear Miss Dorothea\n\nYour letter arrived 'par avion,' this morning. It was most exciting to receive the post with a Spanish stamp. The housekeeper, Miss Harris, was delighted to have the postage stamps to give to her nephew.\n\nWe heard the news of the SS Scheldestad on the radio. How tragic that some 40 sailors lost their lives. I feel a sense of great sadness for the mothers who have lost their sons and wives that will never see the return of their husbands. We in the servants' hall have donated a small sum of money that the vicar will send to the bereaved. Reverend Jones knew several Belgian refugees from his parish in Folkestone during the Great War.\n\nIt surprised me to hear that some 250000 Belgians arrived in England when the Germans invaded. How sad they lost their home to invaders, only to return home, without choice, when the war ended. The Reverend said the government wanted the jobs back for returning servicemen. Miss Harris had a niece who was a conductress on a tram. She also lost her employment, as a soldier required the job. Miss Harris believes they will one day pay men and women the same wages for the same work, but I fear that is most unlikely.\n\nMr. Ross met with the Prime Minister. Mr. MacDonald is a good man but in poor health, and Mr. Ross says he can not remain in power for much longer. The Tories dominate the National Government, and his Labour policies have little support. The newspapers once again reported that his son was a conscientious objector during the war. It did not reflect well upon him.\n\nMy employer is enjoying good health. The rumours of his heart's weakness are ill-informed, and he is not currently taking any medication. I would most respectfully beg you not to consider me as an object of your affection, Miss Dorothea. I believe some may have exaggerated my expectations, and I would not wish to disappoint you.\nYour humble servant,\n\nHerbert Morris.\n–0–\nTuesday 18th October 1932 - Villa Santa Maria, Lisbon\n\nDearest Herbert,\n\nI am so glad to hear that Mr. Ross is well. I hope he is not overdoing things with all his political work. Mother says he should not concern himself with the north when things are so bad in London. I swear we waited over half an hour for a porter to collect our bags at the station. Why are men unemployed when clearly there is a need for essential workers? But enough of political matters, I am sure I will exhaust myself with such thinking. Dolly Matthews says I worry far too much.\n\nMother and I were reminiscing this morning about your dear father, how he carried me on his shoulders when I was a child. It was such fun galloping around the yard pretending he was a pony. Oh, how we laughed when he lost a shoe. Happy days. He was a great valet and a staunch friend to dear Mr. Ross. It is honourable that Ross should regard you as a son and heir. I describe you this way to my dearest friends.\n\nWe are staying here until April. If Mr. Ross should succumb to the winter influenza, please join us here, my darling. I would love to write more, but Mother and I are going to a party with some film director and his chums. They smoke the most delightful Turkish cigarettes.\n\nUntil we meet again,\n\nYour adoring Dorothea\n\n–0–\n\n24th October 1932 - London\n\nDear Miss Dorothea\n\nThank you for your most entertaining letter.\n\nThis morning I drove Mr. Ross to Trafalgar Square. There was a most deplorable scene when the National Hunger Marchers met with Mr. Mosley's British Union of Fascists. Mr. Ross instructed me to use the motor car to take several injured men and women to the hospital. Many of the marchers had left Glasgow in September. Their boots were little more than scraps of leather, bound with rags. Blood ran from their torn feet. They intend to address parliament about the abolition of the means test. There is much concern that government agents infiltrated the march, wishing to discredit their peaceful aims.\n\nHere we have exciting news. On Saturday evening, Mr. Ross introduced us to Miss Ethel MacDonald. They are engaged to be married. Farley Hall may indeed yet have an heir. A band played in the garden, and Miss Harris and I danced a celebratory jig around the kitchen table. Despite the 30 years between them, I believe this is a sincere love match. \n\nI am sure Miss MacDonald will take excellent care of Mr. Ross' health.\n\nIt will be a pleasure to see you next April, Miss Dorothea.\nYour humble servant Herbert Morris.\n\n–0–\n\n30th October 1932 - Villa Rossini Lisbon\n\nDear Mr. Morris\n\nAlas, my one true love, you have sadly deceived me. I wish you and Miss Harris a happy future together, and of course, I release you from any obligation toward me. I was not expecting many years of happiness; you being so much older than me, Herbert, but I had hoped to be a bride before considering a lonely widowhood.\n\nMr. Ross, it appears, has had his head turned by a pretty ankle. Ah well, there is no fool like an old fool. And no doubt he will keep you, and the future Mrs. Morris, in service together.\n\nRonnie Montagu arrived in Lisbon yesterday. Mother and I are now his house guests. Dear Ronnie's father is seriously ill, and Ronnie may have to return to London soon to be at his bedside, as a most thoughtful son should. It is my duty to be there to console him.\n\nI must ask you, Herbert, not to write to me again. I should find it too upsetting.\n\nYour heartbroken friend, Dorothea." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: I remember...\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1240\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the narrator or a character saying “I remember…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I remember…\nJanuary 25 2020: Cebu, Philippines \nI’m on my CNY break. We decided to go to Cebu, today I saw on the news about a virus being shot around China. Probably just a flu or strep, no biggie, right? 2 hours later I get an email from my principal, “School will be shut down for the next two weeks, classwork will be sent to all of you and you will do it from home.” AWESOME! Two weeks off school !!!\nJanuary 26 2020: Cebu International Airport\nSince when did everyone start wearing pollution masks? Why is my temperature getting checked at every station in the airport? We get on the airplane and a flight attendant gives us a mask to wear. I can barely breathe, good thing I just have to wear it for airplane rides. \nFeb 3 2020: Hong Kong \nFirst day of online school and it's so easy. I have one thing of homework that is due by the end of the week and it takes like twenty minutes to do. I get to spend the rest of the day hanging out with my friends doing nothing. But there really is nothing, restaurants and shops are all shut down, malls have been closed, some of my friends aren’t even allowed to leave their home because of this dumb cold. \nMarch 10 2020: Hong Kong\nWell school is still online, but it's gotten harder, now we have these group phone calls called ‘zoom’. I feel like I'm still in school but it's worse because procrastination has gotten awful. I feel like I’m barely learning anything. \nApril 19 2020: Hong Kong \nMy sister just came home from the states from college, her school got completely shut down because this corona thing has made it to the US. There is this new thing here called quarantining, it's when you come to Hong Kong after being somewhere else and you have to stay in your house for two weeks to see if you have the virus. My parents felt bad for me, so I went to live with my friends for two weeks so I didn’t have to do this. \nMay 23 2020: Hong Kong \nHong Kong and the rest of the world is on complete lockdown and everyone is freaking out and I’m beginning to understand why, people have been dying and numbers are skyrocketing. \nJune 23 2020: Hong Kong International Airport\nIt’s the right time to move from here, I feel like I am in a prison. \nJune 25 2020: Hastings-on-Hudson\nI haven’t seen my friends in almost 8 months, and I’m less than a mile away from them and I have to self quarantine for at least a week. \nJuly 2 2020: Hastings-on-Hudson\nMy best friend's family is super covid cautious. Today was the first time I got to see her. I gave her a huge hug, her dad told her to back off because it's too close of contact. \nJuly 9 2020: Hastings-on-Hudson\nFirst time I got to hangout with my friend group, good thing it’s summer, no ones allowed inside each other's houses, besides if you have a bubble of around 3 or 4. Bonfires outside it is. At least I get to see them though. Got an email from my new school, school will be online the first two weeks then hybrid. \nSeptember 30 2020: Hastings-on-Hudson\n10:15 am, I was happily learning in class when my teacher said everyone stay in your seats and do not leave to go to the bathroom. The loud speaker goes off, “everyone will be evacuating from the school immediately there is a COVID case.”\noh. \nA year of hell goes by. \nOctober 31 2021: Hastings-on-Hudson\nI haven’t seen my friends from Hong Kong in two years. Those masks I was supposed to only be wearing on airplanes, are now part of my everyday routine for school; wake up, brush my teeth, get dressed, pack my bag, get my mask. Everywhere I go it's “do you have a mask”. Things have been getting better, the vaccine came out, if only people would get it, only half of Americans have it. We are so close. I miss my friends and I miss my family. I lost family members this year, it was not because of COVID but I almost wasn’t able to say goodbye because of it. This has brought out a whole new side for me. Three years ago I would be so excited to hangout with my friends if 20 of us could all go out together. Now if I can have five or more people in my house I’m overjoyed. I’ve learned to be more grateful for the friends who I haven’t lost in the past two years. I’m grateful when I can go into a store without a mask because of this shot. I’m grateful to be able to see all my friends everyday at school instead of some of them twice a week. I’m grateful my sisters can start living at college again. I’m wanting to see my extended family more because everyone has been nervous to see each other the past two years and I’m grateful I’m able to now. Life has been tough for everyone, but this is an experience no one will ever forget, it will be a unit in history class, and an example virus in biology. Once we kick covid in the butt, my generation is going to feel like we will be able to live forever. Not all of us, but some of us are going to take the experiences we had and try to change the world so we can prevent this from happening again or if it does make it not as life changing. I’m grateful for everything I have and can do in these awful times, but how you experience the past two years depends mainly on your age. As a teenager, going through high school in these times is very difficult. I was told I needed to be just as good a student at home on my computer as I would be in school everyday. There were periods where it was so hard, but you can’t blame the teachers or our parents, they’ve never had to learn from home. It would be so stressful having to balance everything, I would lose track of time and when assignments would be due. For me and for many other people, stress and anxiety started to form from it, and most of us haven’t been able to get rid of it. No matter who you were or how much you care about school, there was never a day you wouldn’t get distracted if you were online. And that was awful, my procrastination issue got extremely worse and even when I would say to myself to just focus and to put my phone away, I could never do it. But can you blame us? We are at home in comfortable clothing, probably in our beds, half asleep from being up till 2 finishing all our late work, losing our social lives and not having anything to do after school besides more school. Life has sucked over the past two years and I’m not going to sugar coat it. We are starting to get back to normal but honestly what even is normal anymore? Because right now to me, normal is six feet apart from everyone with a mask covering my face." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Letters from Malaysian Flight 370\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1210\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "[Voice message found in a mobile phone]\n\nLife is a mystery, isn’t it? One day we are in control of everything, taking exams, passing tests, choosing which job interview to attend. And then, if we work hard, we move up in our career, step by step.\n\nBut the whole time, there’s a parallel universe that we don't control that affects us strongly. Our boyfriends get transferred to different cities, our employers go bankrupt, our friends get sick.\n\nI’ve made the right choices my entire life. I was polite to others, took care of my parents and grandparents, helped my brother’s studies, went to a good university, said all the right things in job interviews. Now, I’m on a plane that might be crashing, and cancelling out every right choice I've made in my life. Then, there’s probably some classmate of mine back home in Tianjin that made all the wrong choices who is safely behind a cash register at a 7/11, watching funny cat videos and planning what he's going to eat for dinner.\n\nMaybe Muslims have the right idea. It’s all in god’s hands. Chinese, we aren’t religious, maybe we're missing something. Who knows? If things in our history took a different turn, our way of thinking might be different today.\n\nI've always enjoyed flights. They were a time I could forget my worries. Nothing bad ever happens on a flight. No one ever loses their job or goes to the hospital. It's when I get off, that's when I need to think about things like the results of my next pap smear, whether Jia and I are actually good together or not. I don't know where I'm going with this...\n\nSorry, the pilot is announcing something, I need to listen.\n\n[end of message]\n\n\n\nMichael felt saddened reading the transcript of the message, knowing its writer was dead. The message was one of many that had been recovered by the FAA. More accurately, by the US Navy who had located the wreckage of MH370 and delivered it to the FAA looking for answers. The case had become political, so they brought him in as an outsider. A Professor of Air Safety at the University of Illinois, he was considered an independent party. But he was sure people on the internet wouldn't believe that. Conspiracy theorists now dominate the discourse.\n\nMichael refilled his coffee and got down to reading the other recovered messages. Someone had translated and transcribed them from all the various devices they found within the wreckage of MH370.\n\n\n\n[Email draft found on a mobile phone]\n\nTo: Carl\nThe pilot came over the intercom and said there was a serious problem with the airplane, and we might want to write a message to our loved ones. I don’t have anything to write on, so I’m typing this into an email. Maybe it will get sent out if I don’t make it out of here somehow. I am an optimist and have never been afraid of airplanes. Statistically, they are far safer than cars. As my older brother, I appreciate all the things you taught me. Especially…trying to think what to say…\n\n\n\n[Unsent SMS message found on a mobile phone]\n\nTo: my husband\n\nIf you are reading this, you must already know my Malaysian flight had something go wrong. Everyone is in a panic, and no one is telling us anything.\n\nI wish we could watch the dragonflies at sunset on that hill above the Sungai Besi campus again\n\nI don't know if I will ever see you again, but I want you to know that I love you. You have been my rock and my support, and I am grateful for every moment we have spent together.\n\nPlease take care of yourself and our family. I hope to see you soon.\n\nYour wife, Kasih\n\n\n\n[Message found in an email on a recovered laptop]\n\nTo: Freescale Semiconductor\nFrom: John Anderson\n\nThe pilot has announced he’s no longer in control of the airplane. That’s all he’s told us so far. The technology we are carrying has military applications. I am wondering if we are the target. And if they might hijack the plane and take us to a third country, Afghanistan, Iran, or North Korea, if that’s possible.\n\nFrom the pilot's announcement, it’s not clear if the plane has been hijacked, or if somehow the flight control system has been taken over from outside.\n\n \n\n[Message found on mobile phone]\n\nTo: Malaysian Civil Aviation Authority\nFrom: Co-pilot of MH370\n\nThe man who is supposed to be my teacher has locked me out of the cockpit. It’s likely he will depressurize the cabin. No matter what happens, you must hold Captain Shah responsible.\n\n \n\n[Message found in cockpit flight recorder]\n\nThis is the pilot of Malaysia three seven zero. The cockpit controls have stopped responding to all commands. After banking sharply, we are now at three five thousand feet heading of 343 degrees, flying on autopilot.\n\nI don’t know how loss of all controls is possible. We have tried everything in the Boeing 777 operations manual to restart the flight control system. We will continue to attempt to reboot the system.\n\nI would like the Malaysian Civil Aviation Authority to know I have done my best for our 239 passengers and cabin crew. \n\n\n\n[Message found in a mobile phone]\n\nTo: The Head of the Iranian National Guard \nFrom: A loyal citizen\n\nWe sought to avenge the downing of Iranian flight 655.\n\nI’m sorry our plan didn’t work. As we had anticipated, the co-pilot did open the door to let a young woman into the cockpit. I followed her as if moving forward to use the toilet. At the moment she entered, I wedged my foot in and pushed my way into the cockpit.\n\nWith the pilot strapped to his chair, it was easy to incapacitate the co-pilot, and then shove the young woman out of the cockpit, locking myself in with the pilot. Reza made his way to the electronic compartment and deactivated the transponder.\n\nThreatening force, I asked the pilot to steer the plane toward Diego Garcia. I told him we would land there and seek international news coverage to make a stand for the freedom of the island from the US military. I told him the names of his family members and that our group was watching them as we speak.\n\nLooking back, I suspect the pilot didn’t believe my story.\n\nHe assured me we were heading toward Diego Garcia, showed me his instruments. Six hours later, the plane alarms began to go off. When I asked him what they meant, he said the airplane was running out of fuel.\n\nWhen I asked if we were close to Diego Garcia, he shook his head no.\n\n\n\n[Message found in a notebook]\n\nTanam selasih di tengah padang,\n Sudah bertangkai diurung semut,\nKita kasih orang tak sayang,\n Halai-balai tempurung hanyut.\n\n[English translation]\nI planted sweet-basil in mid-field\n Grown, it swarmed with ants,\nI loved but am not loved,\n I am all confused and helpless.\n\n**\n\n[Message written on the inside of an in-flight magazine]\n\nEverything I wrote previously was a lie. I wanted to imagine how things could be in a different world.\n\n[end of message]" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Stay Off Memory Lane\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1009\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the narrator or a character saying “I remember…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As i sit here pondering on what to write and watching all the kids skate around in circles reminds me the times i went skating. I wasn’t a very good skater. I always just tried to fit in with the rest of the kids from school. It looks a lot different when you're older. I look around and see all kinds of people younger kids, teens, and even older people skating. I wish i were like some of these kids. They look free and happy. They look like they haven’t got a worry in the world. Especially, the birthday girl that's wearing a rainbow tutu with a matching hair bow. She had a banner across her chest saying Happy Birthday that's how I know. Anyway I liked going skating as a kid, but I was not the most popular thing. I don't know why but, I can remember this certain shirt i used to wear every time it was clean. It was red with an american flag in the middle of it. I'm not crying about it now, but I got picked on a lot in school. I always wondered what it would be like to be popular. I still had friends but, you know how schools are. You have your cheerleaders, jocks, and whatever other clicks there were. I think the little clicks and even the people change from elementary school to high school. I didn’t get decent looking until I hit high school, and I still care too much about what I look like. I guess it’s because of my low esteem and my awkward conversations with people. Going down memory lane can be good and bad i guess. There are so many memories that it’s hard to think about a specific one. I mostly remember who I hung out with in school. I have memories that make me laugh and some that makes me sad. It is important who you spend your company with. Some people will build you up and some people will bring you down. Most of the time i just try to not let people get to me. Most things you have to just shrug off sometimes. It’s easier now than it was back then. I feel like i’m not even here sometimes. I just sit in the corner mostly and observe people and make up stories in my head. Seeing people skating makes me think about how we roll though life trying not to worry about things. Life is a lot like skating. You can just roll on by and miss everything around you by not worrying about it , or you can roll while trying to learn all about life while trying not to knock anyone down. Anyway sometimes in life it is hard to know where you fit in. Do you ever just feel different from everyone else? I have but, then i think what if we were born to stand out. I always tried to fit in back in school but, now i realize life is about way more than just fitting in. Some people are out here just trying to survive and get by. Then you have people like me just winging it mostly. It's okay to go down memory lane but, don't live there. Who you were in school doesn't determine who you are now, or maybe it does. I'll admit I come with a past, and I live in the same town as most of the people I went to school with. I went to a couple high schools, so either way there is people I know in two counties. Sometimes, I wonder it it would have been nice to move to a whole new state and just completely over. The reason being that I am not proud of some of my high school days. I know people change, but people you surrounded yourself with will some reason only remember the bad things about you. I'll be honest for me it was skipping class and sneaking cigarettes. I even sat in the bathroom for one of my high school classes. It was drama and I had stage fright so, I did everything I could to get out of it. Looking back now I wish I had went and tried. Anyway everyone had a high school sweet heart I suppose. I really know how to pick them because I met mine in ISS. He was super cute, super funny, but super weird at the same time. I overheard him break a pencil in the square hole in the wall when he was supposed to be writing with it. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why the hell someone would break a pencil on purpose. I want go all into this, but come to find out that his only cigarette broke and needed an excuse to get some tape. I can't remember if we had smoked that one together or not, but that is how we met. We would go out into the parking lot after school and share one hiding in between two cars. Anyway we were together for a really long time. I fell so hard for him I think I cracked every bone in my body. So anyway, life goes on. I still see him around from time to time and wonder what if, but that's all it will ever be. When marriage and kids come you have to let the past die. It's okay to remember and wonder but, what if questions don't do nobody no good. I'm glad he came into my life though because, in ways he helped me so I have no regrets. I don't really have any memory lane stories specifically to tell because there is so many. I'm going to end this with whether you were good, bad, nerdy, or smart in high school nobody really cares now. Time, pain, and broken hearts change you for a little while, but it passes. Time waits for no one. Life is short so have fun and, your welcome." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Bully Teacher, Bully Kid\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1604\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a memory of yours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Bully Teacher, Bully Kid\n(Based on a true story)\nI am from Albuquerque, New Mexico and, yes, I’m Mexican American, born here but of Hispanic parents. But the story I’m about to tell you happened in a small town in California. I was visiting my grandmother during the summer vacation from school. It was 1989, I was 14 years old. \nMy grandmother lived just a block away from the local high school. During the summer, the school’s gym was kept open for the town’s teens to have something to do. There was also a small swimming pool, but it cost money to go swimming there; playing in the gym was free. So, to pass the time, I played basketball in the gym during the day.\nI’d either play one-on-one with another kid, or sometimes two-on two . . . whatever could be scrounged up. Usually, we played half court while the bigger kids play down at the other end. \nOne day, I was playing horse with another boy about my age when he attempted a hook-shot that hit the rim low and rebounded into the other end of the court. I ran after it, but one of the big boys grabbed it and wouldn’t give it back. I grabbed it and pulled it away from him. Then he wrapped his arms around me from behind and wouldn’t let go. I was struggling to free myself while he was laughing and making cracks about my ethnicity\nAbout then, the high school coach walked in and saw us. He didn’t know what had taken place, he just saw two boys fighting in his gym. He pulled us apart and then said, “So you want to fight, do you?” No questions of what had prompted the scuffle or anything. He continued, “Let’s do it the right way. I’ll get some boxing gloves and let you slug it out. How’s that?” The big boy just smiled and said, “OK by me!” He looked to be about 18, six-feet tall and weighing in at maybe 175. \nNow, as I said, I was 14 and rather small for my age at 5’5”, weighing 106. But I wasn’t afraid of him. I just couldn’t believe the adult here would propose such a mismatch. I said, “It doesn’t bother you that he’s got 6 or more inches on me and more than 50 pounds?”\nI think the boy must have been one of the coach’s favorites, perhaps a star player on one of his teams. He seemed to grin at the boy and replied to me, “Well, you were big enough to get into a fight with him. I’m just saying let’s do it the right way.”\nHe was really enjoying trying to humiliate me. I was the stranger in his town. He’d show me what his boys can do if I mess with them! Probably, he expected me to cower and plead not to make me fight his star football, or basketball, or whatever player. I think he would have enjoyed either seeing me grovel to get out of the match or, dare he hope for me to accept the challenge and watch the Spic Grease Ball get a proper American ass-whoopin’?\nBut I didn’t back down from the bully-teacher and certainly not from the bully-kid. I just said, “OK, have it your way. Are we going to fight right here on the basketball court? What are the rules? . . . 3-minute rounds, or just go at it until someone is on the floor and not getting up, or what?”\nIt seemed the coach was somewhat taken aback at my response. He mumbled, “Well, we’ll just go until somebody hollers UNCLE!” He thought I would bear any humiliation to get out of fighting the much bigger boy and might now have been worried that he could get into trouble if I got seriously hurt. But there was something the coach didn’t know.\nMy name is Danny Romero, Jr. My father was a boxer in his youth and now trained amateur boxers in a boxing gym back in Albuquerque called the Hideout. I had started training under him when I was just 5 years old. By now, at age 14, I was the national champion in my weight/age division of the Silver Gloves amateur boxing league. The Albuquerque Police Athletic League sponsored the local Silver Gloves program. My father had trained me well and taught me to stand up for myself regardless of who it was or how big they were. \nI was also in great shape. My abdomen was muscled up from plenty of medicine ball thumpings, doing sit ups with my legs suspended vertically so that I had to pull my torso up parallel with the floor repeatedly, and countless shadowboxing, bag work and sparing with other kids in the gym.\nI had been wearing a loose-fitting tee-shirt, so no one had seen the six-pack stomach on me. The shirt, being a bit too large for me, had also hidden my biceps which were rather well-developed for a 14-year-old. I took it off just before putting on the gloves, partly for comfort and freedom, partly for intimidation. It worked. I could see the big boy staring and perhaps wondering whether he himself really wanted this fight.\nFinally, the “bout” began. As soon as the coach said, “Go,” the bully kid came at me. He telegraphed his intention as he dropped his right hand to a swinging position. He was going to put all he had into one mighty swing at my jaw. \nBut I had trained myself to reflexively duck at the waist and coil to the left at the same time. His fist went wildly over my head while at the same time I uncoiled and plunged a left into his then unprotected right rib cage. He winced and pulled his right elbow down to cover his now aching side. Now, when one reflexively pulls his elbow down to protect his rib cage, unless he has arms as long as a gorilla, his gloved hand is going to be below his face. Anticipating that reaction, I had pulled back my left fist enough to use it again on his unprotected right jaw. I had practiced this variation of the “One-Two” punch over and over in training. \nNow, he’s mad! It’s dangerous to get mad when you’re boxing. You tend to do stupid things and the bully didn’t disappoint me. If there’s anything I like better than a wild right slung at me, it’s a wild left! Because then, I get to do the same counter move all over again with my stronger right hand. His left side was wide open and my right (body coiled right; head ducked) came back with a strong right in his opposite rib cage. (I think I heard a rib crack this time!). His body might have been trained and tempered for basketball, but it had not developed the muscular protection in the rib cage area. \nPredictably, I got the same reaction again. The elbow pulled down to where the pain was, which left the face open for my “Two” . . . another slam, this time into his right jaw. Now, he was slowing down and trying to recover. If this had been a sanctioned fight for a title or even ranking, I wouldn’t have let up, but I was having too much fun and didn’t want it to end too soon. \nI started jabbing and dancing around. His lunges left him open again and again, but I held back and kept jabbing into his face. Not enough to do real damage, but each successful jab was a pinprick of embarrassment for him. I don’t know which was hurting more, his ribs or his pride. \nFinally, fearful that the coach, who definitely wasn’t seeing what he expected to see, would stop the fight before I did, I waited for the best shot at his temple. It came with a roundhouse right to his defenseless left face. His legs buckled and he started dropping to the canvas . . . But wait! It wasn’t canvas! We weren’t fighting in a standard boxing ring. There was no give to this floor! I grabbed for him to cushion his fall. I was somewhat helpful in keeping him from hitting that hard maple gym floor with none of his limbs working to break the fall even instinctively. Still, he was out; out cold. No movement. I looked at the coach and remarked, “I think he said UNCLE.” \nEND\nPostscript:\nDanny Romero (Jr.) went Pro in 1992 and knocked out Raul Hernandez in the first round at Phoenix, Arizona. In his first fight outside Phoenix, in 1993, he knocked out Alberto Cantu in three rounds at Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. On April 22, 1995, he became the International Boxing Federation’s world Flyweight champion with a 12 round unanimous decision over Francisco Tejedor, at the MGM Grand Arena in Las Vegas. In 1996 Romero knocked out Colombian Harold Grey in two rounds to conquer his second world title.\n On May 23, 2003, in front of his hometown crowd he won his third world title in a unanimous decision over Trinidad Mendoza. Altogether, he captured world titles in three different weight classes, Flyweight, Bantamweight, and Super-Bantamweight. He took over the management and training at the Hideout training facility of his father in 2003 when “Pops” became ill. Today the gym gives back to the community by allowing children and teens to attend the gym for free with the realization of the Danny Romero Foundation and Danny Romero's Hideout Inc." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Crystal City Polar Bear\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2677\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by a memory of yours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Crystal City Polar Bear\nChristmas 1955. The brand new Philco 45 RPM all-transistor record player was encased in a puke-green plastic box with a lid of the same putrid color. Despite the extremely heavy use over the next three years, in 1958, the Made in America turntable, still rotated without a glitch. A white plastic mesh cover on the front of the box hid the speaker. With the precision of a skilled surgeon, I lifted the lid. Inside on the left, I rotated the round white plastic knob to ‘On’ and waited for the virgin transistors to warm-up. Carefully lowering a thin slice of hot wax onto the turntable, I placed the needle on the edge of the 45 RPM record, then twisted the round white plastic knob on the right all the way to High Volume. Hell yes, Rock and Roll.\nThe warm, scratchy sound of the needle finding its groove gave way to Bill Haley’s Dim Dim the Lights. At the age of thirteen, I was a passionate connoisseur of everything Rock and Roll. With a spit curl plastered to his forehead, Bill Haley was a very popular crooner from Texas. His music made anyone under the age of thirty want to get up and move. Haley was at best an average guitar player and a so-so singer. What made the Comets streak across the Rock and Roll filament was Rudy Pompilli, a genius on tenor sax, and a jazz musician who didn’t much care for Bill Haley’s teenage be-bob.\nWith the Philco’s woofer and tweeter cranked up to full-blast, sound waves bounced off the walls. Due to the airborne turbulence, a model plane hanging from the ceiling swayed from side-to-side. I stepped into a pair of fireman-red long-handles, then pulled on thick white cotton socks that were guaranteed not to make my feet sweat. A red and black checkered flannel shirt, an X-large gray sweatshirt, a pair of Levi’s, plus oversized corduroy pants completed my wardrobe.\nI sat on the edge of my bed and looked at the wall on the opposite side of my room. There was Mona the Serpent Woman, Cleo Moon Girl, The Bearded Lady, The Strongman, Ape-man and The Amazing Amazon Woman. Every summer traveling circuses and carnivals came to town and pitched camp in vacant hayfields. Once the rubes had been fleeced, the tents torn down, the carnies skedaddled to their next grift. Hoarding comic books and baseball cards was for those who saw themselves in the eyes of larger-than-life heroes. I collected the left-behind garish carnival posters of freaks.\nRising to my feet, I stuck my arms in the bulky sleeves of the WWII fleece-lined bomber jacket given to me by my bombardier uncle. Next, I picked up the trusty .22 rifle given to me by my Seabee uncle, who swore the antique shooting instrument belonged to nonother that Randy Oakley, a sharpshooting-son-of-a-gun. It seemed Randy was a second cousin to that famous female dead-eye-duchess, Annie Oakley.\nUnfortunately, due to an early onset of monovision, my eyesight was in such bad shape that even if the rifle had actually been owned by one of the famous Oakley’s, which was in serious doubt considering the story’s source, not one bit of their mystic marksmanship rubbed-off on me. I stuffed a handful of .22-long bullets into the pocket of my jacket and waited until the last notes of Dim Dim the Lights turned into a scratchy ending. After placing the tonearm back on its stand, I twisted the white plastic knob on the left to ‘Off’. With the rifle’s barrel pointed at the floor, I quietly slipped out of my bedroom and slunk down the hallway. \nIt was on my way through the kitchen, that I ran into Mom. The woman with a critical eye for the least hair out of place was standing in her usual spot next to the stove. She gave me the quick once-over, and asked, “Where are you headed with that gun, Road?”\n “Out.”\n “But Road, it’s in the teens outside. You’ll freeze to death.”\n “Uh-huh,” I muttered and kept walking.\n From behind, Mom shouted, “I know now why your grandma wanted me to name you Road. You’re never home, always on the road.”\n I shot back, “I want some atmosphere. Later gator.”\n Fifteen minutes later I met-up with my three friends at the railroad tracks. Each face carried a nickname, although, with my weird first name, Road was my handle. Shouldering my .22, we marched four abreast along the railroad tracks.\n“Mom said the temperature is in the teens,” I muttered, wiping a frozen something or other from the tip of my nose.\n “Colder than a well digger’s ass in—”\n Boa finished Dutch’s thought, “Antarctica.”\n Dutch said, “I was gonna’ say Fargo.”\n “Who in the hell cares?” I sniffed.\n “Hey, Road.” It was Jace. The tall skinny kid, his body encased in several layers of woolen scarfs, looked at the watch on his wrist. “You’re late.”\n “Give it a rest, Jace,” I said. “You and that damn Buster Crabbe watch.” I tried to lower my voice to sound like Jace. “Everybody’s got to synchronize their watches. Hello?” I said, returning to my higher nasal sounding Ozark twang. “I don’t even own a watch.” I pulled the sleeve of my jacket up and looked at my bare wrist. “Besides, it’s only five minutes after my ding-dong.”\n“Hey,” Boa butted in. “We all know why we’re here today, right?”\n Instead of an answer, we silently looked at the ground and kept walking along the railroad tracks. For a mile there was only the crunch of the soot blackened snow under our boots. Then, we splashed through semi-frozen slush pooling between the railroad ties. At every exhale four mini-steam locomotives chugged north toward Hugs Landing.\nWe were almost to the turnoff when Dutch reached inside his parka and pulled out a pistol with a black barrel and grip. The fingertips had been cut from his gloves. Dutch was able to pull the pistol’s hammer back into the firing position.\n “Is that thing loaded?” Boa asked, shifting the heavy Stevens 311 double-barrel shotgun he was carrying from one shoulder to the other.\n “Of course, it’s loaded. And,” Dutch said, his voice getting all uppity, “this thing is a Walther P thirty-eight, semi-automatic pistol. My uncle told me that the Kraut who once owned it is now in Valhalla sleeping with Herr Hitler. Watch and be amazed.” The three of us turned our heads in the direction that Dutch was pointing the Walther. “See the insulator on the top of that telephone pole?”\n “Which one?” Jace asked.\n “The one leaning to the right,” Dutch said.\n “The green insulator or the blue one?” Boa asked.\n “The damn green one,” Dutch replied, the sound of his voice escalating.\n There was the sharp crack of the Walther discharging. The green insulator shattered into a thousand pieces.\n “Very good, Dutch,” I said. \n Boa wasn’t much impressed. He turned to the three of us, and said, “We’re here today because one of the members of our club has violated his oath.”\n Dutch and I turned to look at Jace, who stared straight ahead. Finally, after a long difficult silence, Jace said, “She jumped me. I didn’t have a chance to say no.”\n “Do you want to belong to the Woman Haters Club, or not, Jace?” Boa asked.\n Keeping the answer to himself, Jace reached underneath one of the thick woolen scarfs he was wearing and pulled out his weapon of choice. Loading a steel mini-ball-bearing into its leather nest, he pulled the slingshot back until the rubber bands sung, then aimed the weapon at an insulator. We all watched the steel mini-ball-bearing whizz through the air.\n “Damn,” Jace cursed, lowering the slingshot.\n “To the right,” I said.\n “Well?” Boa asked. “What about it, Jace? You in, or are you out?”\n Stuffing the slingshot back under a scarf, Jace still refused to answer. We kept walking and in a short while turned off the railroad tracks and headed East in the direction of the Mississippi River. A sign tacked to a dead cottonwood tree read, “Hugs Landing.” The question of Jace’s membership in the Girl Haters Club was quickly forgotten. We each found a spot along the shoreline to take potshots at the huge chunks of frozen water that were floating South toward the Gulf of Mexico.\n Holding his German-made Walther pistol with both hands, Dutch fired off a succession of six shots at a mini-iceberg. It was hard to tell if he hit anything. The same could be said for Jace’s mini-ball-bearings. Boa zeroed-in with his blunderbuss on an ice-flow about twenty yards away, then let loose both barrels. Shards of ice exploded in all directions.\nWithout a clip for my .22, I had to laboriously load one bullet at a time. With no feeling in my frostbitten fingers, I was finally able to jam a bullet into the breech. I slammed the bolt closed, pushed the safety to red, brought the rifle up and sighted down the barrel. Slowly letting the air out of my lungs, I placed my finger on the trigger and--.\n“Shit, Boa,” I exclaimed, letting the barrel of the .22 drop into the snow.\nThe pecker-headed idiot turned, and laughed, “What’s up, Doc?”\n“I almost blew your goddamn head off. That’s what’s up. Watch where you’re going.”\n“Watch where you’re aiming that thing,” he shot back.\nNeither Boa nor I had time to fully digest the seriousness of the situation. At that moment there was the crunch of car tires on the snow-packed road leading down to Hugs Landing. We all turned to see who, besides the four of us, would spend time in such a godforsaken place on such a shitty day.\n“Look,” Dutch said, waving his Walther in the general direction of the car. “It’s Too Tall.”\n“And look who’s with him,” Jace said.\n“None other than his main squeeze,” I added.\nWhen our high school’s star basketball player saw the goofy-looking underclassmen waving, he made a hasty U-turn. Too Tall’s brand-new 1958 Chrysler roared back over the railroad tracks, leaving the four of us inhaling his exhaust. We stood and silently watched, each probably wondering why he belonged to such a stupid girl hater’s club in the first place.\nSuddenly, Jace sniffed the air and turned to face the river. “You guys smell that?”\nDutch hummed, “Mmmmm. Dead fish?”\n“No,” I said. “Anchovies.”\n“Who-chovies?” Dutch asked.\n“Little tiny fish you put on pizza,” Boa replied. “It smells like pussy to me.”\n“As if you’d know,” the rest of us said in unison.\nWhen the four of us were standing on the water’s edge, Jace puffed-out his chest. “Up north, my uncle belongs to a polar bear club.” When his comment didn’t bring the desired results, he continued, “On a day like today? He’s probably taking a dip in Lake Michigan.”\nDutch laughed and said, “Go ahead, Jace. Why don’t you jump in?”\n“Don’t say that, Dutch,” Boa said. “He might take you up on it.”\n “That’s right, Dutch,” I said. “You know how Jace is susceptible to dumb dares. Remember that day when his finger got stuck in a vice?”\n Our tall skinny daredevil friend crept closer to the water until the toes of his boots were wet. He mumbled, “Polar bear. Polar bear.” Jace turned to face us. There was a bright light emanating from his eyes. “I’m gonna’ do it.” He looked directly at Boa. “I’m outta’ the Girl Haters Club. I’m startin’ my own club. The Crystal City Polar Bear Club.” Jace looked at me, then at Dutch. “You two in?”\n “Join your polar bear club?” I asked.\n “Are you crazy, Jace?” Dutch offered.\n “He is,” Boa said.\n Jace placed his slingshot on a rock and started to unwrap the scarfs from his body one at a time. When he was all the way down to his skivvies, he did a series of knee bends and jumping-jacks, exhaling white puffs of air.\n “You guys think I’m jokin’,” Jace panted. “You don’t think I’ve got the balls. Well, I got ‘em alright.”\n “Listen up, Jace,” Boa said. “If you’re gonna’ be an idiot, give me the Buster Crabbe watch.”\n “Ha.” Jace held his skinny wrist in the air so we could all get a good look at his timepiece. “Buster Crabbe takes a dippin’ and keeps on tickin’.” Fists clenched tight, his whole-body trembling, Jace held his nose, and hollered, “Geronimo.” He stepped off the riverbank and completely disappeared into the chocolate-colored water.\n I looked at Boa. “The goddamn fool did it.”\n “I didn’t think he would,” Boa said, his voice somewhat shaky.\n “Look,” Dutch hollered. “There he blows.”\n Leaning our long-guns against a fallen tree trunk, the three of us rushed along, hollering, “Stroke, Jace. Stroke.”\n Making like a wounded porpoise, Jace blew water from his blowhole and dog-paddled toward the steep shoreline. In an effort to snag Jace from the icy grip of Old Man River, the three of us made a human chain. Boa anchored himself to a tractor tire that had become embedded in the sand. I was the middle link. Dutch grabbed my foot with one hand, leaned out over the water. Somehow, he managed to drag Jace up on the riverbank.\nBoa looked down and muttered, “He looks like a frozen fudge bar.”\n“Sit him up,” Dutch ordered.\n“Pound on his back,” I said.\nDutch and I took turns pounding on Jace’s back.\n“Do it harder,” Boa advised. “Make him puke.”\nAfter much gurgling and coughing, Jace finally emptied his stomach. He started shaking like a ’52 Chevy that needed its frontend aligned. Boa shed his extra coat and wrapped it around Jace’s upper torso.\n“Dutch,” I said. “We need to warm him up. Let’s get some firewood.”\nWhile Boa rewrapped Jace with woolen scarves, Dutch and I scurried up and down the riverbank gathering odd pieces of flotsam and jetsam. Although, he didn’t smoke cigarettes, Dutch did remember to bring his older brother’s Zippo. Down on my hands and knees, I huffed and puffed on wet smoldering straw until I was blue in the face. Finally, the fire came to life.\n****\nThe weak, yellowish sun, partially hidden by low gray clouds, was slowly sinking in the west. The four of us were huddled around what was left of the blazing fire. The jagged lumber of discarded wooden pallets, chunks of driftwood and the split end of a telephone pole had burned down to a pile of glowing embers. Dutch used a long piece of rusty rebar to poke at one of the logs. Red and yellow sparks, mixed with the distinct smell of burning creosote, filled the air.\n Boa reached over and gave Jace a hearty pat on the back. “The Jace. Crystal City’s own polar bear.”\n Dutch asked, “What did it feel like, Jace?”\n Jace tried to smile and shrugged. “Once I hit the water, I didn’t feel a thing—until I got out.”\n “Brain freeze,” I said. “Say, Jace. It’s getting kind of late. What time does your Buster Crabbe say?”\n Jace peered down at his wrist. His weak grin evaporated. He held out his arm, and said, “Damn. Would ya’ look at that.”\n We all saw that Jace’s famous timepiece, the one Buster Crabbe guaranteed not to leak, was filled with muddy water and had stopped ticking.\n After a good laugh, I said, “I’ve been thinking.”\n“Hey, Road. That’s a new one.”\n“Ha, ha, Boa. I’ve decided to resign from the Girl Hater’s Club.”\nDutch stirred the fire with the rebar, and said, “Me, too.”\n“Me, three,” Jace added. “But you guys already knew that.”\n“That just leaves you, Boa. The last member of the Girl Hater’s Club.”\n“Oh, Hell,” Boa said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I dropped out of that dumb club a couple of months ago.”\n“What?”\n“That’s right, boys. Now I can make it official. Me an’ Helen Higginbottom are going steady.”\n“Well, dim, dim the freaking lights.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dear Cousin\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2323\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a letter, or multiple letters back and forth." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "October the 3rd, 1911\nDearest Cousin Cecil,\nI find myself waking each morning, fondly reminded of one thing or another – whether the trill of a songbird, or the chittering of a squirrel, or the scent of a fresh pinecone, or even the brisk and sprightly rain – from my lovely time with you and the rest of the clan over this past summer. Headingsbrook Manor, with its rolling fields, its fresh woods, its docile sheep, and its jolly denizens, will forever hang upon my heart. I cannot stress just how grateful I am that you not only invited me to summer with you, but then insisted I do so when I was foolishly reticent. Indeed, I am forever grateful that you undertook such pains to research our family, tracing it so many generations to the past, and that you were able to find me here, all the way on the other side of the world.\nI have a favour to ask, but before I continue, I must tell you, I was in the shops today and I came upon a gentleman with a pipe. The pipe was a stunning polished cherrywood, and he was surrounded by an aura of the most pleasing scent, of warm afternoons and sun-dappled hills, of stories well told by a well-spoken storyteller, of a grandfather’s mountainous patience and a fondness that stretched to the horizon. I was reminded at once, of course, of Great Cousin Barnaby!\nHis time as a lighthouse keeper endlessly marvels me – and how such a vivacious man could dedicate the prime of his golden years to such a lonely, if noble, pursuit! – and yet, there is undoubtedly something enchanting about watching the churning grey fury of the ocean each day. And when he recounted his time in the Boer War, why, I felt like I was truly there. The heat, the locals, the politics, the adventure of the campaign trail – yes, I could see it all. I daresay, I’ve even found myself singing God Save the King, much to the good-natured consternation of my neighbours!\nLikewise, I frequently find my memories rambling the hills of the countryside, as we did so often of an evening. Prior to my departure from my home, I was amply warned by friends and neighbours to ‘beware the dreadful English weather!’ But I must say, the warnings were much overblown, and I could not imagine a milder and more welcoming clime. Neither too hot nor too cold, neither too dry nor too wet – in my estimation, just perfect. Indeed, even the city! I found Southampton to be a lovely place, wholly undeserving of its reputation.\nI must thank you specifically for the hunting expeditions you took me out on. We do not have anything nearly so exciting to hunt here as the fox, and I found it to be both thoroughly thrilling and gentlemanly refined. I regret only, that we did not actually chance upon a fox, but they are sly creatures, are they not? I additionally regret, wholeheartedly and miserably, having mistook your foxhound, Bosco, for our quarry, and having shotgunned him forthwith. Not a moment goes by when I do not mourn that noble hound!\nIn summary, I am eternally grateful for the time I spent with you and your kin – who are also my kin, more removed – and it has given me a surfeit of good cheer. I did mention earlier that I did have a small favour to ask, and I do so hate to impose further upon you, but I would be remiss if I didn’t at least ask. So: have you perchance come upon a small key?\nYours always, Gladstone\n*\nNovember the 11th, 1911\nDear Cousin Gladstone,\nIt was a pleasure to host you, and a greater pleasure to meet you in person, finally. Is there a greater treasure in the world, than to cast your net wide and discover you have kin living across the pond? I think not!\nAs I’ve already told you, and I must stress this, I understand Bosco was an accident. Truly, it could happen to anyone! And if I made any unduly loud exclamations at the time, or voiced an unfortunate profanity, I swear to you, I must have been seized by the vicious spirit of the moment – and I meant nothing by it. The old boy died doing what he loved best. I should simply have taken more heed of your being new to the sport, and the blame – if any such exists – rests solely on my shoulders. I pray you think no more of it!\nThere may also have been a small misunderstanding with Great Cousin Barnaby. While my heart is warmed to hear that God Save the King has caught your fancy, I’m afraid Barnaby’s stories were less meant to inspire, and more meant to caution. You see, he is a lighthouse keeper precisely because of his time in the Boer War. Barnaby, the poor man, is haunted by the nightmares of his time there, and the misdeeds he found himself embroiled in. In confidence, I believe he has cleaved much too tightly to the drink.\nNow, as to your question, I must say I’m rather perplexed. ‘Have you perchance come upon a small key?’ I found the query quite baffling, and when I ran it by Milly, she suggested it was a riddle. Alas, we spent a fortnight working at it, and even asked Horatio, Belle, and the others, but we couldn’t quite crack it, so I am no longer so sure.\nI regret I must answer your question with one of my own: is this a riddle? Or were you referring to an actual key? And if so, what kind of key? I feel as though I’m holding the X that marks the spot, but I’m missing the rest of the map.\nYours, Cecil\nP.S. What reputation does Southampton have?\n\nNovember the 23rd, 1911\nMost Magnificent Cecil!\nI have breathlessly awaited the arrival of your next letter, and now that I have it, your kind words warm the tips of my frigid fingers.\nFirst, I have terrific news for you! I know what you said about Bosco, but I know too that you’re being kind, as only the well-mannered English may be. Truth be told, I myself am haunted by that poor hound, and when I close my eyes I can still hear the report of my gun, and then his arrested yelp, and then the still quiet of the woods. And then, yes, a string of profanity from yourself, though I do fully understand it under the circumstances, and I do pray you don’t lose any sleep over it.\nMy good news is, I have found a replacement for Bosco! Indeed, I have. I was meandering through the docks of New York one night, when I came upon some rather raucous lads, engaged in the most vigorous kinds of activities with their trusty hounds. I tell you, these dogs were the spitting image of Bosco. In spirit, at least, for they looked nothing like him. I’d never seen the kind before, and the men said they were call pit bulls. With some quick thinking and sharp negotiating, I was able to secure a specimen, which I am attaching to this letter. I hope Bosco II finds you well – Merry Christmas!\nI apologize for the ambiguity. The key is not a riddle, it’s a key. I think I dropped it while I was at Headingsbrook Manor, or on the trails. It’s smallish, plain, and made of iron, I think. Fits into your palm, and into a lock. Let me know if you’ve seen it.\nYours foreverly, Gladstone\nP.S. I pray you get this letter quickly, for I fear what would happen to poor Bosco II if he was left in port too long. You know what they say about dogs and Southampton.\n\nDecember the 10th, 1911\nDear Gladstone,\nI have drafted and redrafted this letter a number of times, and I must say I am very grateful to Milly, who is ever level-headed and even-tempered, and keeps me to a straight path.\nWhen I said that Bosco was in the past, both forgiven and forgotten, I meant it. I certainly did not expect – or want – you to ship a dog from New York! And so you understand the alarm I felt when I read your latest correspondence.\nAnd now, imagine my alarm, when I went down to the shipping office, to receive not one dog, but one crate of dogs. Gladstone, you sent me twenty of these horrid pit things! This is madness! The beasts are gargantuan, and they look like they’ve come straight from a battlefield. And they are utterly feral! I have no idea why you would send so many, nor do I know which one you were referring to as Bosco II, but as soon as the crate was opened, the mongrels attacked the dock workers and fled for the city. As far as I know, they are still running rampant through the streets of Southampton, and the alleys have become unsafe for anything on two legs or four.\nGladstone, I implore you: forget about Bosco and do not try to make any more amends! There are no amends to make!\nForgive me if the tenor of this letter is a little curt, but I must admit, it has been a stressful span of days.\nNow, as to your original inquiry about the key. We are all sorry that you’ve lost your key. I asked around but nobody’s seen it, or remembers any such key at all from the summer. Though, ‘smallish, plain, and made of iron’ could describe a great many kinds of keys. Is this key of particular importance to you?\nMerry Christmas, Cecil\n\nDecember 23rd, 1911\nBeloved Cecil,\nWhat dreadful news you write of! Wild dogs running rampant through the streets of Southampton – I guess the rumours of that city were true! I pray you and yours are safe, and keep far away from that dreadful town. It’s like my father always said, ‘Never trust a dock worker.’\nI’m sorry to hear about Bosco II. I’ll keep an eye out for another dog.\nMay you have a most jubilant of New Years!\nYours in perpetuity, Gladstone\nP.S. The key is for my house.\n\nFebruary the 16th, 1912\nGladstone,\nI thank you for the New Year’s wishes, and I extend the same to you.\nI apologize for the delay, but with the holidays the post office has been rather back-logged here. What do you mean when you say the key is for your house? Did you only have the one? If so, who have you been staying with? Is it those McGills you’ve spoken so highly of? Or did you have a locksmith craft you a new one?\nAlso, once again, and I stress, do not buy any more dogs! In fact, in a bizarre twist of fate, both Milly and myself have developed a severe – fatal even – allergy to dogs.\nYours, Cecil\n\nFebruary the 29th, 1912\nExalted Cecil,\nSo you’ll recall, we had that one weekend in August where we sampled a bevy of single malt whiskeys, up at that nice rustic cottage – and those friends of yours came up, the Bents and the Wilsons – and then we got to talking about heirlooms and such. And I mentioned I had those heritage doorknobs, made of real brass.\nI said they’d been in the family for generations. Well, I mean, not in my family, but they were in the family of the man I bought them from for generations. Two generations. And now they’re in mine, which in an extended sense means they’re in your family too.\nSo you’ll agree, these are quite the treasure. I didn’t want to risk a brutish locksmith mangling them so I declined to hire one’s services. Anyway, my father always said, ‘Never trust a locksmith.’\nI didn’t want to be a nuisance to the McGills either. I’ve just been sleeping outside.\nYours forever and a day, Gladstone\n\nMarch the 12th, 1912\nGladstone!\nWhat the devil do you mean, ‘sleeping outside’? Please, tell me you don’t mean you’ve actually been sleeping outside, since you arrived back in America? When you have a perfectly suitable house right there!? Tell me this is some New York slang.\nRather alarmed, Cecil\n\nMarch the 24th, 1912\nMost Radiant Cousin Cecil,\nYes, outside outside. Just on the lawn.\nUntil eternity, yours, Gladstone\n\nApril the 5th, 1912\nDear Gladstone,\nI am mortified at this news! I wish you would have mentioned this sooner, or better yet, said rubbish to the doorknobs and taken advantage of your own house! The idea of my poor cousin sleeping out of doors through the winter chills me to my core.\nI have conscripted all of my friends and neighbours, and we have canvased all of my properties, and the hills, and the paths, and the woods, scouring them for your key. My search has turned up an estimated five hundred smallish, plain, iron keys, which I’ve put in a box.\nI cannot stomach the idea of you continuing to suffer like some wild beast, and so I have decided to bring these keys to you personally, so that we may sort the matter out once and for all. Milly has found us passage on a passenger ship bound for New York, and leaving on the 10th of April. You may expect us in New York on the 17th, aboard the RMS Titanic.\nWorried endlessly, Cecil\n*\nApril the 5th, 1912\nMost Resplendent Cousin Cecil,\nFound my key! Turns out it was in my pocket. Hope I didn’t worry you.\nAnyway, you guys should visit some time!\nYours until the Day of Judgement and Beyond, Gladstone" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lost in Suburbia\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2056\n\nPrompt:\n\nFormat your story in the style of diary entries." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Alex Lape\n(Warning: Contains themes of Teen Pregnancy)\n\n\nLost in Suburbia\n\n\nWednesday, August 12 2009\n\nToday was my first official day as a Freshman in High School. Everything started off a bit slow, ya know, they dragged all of us down to the auditorium for some boring ass three hour Orientation. It was pretty standard; one of the track coaches Mr. Donkey (and I’m not kidding - that’s his real name) started ranting of about how the school’s so excited to have us, how we were now “part of the family”, and how if we followed the Six Pillars of good citizenship, we could have fun and thrive as a part of the school.\n\nThe only exciting part of the event was meeting some of the kids from the other middle schools who got filtered into this high school. Now as I looked at the girls from the other schools, I gotta admit - I went to the wrong middle school!\n\n\nThursday, August 13 2009\n\nI just got back from my counselor’s office today. Apparently, I can’t afford to add electives into my nine period schedule even if I wanted to do it. My counselor Ms Bowler thinks I should focus on my core classes this sem and maybe plan electives out later. Meanwhile, my friend’s got Woodworking 1. But it’s whatever, I guess. The material can’t be too new or boring. In fact, my Biology teacher acts like she doesn’t care about you goofin off in class as long as you get the work in. One guy who went to the middle school across town by the tracks managed to bring his skateboard and guitar in. He and a friend wanted to jam in class, but I guess that’s where the teacher drew the line.\n\nFinding a table at lunch was a bit of a pain in the ass, so I just decided to sit closer to the multiple door exit. It was nice since the seat was closer to the snack bar. Of course, I had a hard time deciding where to sit. I don’t really fit into a group except maybe the anime club, and I ain’t even as die hard nerdy and into anime as they are. They got the freakin’ bulging book bag with like three or four manga books and the handheld consoles. Even as I went home, I wondered what would happen if me or my cousins would ask our barely middle class folks for stuff like that.\n\n\nThursday, August 27 2009\n\nSo, recently I’ve been looking around for a girl I could take to the Freshman mixer and realized something - I’m basically chopped liver. I guess my ma was right about chicks in my generation, wilder and more apt to play games. “No more morals, your generation,” as my ma would say. And she was right. See, a lot of my family members would bug me to “bring home a good girl” (more exactly, bring home a good asian girl - but that’s a whole new bag I don’t wanna get into..), and they made it sound easy. Nopee. Not when a number of my female classmates start talking about how they let their boyfriends over for summer. . And at least one of these girls is someone I have a crush on. My ma grew up in a generation of class - bell bottom jeans and dresses, and I’m stuck in a generation of moccasins, T-shirts and booty shorts. You know, now that I think about it - it probably doesn’t help that I’m not a school athlete currently. I’m sure that would’ve helped.\n\nMonday, September 7 2009\n\nWe got assigned a new class paper in English today. In remembrance of 9/11, our English teacher asked us to write an argument on whether or not our country is safer today. I personally agree that it is, but we still had to look online for articles we could cite for our thesis argument, including three main points leading to a conclusion. The school also has its first football game coming up soon, so the school cheerleaders did what they always do: yes, you guessed it - prance around in their uniforms or those aforementioned booty shorts. I thought one of em was actually waving at me earlier, it turns out her boyfriend had to get through behind me. It kinda felt odd being a part of the crowd someone has to push through to make it to the mainstage.\n\n\nTuesday, September 29 2009\n\nI finally got my paper back for my first essay, and I’m kinda bummed that I ended up with a B+. I literally had .50% to go to nab an A-. Oh well, the teacher says I just gotta do better on the paper in October. The halls are, of course, still hyping up the win we had over another high school in the district. There was a whole assembly with the cheerleaders pretending to “swoon” over our great football team. It became corny as hell after the first twenty minutes, but it got us out of the last two periods.\n\nNow, since I’m part of the Freshmen, I have to endure my part of getting roasted by the rest of the upperclassmen. Hell, even the sophomores joined in. Imagine\n\n\nMonday, October 26 2009\n\nSpirit Week has finally come to town, and what better way to start the week than how I start my day - in my pajamas and a pair of fluffy ass bunny slippers. Now, the staff tried to relate to us by playing some new hip hop on the morning radio. But it just fell flat cause they censored the hell out of it. It’s kinda hard to listen to a track that has seven blurts in a twenty second time span. By the way, did I mention how comfy these bunny slippers are?\nFriday, October 30 2009\n\nTomorrow’s the Turnabout dance, and not one chick has asked me to take em out to the dance.\nSeems like I even fly under nerdy chicks’ radars. So, I already know what tomorrow’s gonna be like - me shufflin my dumb ass all around the gymnasium since I’d literally have nothing to do. The other less popular kids I know are at least gonna work concessions. I know my friend Louie and some of the other guys might help our Home Ec teacher make additional treats for the night.\n\nMy crush already said that her Junior boyfriend might be coming over from the District across town, so I don’t really know how I feel or how I’m supposed to feel. I’m happy for her, I guess…\n\n\n\nMonday, November 2 2009\n\nThe weekend sucked just about as much as I thought it would. I felt out of place in a crowd going absolutely nuts under strobe lights. One of the guy damn near knocked over the whole cooler of punch, so they had to clear a spot for the janitors. The funniest part is when I saw some of them the next morning at Sunday service all dressed up and proper. Because there’s no way Jack over there would have a cheerleader wiping her ass on his jeans the night before, right? Ah, who am I to judge? I did a stint at a Christian Academy before we moved and I went back to public school two years ago. And trust me, private school is just as messed up as public school is sometimes, with the blame mongering, and double standards because their parents or other relatives are part of staff.\n\nBut yea, after that whole Sunday sermon I half paid attention to, my brother invited me over to help clear out his storage and watch him tune up his bike.\n\n\nThursday, November 25 3009\n\nSince Thanksgiving is being held at our house this year -ma’s rushing to make sure everything from the turkey, to the stuffing, to the pie comes out great from the stove. Dad’s still talking about that main event boxing match that happened eleven days ago. My brother tried to help out, but I get that he also had to leave because his in-laws just came to town. Of course, my dad isn’t exactly too pleased that the whole main family can’t enjoy a meal together. But look on the bright side, it turns out I had distant cousins I didn’t know were in town calling in to come over. I just hope our apartment’s big enough. Not gonna lie, I still can’t get why the middle bathroom clogs randomly.\n\n\n\n\nSaturday, December 12 2009\n\n\nHoliday Break just came in, and with it the Holiday season, as well as freezing weather. My old man’s still a little miffed at the incomplete Thanksgiving dinner, but ma’s trying to calm him down. Dad’s also pissed about the fact that the snowstorm’s a little more stubborn this year, and he has to clean out our car’s parking space again. Since we are barely making it as a middle class family, it’s highly doubtful that we’ll ship out any presents to my cousins. To be fair, they never ship jack to us.\n\nMonday, January 11 2010\n\nAs much as I love the Holiday season, I’m glad that it’s finally over. The whole Christmas week, we’ve just been driving all over town trying to get everyone their presents. I got a couple sweaters, a new beanie, and a mug. It’s not the new gaming system; but that’s fine, I guess. Now, New Year’s…..aside from the whole stay up til midnight and the little noise we made - it wasn’t that special. My family isn’t the kind that goes out and celebrates outside a lot, which can get frustrating at times\n\nI came back to my PE class today. It turns out two of my female classmates found out that they’re pregnant. Good for them, I guess. I wish the best for them. I offered to be their kids’ godfather down the line. But that’s probably just me trying to be there for them in my own way. I’m not really sure if I COULD be. In my family, we spoil our godkids - and that shit’s expensive.\n\n\nFriday, February 12 2010.\n\nSeems like Heart Day’s just around the corner. I’m pretty sure the chick I like and some of the other girls I have crushes on are bound to have fun with their guys and….I really need to stop looking so deep into this. I already feel inadequate as it is, and this sure ain’t helping. Guess I just have to settle for the only Valentine’s gifts coming from mom and dad again. But that’s ok, I love my mom and dad.\n\n\nTuesday, April 21 2010\n\n\nThis week, we’ve been gearing up for the last practice Achievement test of this year. Now all the counselors wanna hype up this test like it’s the most important test we’ll ever have in our life. So important that they wanna devote next year and some of the year after. Now, I understand that the Achievvemet Test helps people who need to get into college- but that makes it important IF they go into college. I know a couple of classmates who I personally feel would do better in trade school. And they know it, too. But I guess they’re forced into this overhyped clusterfuck as much as the rest of us are. Hell, one guy even got detention for goofing off in a practice test session.\n\nAs a side note, it would really help if the Math, Science, English, and History on these Achievement practice tests and the actual Achievement Tests weren’t disconnected from our content in our normal classes.\n\n\n\nMonday, May 24 2009\n\nFinally, the last week of this tiring ass school year. Most of our Achievement Tests are done, and finals should be over soon. After that, it’s really just cleaning up and leaving. Then it’s three months of doing random stuff like video games, walking at parks, chilling at the public library, and enjoying the town’s summerfest. At least we won’t be the new kids on the block when we come back, there’ll be new freshmen to roast the shit outta. Plus, we’ll finally get to leave campus for lunch - so, that’s a plus. Can’t wait for the fun times we’d have with that…" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Christmas Truce: Letters from the Western Front\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2756\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Christmas Truce\n[Christmas Truce of 1914 (World War I)]\n\n“The thing started last night – a bitter cold night, with white frost – soon after dusk when the Germans started shouting 'Merry Christmas, Englishmen' to us. Of course our fellows shouted back and presently large numbers of both sides had left their trenches, unarmed, and met in the debatable, shot-riddled, no man's land between the lines. Here the agreement – all on their own – came to be made that we should not fire at each other until after midnight tonight. The men were all fraternizing in the middle and swapped cigarettes and lies in the utmost good fellowship. Not a shot was fired all night.”\n-- Captain Robert Miles, King's Shropshire Light Infantry, December 26, 1914.\n\n“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,\nHirten erst kundgemacht\nDurch der Engel Halleluja,\nTönt es laut von fern und nah:\nChrist, der Retter ist da!\nChrist, der Retter ist da!\n\nSilent night, holy night,\nShepherds quake at the sight.\nGlories stream from heaven afar,\nHeav’nly hosts sing Alleluia;\nChrist the Savior is born\nChrist the Savior is born”\n--Stille Nacht/Silent Night, John Freeman Young, as sung on Christmas Eve, December 24, 1914\n\n* * \n\n“Mon amour immortel, Piet van der Hem,\n\nAhh, my love. Would you send me, if possible, again, one of those little photographs of me nude on horseback in the woods? It would please me very much. I miss Paris. I suppose all women that run away from their husbands head to Paris. I am an orchid in a sea of buttercups—as my first lover—the headmaster told me. I weave for men a tale of mystery. Who is this Javanese princess? With the joie de vivre? Breasts framed by a bejeweled breastplate—dans un soutien-gorge. Who bares all? An illusion. A mirage. Une culotte gainante et un collant. To one journalist, I say I was born a princess on the island of Java. That dance? The dance of Chandra. Invocations to the moon. To another journalist, I say I was the illicit daughter of a British Officer who snatched up one of the Indian Maharaja’s royal courtesans, secreting her away from the harem in the Royal Palace on false pretenses, stealing her away to foreign lands, at first, against her will.\n\nThere is the German Army Captain Alfred Kiepert and the younger Prince Wilhelm, both with ruddy blonde hair and fair skin, tasty as fresh plucked fruits. The French Monk, Father Mortilliac, a happy, portly man with a great beard, who breaks his vows with religious fervor. There is Karl Kroemer, German consul to Amsterdam, who pays me a penance, eyes lowered down, genuflecting, as if I possess the provenance to grant absolution. Ironically, I bid him ‘go in peace.’ There is Capt. Georges Ladoux of the Deuxième Bureau, French military intelligence, who is a nervous and fretful soul with no endurance, who washes his hands earnestly and spits and curses in the bidet before he leaves. He made me promise in the sheets of his room at Hotel Elysée Palace on the Champs Elysées—promise—not to sleep with any other French officers—was it jealousy or distrust that ruled over him? Then there is the Russian Captain, Vadim de Massloff, oh Vadim, mon trésor, just a boy, half my age—but what a lover—and he is thoroughly mine, would die for it—if only the two of us could be married, what ecstasy serait à moi! \n\nThis war has left all of my lovers in a frenzy, each time we meet we fear it may be the last before we bridge eternity. I have crisscrossed the continent from one warring country to the next, such that the customs agents no doubt fancy me a spy.\nAll these men are not so different after all. Venal. Frantic. Overeager. Disloyal. Unbelieving. They all want the same, the same as me, to believe for a moment that love and desire can triumph over that evil chord in all of us that rots and devours and dies—to touch or grasp—to die—and wake to—to just breathe one breath in the rays—of the transcendent. To know that the gold dust that slips through your fingers and scatters in the wind is no mirage, but rather, the real blastings of a real quarry on a real Elysisan mountain of endless gold peaks. \n\nOh Piet, do send me those photographs, I so miss Paris. I fear this war will eat me alive, travelling so, devoured by every side of Europe, and for what? Is this really all about lines on maps and who claims this limb or that limb or that haunch or the left breast or the navel or the right thigh? By the time these wolves pick the carcass of the Old World clean, I will die of exhaustion—ripped asunder by these wolves—or will be taken before the firing squad for some gossip. Oh God, please let this stupid war end before Christmas!\n--Mata Hari, Enchantress of the Rising Sun (Aug. 20, 1914)”\n\n\n\n“Mom:\n\nPlease send some tamarind (seeds being removed) and good cocoanut oil by parcel post. There is a vegetable shortage. Without help, I cannot keep my diet.\n\nWar is waged in a country that is as far as Rangoon is away from Madras. It has only been three months since I arrived, and the professors here have lost their interest in mathematics owing to the present war. All argue for and against. Littleton has enlisted. The quad at Trinity has become a war hospital.\n\nThey fly in aeroplanes at great heights, bomb the cities and ruin them. As soon as enemy planes are sighted in the sky, the planes resting on the ground take off and fly at great speeds and dash against them resulting in destruction and death.\n\nI came here under auspicious signs, traveling in taxi-cab number 1729. Can you believe it! It is the smallest number expressible as the sum of two cubes in two different ways! I am quite despondent, even though I stand engrossed in everything I’d ever dreamed of doing.\n\nMy theorems must be true, because if they are not true, I could never have had the imagination to invent them. But in a world bent on its own destruction, I wonder if there will be any interest in my abstract discoveries. Discoveries of abundance, of infinite abundance.\n\nI will try to explain to you my idea of fractals. Imagine you want to measure the coast of Britain. Measure by the rod and you will get one result, but then measure by the ruler, and the coastline has grown. Measure by the inch and then by a pinpoint and then smaller and smaller, and at last with each smaller measure, the coastline grows, and the result approaches infinity. Every coastline, every border, of every land, is infinite when measured closely enough. And yet, we fight to the death and die over a few meters of an infinite bounty. \n\n-- Srinivasa Ramanujan (Aug. 26, 1914)”\n\n\n\n“Jacksie:\n\nSo much for this war being sorted by Christmas. It is Christmas Eve. A Christmas Eve like no other. We’ve had a cold North wind that has come through the front. A steady, proper snowfall of big fluffy white flakes began at sundown. At about seven, with the snow accumulating and covering the battlefield, the firing stopped. I came out of the trenches to take a look.\n\nI had been reading a paper and the mail was being dished out. When I walked out to see what the silence was all about, the Germans shouted back “no shooting” and more and more men came out and sat on the parapets and the Germans did the same. It was close enough we could carry on and most of them spoke English and broken English. I got on top of the trench and talked German and asked them to sing a German Volkslied, which they did, then our men sang quite well and each side clapped and cheered the other.\n\nThey brought us Schnapps and we traded beer and cigarettes and cigars. Paul and I crossed over “no man’s land” and spoke to the German officer in command. We agreed to let one another bury our dead and not to have any shooting before Boxing Day. We talked together, 10 or more Germans gathered round. I was almost in their lines within a yard or so. We saluted each other. Then we wished one another goodnight and a good night’s rest, and a happy Xmas and parted with a salute. I got back to the trench. The Germans sang Die Wacht Am Rhein it sounded well. Then our men sang quite well Christians Awake, it sounded so well.\n\nThen they began to sing Stille Nacht, Silent Night in German, and we echoed back each verse in English. And the night rang with the sound of angels who had put down their guns. It was a curious scene, a lovely moonlit night, and the battlefield was calm and white. There was such an absolute quite, except for the small voices of those up smoking cigars and drinking and playing cards.\n\nThe German Officer came over and asked, “We vill do ze same on New Year's, den, shall ve?\" And I said, “Yes, yes,” And he genuflected and said, “God villing, if both vill still be here und alive.\"\n\nIf one gets through this show it will be an Xmas time to live in one’s memory. The German who sang first had a really fine voice.\n\n--Warren “Warnie” Lewis (Dec. 24, 1914)”\n\n*\n\n“Dear Vadim (mon amour),\n\nIt is Christmas Eve and all I can think of is you and how I long to be back with you again—oh please, find a way to get away to Paris! Can you?\n\nI have been tossed around for what seems like forever. Enough for one lifetime. I suppose this is why I live in hotels and strangers’ rooms, and scarcely have ever called anyplace home. Leeuwarden. Good Lord, it even sounds like a prison. I barely remember my childhood home—when have I last seen it? As you know, my father went bankrupt and left us when I was but a girl. My father was a charlatan. He made a fortune on the stock market. Then claimed to be a Baron and swindled his way along until his exaggerations and stories left him desolate—and he fled the law—leaving us without a goodbye. My mother died when I was but 15. Living in the cold clutches of the North Sea at the lid of Europe was an unforgiving place for a young girl, but I soon learned the hard way that men can give life or take it away. John MacLeod, my first husband, rescued me—or rather, I answered his classified advertisement for a wife—he was a real Baron! \n\nAlthough, he was about 35 when I was 18 and though a Dutch Officer, en route to the Dutch East Indies, I learned that he had an appetite for more than me. He was a syphilitic who gave me vd—and my poor boy died from the mercury he took to treat it. And his officers had designs on me as well and waited to find me alone—and in my naughtier times, angry with John, I gave some of them encouragement.\n\nOne Saturday afternoon he went completely wild with tropical fever and attacked me with a bread knife, and I was only saved by falling over a chair, which gave him a startle and enough time for my escape.\n\nDon’t think I am bad at heart, my love. Despite what they say about me, I have never been untrue. I am a dreamer. And I have truly been carried away with dreams that were real to me—like ghostly apparitions that fade as fast as they’ve materialized. But only with you, mon amour, have I finally found true, pure love.\n\nI have received a strange post from Sir Basil Thomson, assistant commissioner at New Scotland Yard, suspecting me of espionage! Can you imagine. I fear I am in error with Captain Georges Ladoux. Somehow I am fought over, like the Old World itself, and pulled by all these forces.\n\nThat is the problem with men in our time. Give them a home, they are after a whole estate. Give them an estate, they set sights on a summer house. Then the governorship of a county, then a country, than a continent, then, if it were possible, the whole world. But you are not one of those are you Vadim?—no, you are a kindred spirit. Don’t get me wrong, my dear, us ma cheries enjoy tasting from different courses. But we long to find all the variety of life and its vicissitudes in one adventurous heart, and to give over all to its exploration--to know all the smallest parts. \n\nI suppose if there were women generals, there would be no advancing lines or defended fronts but only gates and walls and an infinity of battlements and parapets. Would if I could wall you off from the whole world, all for myself, in such a pleasure castle.\n\nTon amant toujours,\n\n--Mata Hari (Dec 24, 1914)”\n\n\n * *\nJacksie:\n\nIt is Christmas morning and I am missing you.\n\nIt had been two months in the trenches, with the hissing, cracking and whining of bullets in flight. I’ve scarcely gone through a single night thinking it would not be my last.\n\nIn my trenches and in those of the enemy opposite to us were only nice big fires blazing and occasional songs and conversation. This morning at the Reveille (when we awoke) the Germans sent out parties to bury their dead. Our men went out to help, and then we all on both sides met in the middle, and in groups began to talk and exchange gifts of tobacco, etc. All this morning we have been fraternising, singing songs.\n\nThe whole thing is extraordinary. The men were all so natural and friendly. Several photos were taken, a group of German officers, a German officer and myself, and a group of British and German soldiers. The Germans are Saxons, a good looking lot, only wishing for peace in a manly way, and they seem in no way at their last gasp. I was astonished at the easy way in which our men and theirs got on with each other.\n\nAs the snow sank, we started a game of football with one another. We made a goal of our dress caps and they did the same. With no referee, we all policed each other, and the match started with a crowd drawn all about. With all the dead cleared out, we played in the middle of the battlefield, between the trenches, in “no man’s land.”\n\nThe Germans scored the first goal and we cheered with them in great enthusiasm. Then the snow began to fall again and a slushy mud stoppered the play and led to all manner of falls and false kicks. Everyone was in an uproar of laughter all morning. We scored the next two goals, and the Germans finished off the game with the final goal sometime later. While we played the onlookers cheered both sides equally as if no one cared who won—the fact alone we could play together was victory enough for any of us.\n\nWell must finish now so as to get this off to-day. Have just finished dinner. Pork chop. Plum pudding. Mince pies. Ginger, and bottle of Wine and a cigar with our enemies (friends), and have drunk to all at home and especially to you my dear little brother. Must go outside now to supervise the meetings of the men and the Germans.\n\nWill try and write more in a day or two. Keep this letter carefully and send copies to all.\n\nI don’t know how long this war will go on, or if we will ever see another moment of peace, but no doubt about it, there is a ‘no man’s land’ or a ‘great divide’ strung between us in which we all want for nothing but peace, singing the same songs, giving the same tidings, feeling the same fears, and enjoying the same sport. \n\nI leave you with good tidings of the night the angels sang and the Christmas morning the enemies played a game of football and laughed together.\n\nI pray I find my way back home to you alive and well. Give everyone my love.\n\n--Warren “Warnie” Lewis (Dec. 25, 1914)\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: Educating Emily\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1753\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the words: “Grow up.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Grow up. \n\nThe words rolled around in Emily’s head like rubbish on a windy day. Grow up, grow up, grow up! But, she reasoned, she measured taller today than last week. Surely that was something.\n\nHer older sister said this whenever Emily asked a curious question. Her mother said it when Emily asked why one too many times, and her father said it whenever she talked too much over dinner. But it wasn’t her fault, she reasoned. Why should her thoughts be less interesting or less grown up than anyone else’s?\n\nIt was a typical cold February midweek morning and Emily sat in Mr Kellen’s classroom. She stared out the window, bored. Again. Today’s topic: work experience. \n\n“Well Emily?” Mr Kellen interrupted her musings. “Do you know what you want to do when you grow up?” He frowned down at her over his round spectacles, noting her response like a judge. His bald head always started smoking when his frustration built, and she noted wisps of it start to rise just behind his forehead. Perspiration gathered at his temples. His protruding stomach moved up and down like an inflatable ball as he breathed heavily.\n\n“Um, I’m not sure sir,” was all she could muster, shrugging, noncommittal. Safer that way. Less smoke. His frown deepened before he bouncy-bobbed on. \n\nWork experience! Who wanted to think about the rest of their lives at the age of 15 anyway? Not her. Emily considered this to be a perfectly reasonable justification for ignoring this lesson. With the small sigh, she turned back towards the window.\n\nMr Kellen’s voice cut into her thoughts again, nasally, loud enough to disrupt her musings. “And of course,” he said, “What you choose to do during your two week work experience placement could determine your future!” He pushed his glasses up his nose and Emiliy noticed more steamy smoke rising. “It’s never too early to plan for success. The world is a tough place, and knowing what you want is important.”\n\nThe kid sitting by the wall he'd graffitied snickered and said, loud enough for the class to hear: “That why you’re stuck in a school wasting your life, Sir? You couldn’t think of anything better?” The kids all laughed, and Mr Kellen’s eyelids lowered. Emily wondered if he’d retaliate this time, finally. Tell him he’s too thick to think, she willed. Tell him he’s ruder than the penis pictures he draws all over your walls! Tell him! But Mr Kellen just brushed his hand from the front to the back of his head, as if wiping the comment away. The usual then. \n\nEmily rolled her eyes. \n\nThe hour dragged on. Most kids scrolled through their phones under their desks, but she didn’t have one. Parents told her she’d get one when she showed herself to be responsible over a sustained period of time. Well, she'd never allow her parents the satisfaction of winning, so books it was. And besides, she liked to fantasise. Phones fantasised for you: much too easy. And samey.\n\nSchool bored her; focusing on facts all day every day in these yellow classrooms was also too samey. Fantasy allowed escape, so she read books under the table in most her lessons and--because it was such a weird thing to do--teachers didn't even get mad at her when they caught her. She knew it earned her a rep as a wet weirdo, but bullies had lost face when confronted with her well placed words; now they largely left her alone.\n\nSome paper was put in front of her, Landing on her desk with a soft, pufft of air. A questionnaire. She wished she’d remembered her book that morning. She was reading a fantasy, a new author too actually, and she loved it. It had kept her up last night reading about mazes and magic and things that live when nobody's looking. \n\nThe room grew warmer, Mr Kellen’s voice grew duller, and her lids grew heavier. Drooping, dropping, down, down, down. Words blurred on the questionnaire in front of her, running together in a splattering of black ink. \n\nSomeone cleared their throat with a loud Hehhhhhhaaaaheemmmm. Blinking her eyes, she attempted to clear her vision, focusing on a particular letter “B” on the page, which, oddly enough, had seemed to start moving; the letters behind it followed, like a train leaving the station. The letters snaked off the page behind the B, winding its way off her desk and towards the wall on the left. \n\nThe questionnaire on her desk now stared up at her sadly, a deserted white page. \n\nEscaping quickly, the letters chugged along the window’s edge, higher and higher, past the ratty blue curtains and towards the top of the wall. Another sharp turn and it moved along the corner where the wall meets the ceiling, curving and weaving ever so slightly. She couldn’t believe the other students hadn’t noticed a line of letters moving, like a skinny black snake, winding around. \n\nAt the front of the room, along the ceiling seam, the letters circled the curling posters at the front. The posters–she’d never read them before–defined the word “adjective” and “noun” and “verb”. Sections had been ripped out of their sides and corners curled up so she couldn’t read some of the words. How many students actually have, she wondered. Reds had faded to pinks and greens turned an unhealthy shade. How old were these posters? \n\nThe train chugged on. Now on the other side of the wall, it curved onto the next wall. She could feel the movement now, as if a breeze blew in her face–it felt wonderful after sitting in such dead air. The train neared the trail of penises drawn by the angry kid in the class-a long line of penises, each more gruesome than the last. Real dedication of the disturbed mind across the room. Every time Mr Kellen put in a work order to have it removed, it reappeared within a few days, blacker, with bolder splash marks and a longer shaft. Maybe that was all he could write. She knew he couldn't read because she'd heard him try once, last year.\n\nThe train moved overtop these images, leaving them behind, and she moved with it, trailing her gaze backwards, past the docile bodies in the desks, past the other doodles on the walls, past the displays with fraying edges. She noticed pictures of novels on these displays, another novelty–how long had they been there? She had no idea. Even she had never looked before. Who reads classroom walls anyway?\n\nEmily jolted as the train suddenly turned upward again, towards the ceiling. Faster now, breeze intensifying in her face. A breeze? Movement? Suddenly consumed now, she felt the curve of the little “e” behind the big “B” at the front of the train on her sitting bottom. Feel the effects of the word “Better” on hands and arms and back.\n\nWhere was she? The train was on the ceiling now, and she saw that it was going to have to dodge the dreaded glue stuck all over the surface. Some sticks half clung to the ceiling; Some were shorter, stuck fast, like growths or tumours. The train sped up and she had to hold on to the upper curve on the B. Faster, faster, wind in her face now, and she almost screamed as a big glue tower loomed in front of the train. Last minute swerve and they were around it, the back of the train whipping out and into the air. Whoosh! She breathed a sigh of relief before looking ahead again, too late. \n\nBaamm! \n\nThe train had hit another tower. The big B crumpled on impact, and she pitched over the top, straight into the middle of the glue stick. \n\nWhaamm!\n\nWhere was she? She felt sticky \n and disoriented.\nPartially blinded \n by something gooey and \n blurry in front\nof her face. \n Suspended in\nsome sort of \nbubble. Shaking her head,\n realization dawned.\nThe \nglue!\nShe was inside \n the stupid glue! What? \nLooking up, which \n she \n supposed was really \n looking down, \n for she \n was in fact on \n top of the ceiling, \n she saw the \n tops of the \n students’ heads \n below her,\nMr Kellen’s \n scalp–three lone \n hairs and a\nsheen \n of sweat–most \n prominent. How \n curious this was, \n how unlikely \n and how odd. \n She was stuck \n inside a glue\n stick stuck \n to the ceiling \n in a classroom \n she’d been stuck \n inside for ages. \n Deciding this was \n certainly not an activity \n she wanted to continue, \n she began to struggle, \n lifting her arm and trying \n to extricate herself from \n the mass. It stuck to her \n like, well, like glue! In fact, \n the more she struggled, the \n more she seemed to get \n stucker. She noticed the \n letters scattered around her, \n some in pieces, some \n halfway sticking out of \n other glue bits, some \n clinging to the letters \n around them. How \n interesting.\n\n“Emily, wake up,” Mr Kellen cut through her thoughts, jolting her from the ceiling, the glue and the words surrounding her. Blinking in surprise, Emily lifted her head from her desk.\n\n“Emily, please focus. What do you want to do when you grow up?” He looked down at her over his papers. Funny how the words on those pages stayed still in his hands. Trapped.\n\nShe blinked up at him. Then she smiled her secret smile. “I want to be unstuck.” His wild eyebrows shot up again and he looked concerned. \n\n“Unstuck?”\n\nShe returned to that ceiling. The glue engulfed her now, stretching itself towards her throat, her mouth, surrounding her lips. She wondered if this was her end, death by glue stick. Certainly not something she figured she’d enjoy. \n\nBut in that moment, something gave way. Somehow, suddenly, her fingers emerged from the sticky sludge. The words around her perked up. Fingers, then her hands, arms and finally her shoulders came unstuck. Her fingers reached for that glue circling her middle and tugged, hard. Thuck! It gave way. She grabbed the glue on her legs and swiped again. They too emerged, unscathed. \n\nShe was free!\n\n\"I want to do something I can't even dream up yet, something that's maybe still impossible until someone decides it is. I want to shrink so I can grow, explore so I know, I want to go down the rabbit hole.\" She stopped, observing as students turned to her with blank expressions.\n\nThe teacher scratched his hot head and adjusted his spectacles. “Well,” he said. “Sounds to me like you don’t want to grow up at all!”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Rumour and Ruination\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2994\n\nPrompt:\n\nA mysterious letter is delivered to your character's home. It's not addressed to them, but they can't resist peeking..." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It is an unacknowledged truth universally ignored, that a domestic servant in possession of a reputable employer must harbor a fervent inquisitiveness when an epistle of unknown origins arrives by post. Unsupervised, they are left to weave tales of intrigue from the strands of speculation, denied the privilege of glimpsing the secrets sealed within the mysterious missive.\nHer own curiosity ignited, young Nora Green had taken it upon herself to polish the immaculate entrance hall once again, with the intent purpose of gathering information as to the letter’s origin. Therefore, she was dismayed to find that Betty had preceded her to the task and was actively examining the envelope.\n“Put it down afore someone sees you!” Nora hissed, startling the other maid, while her eyes darted furtively about the entrance hall. She prayed that no one would witness their indiscretion.\n“Christ a’mighty!” Betty gasped. “You near frightened the life out a me!” She carefully returned the letter to the silver salver. “I were just trying to see if it were from his Lordship or from that ne’er do well of a Captain.”\n“It’s not our place to know, an’ you will have all us maids in trouble if you was caught poking about in her Ladyship’s business.”\n“Her Ladyship has had her wits upended and her head turned by that overly charmin’ officer, though what he be doin’ in these parts, I don’t rightly know. It’s not as if there were militia here ’bouts.” Betty frowned. She was not the cleverest, having never attended the village school, but even she was aware that the little French General and his army were nowhere near Barkley Manor.\nBoth maids examined the missive on the salver, its message captured and sealed within the folded white parchment.\n“It be franked,” Betty observed. “But I can’t read it.” Never had she regretted not learning her letters more than she did at this moment.\n“Nor I,” admitted Nora. Although she’d had the good fortune to learn her letters, the scrawl on the envelope could not help her identify the sender with any certainty.\nNora swiped her duster over the immaculately clean surfaces, and with a cautious, furtive motion, quickly overturned the letter so to peer at the seal upon the reverse side.\n“I cannot make out the seal,” she whispered, her brows furrowed.\n“The impression is quite smudged. P’haps his Lordship were in a dreadful hurry,” Betty suggested.\n“Or p’haps the sender doesn’t want to be identified, and deliberately mussed the seal.”\n“Someone with experience in intrigue, perhaps? Mayhaps a military man?”\nThe two maids nodded knowingly, and although neither was overly bright, they were content with their conclusions. Upon hearing the returning footsteps of the butler, they scampered away to spread their conjecture as absolute fact among the staff.\n\n*\n\nThe blacksmith shop smelled of horse and smoke and molten metal, and Jimmy breathed the aroma with delight. He had wanted to apprentice with the smith, but his mother had secured him a position within Lord Talbot’s household as a stable hand. She had great hopes of his being promoted to Under Groom and eventually Head Groom once he had his growth spurt. Although he loved working with the animals, and had a gentle manner about him that seemed to calm even the most skittish of horses, Jimmy dreamed of working in the blacksmith shop, pounding at the anvil and stoking the flames of the furnace.\n“Hallo, smith, sir!” Jimmy called, his youthful treble voice like a clarion bell ringing through the workshop.\nHarold, the huge blacksmith, looked up from his task, his eyes peering from under bushy black brows and he sighed, as he spotted the boy, knowing Jimmy would talk his ear off. He grumbled a response and indicated with his hand that Jimmy wait on the other side of the shop with the horse. It was too much to hope that the boy would follow the unspoken instruction, and once he had the mare secured to the railing, he popped up on the fence to chatter.\n“Daniels says Amber needs shoeing today as she has come up lame three times last week. Lady Talbot has not ridden her for five days now ‘cause she is afraid of harmin’ her more.” Jimmy explained his task with nary a breath taken, an unnecessary and extravagant use of words in Harold’s opinion. He grunted at the boy who chattered away, oblivious to the smith’s desire for silence.\nThe boy prattled non stop, and Harold mumbled and nodded at the appropriate pauses, but allowed most of the river of conversation to wash over him. However, one snippet caught his attention.\n“My lady is having regular intercourse with the good Captain. He wrote her daily, and she has quite a private affection for his company,” the boy spoke artlessly, chattering like a morning sparrow.\n“Now Jimmy, you shouldn’t repeat any of that, ‘Tis naught your business to be prattling over,” Harold scowled at the lad, waving the heavy hammer at the boy to reinforce his displeasure in the conversational turn.\nJimmy blinked twice, shocked by the vehement grumbling of the usually taciturn blacksmith, before he turned his chatter to business more becoming of a man in the stable.\nHarold returned to his work, his own thoughts tumbling over the snippet of gossip he had gleaned.\n\n\n\nThe Sail and Anchor was a misnomer of a public house, situated as it was—firmly landlocked—that not one of its patrons could boast of ever seeing the sea. Harold sat in a quiet corner, where he could guarantee his comfort and distance from the other patrons while he ate. The fare was adequate at best, but by far superior to Harold’s own attempts at cooking, and so he routinely handed his coin to the tavern master in exchange for a stew that was often more water than broth.\nFrom the other side of the tavern, he heard a raucous cheer, and he paused, intrigued by the sound. There was not often cause for celebration in the village.\n“Three cheers for his Lordship!” hollered one voice. Harold believed it may have been Kit Walton. “And three cheers for the ‘heir to be’ wot’s due in spring!”\nThe crowd erupted in robust cheering. It was a matter of some import that her Ladyship produce an heir. There had been speculation that she was not capable of fulfilling that most basic duty, as their marriage was now a full five years childless. The uncertainty of the future impacted the livelihood of all in the village. Many village families had their income and employment tied closely to Barkley Manor, with sons and daughters obtaining positions there in some capacity. No one wanted to see it passed into the hands of strangers, should the unthinkable happen and Lord Talbot pass without male issue. Of course Harold knew that there was half a chance this child would be born female, but more pressing was the knowledge he’d gleaned this afternoon. This child was likely not the product of his Lordship’s loins, if rumour was to be believed.\n“A cuckoo in the nest,” he rumbled to himself. “Her Ladyship has put horns on her husband’s head.”\nSally Prentice gasped as she laid the watery stew before the blacksmith, whom, until this moment, she had presumed to be mute, as she had never heard him utter any words in her presence before. Did he mean to say that her Ladyship had made a fool of her husband, that the child was not his? She was most vexed and discomposed. His Lordship was a fine man, a gentleman by birth and nature. He did not deserve to be made a fool of. Sally’s older brother worked for his Lordship as his personal valet and without stopping to think, she immediately penned a quick note to be delivered to her brother at the manor as soon he and Lord Talbot returned from London.\n\n\n\n“My Lord,” said his valet, Mr Prentice, to his Lordship the following morning. It was unpardonably early, as they had driven all night in response to her Ladyship’s missive. The lateness of the hour that his Lordship had retired the previous evening had no impact upon his morning routine whatsoever. “There is somewhat I must bring to your attention.” The valet’s usual composure was severely tested, but he pressed onward with his carefully prepared speech. “I am keenly aware of the boundaries that etiquette demands, yet a matter of some delicacy has come to my attention—one I deem it my duty to acquaint you with.”\nLord Talbot, a gentleman of quiet reserve and somber stature, turned from the inspection of the fall of his cravat in the mirror. He arched an eyebrow in a silent invitation for his man to continue.\n“Sir, please know that I do not wish to intrude upon your personal affairs. That I do so now is only due to the urgency and delicacy of the matter,” Mr. Prentice began, his tone a perfectly practiced blend of cool discretion and quiet concern. “I have been the recipient of information that I believe is my responsibility to share with you.”\nLord Talbot’s expression remained impassive, yet his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. “Continue, Mr. Prentice.”\nDrawing a deep, steadying breath, the valet spoke with the careful precision of a man who understood the weight and gravity to be imparted by his words. “Sir, I have been reliably informed that Her Ladyship has been in company with another, and that the delicate condition she currently enjoys may be a direct result of that and other indiscretions.”\nThe room seemed to hold its breath as Lord Talbot fixed his steady gaze upon his valet. “Pray tell, Mr. Prentice, do you have any evidence to support such an outrageous claim?”\nMr. Prentice, though mindful of his place, felt it his duty to convey his findings and passed the scrap of paper to his Lordship as he spoke. “I have this letter from my sister at the Sail and Anchor informing me that it is common knowledge in the village.”\nHeavy silence lingered a moment as Lord Talbot perused the hastily written note. The weight of unspoken implications hung palpable in the air. Although a cloud of contemplation had darkened his eyes, Lord Talbot’s features remain composed.\n“Mr. Prentice,” his Lordship began. “I am indebted to your loyalty and discretion.”\nThe valet nodded in understanding. “Sir, please know that my intention is solely to ensure your welfare and happiness.”\nLord Talbot’s lips curved slightly. “Your dedication does not go unnoticed, Mr. Prentice.”\n“Of course, sir,” Mr. Prentice responded, inclining his head respectfully. “Your privacy shall be respected. If there is any further assistance I may offer, you need only ask.”\nWith a final nod, Lord Talbot gestured for his valet to withdraw.\n\n*\n\n“Good afternoon, madam.” His Lordship strode into the parlour, his face a stoic mask of cool indifference.\n“My Lord, I am so pleased to welcome you home.” Lady Violet rose to greet her husband, but he waved her away as he strode to the sideboard, pouring himself a generous splash of brandy.\n“My lady, have you anything you wish to tell me?” he said with cold civility.\n“I informed you by letter the moment my suspicions proved correct. I am with child. Doctor Phillips confirmed that your child will arrive in spring.”\n“My child? I have been informed upon my arrival that there is some question as to the child’s paternity.”\nLady Violet sat speechless with shock, unable to comprehend the words that spilled like bitter poison from her husband’s lips. Finally, she gathered her composure enough to respond. “I fail to understand your meaning, sir.”\n“I cannot be clearer. There is gossip pertaining to you and a secret liaison which has called into question the legitimacy of the child you carry.”\n“I am all astonishment!” The lady gasped. “You have listened to vicious gossip and have chosen to believe it. Am I to be damned in your eyes without question, without a fair hearing or a chance to defend myself? Do you have such little faith in my character and virtue?”\n“What defense have you?”\n“I am unable to call to mind a defense for something I know nothing about. What do I stand accused of?”\n“Infidelity, madam.”\n“Never have I been unfaithful to you, not once in either my thoughts or actions. I resent your belief that I would consider my marriage vows so inconsequential, that I would blatantly disregard them.”\n“‘Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.’ You do yourself no service by not admitting your fault immediately.” He glared at her, his eyes afire with passion and pain.\n“My fault! I have many faults, sir, but not the fault of which I stand accused.”\n“I have proof, my dear…”\n“Where?” She interrupted his tirade with one of her own. “Where is your proof? How can you have proof of something that did not take place?”\nHe withdrew from his pocket the crumpled note and tossed it into her lap so that she could peruse the contents of the damning missive.\n“And just who, pray tell, is Sally Prentice? And how has such a person come by such slanderous information?”\n“Miss Sally Prentice is the younger sister of my man, and she works in the tavern, where a good many people meet and share their concerns and conversation.”\n“And do they also make up gossip and slander? This woman can know nothing of me or my doings, yet you will believe her tale? I am insulted and disappointed in you, sir!”\nLord Talbot pulled the bell to summon a house maid. When the servant arrived, he demanded that someone go directly to the Sail and Anchor to fetch Sally Prentice and bring her to him for questioning. While they waited, the Lord and Lady sat in bitter, unrelenting silence, each consumed by their own turmoil.\nThirty minutes later, a flustered Sally Prentice stood before them, knees knocking and bobbing a curtsy so low it was fit for the King, or at least the Prince Regent.\n“Did you pen this note?” Lord Talbot demanded without introduction.\nThe lass eyed the crumpled missive in his Lordship’s hand and nodded once. Her eyes then studied the intricate design of the carpet beneath her feet.\n“How did you come by the knowledge you imparted in this letter?”\n“I heared it from the blacksmith. I thought you would need to know, my Lord. I’ve not said naught to another body at all, but was thinking that you should know what people are saying.”\n“Thank you Sally, you may leave.” The lass could not scurry from the room hastily enough.\nLady Talbot glared at her husband. “The blacksmith, My Lord? I fail to understand how the blacksmith can have any intimate knowledge of my personal life. Is his word more reliable than my own?”\nOnce again, Lord Talbot summoned a servant to fetch the blacksmith who arrived quite flustered and recently scrubbed clean of the soot that and ash that stubbornly clung to his person and lodged under his nails.\n“I am sorry, M’Lord, I ain’t ne’er aught to have said nuthin’. The boy, the one from yer stables that bringed the mare, he prattled on so and I was only thinking aloud to meself. I don’t hold much with gossips usually and I told the boy as much.” Harold twisted his hat in his beefy hands. Lord Talbot nodded and dismissed the smith before summoning the stable lad.\n“Perhaps, my dear wife, a stable boy may have more intimate knowledge of your personal life and how you have comported yourself in my absence.”\nThe boy was duly summoned and trembled in fear as he recounted his story. How he had heard the lasses in the servant hall saying that the baby belonged to a captain because of a mysterious letter that had arrived. Upon hearing this, the Lord Talbot dismissed the boy with a firm warning not to spread any more gossip or he would be turned off without a reference.\n“So, my dear, can you explain this mysterious letter that arrived for you? And pray tell, who is the mysterious captain that turned your head?”\n“I can tell you, there is no secret. My brother, Captain John Anderson, visited with me for a few days during your absence. He stayed with Mrs Whitley in the village and visited with me every day. The letter was delivered here after he had been called back to his regiment urgently and did not have an opportunity to bid me farewell before he left.”\nThe silence that followed this declaration allowed Lord Talbot to align his thoughts and words.\n“Lady Talbot,” he began, his voice infused with a humility he had not felt before, “I must beg your pardon. I have been consumed by baseless suspicions founded upon rumours and allowed my own insecurities to cloud my judgment. My words were unjust, and for that, I am truly sorry.”\nLady Talbot met his gaze with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. In their five years of marriage, she had never once heard an apology fall from her proud husband’s lips. “My lord, your accusations have wounded me deeply, but your apology brings a glimmer of solace.”\n“Violet, I am truly sorry. May we begin again?” He took her hand in his and gently assisted her to stand before him as he asked, “Madam, is there news that you wished to impart?”\n“My Lord… James,” said she, with a small smile reminiscent of the Madonna in a da Vinci painting . “You are going to be a father.”\nHe gathered his wife in his arms and stated with fervent sincerity, “I am overwhelmed with exhilaration.”\n“That, My Lord, is the correct response,” she replied as she settled into the comfort of his arms and happily received the kiss he bestowed upon her 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 Bad Best Friend's Diary\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2963\n\nPrompt:\n\nFormat your story in the style of diary entries." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Thursday, April 21st\nBack home after falling for her tricks AGAIN.\nElena asked me to skip eighth period to hang out at the coffeehouse. Ordered my usual: venti caramel macchiato, extra shot, extra hot, extra whip, and sugar-free. Barista rolled her eyes as she scribbled on the cup—hope she didn’t add extra ingredients. When Elena offered to pay, I should have known she was up to something.\n“You should try tea sometime,” she said as she wrapped her palms around her cup, raising it to her face. “There are many studies—”\nI tuned her out while she recited the health benefits of tea, enjoying my overly complicated espresso brew. Sure, head-to-head phase four clinical trials conducted on Facebook suggest that tea prevents cancer and heart disease, but I’ve always preferred the strong bitterness of coffee beans, bold and astringent, dark and mysterious.\n“—suggesting that tea can have a lasting impact on your wellness.”\nI asked her why she paid for my drink.\n“So, Nathan is hosting this thing tomorrow night, and I need you to come with me.”\nNathan was Elena’s new boyfriend, creating quite the Hightower High scandal. Heaven forbid a junior dates a sophomore, but this is what happens when humans watch enough Real Housewives and Big Brother. They’d just started dating a few weeks ago, practically consuming all of Elena’s time, leaving me to my own devices (video games and RuPaul’s Drag Race—don’t judge).\n“Come on, Elena,” I groaned. “I don’t want to be a third wheel.”\n“But you have to. His buddies have been nagging him about this thing they do on Fridays. You might know: Dungeons & Dragons?”\n“Never played it.”\n“Oh Taylor, it can’t be that different from The Elder Scrolls. Besides, I need you to make me look good in front of his friends. You know, talk about Indiana Comic Con or whatever you nerds do.”\n“How does that make you look good?”\n“Because you’re my accessory, like a purse. If they like you, that Chi will transfer over to me like osmosis.”\n“We took chemistry together. Pretty sure it doesn’t work like that.”\nElena activated her super power puppy eyes secret attack with an exaggerated frown. And just like that, I agreed to be her third wheel.\n“You’re the bestest best friend a girl could ask for.”\n.\nFriday, April 22nd\nThe trouble with being Elena’s best friend is you’re expected to:\n• Be a slim(ish), well-groomed, and fashionably dressed trophy for her to show off\n• Have a perfect working knowledge of all things trending right now. Because nothing says ‘chic’ more than a skinny scarf that probably does nothing to keep you warm\n• Be an all-natural, organic earth ally and not use any plastic Tupperware, only buy organic vegetables, etc. BUT at the same time…\n• Be my own person\n\nAll of this AND make good grades in school to get into a decent college. Lucky for me, going to a tabletop game night meant I could throw out all the rules. I wanted Elena to look like the best girlfriend these geeks have ever seen.\nI rubbed Elena’s back while we waited on the front porch, her stiff muscles like floorboards. She must really like this guy, getting all riled up about a simple game night. Very unlike her. When the door opened, I understood why. \nDear diary, shame on me for assuming; Nathan was nothing I expected for a D&D nerd: his body, extremely toned and athletic. And he was so tall. Remember when I broke the Hungry Hungry Hippos game, and the blue hippo’s mouth was stuck wide open? Well, I was that blue hippo, my mouth a gaping hole as he wrapped his arms around Elena, his gaze lingering on me a little longer than it should have.\n“You must be Taylor,” he said. “Nathan. Elena’s told me so much about you.”\nLike an ape, I managed a strange noise instead of human words, to which he simply smiled. Suddenly, I cursed myself for wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and sweatpants to play Dungeons & Dragons.\n.\nSaturday, April 23rd\nI learned a few things last night. First, I’m AMAZING at Dungeons & Dragons. It’s basically video games, but on a tabletop—how have I gone almost sixteen years of existence without experiencing this?! \nThe good part: Elena picked up quickly, and operation impress was a success. They invited us to come back every Friday, which I politely declined. One, because Elena really should be the one attending these, not me. Two, Friday nights directly conflicted with RuPaul’s Drag Race. Sorry nerds, but I’d rather watch grown men dressed as women murder each other with their icy glares than slay paper orcs whilst rolling dice (#priorities). \nBut the most important is number three: Nathan is… distracting. I can’t really place it. There’s something about his eyes when he talks to you, like you’re the only person in the room. It made me giddy like a schoolgirl. Not okay.\nRegardless, the last thing I need right now is to spend time with my best friend’s hot boyfriend. So imagine my surprise when I woke up to this text message: Hey, it’s Nathan. Elena gave me your number. I suck at geometry. Need a tutor. She said you could help. Tomorrow at 3 pm?\nI’m going to kill her.\n.\nSunday, April 24th\nWhat a day. Started with Elena on the phone.\n“But you’re soooooooo good at math,” she said. “You helped me pass geometry last year, remember?”\n“We need to discuss that, by the way. Why don’t you just tutor him yourself?”\n“Because I don’t want to waste my time on math when I’m with my boyfriend. Priorities.”\n“Gross.”\n“Love you.”\nHouse was empty since mom took my little brother on a bike ride. Nathan arrived exactly at three pm, as promised. We sat at the kitchen table, books sprawled out around us.\n“Ninety degree angles are also known as right angles,” I said, pointing at the two lines on the page.\n“What makes something a wrong angle?” he asked, dimples on his cheeks as he smirked.\n“Uh, nothing. Angles less than ninety degrees are acute, and those greater than ninety but less than one hundred eighty are obtuse.”\nNathan leaned his right elbow on the table and propped his head on his hand. “Why are you so uptight?” he asked. “Elena always talks about how much fun you are.”\nMy body stiffened—I needed a breather. He was worse at geometry than Elena (no small feat). “I forgot a book upstairs. Wait here.”\nI left him in the kitchen, retreating to the safety of my room. Even though it had only been a couple of hours, I understood why he struggled with math—the man lacked focus. Which was surprising, given how organized he was when playing D&D with his friends. It was as though they were two different people, like night and day, this version of Nathan a perpendicular line to the one from Friday. Perhaps he needed something interesting to keep his attention, like castles and dwarves.\n“Did you draw that?”\nI jumped at the sound of Nathan’s voice behind me. His eyes fixated on the sketches hanging on the wall, my notebook doodles during fifth period history.\n“Yeah. I can draw those better now.”\n“What is that?” he asked, scratching his head. “A badger?”\n“You think it’s a badger? It’s a raccoon.”\nHe nodded at me, his eyes incredulous.\n“What?” I asked, nudging him with an elbow. “It’s my favorite animal.”\n“The raccoon is your favorite?”\n“They’re really cool,” I said with a gesture towards my face. “Plus, they wear a mask.”\nNathan chuckled, flutters traveling from the bottom of my stomach into my chest. His eyes roamed across the wall, studying the pictures with an unexpected intensity. “You should draw characters for my D&D group. The guys would love it.”\n“You really like that game, don’t you?”\n“Of course,” he said, his gaze shifting from the raccoon to my face. “Haven’t you ever wished you could be someone else, even if for a moment?” Somehow, the gap between us closed, his piercing gray eyes peering down at me as I looked up at him for a long, breathless moment. As the cliché goes, time froze around us.\nA buzzing sound interrupted our trance, and Nathan reached into his pocket. I took a cleansing breath to calm my racing heart.\n“Shoot. I have to go. Date night with Elena.”\n“Of course,” I said, turning away from him, placing a hand on my chest, the room spinning around me.\nI listened as his footsteps descended the stairs, books shuffling in the kitchen. When the front door closed, I skulked to my window, watching as Elena wrapped her arms around Nathan’s neck to kiss him.\nFinished a whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream that evening.\n.\nMonday, April 25th\nAvoided Elena at school today. Not sure why, but just felt a little awkward. Ran a few miles around the track before heading home. Needed the endorphins to kick in. Decided to stay away from Nathan.\n.\nTuesday, April 26th\nGot a text message from Nathan today: Had a blast hanging out Sunday afternoon. Another tutoring session? You pick date/time.\nIgnored the text and threw my phone beside me on the bed. Did I turn off Read Receipts? Settings, Messages, Send Read Receipts “On.”\nCrap\n.\nThursday, April 28th\nElena cornered me in the cafeteria during lunch break.\n“Are you trying to mess this up for me? That is so like you,” she said, hands on her hips with a wide stance. \n“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, my mouth a little dry.\n“Cody Gilmore.”\n“He was a jerk and you know it,” I said. “You were too good for him.”\n“Doesn’t matter. You always make me choose between my boyfriends or my best friend. Why can’t I have both? It’s not a competition. Are you jealous?”\nCurious eyes floated in our direction, heat rising up my neck. Elena excelled at theatrics. \n“Alright, alright,” I said, conceding with both hands raised in the air. “What do you want me to do?”\n“Come with me to D&D nights AND help Nathan with geometry.”\nI shook my head. “Come on, Elle. You know Fridays are my ‘watch drag queens annihilate each other’ nights. You don’t need me for D&D.”\n“Fine. Tutoring, then.”\n“Deal.”\nShe smiled, looping her arm into mine as she pulled me back to our lunch table. “I just want you to like each other.”\nThat’s what worried me the most.\n.\nFriday, April 29th\nSat on the living room floor with an empty pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Will need to run tomorrow.\nAm FURIOUS.\nFirst, they eliminated my favorite drag queen tonight, even after she somersaulted on stage like those dragonflies that do upside-down backflips (thank you Discovery Channel).\nSecond, spent the entire night texting with Elena about how spell slots worked. For a first-timer, why she chose a Clockwork Soul Sorcerer is beyond me. Probably because she liked the fantasy of wearing a pretty robe. I couldn’t even fully enjoy watching grown men in wigs yelling at each other. Why wasn’t her boyfriend helping her?\nWell, dear diary, that brings us to number three: Nathan was too busy texting me. We confirmed Sunday afternoon at the coffeehouse (I figured we would be safer in public). Then he pestered me about my drawings, practically begging me to illustrate his party for an end-of-campaign celebration. I pushed back, standing firmly on the fact that I mostly dabbled in sketches, rarely venturing into watercolors.\nI agreed to paint him something by the end of next week.\n.\nSunday, May 1st\nOrdered a venti caramel macchiato, extra shot, extra hot, extra whip, and sugar-free. Barista was new and struggled to get my order right. Pretty sure I tasted real sugar. Nathan drank tea.\n“Perpendicular lines cross to form—”\n“How’s my illustration coming along?” Nathan asked. He had one earbud playing an Evanescence CD, the other ear allegedly learning about geometry.\n“Slowly. I asked Elena to describe the others in your group, but she just wanted to talk about junior prom.”\nHis lips pressed into a line. “Right.”\n“She’s pretty excited about it.”\nNathan changed the subject, describing each character, complete with their backstories, classes and subclasses, and how he planned the campaign’s final epic encounter. His eyes twinkled with the sconces on the wall, a completely different Nathan than the lethargic one from five minutes ago.\n“Let’s get back to geometry,” I said, interrupting him while he described how his party tamed a dragon last week.\n“Fine.” He tapped his pencil on the notebook in front of him. “Why do you like math so much?” he asked.\nI shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that I enjoy it, but it’s like a universal language. Black and white. No ambiguity. Everything makes sense as long as you follow the rules.”\nHis eyes darkened, digging into my soul, gazing as if searching for something I hid within the depths of the unspoken. “Well, that’s no fun. Rules are meant to be broken. Wouldn’t you agree?”\nSomehow, we weren’t talking about math anymore. I cleared my throat, ending the session and leaving him at the coffeehouse. Made an excuse that I had diarrhea and pooped my pants.\n.\nTuesday, May 3rd\nText from Nathan: How’s the illustration coming along?\nMy reply: Fine\nCan I come over and see it? he asked.\nIgnored his text. Still forgot to turn off Read Receipts.\n.\nWednesday, May 4th\nWoke up to a text from Nathan: Everything okay?\nMy reply: Been busy\nAnother tutoring session? Got a test next week\nSunday, I replied. Get through your prom first.\nMay the fourth be with you.\nI replied the only acceptable way: may the force be with us all\nTY! Elena didn’t get it\nLeft the conversation there. Finally remembered to turn off Read Receipts.\n.\nFriday, May 6th\nHanded Elena the finished illustration, framed perfection with a barbarian, bard, cleric, paladin, and her Clockwork Soul Sorcerer (girl, seriously).\n“Oh my goodness, he’s going to love it!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it to him yourself?”\nI rubbed the back of my neck. Honestly, the best strategy was to stay away from Nathan. Whatever this was, it needed to end.\n“You know I won’t cheat on RuPaul, Elle.”\nShe kissed me on the cheek as she made her way out. “I know. You’re such a loyal guy.”\n.\nSaturday, May 7th\nElena prepared for prom at my house. She looked warm and radiant in a dress of russet-colored velvet, her dark hair swept up in a glass-beaded net that sparkled in the light.\n“You look stunning,” I told her as she stood in my living room.\n“Would RuPaul eliminate me?” she asked.\n“Never.”\n“We’re taking pictures at Nathan’s before we go. Sure you don’t want to tag along? He really wants to thank you for the illustration.”\n“No, I can’t. Got to do some stuff for my mom before she goes to work.” A little lie hurt no one. Besides, I wasn’t really in the mood to deal with him. Or them, together. Like every other bad habit in my life, the best thing I could do was abstain. When I was addicted to World of Warcraft, my father took a sledgehammer to the computer: most effective antidote ever. And since I couldn’t sledgehammer Nathan, avoidance would have to do. \nFired up the Xbox to play some Elder Scrolls, transporting my mind away from the real world. Which worked until a phone call sucked me back in, a bit past eleven.\n“I just died to a spider. No thanks to you. This better be good,” I said, pausing the game.\nSniffs came through the other end of the line.\n“Elle? What’s wrong?”\n“Nothing,” she said, her voice a whimper. “Prom was perfect.”\n“Okay,” I said, sitting up from the floor, “help me here.”\n“He dropped me off, and he kissed me goodnight, just like in the movies. But when I asked him to come up, he left. Why would he do that?”\n“I don’t know.” And I truly didn’t. Was he a modern-day gentleman? Perhaps. If there’s one thing Elena and I avoided, it was all the intimate details of our relationships. Basically siblings—some topics off-limits. “Do you want to come over and watch Clueless? I can make popcorn.”\nShe laughed, her tone lighter. “No carbs after seven. I’m going to bed. See you at school. Love you.”\n“You too,” I said, hanging up the phone. The living room, now a veritable mess, needed to be cleaned before mom returned from her shift at the hospital. \nAnd just as I was finishing up in the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Maybe Elena changed her mind after all. Reaching for the Clueless DVD, I opened the door with a smile on my face.\n“Guess you couldn’t resist movie and popcorn?”\nMy mouth hung open when I saw him, like broken blue hippo open. Nathan wore black and white evening attire, his hair combed into meticulous order, looking elegant and commanding. Bold and astringent. Dark and mysterious.\nA flush crept up my chest as I stood there in my Pokemon pajamas. “Uh, what are you doing here?” I asked.\nHe turned his phone, its screen displaying a photo of the D&D illustration I’d given him the day before, his jaw set as the moonlight illuminated his wild eyes. “I don’t know, but I have this feeling. Everything you’ve said makes sense.”\nA lump formed in my throat, both afraid and excited at what would come next.\n“Taylor, you’re my right angle.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Letter from a Little Girl to her Father at the Front\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1362\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a letter, or multiple letters back and forth." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This story concerns World War One and has references to the conditions in the trenches. It is inspired by a story which appeared in an annual belonging to my father which was lost or thrown away over 50 years ago. I have made up my own story .\nHernesbury Hall,\nSeptember 1916.\nDearest Papa,\nI felt so joyful when I received three of your letters at once a few days ago. As I read them, I formed a picture you sitting in a dugout beside a trench full of mud with the rain pouring down. To smell mustard gas in a trench full of mud must be truly dreadful. No wonder you have to wear a mask if it smells like Jack’s mustard spread ham sandwiches. I don’t know how he can eat them. I enjoyed foraging for mushrooms with the gardener last weekand her showed me which ones are poisonous. He also said mustard gas is poisonous and makes men’s lungs foam. That terrified me.\n Sitting in a wet dugout must be hard for someone who likes slippers and pipe before a blazing fire. I guess you cannot wear slippers in Flanders. Do you have a fire of some sort to keep warm in the dugout? Mamma says please remember to wear the flannel combinations she sent in her last parcel. She's kept me busy this summer knitting you socks and gloves. I am learning to knit with four needles so I can make a muffler in your regimental colours. Mamma will send them all in her next parcel.\nWe haven't received our winter coal supply yet, despite coal delivery being a reserved occupation. Mamma says so many miners have gone to Flanders as tunnellers that stocks are down. Arnold Thorne has gone to France and old Mr Thorne says he cannot get to everybody in the village by himself. I suggested using a wheelbarrow but Mamma would not hear if it. She says it’s degrading and dirty work for people of our class. I think no work is degrading if it helps the country with its war efforts. Don't mention it to Mamma but I think she's a snob. I shall have to wear lots of warm clothes instead, although I am not looking forward to wearing my winter coat indoors. It can’t be as bad as wearing a wet uniform in a trench dugout, so I will wear it in your honour of you, Papa.\nI am despondent because Miss Butcher, my governess, has left us. Her mother suddenly died of a heart attack, and she had to go home to look after her father and younger sister. Miss Butcher has a brother but he’s at the front in conditions like yours so he cannot help. She was a such cheerful governess who wore flowered muslin dresses and wide-brimmed hats in summer. I shall miss her nature walks through the fields and woods where she told me the names of birds and plants. She said larks sing above the poppy fields in France. The sound of their birdsong is so inspiring that it could uplift the men’s morale. She made learning fun, and I loved her.\n Mama interviewed three ladies to replace Miss Butcher and chose Miss Hardman. She has a beaked nose, beady eyes and wears spectacles. Mama said her credentials are excellent and that she speaks fluent French. I live in England so why do I need to learn French? I could be a VAD in France if the war drags on. But I hope it doesn’t last because the casualty figures are so high and you might become a casualty. Everyone in the village knows someone who has lost a family member. Last week, three brothers were killed im some battle in France. Mamma visited their parents who now have two daughters left. She came home looking sad and went straight to bed. I heard her crying and knocked on her door, but she did not answer. \n Do you remember Ginny, my friend in the village? Her father left for France three months ago. She heard her mother crying when she got a telegram. It said he was missing in action. How can you be in action and missing at the same time? If a soldier is in action, someone must have seen him. Mama says it’s means he was in action, shooting his rifle or walking across no man’s land when he was last seen. I asked her where no man’s land was, but she did not answer. I am confused, and so is Ginny. I wish you could\nget leave and come home to explain it because Ginny’s mother says he isn’t missing; the authorities won’t look for him.\n Ginny says her mother may go to France and look for him herself. If she does, then I shall ask ask Mamma if Ginny can stay with me. I need a schoolroom companion. We could hide together in the oak tree because I suspect Miss Hardman uses the slipper if pupils misbehave and I have such a hard time sitting still. I hope her arithmetic lessons are not too difficult. You know I don’t enjoy arithmetic because I get my sums muddled. I hope she will let me write stories so I can use my imagination instead.\nJack is looking forward to going to Eton, although I think he fears fags which he learned about from Cousin Arthur. He hopes he won’t be Arthur’s fag, for he is so pompous and unpleasant, calling us horrid names. Were you a fag at Eton too, Papa? I will miss Jack. He taught me to climb the old oak tree but please don’t tell Mamma. I hide in its branches when cook is looking for me because I’m not fond of some of the food we must eat now rationing is in force. Cook makes meatballs from ground-up Sunday roast meat for Monday lunch. Yuck.\n Mamma let her maid go into war work last week. She found a job in a munitions factory, where I hear girls’ skin turns bright yellow. I would not like yellow skin. It wouldn’t go with my favourite lavender dress. I don’t understand why she wants such an unpleasant job, but Mama says it’s well-paid and helps our boys at the front. Without a maid, I do up Mama’s stays and help brush her hair every night before bed. She goes to bed at nine, for she has no parties or dinners to attend and it saves coal. As you know the London house is shut, with the furniture covered by white sheets, until you come home. Mama finds the winters dull without parties. However, she is busy arranging bridge afternoons and working in the village packing food parcels. Some times I help her and see the newspaper lists as we pack the boxes. The lists bring a lump to my throat. \nSome Army Officers came to see Mamma last week. I think they want to requisition our house as a hopital for wounded soldiers. They were here a long time and looked in all the rooms and around the grounds. The officers told Mamma we could live in the Dower House. It's been empty since Grandmamma went to live in Yorkshire. Mamma was very upset and refused to give them permission. You know how she hates change, but I think it might be warmer in the Dower House.\nI do not think Miss Hardman will approve of knitting as a schoolroom activity so I must knit fast to finish your muffler. I shall ask her if I can paint a picture of the fox terrier dog Mamma found to keep down vermin. I expect you could use him in the trenches, as the gardener said they are full of rats as well as gas and mud. The thought makes me shudder.\nPlease take care of yourself, Papa, and don’t get killed by a sniper or shell, or go missing in action. I could not bear that, and neither could Mamma. It could kill her.\nYour loving daughter,\n Patricia xx\nP.S. I will write with more news next week if Miss Hardman permits." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Best Years of Our Lives\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1131\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with someone saying: “What a day.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Friends, faculty, alumni, and fellow classmates, good afternoon and thank you all for coming to my TED talk. Only kidding. Just a little valedictorian's joke to kick things off before we all disperse into the world to work at high-paying prestigious institutions like McDonald's, or, if we're lucky, Starbucks. That's also a joke, mostly. Peter Springer, if you're listening, I'll have two Big Macs and a venti cold brew.\n\nBut seriously, thanks for coming out today. It means a lot to me. You all, of course, had no choice in the matter if you want to receive your diplomas, those little scraps of paper that say you survived thirteen years of institutionalized, government-funded prison. But I love all my fans and appreciate your support and attendance nonetheless.\n\nWow.\n\nCan you believe we made it this far?\n\nWe've all been through a lot together these past four years. Like, remember that time Courtney Adams had her Red Wedding in precalculus because she wasn't allowed to go to the bathroom? Remember when Mike Newman and Tanner Yates got caught selling weed in the bathroom and we lost our hall pass privileges for the rest of the year, which resulted in Courtney's accident? Remember when we found out Joey Mariano was actually an undercover cop?\n\nMan, what a fun six months that all was. Here's hoping Mike and Tanner get out of juvie soon.\n\nStill, the rest of us made it through those things, because we're what? That's right—the class of 2022!\n\nAnd we wouldn't have come this far without the help of our wonderful teachers. Facts. Like Mr. Larson, the most-dope social studies teacher a guy could ask for, who would always leave halfway through class every Film Friday and come back with bloodshot eyes five minutes before the bell rang.\n\nLet's also thank Ms. Jackson, the GOAT band instructor, for teaching us ingenuity by hiding her hip flasks inside her trombone case.\n\nAnd how could we forget to commend gym teacher Mr. Anderson for showing us what not to do when he snuck into the girl's locker room during shower time and ended up getting arrested? Boy, was Joey Mariano helpful or what?\n\nYes, we've changed a lot in four years, as have those around us. Who would've guessed we'd see shy, quiet Joshua Pierce doing what he did on that Zoom call last year, though maybe the industrial-sized bottle of Jergens lotion should've been an indicator?\n\nHow could we have known that it'd be Natalie Cooper, with her freckles and braces and pigtails, who'd be the first one in our class to get pregnant, and not head cheerleader, mini skirt queen, and tanning bed enthusiast Mariah Young? Well, a lot of bets were lost that day, I can tell you that much.\n\nBut let that be a reminder to us all going forward not to judge a book by its cover. Or at least skim through chapter one first.\n\nChange has been a journey, though. Facts. Ask anybody and they'll tell you the same: it hasn't been easy.\n\nYou think Veronica O'Donnell enjoyed going over to Mr. Stewart's house for a candlelight dinner while his wife was away at a conference? You think she wanted to sit in his cat-piss-reeking home nibbling at dry casserole and slurping cheap Zinfandel? No. But she wanted to read Othello even less. \n\nWhat I'm saying is: we all had to make sacrifices to get here today.\n\nHeck, I've had my fair share of difficulties too. Like the time I asked Jenna Matthews to the prom and she ran a poll over Instagram to see if she should go with me or Chuck Oakley. Shoutout to the fourteen percent of you who had my back.\n\nOr the time I went over to Mr. Stewart's cat-piss house for a candlelight dinner. Hey, I high-key didn't wanna read Othello either.\n\nBut what's important to remember is that those changes in life, difficult though they may be, are necessary for growth. Writer, producer, and religious visionary L. Ron Hubbard once said: \"You don't get rich writing science fiction. If you want to get rich, you start a religion.\" So I encourage you all to follow his advice and be the change you wish to see in the world. What's the worst that could happen?\n\nNow, as we get ready to leave Saint Patrick Catholic School and embark on our separate paths in life, I also urge you all to remember the years you've devoted to this place and what they've taught you. Reminisce on the years you spent stuffing your body with energy drinks and ramen noodles and Big Macs with venti cold brews. The years of begrudgingly choosing homework over meeting \"hot singles in your area.\" The years of working up the courage to ask your crush to the prom.\n\nAnd remember the months. Recall those months committed to learning the difference between \"daddy\" and \"zaddy.\" The months of constantly wondering if your lab partner is also an undercover cop. The months of writing down exactly what to say when you ask your crush to the prom.\n\nAnd remember the good days. Think of the day you didn't get called up to the front of the class when you were having an emergency \"downstairs.\" The day you thought you were straight but then discovered the wonders of bisexuality through a game of spin the bottle. The day you decided to turn the other cheek and not set fire to someone's pink Porsche because she rejected your proposal to go to the prom.\n\nBecause I'm sure you've all had a lot of moments you're fond of too.\n\nGoing forward, I ask you all to take these moments with you as you embrace change. Be intrepid, dauntless, resolute, as I'm no doubt sure Jenna Matthews was in the back seat of Chuck Oakley's filthy Honda Civic on prom night. And she didn't even need a poll to decide that for her or anything! If that's not change, I don't know what is.\n\nA wise man—probably L. Ron Hubbard—once said, \"These are the best years of our lives.\" And maybe that's true. Maybe high school is the peak of life. Maybe what we leave behind today will be better than what lies ahead in the future.\n\nBut we'll never know unless we go forward, unless we grow and change. And we will change. Starting now. Because this is the last time we can call ourselves high-schoolers.\n\nOops. Sorry, Brendan Baker, and good luck on getting that GED, fam.\n\nStill, for the rest of us, the class of—say it with me—2022, no matter how much you do change, always remember these days. Especially today, because what a day it has been, and what a glorious day it will be. What a 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: HOW WE WHERE MADE\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 3301\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I grew up in a little town in rural south Alamba with my older brother and two sisters. Now when we were young, there was no gentle parenting like there is now-a-days. So our father was big in the community, like a dad to everyone or maybe brother, grandpa. You get my drift, anyway the time we had growing up was just terrible. We were raised a certain way, taught to act a certain way and if you didn't adhere to what ma or pa said you was taught a rathe harsh lesson. Being big in a small town it had its pro's but it also had its con's. So our father worked mainly outta of town alot, so it was just mother and us kids. The other men in this small town were all like uncles to us and so we had a lot of influences. Some good some bad, it all depended on how we took it or where we were in our own little world. And it all started from generations back and how this beautiful country was founded. So many, many, many moons back our great great great grandfather won some land and rights in a poker game. Now these rights wasn't just ,anything they was the start of the way we survived and thrived. So enough about us, this is how we were built. so around the time of George Washinton, there was a movement taking place on who was who and how things went. The tale is told like this! Because of who ole Washington was and what he did during the war, he was known as what we call a people's man. Now he wasn't the first president of the United States but the 7th. now John hanson was the first to stake claim to the presidency around 1790 or so. and each year they would get a new person in the seat. then came the time to put ole Washington. So, Goerge Washington, because of his moonshining skills which he was the best of all time with his apple brandy, and because his title in the war as general, he communicated with everyone equally. He didn't treat one different from another, the said straight across the board with everyone. When this beautiful country was then founded in 1796, the higher up's I call em wanted Ole Washington to be the very first one on paper that is. Then, well history wrote itself, so they say. George was a straight shooter, but also, he belonged to a society of secrets. you guessed it! The Free- Masons. As George gets put in office he decides not to forget where he came from and wanted to have his war buddies and dear friends. Some things got change and before you know it, The Founding Fathers where together like, what we would call today a power-house team. So as Time comes by they start to write we know is called THE DECLERATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Man, to be in that room how to be something I bet? I could hear it all now, one would say we should have the right to speak what we want, and another say, well, if you are gonna speak what you want, I should have the right to bare arms and shoot if at all nessacery. Something like that, maybe who knows? Anyway, so tale is this ole Georgey Boy and his founding fathers were free-masons and exactly after the other put thier John Handcock on that paper they instantly became what we know as Free-Masons. Goerge was up on the stage after they all signed and said this. \"We are a country who was built by immigrants who came together as one Nation under God and have the right to be free. He then states,\" we are to be a country built on moral, respect, and honor. also the is a code we as free americans are to carry .We also need to be E pluribus unim, meaning united together, divided we fall. We are to protect at all times the borders we have set in place to the north and south of us. we will become the biggest strongest nation of all times if we stick together. We must not forget these things men, and we will be a force to be reckoned with. What we have made here today will be the beginning of our beautiful history. \" So they appointed a cabinet of so-called people known in them days as THE INFAMOUS TWELVE.\nNow the Infamous 12 is where it all started, you see they were all buddies and dear friends of Ole Georgie and he brought these twelve men up on stage and appointed them a section big enough that their friends and their friends, friend could not even tend, Or could they? So as these men were placed in their areas, they had to have them two men, them two, have four, them four, eight and so on and it went down like a pyramid. The Places was set, the guys knew thier boundaries and they knew the 3 laws they were taught. Rule One- always handle business with honor respect for each other and be your brothers-keeper. Two- never go against a handshake. A handshake is just like a signature it goes forever. Three- Respect ALL women, children, and widows, never go against what GOD himself sees fit. As times passes by and THE INFAMOUS TWELVE are doing thier part, the older generations start to die off. If you didn't gamble your land and rights away it was automatically handed down to your kids and their kids and so on. it just so happens that the 12 are separated exactly 5 states apart for the most part. Each of the 12 controls 4 states, boom!! there are your upper 48 states. you get it ! AS time passes by 3 generations back my grandpappy 3 back won our rights and land in a hand of \"hold em\". Charlie, my older brother by 4 years was the first of us kids to get a place on the pyramid, well that's we what we call it, heck, it's on the back of our dollar bill with ole goergie smilin' in the front. So as dad moves up Charlie gets his ole spot, then when charlie moves I'm next. and so forth. So as time flies pass. People pass on as the older hands, we called them pass thier down the line they step up. the younger folks forget what their dad and dads. dads did for this beautiful country. To think you are owed anything it , ridiculous.\nOne of ole Washington quoters were, There is nothing in this world for free if you want it you have to work your butt off for it. The younger generation forgot this and wanted to shoe thier asses after the elder had passed. So let me tell you about ole Charlie Boy.\nHere is one of ther letters i wrote to my big brother.\n\nCharlie,\nHi Charlie, it's me again. Didn't you get my last couple of letters. So here is what's happening while and why I am constantly on the move. So, a couple of coyotes brought some aliens across the border and they asked if I could drive them while they work. Now, before you say anything, you know how we was raised and how this all started the pyramid is collapsing Charlie, and I have to keep money flowing somehow. Remember, paper trail paper trail, paper trail! That's what we were taught. Come on C don't get sideways just remember when they found this beautiful country and the paper president, yes ole Washington, he was the 7th Charlie 7th president not the first. But because he was a people person, and he made the best moonshine and was a general in the army people respected him. They're not gonna remember John Hesson/Hanson or whatever his last name was. They don't remember him being the very first on charge of this country. So, Washington built a foundation and because he was a free mason, him and the founding fathers made sure that the other 51 became Mason right after they signed the Declaration of Independence. So, Washington picked 12 men and scattered out through the land and then 12 men got 2 each and then 2 got 4 and so on until they had a pyramid of guys who controlled everything of this beautiful country even the president whoever it maybe and when they won't heal to what The infamous 12 want, well they get rid of them. You of all know that Charlie . Anyway so the pyramid has collapsed because of the morals that this was founded on come on Charlie you know them. One - always protect ourselves from enemy of the North and south both borders. Two- By all means respect all elders and women and kids and a handshake goes like a signature . Three- Take what we are taught as free Americans and teach our children the respect and honor and morals go for miles of handled right . Well Charlie. They forgot number 3 and the younger folks lost respect for the elders here and they all started the own deal and allowed people of the South to come in and offer money and when you lose a teer on a pyramid it gets off set and falls . So the twelve where scatted through the north 48 and each one control 4 states and now there is tension in a could areas . So it has to be handled and I will wright you as soon as I can Charlie but for now be safe and can all the food you can because never know what may happen. So okay remember the brothers from the Ozark Mountains . Yea the two what we would call hillbilly's , so they got where they thought they was owed everything without doing nothing. You know when ole Washington. Started this society back after the others all signed, it was working we actually got along and things was working. The infamous twelve had full control over their areas and everybody respected the ways of the land and a handshake. So great uncle Trevor died this past month and the boys from the hills stated showing out because big brother ray got his spot on the tier. Brother ray started demanding all these changes that shook down the ladder and across other sectors . That caused a big stink and this has been the longest 3 months of my life . So, now they stated building sectors in each area of the 12. Do the math the 12 control 4 states, yup that's it 48 Charlie they are doing what they said 40 yrs ago. It's finally here . Begining of the end and what other way than to divide all what we have built as not just a family but a society all together . So we need to prepare for a change because wether we like it or not the boys for the below south have arrive. The boys from the hills are out to make a point, they started out real ruthless and believe you me , we don't need them on our bad side like they already are . It has been real , too real at times. We have to let everyone know that a change is coming the rise of the new era has started . I sure hope that ma and Pa are doing well I hope they like their new home we put em in off the grid. I can't stress how important it is that we remember what this beautiful country did for us throughout the years down the generations and to make sure that who we are, gets passed down to our little ones . It is not about us and who we are , sure we made a name for ourselves and our family , but it is the legacy we leave behind that is the most important . The great value and morals that we was taught down the road . That is what we leave behind respect, dignity, and proper morals. So, if you get a letter the next few times remember this brother, it may or may not have a name on it that you don't recognize and I will put our family lettering om the back side of the envelope. I believe I may have bit off more than I can chew this time. Only time will tell for me and how I need to do things still with the codes we were taught but times has changed big brother and people has too. But a different name is probably better off anyway and a hair change because I really don't want people to recognize me because of the changes it's not code but like I said before brother, everyone has a price. But that's enough of that talk. Make sure you give little Alicia and Mikey my love. Tell them uncle will see them hopefully sooner than later . Charlie, I truly thank you for being you, the ways you helped me so many years back giving me the chance I needed to show the elders what I was about. We come from good stock and truly blessed for what our dad and his dad and his dad's, dad for our family name and on our name, not our legacy big brother I will represent with the best of my abilities the way it should be. Who knows this may start a revolution off on its own Charlie. Lol. Make sure you give everyone my love and don't forget to (CAN) all you can because it sure is getting hard out here for this older generation. Until next time stay safe, and Godspeed brother.\nLove alwalys, Adam\nSo as times go by, we were to climb the so-called tiers of this pyramid. A true pyramid for instance has 22 tiers or so. and the work you put forth for you and your sector gets recognized. My big brother Charlie was doing great things for himself and our legacy. We were always told the even the first man that GOD created had to work by the sweat of his brow and die. If it was good enough for the very first man that God created, it was good enough for us. Charlie was always a family man first no matter what because how my mother raised us. We used to say that Charlie was an ole soul of George Washington because, he, himself was the people's man. Never made an enemy anywhere he went or did. As our family business, Charlie got to step into the farming side of what we produced and supplied for our sector. And since the time our granpappy 3x back won this land, our family only ran six recipes. that's all, six, two for each year and rotated out every 4th year. So big brother decides that for generations he wanted to improve on a certain recipe, because the time had come where, speed and all that other crap was out, and in order to keep up with the \"JONES\" , he needed a hail mary. Well to cut to the chase it freakin worked. he had worked day and night throughout the year inside, outside, and everywhere he could to prefect this certain thing. And just like the big bottle rocket's on the 4th of July, this thing took off like never before. It was deemed, \"speed weed'\" it did everything for you all that other crap on the streets was doing. I even heard of a man cutting his grass outside in his backyard at 2a.m. in the morning with a da-gum headlight on his head. Now that was some killer stuff!\nAs time moves like a locomotive, out of control, 100's mph. As does the beautiful Home of the Free, ands Land of the Brave. The boys from south of the border,was seeing all the chaos the ole hillbillys were leaving in thier paths, they decided to join forces and the morals,code, dignity, all the went out the window in all areas of the 12 sectors except one. Now this time i was goin by alias, because of the simple reason. everyone had a price! and the outsiders became more insiders as the time slipped away and everything our Founding Fathers and good Ole George Washington did, just ripped down the center and fell away.\nI was in certain situations where i had to change my name like 6 different times because of the simple fact of CHAOS! I couldn't go home if i wanted to i wouldn't. i fell off the radar and played dead to true family and friend's. Like, Ma and Pa always said,\" 'DO NOT SHIT IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD, BECAUSE YOU MAY STEP IN A STEAMY PILE OF YOUR OWN SHIT ONE DAY.\" Hell, I can recall lots of big mistakes I made along the way moving from coast to coast, sector to sector. Think about this, the infamous twelve, somewhere down the line went from controlling a 500 million dollar industry a year , mind you of good ole American un taxable money. To just damn near giving their rights away at a low price or being killed for them. Big brother, now he had it all handled in his little corner on the south eastside of the country. He was still carrying on a tradition and little did I know he built his own industry and kept the families thriving in his jurisdiction. He did it, and they tried to calm the problems here and there, but he handled it, and had people around him that truly cared and protected what our Four-Fathers had built centuries ago.\nI can see the aftermath of what's to come if we don't change our ways of what's going on here in our beautiful free country, it will not be beautiful and free much longer, down the roads we are traveling. It does give me great honor to have a big brother like I have and a family that may not know me much, but will be there at the drop of a hat if I ever was to just fade out of this life-style and fade into one back home, deep in the cut where the dirtroads end and nothing but loving family all around you. That does sound nice, matter of fact! I may raise ole Lazarous from the dead so to speak, you know kinda' like Jesus did there one time in The Book. Yea, ole Charlie!! Sure would be nice to see how the Big Guy in the sky, has blessed what he did by carrying on not just a name but a LEGACY. Like the ole song Pa used to sing us, \"I hear the train a-comin, comin round the bend.\" Or something like that \"Folsom Prison\", that's it!\nWell I do hear my train, and time is sure dragin' on. I do believe it's getting close to raising my Lazarous, yes I do. So, until the next time or who knows, maybe I can sit and write to you all again some sweet day under a good ole Alabama pine, with a big glass of sweet tea and some fried chicken on an ole dirt road surrounded by nobody's to you, BUT somebody's to me.Remember, show people the respect you would want to get, and we can change the world one person at a time if we just cared a little more and smiled.\n\nuntil we talk again, with much love, Adam" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 day in the sun, not my favorite.\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2867\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with someone saying: “What a day.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A day in the sun\nIn my mind, I cursed the heat. If I cursed out loud, it was a venial sin, and I’d have to confess it. If I didn’t say it, I could fudge. It wasn’t an impure thought, and I hadn’t taken the Lord’s name in vain, anyway. A cloud bank slid over us for maybe a minute, casting a shadow. Just long enough to feel a faint breeze. Just enough time for me to finish my row and get to my thermos bottle. I poured the water into the little lid that was supposed to be a cup; it was warm and tasted stale.\n\nIn August, in Southern Minnesota, people didn’t spend time outside until the sun went down, or it was at least thinking about setting. We kept the doors open, screen doors closed, blinds drawn and fans on, all day and night. I double dog dared it to rain.\n\nWe had lots of Elms, the tallest things in town. Their shade lowered the temperature. When they were cut down because of Dutch Elm disease, I hurt with an ache that closed my throat and weighed on my chest. Afterwards the town never looked the same. Every time I saw the tiny twigs they had planted in replacement, I thought it takes a lifetime to grow a tree to any decent size. There were big stretches in between the sticks, like even the town didn't have the patience to start a tree.\n\nIn the swelter of the open farmland, I longed for rain, a good soaking rain, it would feel good. One of the other kids, who was on their second summer, said working wet was great, until it got muddy and until the sun came out and hugged those wet clothes like they were a long-lost relative. Good recipe for heat stroke. If there was lightning, everybody out of the field.\n\n“Time,” the shift supervisor yelled. It couldn’t have been 10 minutes. Suckers and tassels. The corn was tall enough I couldn’t see over the tops. If I was lucky, I heard someone a row over rustle the sharp leaves on the stalks, as they moved forward. By the time I was twenty feet in, I couldn’t see the start of the row behind me. There were thirty inches between rows. Every row went on forever. The field closed in.\n\n“Ending now,” Agnes Swenson, shouted. She was the first one to finish our row.\n“Another row,” the team leader yelled back. Low moans, from the girls. I didn’t make a noise, and neither did Rosemary Schueper. If she didn’t groan, neither would I. The shift supervisor got extra pay if we reached our goal in the shortest time every day. She kept her distance from us, unfriendly and motivated to drive us like sled dogs. There was a low grumble from a row over.\n“I hope she trips on a stalk and gets shredded.” The leaves were sharp as knives and Janice Snowbrich was ruthless in her contempt.\n\nBut she needed the job. While the rest of us were earning money for something we wanted, Janice needed the money to help her grandparents survive. She lived with them, because her mother had left her there. Rumor was, she didn’t have a dad. I didn't care what people said, but I wasn’t sure what to make of her. Sometimes I liked her, but she blew hot and cold.\n\nOnce she took me to her neighbor’s house. The lady was friendly, old, and she wore a faded dress, what my mom called a house dress. Her place smelled funny. Not bad, just funny like old dust and cabbage. She offered us tea. When it was ready, she put hot full cups on the table with a bowl of sugar cubes. I remember feeling grown up and special. I know now that the woman had brewed that tea for a while, probably the appropriate time, long enough to make it unpalatable even with four cubes of sugar. One of those times where you try to drink enough to be polite but not enough to get acquainted with the taste. She put homemade cookies on a plate. I tried to be polite, but this time it meant not eating all of them myself.\n\nAfter that experience, I was never temped to make a cup of tea for myself, until years later. The Hobbit, Bennet sisters, and later Mma Ramotswe, cherished their tea. It made me want to try again. I eventually learned to like it, no cream, no sugar. Today, when I make tea, I dunk the bag in the water just long enough to turn it a transparent brown.\n\n“Bathroom break,” Janice yelled. On my left Susie Gupman said, “You did that on the last row.” I didn’t comment. I didn’t like Susie, and the feeling was mutual. She lived on a dairy farm about a mile out of town. Her family was rich. They had three grown boys and farmed two thousand acres.\n\nI guessed Janice just needed a rest. At least, in the middle of rows of corn, a quarter mile long, you had privacy if you had to pee. Dehydration kept that function to a minimum. But claiming to need a break was an excuse to lag behind. It was a relief, to me, when we had to wait for someone to finish. Another moment of rest.\n\nAt lunch we sat at the end of the rows, lined up for our next round. Rosemary ended up next to me. I always thought she had a Snow-White skin look. Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow. Now it was sloughing off her shoulders, revealing new blisters on the layer of skin below. She refused to wear a shirt with long sleeves and her burns layered on top of burns. Stubborn. She was a farm girl and too proud to concede to what sissy town kids wore.\n\n“You’re going to have scars,” I said.\n“I’m fine, I don’t feel it,” she answered. I looked at her blisters and thought she was stupid.\nMy mother had insisted I wore layers, one of my brother’s long sleeve shirts, worn so thin you could see through it. Underneath, I wore one of his old tee-shirts with the arms cut off. No one wore hats, and no one wore gloves. Back then, they hadn’t discovered the correlation between sunburns and cancer. We were lucky to have Coppertone. It cost a lot. You used it after it started getting hot. Just once, didn’t want to waste it. Besides, everybody knew that one application of sunscreen lasted all day.\n\nBy quitting time, my sweat soaked both shirts. My hands were sore and bleeding. I’d ask my dad if he could get me a pair of gloves. He was the editor of the town newspaper, really the newspaper for about five other towns. He had a due-bill set up with the grocery stores, including the general store. This arrangement was a trade of sorts. So much credit, exchanged for so many inches of advertisements. Dad did all our shopping. Mom felt it was something women shouldn’t have to do, I guess. Unless it was in another town, for something other than groceries, and she didn’t drive. She was more aware of the idiosyncrasies of social hierarchy than anyone else in town.\n\nIt was brutal in the sun, but a job detasseling corn was a plum job. Competition ran high. If you didn’t know someone on the crew, you could forget about a job. At fourteen, there wasn't any work that didn’t involve physical labor. If I made it through the two weeks of detasseling without missing a day, the corn company added a fifteen cent an hour bonus on top of our 85 cents an hour wage. I stunk at math but even I could add the numbers. My best baby-sitting job paid fifty cents an hour, but the family I worked for the most, gave me twenty-five. And I had to do all the housework.\nWhen I was sixteen, I would find a real job. I didn’t know where. Not much work in a town of 800 people. I was lucky. Bonnie’s mom gave us a ride every morning. She dropped us off at seven. I was still tired. At least the mornings were cool, until about eight, then the temperature would climb into the nineties. There were days it topped a hundred. The humidity was a weighted blanket, heavy enough that breathing was a chore.\n\nIt was mid-morning, and I was dragging. When I pushed a couple of stalks to the side, I could see the sun was almost straight up, almost lunch time. Eight hours marked by breaks and lunch. I never counted the rows, but I could estimate. One hour up and down, quarter mile each way. At our noon break, I sat on the edge of the field, hoping for shade, and opened my lunch bag. Peanut butter and jelly, water, and today I had scrounged an apple. When I made my sandwiches, I slathered jam on my bread, so the peanut butter didn’t paste my mouth shut. I wanted the lunches my mom packed for my brothers. I craved one of those little cans of Vienna sausages, with a small bag of chips, and a sandwich with meat, egg salad, or cheese. Though sausages were pricey. Mom made our food go far, but she told me and my sister to wait until the men took their food before eating. My brothers had jobs on a carpenter crew. Mom said they worked hard, were growing boys, and needed a nutritious lunch. But I was growing too, and probably more active than either of them. Every day, I wished Mom had taken a turn in the fields.\n\nMy favorite sandwich was one I saw Rosemary’s cousins, the Schueper twins, eat. Thick slices of homemade bread with butter and Miracle Whip with a fried egg inside. The egg was cold. We couldn’t eat an hour before communion, so, kids brought breakfast. I think I made toast if I had time in the morning before mass, sometimes I didn’t eat.\n\n“Time,” the supervisor yelled. I got to my feet, stretched, and started a new row. Two more hours and the day was over. I imagined what it would be like if I couldn’t quit, like I was forced to work every day. I always identified with the underdog, every underdog, and was rabidly supportive. Not so appreciated in a town with no color. The migrants didn’t count. They lived on the farms where they worked, in falling down chicken coups with no bathrooms. In town, there was one half Soiux Indian and 799 white people.\n\nWhen the supervisor called lunch we sat for the 20-minute break, the crew talked. From the first day, the twelve of us sorted into two groups. The farm kids and the town kids, of which there were three. Me, Bonnie, and Janice. About six days in, Bonnie missed a couple of days and then didn’t show up again. My dad took us. Rosemary sniffed when she noticed. I was determined to get the bonus. Then one of the farm kids got sunstroke and had to drop out. They were a sturdy bunch. I didn’t care. It was a personal goal to prove how tough town girls could be. I knew I could count on Janice. Unfortunately, if there was the slightest competition, I’d throw myself at it. When I got my teeth into something, I was like a bulldog, one of my friends told me.\n\nRosemary set the caste system. She mostly ignored me. I tried to be part of the conversation, not successfully. Janice watched my efforts and sneered at me for trying.\n\nAs difficult as the job was, I was grateful I didn’t have to go back to the pickle patch. I had done that a week before the corn was ready. The days weren’t as long, but the entire time I was on hands and knees or bending over. They paid us by the pound. Every day, the owner showed us the size of the cucumbers he wanted, the only ones he would accept. Every day I bitched to myself as I followed the rows of low growing vines, scouring them for small cukes someone picked the day before, leaving the big yellow cukes. If you tried to add the overgrown ones to your bag, you were docked, when they sorted them. No matter how hard I worked, my haul was puny. The pay sucked, and I longed for the cornfields. But that was before I knew what detasseling meant.\n\n“Not many town kids signed up,” Rosemary started the lunch talk one day, before Bonnie left.\n“There aren’t more than five girls in town. Farm kids are all over,” I said. Rosemary didn’t acknowledge me.\n“Not much to get in your town. We go down the road to Lamsey for our shopping. Or to Oak Falls. There’s almost nothing to buy in White Rabbit, and we’re as close to Oak Falls as we are to you.”\n\nYou, as if I was the whole town. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? We had a general store, a smaller grocery, the pharmacy that was small but made good money, an office for selling insurance, even though nearly no one could afford it. A doctor who left, a dentist who drank, four bars, a diner, and six churches. Oh, and two gas stations, one on the edge of town that sold 3-2 alcohol. Depending on who was asking, 3-2 didn’t count as alcohol. According to my mother, it was the same as near-beer, and near-beer counted as alcohol.\n\nComparing White Rabbit with the two bigger towns hit a sore spot with me. Somehow it made us townies even more inferior. Rosemary knew I was miffed. Rosemary knew she had made a score that day and never missed a chance after that to point out the inferiority of our town compared to the larger towns in our county.\n\nI looked it up. Cities have a population of over 5000, a town has somewhere between 2500-4999, a village has under 2499. We were just barely a village, but Lamsey was only a couple hundred more wasn’t a town either. Oak Falls, even sixty-six years later, still had a population under 5,000 people. They hovered around being a city, but they never were.\n\nThree days left. We were getting down to the wire. Rosemary’s back looked like fire with tiny white spots around the edges. Really dumb. Still wore short sleeves. Janice had to miss a day because her grandmother was sick. I knew they couldn’t go to the hospital, couldn’t afford it. Doc made house visits when things were bad. I wasn’t sure Janice’s grandparents could afford to get medicine. They didn’t even have a car. No one could get help for bills in those days and even if the county or the state had programs like they do today, no one would have applied. Charity was almost as bad as a criminal record.\n\nThe day Janice couldn’t make it, Rosemary was in her element. “Are you going to stick it out,Mary? Looks like you’d be the only townie to complete the job. What is it now? Two out of three town kids quit and only one of the farm kids dropped out?” She had one of those eyebrows that she could raise at will. I wanted to ignore her, but I needed to stick up for Janice.\n\n“Something must have happened; Janice wouldn’t miss otherwise.”\nRosemary looked down her long, thin, slightly hooked nose and sniffed.\n“Time,” Marcella called. We lined up at the beginning of new rows.\n\nThe next day, Rosemary didn’t show up. Her cousin said her back was infected, and she was running a temperature of over 102. Their family was better off financially than mine, but they couldn’t afford a hospital either. Even if it was in Oak Falls. Even if they had insurance through the Farm Bureau. That didn’t cover much, unless you lost a limb farming. She couldn’t come back for the final two days and lost the bonus.\n\nTwo years later Sister Antoinette paired us as a team for debate club. We won seventy-five percent of our debates, but we could have done better. We never were close. I don’t think she liked me. Couldn’t say she’d be my choice as a best friend, either. She had to wear a high neckline at prom, because of the scars on her back.\n\nThe money I earned that summer paid for a pleated plaid skirt held closed by a huge gold safety pin. I got an oxford button down top to match the skirt, and a plaid vest. It was my money. Oh, the power of money in the pocket. I didn’t detassel the next year, but for the life of me I don’t remember what I did to make money. One thing I know, every day we detasseled, at quitting time, the remaining girls, too tired to shout, said, “What a 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: THE WAR TO END ALL WARS\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1867\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THE WAR TO END ALL WARS\nAugust 9th 1914\nXxxxxxxxxxx\nXxxxxxxxxxx\nXxxxxxxxxxx\nMy darling Gertie\nI write this brief letter shortly before we embark. The two horses are stowed safely. Altogether, there are xx cavalry divisions crossing the channel tonight and conditions are chaotic as you can imagine. God alone knows what part horses will play in this enterprise but the xxx Lancers shall do our very best. Look after our dear boys. You may find this letter heavily redacted as we have been advised that all mail is to pass through the censors.\nMy love to you dearest\nHenry\nAugust 16th 1914\nHello my darling\nThis is the first opportunity I have had since we bivouacked in Xxxxxx. Tell the boys that Flotsam and Jetsam are doing well though the Channel crossing was rough on both men and beasts. So far, the weather has stayed warm and dry which is as well as we are camped in the open and we have no shelter for our animals. To my chagrin, Xxxxxxxx has appointed me to his staff. I have objected as I came here to fight the Hun, after all, but I must do as I am ordered.\nMuch love Henry\nAugust 23rd 1914\nDearest Gertie\nThe first shot was fired last evening and I am pleased to say that it was a fellow cavalryman who fired it, xxxxxxxxx at xxxxxxxx in xxxxxxx. I expect things will really start to kickoff now. Not much else to report, I’m afraid. Yesterday, we had a staff meeting attended by all officers but Xxxxxxxx bored us all to death with his monotonous drone. The man is a blithering idiot and, in my opinion, unfit to lead. I saw another officer looking at him with the same look of contempt as I. I had never seen this officer before but he was a rank above myself. He seemed to be making notes with a fine, gold ballpoint pen. I attempted to have a word with him at the conclusion of our meeting but he had slipped away. Horses are fine although restless and much in need of exercise. Darling, do you think you could kindly send me on my own gold pen; the one my father left me? My love to you and the two boys.\nHenry\nSeptember 5th 1914\nDear Gertie\nI am unsure how quickly news is getting back to Blighty but I thought it best to write immediately in case you were alarmed. Xxxxxxxx organised an unnecessary recce of conditions at the front and ordered a mounted patrol which he, himself, led. I was, at first, dismayed to be excluded but the entire contingent of the Xxx Xxxxxxx were killed in a shell attack by the Germans at Xxxxxx. Xxx good men, needlessly lost. 150 horses, too. Among them were Xxxxxx Xxxxxxx, Xxxx Xxxxxxx and Xxxxxxx Xxxx. All that remain of the Xxx are devastated. I know you will do your best for their poor families. I now find myself in charge of the Xxx and have called a meeting in an effort to restore morale.\nMy love to you all\nHenry\nSeptember 8th 1914\nDear Gertie\nAs I am now in charge of the 9th, this letter will come by diplomatic bag and, thus, avoid the censors. Thank you for the pen and the socks, darling. It is a miracle how stuff from Blighty gets through. This missive gives me the opportunity to appraise you of our real situation. The death of our good friends, Albert Jessups, Paul Shelley and Francis Knox was a severe blow and I know that you will have been terribly upset by the news. May God have mercy upon their souls. The rain has started to make our lives miserable as we are surrounded by a sea of mud. Conditions are miserable for the nags, especially. This is no war for horses. Flotsam is ailing and I think he has a cold. A vet has given him a shot. Best not tell the boys. I called a meeting after Phillips disastrous recce in order to boost morale. I think I succeeded, just. Once again, I saw that strange officer I spoke of previously. He was wearing a trench coat and it seemed such a sensible thing. I wonder why I hadn’t thought of it myself. Please, darling, could you go to the Army and Navy in Victoria Street and purchase a trench coat for me? They have all my measurements.\nLove to you and the boys\nHenry Ransome Lt. Colonel\n9th Lancers\nOctober 1st 1914\nDearest Gertie\nI am so sorry not to have written sooner but I have been so terribly busy. The 9th were ordered to use our horses to transport ammunition to the front. Then, to transport fresh troops in wagons to the front and bring back the dead and wounded to the rear. These are cavalry horses, not beasts of labour. It is outrageous. Flotsam, alas, died but, at least, was spared this ignominious task. Jetsam is exhausted by the work load, as are all the other horses. Mules have been drafted in to augment our numbers. Mules! I cannot even begin to express how I feel about the situation. The casualties, man and beast, are horrific and the wet conditions are not helping. Thank you, while I remember, for the trench coat and, also, the jam and cake, which I shared with all of the 9th. There is nobody I can even share our situation with; officers are killed and replaced with such rapidity. I really need somebody of a superior rank to press our case. Yesterday, I saw that unknown officer walking through our camp, as I looked out from my tent. He was wearing the same trench coat which was now filthy and splattered with mud and he appeared to be smoking a pipe. I hesitated just to don my own trench coat and set off after him, thinking that he would be an ally in my protestations about our horses being used for manual labour. Unfortunately, I succeeded only in getting drenched and, today, I am wretched with a cold. I must keep my head up though for the sake of morale though I fear my nerves are stretched thin and I have started my old habit of grinding my teeth which does not help me sleep well. We must forebear.\nMy love to you and the boys, dearest\nHenry Ransome Lt. Colonel\n9th Lancers\nOctober 11th 1914 Dear Gertie\nThe Germans have resorted to using gas. It is appalling. The staff propose to hit back with our own gas attacks. Is this what the art of war has come down to? Jetsam. I am afraid was a victim of one such attack, as were several other horses. Our main corps now consists of mules. They are hardy beasts and have earned my respect for their powers of endurance. My cold refuses to go away and I am now coughing.\nI have searched all around for that strange officer. He is a Colonel but nobody seems to know of whom I am talking. I am assuming that he belongs to another unit and must seek him out as I desperately need an ally if I am to make my case before we have no horses left. Fodder is now in short supply. I thank you, darling, for the books and the strange gift of a pipe. I have never been a smoker but I believe you have sent it to me to bite down on to help with the grinding of my teeth? You are a wonder.\nMy love to you and our boys\nHenry Ransome Lt. Colonel\n9th Lancers\nNovember 1st 1914\nMy darling Gertie\nHorror upon horror! Though I thought to hide this awful truth from you, darling, I want somebody to know what is really going on here. Thousands slaughtered unnecessarily by attacks that gain just a few inches of ground, if that. It is appalling. We are bringing dead and injured back from the front daily but are struggling to cope. The rumour is that French is to be replaced as Commander in Chief but why in God’s name are they taking so long to make that change? The man has no empathy for the men whatsoever. I had an opportunity to speak directly to him about the general chaos and lack of coordination all around and our desperate need of fodder for the horses and mules or they cannot carry on much longer. All French did was listen but offered no suggestion of how we might improve things. Today, to my amazement, I have received word that I have been promoted! For what? I am a cavalry officer reduced to a transporter of corpses. But this is how French operates; he promotes those who complain in order to shut them up. My cough is so much worse and conditions so awful that, for the first time in my life, I do not bother to shave daily. If anything should happen to me, Gertie, let these letters be a record of the truth.\nI send you my fondest love and long to see you again\nHenry Ransome Colonel\n9th Lancers\nNovember 8th 1914\nCan it truly be only four months since I came across the Channel to fight the Hun? Four months of a hellish nightmare, my darling. We lost five more officers and fifteen men, yesterday, when shells were dropped so far behind the front. These Germans will stop at nothing. I was unharmed but I am dreadfully ill. I cough badly and, as I write this, I lie upon my camp bed shivering. I fear I have pneumonia but how can I complain or insist on medical assistance when so many are dead or dying? I...\nMy apologies, darling. I had to stop writing for a moment, a man looked into my tent, the rain teeming down outside. It was that same officer, the strange one of whom I have spoken so often. He looked soaked through, his trench coat filthy and his face with several day’s growth. It is not right that a Colonel should go about unshaven; bad for morale but I can hardly talk. His face, Gertie, his eyes, they looked so familiar...\nNovember 14th 1914\nXxxxxxxxx\nXxxxxxxxxx\nXxxxxx\nMy dear Mrs. Ransome\nIt is with great sadness that I write to inform you of the tragic death of your husband, Colonel Henry Ransome, 9th Lancers, who died in a shell attack by German forces on November 8th of this year.\nColonel Ransome was a brave and respected officer and the Commander in Chief has asked me to pass on his personal condolences.\nColonel Ransome has been buried with full military honours but we have some personal items that you may wish to be forwarded to you. On the other hand, you may find these to be too distressing and I shall hold onto them until I hear back from yourself. They consist of a trench coat, a pipe and a gold fountain pen.\nOnce again, my sincere commiserations.\nYours respectfully\nLt. Colonel Arthur Bridges\nAdjutant to Brigadier John French CICGS\nBritish Expeditionary Force" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sara Mason\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1928\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about light returning to a place that has been deprived of it for a long time, literally or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This story contains language, teenagers being teenagers(ex: talking about intercourse, drug use) and mentions of suicide.\n\n\nOne day, in their freshman year of high school.. He noticed something different about the school day. There was less chatter. \"Come on class..!\" Mrs. Jones groaned. \"I know you all know this.\" She says with an awkward expression. Mark looked at the board seeing the polynomial shit on the board.\n(3x+8x3-5+1) - (2x+3-2)\nHe exhaled sharply. \"What would be the simplified polynomial be?\" What would it be? He thought to himself. He stared at the problem as he wrote it in his notebook. Well.. You could put a one there... He thought to himself, looking down at his notes.\n(3x+8x3-5+1) - 1(2x+3-2)\nThat would make it... (3x+8x3-5+1) with (-2x-3+2)... He thought with a smile. He nodded to himself. The negative two x and the three x would go together. That'd be one x. The negative three and two would go together being negative one.. and then we have negative four from the other side.. And then the 8x3 would be by itself cause there's no other degree. He thought to himself, writing it all down.\nx-4-1+8x3\nMrs. Jones probably wants it in Standard Form. He thought simplifying it to 8x3+x-4-1. I can add the negative four and one to get negative five, simplifying it further. \"It would be eight x to the third degree-\" He looks up. \"Or would it be cubic? Anyways that, eight x with a three above the x, plus x, and then minus five.\" He says. Mrs. Jones froze.\n\"Well done, Mark!\" She said, surprised. His eyes widen and he found himself smiling like a dork.\nAnd only then, did it hit him. What was wrong the pass while during this semester. She wasn't here.\nHe remembered she adjusted her backpack as she patiently waited in line. Her eyes were looking down at everyone's feet. Only when did she hear the shuffling of the kids in front of her move, did she look up and do the same as them. She walked into the portable and hung her backpack on her hook.\nAs usual, she was quiet and no one blinked an eye at her. She made her way a little farther into the room, and glanced at the substitute teacher, who was writing on the whiteboard. She poked her glasses closer to her forehead before wandering over to her seat. She sat down and immediately got her book out from her desk. \"Hello everyone. I know your teacher- er.. Mr- Mr...\" She trailed off.\n\"Mr. Smith.\" The quiet one said. Still reading her book.\n\"Ah- yes- thank you whoever said that-\" The girl sighed. \"Mr. Smith said that you all were to read the Scarlet Ibis, and proceed to write an essay about it.\" With that, the substitute left to the desk. The girl's eyes wandered over there. She merely blinked confirming the substitute's position, before returning to her book.\nTime and time again Mark saw her do this. Walking straight to her seat, setting her backpack next to her. She always pulled out something that wasn't class related.\nFirst it was her books. Then it developed to a notebook where she wrote things constantly, and Mark knew it wasn't notes(he checked whenever he could, she doesn't pay attention to who's staring at her much) but stories she wrote, and then she'd listen to music and read. Or write. It was so frustrating! How could she do all of that and stay on top of her classes?\nMark sighed as she grabbed a book, almost immediately she was lost in the world the author was creating for her. He shook his head grabbing a notebook. For notes. He unearthed his pencil from the bottom of his backpack and wrote the date on the random page he opened to. He leaned against the back of the seat staring at the board. He started to space out, that wheel in his head spinning frantically, making him hate himself so Gods damned much.\nWhat was her name? He thought to himself, folding his arms. The entire time was of him thinking that. Of her, and what her name was. All the names he thought of, didn't sound right, not at all.\nMark let out a yawn sitting down at the lunch table. He looked at the sea of teenagers around him. It's so fucking crowded in here.. He thought tiredly. He sat there for quite a while listening to the casual chatter of the various friend groups.\nHe and several others however, jumped hearing the sound of shouts. He stood up rather quickly, immediately looking towards the sounds of unusual chaos. His shoulders slumped as he recognized the look. A fight. He thought to himself. Shaking his head, he left the commons. I'm not dealing with that today.\nThe brunette leaned against the wall, slowly sliding down. When his bottom hit the earth he pulled out a blunt and a light. \"Oi- can I get some?\" A voice asked. After a small cough and exhale Mark obliged to Jesse's request. He couldn't help but chuckle hearing Jesse's series of coughs. \"You heard about the fight?\"\n\"I was there when it started-\" He said taking another hit. \"But I left. Why?\"\n\"I dunno the details- but the cops got called.\" Jesse says exhaling.\n\"The fuck they do?\"\n\"A gun was pulled.\"\n\"Again?\"\n\"Again.\" I can't wait to leave Everburn.\nHe wandered the track field of his high school, his hands in his pockets. Mark was set on heading straight to the benches, where he and his friends hung out during lunch. When he got there, the group was talking in hushed voices. \"So who got laid?\" He asked with a lopsided grin, sitting at his spot on the benches.\nWhile it clearly wasn't what they were talking about, Jesse went red immediately. A chorus of \"ooo\" 's and \"ahh\" 's came from the rest of the group. \"Oh shut up!\" Jesse barked.\n\"How can you always tell that, Mark?\" Wendy asked staring at him with folded arms. He blinked.\n\"We're sophomores, Wendy.\"\n\"You're sophomores.\"\n\"You're the one junior, Jack.\" Jesse says giving him a look. Jack shook his head angrily.\n\"I still have seniority over you, prick.\"\n\"Whatever-\"\n\"Seriously-\" Mark says, interrupting Jesse. \",though.. What's up you guys?\" He asks shifting his body so he was facing all of them. \"The group's never this quiet.\" Yes, they weren't talking, but something definitely shut up when Mark said that.\n\"Remember that one chick from elementary?\" Jack asked.\n\"I didn't go to your elementary and even I know that's vague as fuck.\" Wendy said. Jesse laughed a little.\n\"Wendy's right. What chick are you talking about?\" Jesse questioned.\n\"That one girl, Mark-\" He says motioning to the brunette. \"You know her- she was in our fifth grade class. That one with the black hair and wire glasses?\" Mark's eyes widen.\n\"Her! Yeah, I remember her.\" He said a bit shocked. \"What's up with her?\" He raised a brow.\n\"We were just starting to talk about it.\" Wendy said with a sigh.\n\"Yeah.. \" Jesse agrees scratching at his arm a bit. \"Apparently she, ya know- did the deed-\"\n\"You guys are talking about a chick fuck-\"\n\"No.\" Wendy said clipped.\nAt the same time Jack explained: \"What Jesse means by 'she did the deed', is that she offed herself. Took her daddy's gun.\"\n\"Or overdosed.\"\n\"Or hung herself.\"\n\"Slit wrist.\"\n\"Toaster in the tub.\" Mark pulled back as the three listed off a bunch of ways one could kill themselves. He shook his head.\n\"Hang on now- we're talking about the same chick. Right?\" He asked. \"How the fuck- why would she kill herself?\" There was a deadly silence as he snapped at the three. Almost a minute of that went by before Jack spoke.\n\"What's her name?\" Mark froze. \"Her favorite color? Her favorite book, show or some shit?\" His usually joyful homey face was stone cold. \"Think about it Mark- we don't know shit about her. You remember how invisible she was, and she was in our class.\" He pointed out. Wendy inhaled sharply hearing this and Jesse sunk into the bench. The silence was there for a bit more.\n\"You're right.\" He said, his shoulders slumping.\nMark roamed the halls of Everburn High, his hands in his pockets. A faint smile came upon his face, seeing a familiar blonde. \"Hey Wendy-\" His words stop seeing her sharply turn. Mark being Mark, he swiftly follows after her. Appearing by her side he whispered: \"What's up?\"\n\"You of all people, haven't heard?\" She hissed. Mark shrugged.\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\"Someone overdosed in the second floor bathroom.\" She said seriously, looking at him. His eyes widen.\n\"On my shit.\"\n\"On your shit.\" She confirms.\nHe leaned against the tree staring off into the darkness as he took a hit from his vape. He exhaled slowly, watching that cloud come out of his mouth. He smiled to himself, chuckling a little. It reminded him of a dragon, and despite being a sophomore, that made him so Gods damned happy.\nMark put his hands in his hoodie pockets, tightly holding his vape in his hand. He glanced around the land watching out for any figures trying to scare the shit out of him. He nodded to himself ever so slightly just as-\n\"Boo!\" A sharp loud voice came from behind him.\n\"Holy Jesus fuck!\" He shouted with a jump, his vape ended up on the soaked grass. \"Jack- what the hell?!\" He barked turning sharply towards his friend.\n\"Oh calm down.\" The friend replied, grabbing the vape and handing it to Mark. \"You knew I was coming.\"\n\"Yeah- but not that you were gonna scare the shit out of me.\" Mark said bitterly.\n\"Whatever.\" He waved off. \"Remember that chick from fifth?\" Mark glared at him. What chick? He thought to himself. \"The one everyone's talking about- the one who offed herself.\" He said sharply. Mark quickly nodded.\n\"Yeah- what's up?\" He asked.\n\"I know her name- Sara Mason.\" Jack answered pulling out his phone. After unlocking it, he searched something up. Mark guessed it was her he was searching. \"Freshman Sara Mason of Everburn High was fourteen when she missed weeks of school. After a few months her peers, and even school staff, had assumed she had killed herself. Many say she was invisible, never there. She has been presumed dead since May nineteenth of 2021.\" He reads.\n\"Which was two years ago.\" He comments before continuing on reading. Mark simply nodded. \"However recent evidence on the case, per local librarian Marie Ash's request, police are starting to believe that Sara Mason and her parents simply moved elsewhere, leaving the small town Everburn.\" He finished, looking up at Mark. His eyes were wide.\n\"So she's not dead?\" He asks.\n\"Sort of- no one knows for sure. The whole town knows her name now though. She's like a fucking Goddess now-\"\n\"What do you mean, Goddess?\" Mark asked checking to see if his vape batteries were charged. He let out a curse when they were almost dead.\n\"See- this is what happens when you're a smartass and graduate a year early-\" Jack comments. \"To answer your question though- she brought so fucking much attention to mental health and shit.\" He says putting his phone away. \"The staff's actually doing stuff- not just the S.E.L shit they've been doing when you were there.\"\n\"Seriously?\"\n\"Seriously dude- it's awesome.\"\n\"About time Everburn changed.\"\n\"Right?\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dear Best Friend\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1823\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about somebody in love with someone from their past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s been three thousand six hundred and fifty two days. \nDo you remember how we would ride our bikes to the store on the corner when we were kids? The ninety four days of summer vacation were always the best with you around. \nI would always get the same cola with a green straw and you would always make sure to get something you hadn’t had before. Once, you tried a bag of spicy crickets. You tried to get me to eat one, but as soon as it touched my tongue I vomited. You just laughed at me. \nMr. Delgato, the shop owner, always acted like he hated us. He would always roll his eyes whenever we came into his store. I know he liked us. He would groan and moan but somehow, whenever we were short on change, he was having a sale. Or someone happened to drop a dollar bill on the ground. Or it was “about to go bad”.\nDo you remember the time I almost got hit by that truck? It was six days into summer vacation. I wasn’t looking as we rode away from Mr. Delgato’s shop. I pulled out right in front of them. If it hadn’t been for you grabbing my shirt, I probably would’ve died. You saved my life. \nWe saved each other a lot. When you forgot your homework, I would always let you copy mine. When I failed my drivers test for the third time, you would give me a ride to school. When we both got signed up for baseball in the third grade, you told me to pretend I hurt my arm so that I never had to play in a real game. \nYou were always so good at baseball. Of course, your dad forced you to play for the first few years, but eventually you grew to love it. I wasn’t any good and I didn’t like to play, but I came to every one of your games. \nDo you remember the first time you lost? It was one thousand, one hundred and fifty six days after you started playing. You missed a catch and the other team won by a single home run. You beat yourself up for days about it. I cheered you up by writing you a letter telling you all the things I admired about you. Then you wouldn’t feel so bad about losing your game. \nYour dad found the letter and for one thousand, seven hundred and forty one days you weren’t allowed to play with me. You could play with other friends, but you were only allowed to talk to me at school.\nYour dad didn’t like me. He thought that I was strange. He didn’t like that I always looked at his boots while talking. He didn’t like that I encouraged your storytelling. He didn’t think it was very masculine to imagine the way life ought to be instead of dealing with the way life is. \nDo you remember when your dad left? It was one thousand, seven hundred and forty one days after you weren’t allowed to see me anymore. You came to school in tears. Your dad left behind his old truck and you spent your time after school trying to fix it. \nDo you remember that party we went to? It was ninety four days before we started our senior year of high school. It was in the mountains. We both got really drunk. We were too drunk to drive so we stayed until everyone else had gone. The woods were dark and the fire was starting to die. \nWe were in the bed of your truck looking at the stars when you asked me what my future plans were.\n I told you about an Ivy League college, followed by a high paying job at this new government facility called NASA. \nYou asked me what they did and I told you that they study the stars. You asked me to tell you about them and I did. I was so boring compared to you. \nWhen I ran out of stuff to say, I asked you to tell me a story. I always loved the way you told stories. For hours and hours I listened to your stories about people from other planets and discovering new galaxies. You wove intricate tales about people sailing through the stars. Eventually, you had to stop because your voice grew hoarse, but I could’ve listened to you forever. \nWe laid there in silence, each of us drinking a beer. I started to shiver next to you. You pulled off your letterman jacket and laid it across me. Then, you wrapped your arms around me. I stiffened for a moment, then rested my head against your chest. It felt perfect, sitting there with you. No one to bother us or to ask us what we were doing. \nYour heartbeat was strong in my ears and I still kept shivering, but no longer with cold. You laughed and told me I must’ve been freezing if I was still shivering. I looked up at you. I will never forget the way your eyelashes caught the moonlight. \nBefore either of us knew it we were kissing. Your lips were soft and gentle. \nAnd we kept kissing. I could taste the alcohol on your tongue and I’m sure you could taste it on mine. We didn’t stop. You migrated your kisses until your lips weren’t anywhere near my mouth and the next thing I knew, my mouth wasn’t anywhere near yours either. \nWhen we were both finished, we stayed there, holding each other close until the morning. You had one hand on my thigh the entire drive home. You pulled into my driveway and gave me a long, lingering kiss.\nThat morning I left for astronomy camp. I spent the next ninety three days of summer vacation there. \nWhen I came back just in time for school, I was heartbroken. You had someone else on your arm. The head cheerleader Jessica. \nI had spent my entire ninety three days writing letters to you and thinking about how much I missed you. You spent all of those ninety three days falling for someone else. \nYou spent two hundred and seventy seven days acting as if nothing had happened between us. Jessica had suddenly taken my place as your best friend. I looked for you in the hallways, but as soon as we made eye contact you would turn away and kiss Jessica. \nDo you remember the second to last baseball game of senior year? It had been two hundred and seventy eight days since you stopped talking to me. You slid into home base as the catcher from first closed in. He landed on you and I watched your knee bend backwards. Your future plans including scholarships and professional baseball were gone when the doctor said you’d never walk again without a cane. \nThe next game you were sullen and hated sitting in the dugout. You came to sit with me in the bleachers because all of your friends were on the team.\nWe started talking and it was like you had never left me. I hated that I still liked you so much after you left me for Jessica. \nDuring the last inning, we snuck under the bleachers and made out. Suddenly, your hand was down my pants and I finished at the same time as the game did. You left and before I even had my belt done you were on the field kissing Jessica, celebrating our school's win of the championship. \nWe kept meeting in secret. You would always put the moves on me, but you wouldn't let me reciprocate. \nWe laid on my bed, holding each other the day before graduation. You asked me how long before I left for school. It was eighty three days away. I told you I was nervous. I said I wanted you to come with me. I told you that I loved you. \nAs soon as the words left my lips, you got up. You hurried and put on your shirt. I was confused. You started yelling at me.\n“We aren’t allowed to love each other,” you said. “It’s unnatural. Besides, I have a girlfriend. I’m supposed to love her, not you.”\nThen you threw open the door and left.\nI tried to see you all summer. But every time I went to your house, your mom told me you were busy with Jessica or working in the local mechanic shop to help pay the bills. I didn’t get to see you again before I left for school. \nI went to an Ivy League college, like I said, and I was gone for two thousand, one hundred and ninety one days. I wrote to you every day for the first fifteen hundred days. Then, as time went on without a response, I wrote less until I was only writing to you once a month. \nDo you remember the next time we saw each other? After two thousand, one hundred and ninety one days of hard work without any friends, I got a little piece of paper in the mail. A wedding invitation. For you and Jessica. I was heartbroken, but I decided to go. I needed to see you again. \nI showed up an hour early. I knocked on the door of the room you were getting ready in. Your face lit up to see me. You were so handsome in your tuxedo. We hugged and spent the next twenty minutes catching up. You apologized for not answering my letters and I think I understood. How could love like ours be accepted by everyone? As the time ticked closer and closer to your wedding, you started to sweat. \nEven after two thousand, two hundred and fifty seven days apart, there was still a spark. You kissed me as soon as we were alone. We snuck into the bathroom and had one last good time. I begged you to not get married. We could run away together. I could support us with my job as an astronomer. But you told me no. You needed to love jessica. So I watched you leave. I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve interrupted the wedding and confessed my love for you. I left instead. \nTwenty-four hours later, you and Jessica were arguing on a road trip. She had found the letters you had written to me but never sent. You were telling her that you loved me ever since we were children. You told her you wanted to run away and start a life with me. But that’s just what I imagine. No one really knows what distracted you so much that you didn’t see the train coming. \nIt's been three thousand six hundred and fifty two days since I told you I love you. But if I’m completely honest, I’ve loved you since day 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: Backtrack\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2102\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about somebody in love with someone from their past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Backtrack\n\nFrank didn’t like himself. He really didn’t. The feelings first visited him at his wife’s funeral five years ago. He realized he wasn’t feeling the way he should be feeling. It was sad and all, but he wasn’t devastated, as if he had just lost his soul mate, the true love of his life. That was because he hadn’t.\n\nHe sat in the front pew, just feet from the bronze casket, and the sad reality sunk in. Frank had “settled”. Darlene was a good woman, and a good mother, but it wasn’t the true love he had once dreamed of. At his age, Frank knew he wouldn’t have another shot at it, and that was a sad place to be.\n\nHe caved to family pressure and spent thirty-seven years in a law office dealing with paperwork contrived by others. He hated every minute of it. He took more pride in a rabbit cage he once built than all the wills, real estate contracts, and leases he had drafted. At least he could see the real life purpose to it. Accurate or not, there is nothing in the human experience quite so sad as the perception of a wasted life.\n\nHe was a loner, not by choice, but by the natural evolution of lack of energy and loss of interest in almost everything. He wasn’t suicidal or anything like that. He was just unhappy, not because of things happening to him, but because of what he done, or not done, with his life and what he had become. It was all made so much worse because he could remember a different Frank, a Frank he did like.\n\nEvery night would end the same with Frank sitting alone at the kitchen table under a ticking clock with a cup of coffee and a stack of photo albums. Disappointed with his current life, and being too old to have much of a future life, Frank sought solace by visiting a former life, which he recalled as happy. The albums helped him remember who he once was.\n\nFrank kept it simple. He labeled the albums Backtrack #1, Backtrack #2, and Backtrack #3, each covering discernable segments of his life, grade school years, high school, and college days. He visited the Frank he found in those pages every night. Unlike many who look at the past with a melancholy sadness, Frank enjoyed the time he spent with the old Frank. Those were great times, and he was a great Frank.\n\nHe opened Backtrack #1.\n\nA young boy stood in front of his garage, disheveled hair, a smudge of dirt on his face, the right pant leg on his blue jeans rolled up to his calf, and holding a worn basketball under one arm. The picture was taken the same day he led the Celtics to another championship. Sometimes he would bounce a pass to K.C. Jones at the elbow, or rifle the ball to Heinsohn who would hit one from the corner. Most of the time Cousy took it himself, faking out his man and driving hard to the basket. Taking care not to hit the electric wires hanging over the basket, Frank developed his three-point shot before there was a three-point shot. He hoped he’d end up playing for the Celtics, but he’d be okay with a spot on any NBA roster. Dreams are so much better before they are unfulfilled.\n\nThe alley looked so small. How could they have done so much in such a small place? The venue was narrow, the asphalt cracked and pitted, but it was Wrigley, The Garden, and Lambeau to those boys. It was all they needed for an outfield for whiffle ball games, a basketball court at the hoop on Cortzen’s garage, and a football field between the two telephone poles, the same poles that served as the goal and outer boundary for the games of “Ghost” at night. There were so many kids in the neighborhood. Frank could always round up enough bodies for some kind of a contest. It was such a good time, such a good place, and Frank liked going back there.\n\nFrank loved the picture of him holding his racers in front of the warming house at the town’s ice rink. He had to coast into a snowbank to stop, but those cold winter nights were the best. He would call Weather right after supper every night hoping the temperature was below 32˚ so the rink would be open. He would meet Cherri there. Even with the thick winter gloves, it was exciting to hold her hand as they skated in circles to the scratchy tones blaring out of the old loudspeaker hanging on one of the light poles. It was all the more delightful as his parents never knew the reason for Frank’s sudden interest in outdoor sports.\n\nFrank could name every kid in the picture of his 5th Grade class. He remembered muffling cries of anguish whenever his good buddy Billy Sandler kicked him in the shins when Sister Mary Martin had her back to the class. No one ever understood why, but that’s what Billy did. It hurt back then, but Frank laughed about it now.\n\nThey played with a mini football in the blocked off street at recess. Frank was always the first one picked, and he would play quarterback. When they weren’t playing football, it was Four Square, Red Rover, or just acting goofy. Frank liked recalling the carefree days of just being a kid.\n\nHis mother kept most of his report cards, A’s and B’s across the board. Funny how a 77-year-old man can still take pride in that.\n\nA quarterback with top notch grades, not enough fingers for all his NBA Championship rings, and a girl’s first love. It doesn’t get any better than that.\n\nFrank closed Backtrack #1, and poured himself another cup of coffee.\n\nHe opened Backtrack #2.\n\nHe wished he didn’t have his eyes closed in the picture, but he was happy the local newspaper photographer snapped that shot of him hoisting the league championship trophy his senior year. The box score was posted right next to it, and his mom had circled his 17 points in red.\n\nHe must have been embarrassed at the number of pictures his mom was taking at his Junior Prom. He cut a handsome figure, and the girls were all so beautiful. Judy was beyond beautiful. Every time Frank looked at those pictures, he smiled as he remembered his father’s final admonition as he left the house- “No drinking and keep a lid on the moochie-moochie stuff.”\n\nFrank was a fun guy back then, steep in mischief, and clever. He was the undercover guy who planned, organized, and assisted, but never got caught. Henry Hooper got busted, but it was Frank’s remote control fart machine that poor Henry was holding in the picture. He was the one who talked Dick Larson into riding his motorcycle up and down the school hallways, and even held the door open for him when blasted his way in, but he was never connected to the prank. The memorable day the aging Miss Helstern ran screaming out of her classroom, Frank’s little brother was missing a hamster. Frank liked that high school kid and his sense of humor, the boldness, the creativity, and the good sense to never get caught.\n\nThe program from the high school talent show his sophomore year was bittersweet. Frank played the guitar-sort of. He and a couple of his buddies fancied themselves as the American version of the Beatles. Benji on the organ totally lost his place, and then the speakers went out. The group garnered lots of laughs with only a smattering of sympathy applause from some parents. His dad called him Elvis for the remainder of the year. Frank now laughed louder than anyone in the audience that night.\n\nReport cards weren’t in the album, but his grades were always solid. As he crept closer to the real world, he sensed a professional basketball career was no longer a certainty, and he started to contemplate more cerebral options. He had the grades and resources to consider a wide variety of possibilities. It was like “Anything Can Happen Day” on the Mickey Mouse Club Show that he watched as a child. Frank was in the starting blocks. He could go anywhere. He could be anything. He could be a doctor, a lawyer, a writer, a scientist, a photographer, a veterinarian, a pilot, a sports reporter, anything. That is the beauty, the wonder, of the teenage years. One is free to imagine doing anything, of being anything. Frank loved visiting the guy who had the ability to dream, and every night Backtrack #2 put him there.\n\nFrank was tired, but he needed to spend just a little time with the guy in Backtrack #3. Those bothersome green leaves of summer were falling all around Frank, and he felt like he deserved, needed, the smiles to linger just a bit longer.\n\nFrank opened Backtrack #3.\n\nHe almost couldn’t recognize himself in his track uniform. He couldn’t make the basketball team, but hard work can get you a spot on a small college track team. Shaggy long hair, a moustache, muscular shoulders, and tanned, toned arms and legs. Man, you were one good looking guy, Frank.\n\nAt first, track was only his fallback sport, but Frank learned to love the comradery, the competition, and the trips around the Midwest. He ran the 880 and the mile, and he had a nice four-year career. Frank admired that guy's efforts and accomplishments.\n\nHe remembered his dad telling him there was no better status in life than that of a college student, and Frank learned he was right. The party photos weren’t always the most flattering, but what the heck, they were college kids. Roger in a toga passed out on a park bench in front of the firehouse. Who took that picture?! Frank got him up and took him back to his dorm. The fraternity snow sculpture was disqualified for being “tasteless”. (Frank told them it wouldn’t fly.) The basement beer pong “battle to the death”. It was all so stupid, but it was so much fun.\n\nHe remembered the northern pike being bigger than it looked in the picture. Every summer, he and Charlie would head up north for a long weekend fishing trip. Frank imagined himself in that rowboat, holding a cold can of beer, soaking in the sun, while keeping half an eye on that oversized red and white bobber bouncing around atop the glistening waves. If that wasn’t heaven, it had to be the next best thing. Some nights Frank would substitute a cold beer for the coffee. It helped put him back in that boat.\n\nMatters of the heart turned more serious. Frank was that incurable romantic who had the deck stacked against him from the get-go. Finding that “love-at-first sight, true love, soul mate” proved to be more difficult than coming up with a good match, so he remained largely unattached. He dated a number of girls, and somehow a few pictures survived the years and found a place in an album. They were all pretty, and he liked them all. There were parties, picnics, bike rides, canoe trips, the movies, days at the beach, repeated visits to the no entry fee zoo. Keeping it light, there was no drama, no stress, no pressure, no hurt, and it was all good.\n\nCollege Frank could be patient. He was young. There was a whole world of women out there. He knew he would find true love someday. It was a little like “Anything Can Happen Day” again. He could dream of her and what she would be like.\n\nThat was the best part of Backtrack #3 for Frank. He liked thinking of a Frank at time when he could still imagine the moment he would meet his true love.\n\nFrank closed his eyes and blended it all together, that little boy shooting hoops in his backyard, holding Judy close to him as they danced at the prom, and giving it everything he had on the bell lap. It all swirled around in his mind until he could see one pretty good guy. He was proud to have been him.\n\nFrank put the albums away, rinsed out his coffee cup, and went to bed. He would get through another day tomorrow, and then sit down at that small table under the ticking clock for another meeting with the old Frank, that guy he once knew and loved." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Not Some Juliet\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2819\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about somebody in love with someone from their past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "[Warning, contains mention of death of a loved one.]\n\nI stood staring at the sea foam green doors. The sea of students maneuvered around me like the flow of a river breaks to a jagged rock in its current. There is no way I can do this.\n\nI took a deep breath, C'mon, I thought, You have to do it. For him. He would have wanted you to carry on.\n\nYet as I willed my feet to move, I remained stuck in place. It was here, I remembered, that we had hung out for the first time. We would meet outside of these doors before school and said goodbye here every day. Thinking about how that is never going to happen again makes my bones ache and my heart hollow.\n\nThat was the first Monday back at school. I had begged Dad to let me stay home, but he was still hopelessly angry with me and showed no sympathy at all. I wished more than ever that morning that mom was still around, but of course, she never was. She left and isn't coming back. So I went to school, and doing so felt like the hardest thing I would ever have to do. Ever. But this, oh this was so much worse.\n\nHere I was, staring again at the sea foam green doors. Except for today, no students bustled around me. The sky was gloomy but hadn't bothered to cry. If my emotions controlled the sky, the state would be flooded and lightning would rain down from the heavens for today, this awful day. But the sky did not comply; it never did. So I settled for gloomy.\n\nI was wearing black leggings and a black T-shirt. Nothing special, which made me feel terrible. I wish I had something more formal, but this was all I could find in black. Ben had always said I had a colorful personality, which leaked out onto my clothes...\n\nOh, Ben.\n\nI blinked back the tears. I couldn't start crying already. I had an hour, after all.\n\nAt first, I didn't understand why he would want a funeral in the gym of our high school. I knew it was a customary ceremony to mourn lost member of Hugh school “families”, but the whole funeral? When I was told, I didn't believe it. I mean, really, the high school? That was what I thought until I realized I had to believe it; since his mum spoke to him before he died. Mum. That is what he always called her. Him and his funny fake accents that leaked into his speech...\n\nI blinked back tears. I couldn’t afford to remember him today if all days. I had to get through this, and then I could go back to my hole of despair and self blame.\n\nWell, anyways, his mom said he told her his happiest memories were in high school. He didn't know it then, but he was saying those words on his deathbed. So, she felt it was the best place to hold his funeral.\n\nAnyone who knew him would know that wasn’t where his happiest memories were made, nor where he’d like to be remembered forever. To me it seemed as though his mom was trying to hold on to him, the version of him from her mind, as if he were still living. It felt like such a selfish thing to do. I was going to have to go back to that gym three times a week, and she would never even have to see it again. My therapist thought holding it in the gym would help me with the healing process, so I had no objection to offer. But something about it still felt wrong to me, like something inside me needed to be settled. Like Ben would’ve have wanted me to remember him and grieve him in our spot, not some superficial place his mom decided for him.\n\nThinking about all this practically killed me, so I had to stop. I don't really remember it, but my dad managed to push me inside. I robotically greeted some of Ben's family and his friends. His friends tried to comfort me, but I was devoid of all emotion and expression. Past the point of any comfort, just numbness. My dad guided me into the gym, where my eyes welled with tears, and sat me down in a chair next to him.\n\nAnd here I am, sitting in a chair at Ben's funeral.\n\nThe worst had already happened. I had prayed and prayed that no fighting would ensue today, that we could all just mourn him together. But of course, they were bickering from the moment they saw each other. Mumbling things in each other's direction, all the passive-aggressive feud speak. Today this quarreling was irking me more than ever, surprising me with the fact that I had any capacity to feel emotion at all. Ben's Mom, Mrs. Bently, murmured something that my dad heard, and apparently, he had enough.\n\n\"I can't believe you! Acting like this is my fault, I never wanted this!\" Dad's voice bellowed across the room as he stood from his chair.\n\n\"Well, it certainly isn't my fault now, is it? If you had just let me take care of this, we may not be here today! And it wasn't your child who died now was it, James?\" The mother remained in her seat, though tears welled in her eyes and her voice seemed on the brink of breaking. \n\nMy dismal self looked around the room. People sitting in gray fold-up chairs, looking transfixed at the scene unfolding in front of them. My father, previously sitting at my side, was up from his seat and yelling at Mrs. Bently, in the aisle across from us. Mrs. Bently was held to her seat, most likely from the weight of grief rather than self-control. I could relate. I turned to look at the front of the room but seeing the coffin made tears roll down my cheeks and my shoulders shake uncontrollably.\n\nWhy did it have to be Ben? I couldn’t help feeling like it was my fault somehow. After all, he had snuck out to see me the night he got in the accident. Or was it our parents' fault? Our parents, caught up in their stupid feud, that something this tragic happened? \n\nMy father turned and noticed my sobs as I looked away sheepishly. The room fell silent. He looked over at Mr. and Mrs. Bently, both with wet cheeks and silent sobs, at Benjamin Bently’s coffin, and then at me.\n\n“Julia hasn’t been herself since it happened. At first I was furious, and I still am mad that she was sneaking around with my enemy's son. But something inside of me has shifted, seeing my little girl like this. Something about Ben really changed her. First for the better and now for the worse. It's just something I don't understand.\"\n\n“I loved him, Daddy. I love him now. And he’s gone.” I continued to son. I couldn’t explain how I truly felt. Now them fighting while we’re supposed to be grieving was so awfully disrespectful I couldn’t stand it. \n\nMy father looked at me. Really looked at me. I looked back for a moment, and saw something in his eyes changed. He recognized me, my grief. It was the same grief he had felt for mom. He recognized the feeling of heartbreak, in love with someone who will forever be in your past. I watched as my father took a deep breath before speaking:\n\n“He was only 16,” he started, taking his hat off his head as everyone stared at him, “These kids, they really cared about each other. And it was foolish of us to ever keep them apart. I suggest a truce. For Ben. And for my daughter.”\n\nMrs. Bently smiled sadly, “He would want that,\" but her face fell a little, and she spoke, \"But after everything that has happened, we couldn't possibly let it go. No matter how much we want to.\"\n\nI saw a rude comment about my family emerge in her, fueling the flames of her repressed anger, but she didn't open her mouth to share it. Instead, she stared at my father, and Mr. Bently rested his hand on her shoulder, attempting to comfort her, but really he was using her to comfort himself. Mrs. Bently didn't seem to notice his hand and just kept staring, the tears gone from her eyes. Her grief was being overcome by stubbornness, determination, and, above all, downright hatred. My father seemed at a loss for words. He was trying, so hard, for me. For Ben, which is something I never thought I would see him do. It was then I knew what I had to do. Not for our parents, not for the dozens of people here today. Not even for Ben or my memories of him that would live on in me until my last dying day. I would do this for me.\n\nI stood up, glancing only for a moment at Mrs. Bently's shocked face and my father's stricken demeanor. I kept my eyes high, though they were filled with tears, and walked from my seat into the aisle, and up to the front of the room.\n\nI stood there for a moment, facing Ben, where he lay in his closed casket. Thinking of him, lifeless and stuck in a box to be buried in the soil made it hard for me to stand. I started to shake, and I choked on a sob as I rested my hand on his casket. The room seemed still around me. I lifted my hand from the casket and looked up. All I could see was the metal bars lining the gym roof, but I knew there was something more. I began to comprehend. Ben's body was here, in this room, in this casket. But that wasn't him. Ben is no longer living, but his spirit is alive. It lives in his family, in all the things he loved so much. Including me. And though I couldn't see him, I knew he was with me. As I understood that, I felt the hundred pounds of emotional weight and guilt I had been carrying fall through me, into the ground to be buried deep with everything else that was dead. Ben was dead, but he wasn't gone. For the first time, I felt the black hole that was my heart begin to fill itself again. With something new. Perhaps it was remembrance, or even hope. Whatever it was, it gave me the strength to let out a large breath and speak to everyone in front of me.\n\n\"I appreciate what you said, Dad,\" I paused, watching as Mr. and Mrs. Bently sat at attention, their cheeks wet with tears, listening; while my father, still shocked, staring at me, retreated into his seat. “I agree, Mrs. Bently. Ben would have wanted a truce. That is all he ever wanted. It's all I have ever wanted! Your endless fighting and bickering have brought nothing but trouble for all of us! How many stores have you been banned from because you were yelling at each other in the dairy aisle? How many state-issued warnings have you been given? How many times have you had to drive a family member to the urgent care because they were brawling in the streets with each other? And the worst part is that you encourage them!\" I felt my face burning, contrasting with my wet cheeks. At this point, I was angry-crying. But I was not embarrassed. I felt, in a way, empowered. \"I have spent my whole life on the sidelines. Watching my uncles and cousins fight with the Bently's, sitting silently at the dinner table listening to the men, while I was being discussed like a Princess in need of a noble suitor. My mother was the only one who ever stood up for me, and when she left, I practically became mute. Ben was the first person in my life to treat me like a real person. With thoughts, ideas, and opinions! I loved him! And I am sick of being treated like some, some Shakespeare's Juliet! My boyfriend died because two groups of adults can't get along! So I am done sitting on the sidelines. There will be a truce, and a truce is happening now. Yes, for Ben. Yes, for the countless occasions that happened before this. But really, because it's time to stop. So we can move forward, and embrace the future.” I paused and let out a shaky breath, “So no one else has to die.\"\n\nThe room was silent. Everyone was in shock. I stood, facing the room, watching everyone's dumbstruck faces when, from the very back of the gym, someone clapped. Just like that, the whole room burst into applause. Everyone remained seated, they weren't, after all, clapping because I had made a phenomenal speech. They were clapping in agreement with me. It was time for this to be over.\n\nThe only people who weren't clapping were my father and Mr. and Mrs. Bently. Mrs. Bently's face kept changing color and expression. She was angry, then sad, then understanding, then upset, then raging, then devastated, then somehow all of the expressions mixed together. Mr. Bently sat silently beside his wife, looking stunned, his face pale. My father was red as a tomato, his facial expression switching from angry to embarrassed almost as fast as Mrs. Bently's face was changing. I knew I still had something that I needed to say.\n\nThe crowd's eyes followed me as I made my way toward the Bently's, and the clapping slowly died out, so the room was silent yet again. Out of respect, I kneeled in front of them. I spoke to Mrs. Bently as I grabbed her hand, \"Ma'am, I loved your son. I still do. And I know how much it hurts right now, losing him,\" Mrs. Bently sniffed and a few tears streamed down her face, \"Covering up your feelings with anger, giving yourself someone to blame, such as my Dad or me, only makes it harder for you to heal. I know there is always going to be a missing piece in your hearts,\" I was addressing both Bently's now, \"I know there will be one in mine. But Ben isn't gone. He will always be with us. In our hearts, and also in everything he did and loved. Maybe that is why he wanted the funeral to be here, to remind us that pieces of him are everywhere if we know where to look. My Dad is right, Ben would want a truce. So all the fighting can stop. But also, maybe, so three of the people who loved him most,\" I gestured to the three of us, \"Can remember him, mourn him, even, together.\" I gave a sad smile to the Bently's who together broke into sobs and hugged each other for support. To my utmost surprise, Mrs. Bently reached out to me and pulled me into the hug too. \n\nAfter that deely touching moment, I made my way toward my father, who was still fuming in his seat. He tried to speak, but I cut him off.\n\n\"Dad,\" I watched his brow furrow and gulped, \"You should know I have nothing but respect for you. Everything I said I meant, and I won't take it back. I neglected to mention that, although Mom may have stood up for me as a woman, you were the parent who stayed. You love me enough to care for me every day, to put up with every crazy decision I make, and even try and make a truce with your worst enemies for me. I am so grateful for everything you've done for me, and don't want to upset you. But things do have to change.\"\n\nI took a deep, shaky breath and met my father's gaze. His eyes softened. \"Oh, Jelly Bean,\" he called me by my old embarrassing nickname as he pulled me in for a hug.\nFor the first time in weeks, my heart hurt a little less. And for the first time ever, I could feel the hatred between the Bentlys' and the Olveras' melting away. I sat down next to my Dad, who was smiling down at me, tears still running down his face. I looked at the Bentlys', also smiling through tear-rimmed eyes. At the crowd, some crying, some smiling, some doing both, but all feeling understanding. And finally, at Ben's body, concealed in a coffin.\n\nThings were going to be better from now on. I could feel it in my bones, in the air, and from the energy all around me. I closed my eyes and for the first time since I lost Ben, really, truly, smiled." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Let Your Hair Down\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1586\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Cornelia glanced with increasing annoyance at the date on the unopened envelope. August 1, 1910. Written in a nearly illegible scrawl that she immediately recognized as William’s. The letter had been resting in the top corner of her bureau for the past week. She refused to open it. There were other things to do in her life that were more important than reading that letter. She had written to William in April, and it had taken him five months to reply. Five months! The mail may be a little slow between Boston and Brooklyn, but it certainly wasn’t that slow. \nCornelia pulled out her hairbrush from the drawer in her bedroom dresser and sat down, gazing fondly at her reflection in the hand painted gilded mirror she had received for her eighteenth birthday. The mirror in her room provided Cornelia with an inflated sense of vanity that she adored. She set the hairbrush down next to the envelope. The very sight of the letter initiated a resurgence of annoyance. On the day she received the correspondence she was torn between joyously tearing it open or tearing it up and burning it. To throw the letter on top of the evening fire and watch the parchment turn from beige to brown to black, shrinking and shriveling as the flames crackled. William’s words disintegrating, whirling up the chimney and away from Cornelia’s presence. Cornelia decided not opening the letter was a justifiable compromise between those two actions.\nCornelia started to undo her hairpins. She still always experienced a feeling of delight when she caught a sight of herself with her hair up. For the longest time, she had always dreamed of being able to put her hair up into a bun, envisioning just how much more grown up and stylish she would look. But appropriate protocol wouldn’t allow a young lady to put her hair up until she was eighteen. \nIt was only three weeks before her eighteenth birthday when William left. Saw an ad in the post hiring junior engineers in Brooklyn for a train station being constructed. \n“This is an opportunity for us,” he informed Cornelia an hour after he saw the ad, “Think of the future.” William was keen on thinking about the future. A quick goodbye, “I’ll write soon” and an hour later he left on the soonest train headed to New York. \nThe first month he was gone, there were enough letters to keep Cornelia satisfied. The second month, there was absolutely nothing. And there was absolutely nothing the third, fourth and fifth month. Cornelia started to fret, a dreaded fear in the back of her mind that something had happened, but a distant mutual friend settled in New York informed her that they had seen William walking on his way to work everyday. He was fine.\nThis news immediately turned Cornelia’s bubbling fear into resentment. Surely if William cared enough about her, at the very least he would have found time to write just one letter. Just one measly letter.\nThere was always a chance that her last letter got lost in the mail. Or his letter had experienced the same fate. Perhaps if Cornelia resumed the letter writing, rather than wait, communication would return to a steady pace. In her next correspondence, Cornelia provided an invitation to attend the Boston symphony’s annual summertime concert. To be enraptured by the symphony’s signature finesse and gaiety, as they had done when they were children each July. \nWhen writing the invitation, Cornelia had a slight aspiration about wondering if William would say anything about her new hairstyle. She was even going to wear it with her best blue cotton dress, the one with the embroidered flowers all down the skirt. Cornelia could picture it all in her head. How the event would play out. She was determined to look as pretty as the symphony would sound that summer afternoon. William would greet her on the porch steps, exclaiming how absolutely sensational she looked. This event would take place shortly after Cornelia opened a letter sent from Brooklyn, its content involving William enthusiastically responding with a confirmation to the invitation. But William had never responded.\nUntil now. \nThe hairpins on the right side of Cornelia’s head were now removed, and the side of her hair that was draped over her shoulder looked very childish, she thought. Oh, how she enjoyed the privilege of donning her hair up! To be able to show the world that she was a mature young woman. \n“Think of the future,” William had said. Cornelia’s future involved the stability of a house in the countryside with a partner who communicated with her every chance he could get.\nShe reached for the hairbrush, glancing again at the letter. It probably had some silly excuse in it, like he was very sorry, but he already had plans on the day of the concert, a day off with his friends in Brooklyn. Cornelia wondered what William did on his days off in a big roaring city such as New York. Perhaps, if she opened the letter, she would find out. Nevertheless! Cornelia wasn’t going to open up a letter that had taken five months to write, just to read some pathetic excuse. \nCornelia was now onto unpinning the left side of her hair, the process fueled by her frustration. “Oh!” She exclaimed. The cameo pin William had given her as a birthday token had fallen off, and poked her in the thigh. It was a fickle pin, always coming undone. She pinned the cameo back on the collar of her blouse anyway. Her mind went from the pin, to William, to the letter. Maybe there was a reasonable excuse in it, she thought. He had to work through the summer holidays, or was too busy helping a friend in need, to spend time traveling and socializing. Cornelia’s frustration turned to pity. He was always talking about how hard he was working in his previous letters. Cornelia removed the last hairpin, watching the strand of hair fall. She took the hairpin, and used it as a letter opener, breaking the seal, and taking out William’s letter, her posture tense with unknowingness. Her shoulders immediately relaxed as she read the contents:\nMy Dearest Cornelia, \nWait until you see the end result of what I have been working on. I am sure you have heard by now through the papers about what they’re calling The New York Terminal and Tunnel extension project. On the job, the lads and I have been calling it Penn Station but that is such a short name for something that is now so extravagant. It seemed a fitting name when the areas I was working in were just a pile of rubble and wires. Rubble, wires, and steel are all I have seen for five months straight, fourteen hours a day, six days a week. On a project that when I first started I deemed unfeasible. A tunnel under a river? Oh, but when I tell you my experience from yesterday! When I had finished my last day, and after coming out from the dark tunnel like a mole rat, I found myself in the heart of the station . To see the sight that awaited me! How I wish you could have been standing next to me to share in the absolute splendor that is this magnificent colossal of a building. Why the only way to describe it is, do you know the book we read when we were children with the illustrations of the Roman cathedrals? This is the equivalent, I tell you! The arches, the glorious arches. There I was, standing all alone as the midday sun coming through the domed glass roof was hitting the marble floor in brilliant, blinding criss cross squares of light! I can’t wait until others can see this sight in 29 days from now. For you to see it!\nDo you know what this means? No more waiting for mail to arrive to hear word from you, but in person! Half a day's travel time, and we shall be able to see each other. \nSplendid news! I’ve been hired for another project here and shall be staying in Brooklyn for the next few months but do try to come soon, and when you do, do it by New York’s Pennsylvania Train Station! \nCornelia’s shoulders tensed back up as she finished reading the letter. The nerve of that man! Not once had he uttered an apology of any kind within that page of paper. And to declare that she should come visit him when she had time. Not when he had time to spare. And do come by New York’s Pennsylvania Train Station! Why the end of the letter read as the same advertisements she had seen in the press the last few weeks. How dare William try to promote transportation methods to her when he couldn’t even be bothered to write just one letter for weeks on end! Fueled by a passionate rage, Cornelia pushed back her vanity chair, and giving no thought to the fact that her hair was in a wild state, frizzy locks released down to the middle of her back, she marched down the stairs towards the living room currently illuminated by the evening firelight, murmured an “excuse me” to her mother knitting by the fireplace, and threw William’s letter into the flames. The letter turned from beige to brown to black, shrinking and shriveling as the flames crackled." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Find Your Way Back\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1017\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about somebody in love with someone from their past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The ominous black smoke billowed above the crystal green corn fields on the long country road. Only the sound of screeching tires on the tarred black road and the sickening clash of metal could disturb such a beautiful early summer day. Seven teenagers on their way to high school graduation practice had suddenly met an unexpectedly horrible turn of fate. For four of them it was a mistake that would haunt them the rest of their lives. For the other three, they would not even be that lucky.\nThe dream was always the same for Benny Herald. The accident replayed in agonizing slow motion. Always trying to remember the actual sequence of events in those critical few moments before the horrific crash. Always frustration set in as he manufactured likely occurrences during the precious split seconds as the cars slid into each other. A game of chicken his two friends Jace Ryder and Doug Gloman had played many times before. Only this time something had gone terribly wrong. Someone had gone too far this time, but in a flash no one remembered quite how it had. Only fragments of memory. Snapshots in his mind that could not be trusted to be accurate in a moment of fear and shock. But the reality was a finality. Jace and Doug died that fateful day. Along with Benny's high school girlfriend Billie Weatherton.\nBenny Herald was a thirty eight year old successful trader on Wall Street. He lived in a luxurious townhouse on the East Side of Manhattan. Once married to a rising print magazine model named Amanda, Benny thought he had the perfect life. The couple had cream cheese good looks, were invited to all the elite parties in town through Amanda's modeling agency connections, and Benny was a rising stock trader at Goldman Sachs. They literally had it all. All except a true connection. Amanda was extremely superficial and although Benny had once been a romantic idealist in his younger days growing up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, New York life had hardened him somewhat little by little without him even him realizing it. The market crash of '08 a few years before had stripped away the golden cocoon of financial security of Benny and Amanda's relationship to reveal what it actually was, which was no real love between the two at all. Rather a convenient alliance of two ambitious people playing a game that had no substance and that had run its course. Divorced now for 18 months, Benny's recurring dream of that dreadful day twenty years ago, which had been dormant for some time now, was very much alive again. Partly, Benny surmised, because of his pending twenty year high school reunion and partly because he was taking stock in his life as he approached forty years old.\nEven before his relationship with Amanda he had gone through a series of girlfriends along with a multitude of girls that would not be considered even that. No one really could compare to Billie. When Billie died that day a piece of Benny died with her. His future, or the future he longed for and thought was destined, was buried along with Billie too. He was positive Billie would have been his wife, they would have had the kids that Benny never wanted with any other woman, and his life would have been fulfilling in a way it never had been. At the time people said what people always say, \" you must move on\" or \" time will heal your broken heart.\" This seemed just empty words to Benny. He moved on because life's harsh progress makes you but he never really healed. Never really would he thought to himself.\nBillie was a beautiful white blonde bubbly girl that made Benny's heart leap the first time he laid eyes on her at his 8th grade year end summer party at a friends house. Although both were too shy to talk to each other that day both were smitten with each other at first glance. Their chemistry was undeniable and being a first love for each of them made it magical. Such loves often die out but a few years later Benny and Billie became inseparable, not only romantically but Billie was truly his confidant and best friend. They were made for each other and everyone around them knew it. His family became like her family and hers was the same for him. When the accident happened the school, the whole community was devastated by the loss of three so promising teenagers. Jace was a star baseball player with a possible professional future and Billie was one of the most beloved people at Eastern Island High. After the funeral Benny lost touch with her family. It was just too painful for everyone. Three others survived the crash along with Benny, Billie's sister Sal and another friend Bobby Tining, along with Ellie Sanders, a close friend of Sal's. But Benny always thought that the best of them died that day. And their was no rhyme or reason why the four of them survived the crash while the other three did not. A random lottery of the universal events it seems. None of the survivors ever spoke to each other again after the parade of funerals. It was just too painful and left them all helpless and alone in dealing with their loss and emptiness. It seems like they should but never did.\nOn his gleaming ivory kitchen counter island lays a green and gold lettered invitation that says \" Eastern Island Class of 1990, 20th Reunion. Please RSVP.\" The words cut through his soul. So many memories, so much pain. Did he want to go back? Could he even handle the nostalgia of the place that shaped him, held his best memories and his worst nightmare. He really did not know. All Benny knew is the best of what he had, what he was, what he thought was his still laid out on that long country road twenty years in the past and it never was coming back." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: An Epistle Conveyed by Airship\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1998\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a letter, or multiple letters back and forth." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "An Epistle Conveyed by Airship\n7th day of January 1872\n\nMy Esteemed Mr. Ambrose,\n\nMay this missive find you in robust health and high spirits.\n\nAcknowledging your eminence as a prodigious savant of the mechanistic arts, adorned with intellect, a cogent psyche, and a countenance befitting a gentleman, it is apropos for me to forewarn you of my decision to set our contraption into motion.\n\nPray, do not construe this communiqué as a provocation to intercede in my endeavor. I beseech you with heartfelt sincerity to refrain from your curious, inquisitive inclinations, Bazel, and instead, luxuriate in the warm embrace of your family in London.\n\nWith Utmost Fondness and Esteem, I Remain,\nSir Gideon Prescott\n\n* * \n\nOur Chronicle of Peculiar Notations\n10th Day of January 1872\n\nDearest Sir Prescott,\n\nSo moved to receive your epistolary, I hastened to escape my engagements and orchestrated a dirigible to Amsterdam to deter your audacious contrivance. Alas, my arrival at your estates was tardy, and the temporal engine's chronometer indicated coordinates aligning with the era of Rome, 48 B.C.\n\nSir, vexation swells, and I must admit I harbor a turbulent tempest. With unwavering conviction, I must caution you against trifling with the tides of history for such interference is indeed a treacherous endeavor.\n\nWhen we embarked together on creating this monstrosity, we promised to be of one mind about its use; it disappoints to see your flagrant disregard of the Royal Academy’s Temporal Principles. Whatever motives take you to Caesar's domain remain veiled to me, but, sir, respectfully, I cannot permit your contradicting history.\n\nThus, herein I declare my intention to stop you. In the off-chance you should return, I shall leave this journal so we may negotiate with the decorum befitting our stations, and ultimately bring these matters to their rightful terminus without prejudice.\n\nSir, upon your possible return to these chambers: you must restrain from rekindling this infernal machine! I urge you to wait for me.\n\nWishing You Adieu with Sincerest Regards,\nBazel Ambrose\n\n * \n\nOur Chronicle of Peculiar Notations\n21st Day of April 1872\n\nDear, Respected Mr. Ambrose,\n\nMy hands tremble; a cough succumbs me. I’ve fallen severely ill, and I’ve returned to our present moment to seek more modern elixirs to aid me.\n\nSurprised to encounter your journal perched on a podium near the controls of our machine, Bazel, I’m forced to admire your pluck, but, regardless, you were too late.\n\nWith a prideful heart, I must divulge my triumph amidst the labyrinthine avenues of Rome. At my hands, the plot to sever the thread of Caesar's fate in the Senate has been artfully obstructed. Departing, I left behind a tapestry of transformation, woven to redirect history away from the clutches of time’s relentless current, undoubtedly thwarting the Empire's collapse in 476 A.D.\n\nCoincidentally, sir, have you noted the passage of time remains constant in our absence? An extraordinary outcome. Please know that my report to The Temporal Academy shall respectfully append your name to highlight your role in such a monumental discovery.\n\nUndaunted, after requiring a week of recovery in my private chambers, I stand upon the precipice of another temporal jaunt and shall soon depart for the Battle of Tours in 732 A.D. There, I shall bestow upon the Umayyad Caliphate the gift of foresight, arming them with pivotal knowledge to undo Charles Martel and his valiant Franks. Christianity, its tyranny, and the proverbial ‘dark ages,’ shall forever be undone.\n\nYou cannot stop me, and I beg you, sir, not to try.\n\nIn Anticipation of Your Gentlemanly Forfeit,\nSir Gideon Prescott\n\n * \n\nOur Chronicle of Peculiar Notations\n6th Day of July 1872\n\nTo My Esteemed, Brilliant Colleague, Sir Prescott:\n\nI implore you, sir - you must cease these entanglements!\n\nI returned to witness your enigmatic presence once more gracing these chambers. Yet, in your wake, the very tapestry of our society has been unwound! The very stitches of normalcy severed!\n\nRome's survival unfurled an alternate reality for should you look beyond your window, naught remains but the Roman Emperor's imposing visage, and all vestiges of Her Majesty's court have been obliterated in the aether.\n\nStrangely, I have denoted our dangerous escapades have created a static temporal field surrounding your estates, maintaining the machine and the agency of our chase. Is it providence, sir, or simply good fortune, that we remain unaffected by these changes?\n\nEither way, bound by the weight of ethical cogitation, I am compelled to disentangle your schemes. To Rome I voyage afresh, to undo your deeds, and, if exigency demands, allow my hand to snip the thread of Caesar's life to restore equilibrium to the cosmos.\n\nDo not interpret my intercedence as a mere flutter, for should destiny weave our paths anew, be warned: I am armed.\n\nWith Resilient Adherence to Temporal Principles,\nBazel Ambrose\n\n * \n\nOur Chronicle of Peculiar Notations\n18th Day of July 1872\n\nCurse you, Mr. Ambrose!\n\nPicture my vehement astonishment upon my return only to witness my machinations unraveled - England reinstated, Queen Victoria ensconced upon her imperial throne, the Temporal Academy still practicing their unjust influence.\n\nThrough the auspices of your own admission, I can only presume your voyage to Rome met with success, and my efforts foiled.\n\nSir, while once I might have regarded you as a compatriot, an intellect deserving of my collaborative discourse, I now perceive you as naught but an intrusion, a trespasser, a vexatious disturbance. Henceforth, let it be known that you and I are hereby sworn adversaries, locked in the embrace of enmity.\n\nVerily, the tendrils of Rome's influence remain beset by constraint and failure. My endeavor to sway Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi's convictions fell upon unreceptive ears, and, imprisoned for weeks, I made a harrowing retreat from France with naught but my vitality intact. Still, these setbacks do not perturb me. Instead, I embark upon the next stage of my ambitions, which will unfold without your awareness of my strategems, calculations, or achievements.\n\n\nWith a Fusion of Respect and Animosity,\nSir Gideon Prescott\n\n * \n\nOur Chronicle of Peculiar Notations\n3rd Day of August 1872\n\nErrant Criminal Prescott:\n\nWell, I am sorry to inform you, sir, your crossbow bolt missed, and I’ve destroyed the contraption. \n\nAh, the lamentable ineptitude you always exhibited upon the intricate tableau of chess, sir, mirrors your broader shortcomings.\n\nMy intellectual pursuit culminated within Rome. There, did I spy on you from its streets; unable to restrain your own curiosity, you traveled to Alexandria, and unbeknownst to your person, I poisoned you in the library, explaining your sour humors in April. Suffer well.\n\nIn the meantime, I’ve navigated the convoluted passages of time, returning to the very inner sanctum of your arcane laboratory, where your path had led you.\n\nThis time, I did naught but deftly reposition my bishop piece on the grand chessboard of our temporal gambit. With a maneuver orchestrated earlier than your ill-fated Turkish excursion, I deflected Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi's confidence in your guidance, intercepting your fruit before they ripened.\n\nBehold, Prescott, the celestial game in which we preoccupy ourselves, chess masters in an elaborate phantasmagoria of madness!\n\nAs you peer through your observatory portal, witness the unfolding apocalypse, a reality unspooling outside your very home.\n\nAnglo-Saxon heritage, once solid as riveted iron, lies obliterated from the annals of time. Instead, a tapestry of Germanic dominion drapes the globe's canvas - the British Empire has given way to roaming, nomadic tribes!\n\nYet, as exasperation intertwines with enlightenment, I seize upon your myopic judgments, employing them as fuel to stoke the blazing furnace of my resolve. As we are both dependent upon this infernal machinery to counter the other, its mechanisms are poised in a frenetic race to thwart your contrivances.\n\nGleaming blades set to cleave, let us, in a spiteful symphony of antagonism, rendezvous upon the shores of Hastings. There, the clash of our ambitions shall reverberate, and to the vanquisher, the triumphant spoils shall be awarded.\n\nWith Spiteful Scorn and Bristling Determination,\nBazel Ambrose\n\n * \n\nA Note Hand-Delivered to Hastings Castle, Sussex, England\n14th Day of October 1066\n\nMy Esteemed Temporal Adversary,\n\nOh, how the gears of fate continue to whirl in my favor, Prescott!\n\nIf my courier has performed their function, I dare say it’s the 14th, the Battle of Hastings, and perchance amidst the secure embrace of your castellated refuge, indulge in a momentary respite to cast your gaze upon Senlac Hill. There, dear William and his Norman army deflect the Saxon reinforcements you advised King Harold II to redistribute.\n\nAh, the substance of my intervention, the orchestration of foresight and stratagem once again eludes your feeble grasp, and history, sir, is preserved!\n\nCome to your senses, man! Allow us to cease this temporal war! Take not to the machine again. Stay within your chambers. Allow us to politely discuss these matters over a good brandy.\n\nOtherwise, sir, eagerly do I anticipate our inevitable convergence, when the crosshairs of my Webley Revolver align with your trembling presence, a confrontation that beckons not just the steel of firearms but the steel of our convictions.\n\nWith Spiteful Anticipation,\nBazel Ambrose\n\n * \n\nOur Chronicle of Peculiar Notations\n4th Day of August 1872\n\nAmbrose! Your interference has cut me to the quick!\n\nIncapable of tolerating any more of your meddling, I shall ensnare you within a trap of my own devising, a trap to shackle your departure and at long last, to unmask the final act of this temporal battle between our two selves.\n\nI will cry havoc and allow Mankind to unravel for, in this chaotic whirlwind, I’ll consign you to oblivion with the fervor of a tempest, even if it consumes my last breath.\n\nFly to Egypt, the Great Pyramid - find me, if you dare!\n\nFueled by Hate and Unyielding Zeal,\nSir Gideon Prescott\n\n * \n\nOur Chronicle of Peculiar Notations\n5th Day of August 1872\n\nMy Accursed Companion,\n\nIn the shrouded realms, be apprised that your nefarious plan within of the Great Pyramid was but an ephemeral triumph. Bereft of my awareness, I emerged, unscathed from your devious snare.\n\nYour malicious orchestration shattered the radioactive heart of my pocket watch. With resolve aflame and enduring sacrifice, the grains of Egyptian sand for 27 long-passing years. Therein, I toiled, crafting an intricate facsimile of our arcane creation, a contraption to pierce the veils of time anew.\n\nI must observe that - my new contraption, decoupled from our machine - offers an untethered relationship to time. I travel unhinged from the time experienced here. Perhaps it is due to my own pocketwatch originating from the past?\n\nOh, the fevered visions that plague my thoughts, the dystopian tapestry woven by your malevolent hand! Reluctantly, I shift the gaze, expecting naught but a world contorted in the image of your ambition.\n\nWith a heart resolute and fervent fervor, I stride forth on this pilgrimage to rectify the wrongs you've woven, tracing the very genesis of our acquaintance back to school, Temporal Mechanics. There this sordid saga shall find its climax, and your transgressions shall meet their denouement.\n\nPerhaps, if not kill you outright, I might convince you otherwise.\n\nIn Finally Parting with Resolute Resolve,\nBazel Ambrose\n\n * *\n\nAn Epistle Conveyed by Airship\n7th day of January 1872\n\nMy Esteemed Mr. Ambrose,\n\nMay this missive find you in robust health and high spirits.\n\nAcknowledging your eminence as a prodigious savant of the mechanistic arts, adorned with intellect, a cogent psyche, and a countenance befitting a gentleman, I invite you to set our contraption into motion.\n\nTogether, we will unlock the time’s greatest mysteries, respecting the laws laid before us by the Temporal Academy.\n\nI know that my invitation will tear you away from your London home and precious time with your family, but I beseech you: come at all haste to Amsterdam, so we might unlock these secrets together.\n\nWith Utmost Fondness and Esteem, I Remain,\nSir Gideon Prescott" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fair Game\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1307\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on a baseball field." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s hot.\nI’m out here at the edge of a sunbaked baseball diamond, letting my eyes go unfocused so I can distance myself from the game. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, and they’re stinging, so I can’t see anyway.\nI’m waaay outfield, as far away from the action as I can be. No one bothers me out here; they don’t actually want me to participate, and the feeling is mutual. I was, as always, the last one chosen for a team. I say “chosen” with big, fat air quotes. Really, I was the only one who didn’t get chosen. \nPE teachers are the worst for showing favoritism. Well, that’s not really true - I guess the English teachers do it too. Only they pick me first. \nAnyway, back to the PE situation: Mrs. Marcus names two captains, who just happen to be her star students. In this case, they are Maggie and April. \nMaggie starts off by choosing the third-best athlete in the class (after herself and April). No one is surprised. April takes the next one down the line. \nIt’s always the same process - there’s a break in the ratings when Maggie appoints her best friend. The nomination is an obligatory one; Lily isn’t the greatest at sports, but she’d be offended if she didn’t place.\nDo I intentionally name the best students when I’m choosing my team for the spelling bee or the debate session? Well… I guess I do. Of course, I want to be the leader of the geek champions!\nNext, April chooses one of her closest friends. (Maggie and April can’t stand each other, by the way.) They go back to choosing by athletic ability, until it gets down to the mediocre players. After that, the choices are just random, except they both avoid picking me.\nEventually, they have even numbers and I’m left standing there. I shuffle my feet, scraping the side of my shoe in the dust while I wait. Little reddish swirls rise in the hot air and dissipate. I’ll guarantee you, Maggie can’t spell “dissipate”. I smirk to myself.\nMrs. Marcus sends me to Maggie’s team, and tells her student assistant to play for April’s team. That’s not fair. Hallie will help them win - because obviously she’s a superior athlete - and Maggie’s team will think I made them lose. I don’t really care, but the balance would be better if Hallie and I were on the same team.\nI think about that.\nMaggie is in my English class. What if, next time there’s a spelling bee… what if I choose her to be on my team? Because I’m sure to be one of the captains. I can’t pick her first - that would be too obvious - but I’m thinking about second. That would throw everyone off guard. \nI’m so involved in my plot, I don’t even realize the game is over until everyone starts heading in. Mrs. Marcus gives out the score, which everyone else already seems to know. April’s team is the winner. (I called it, didn’t I?)\nEveryone on the winning team gets an “A” for the day; the losing team gets “B”. That’s not fair either; my average daily grade is usually a “C”. Even a loss is a win for me.\n“Hey, Genius,” Lily snarks, “can you even pretend to try?”\nShe’s only saying that to impress Maggie. She’s such a sycophant - and I’m sure she probably doesn’t know the meaning of that word. I shrug and ignore her comment.\nWouldn’t you know it? There’s a spelling bee in English class. I’m one of the captains, and James is the other. We’re pretty evenly matched, and our rivalry is friendly. \nI get the first pick, and call Aaron. James - logically - names Kayla, who is another of the good spellers. I hesitate. Should I do it? \n“Maggie,” I state firmly. The whole class gapes at me, including Maggie. Mr. Webb’s face is neutral. \nMr. Webb is tall and thin, with extremely long arms and legs. Some of the kids call him “Spider” behind his back. They think they’re clever, and they kind of are, except I’m pretty sure he knows. He might even appreciate it, being an English teacher, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.\nThe teams are complete, and off we go. This time, the numbers are even. Mr. Webb gives a word, uses it in a sentence to clarify, then says the word again. We’re supposed to repeat the word, then spell it.\n“Sapphire. The cat’s eyes were a clear sapphire blue. Sapphire.”\n“Sapphire. S-A-P-P-H-I-R-E,” I proclaim.\nJames flawlessly completes “Chalcedony”. Well done!\nAaron is next, with “Amethyst”. Whew - he doesn’t reverse the “E” and the “Y”.\nKayla spells “Beryl” correctly.\nIt’s Maggie’s turn. \n“Diamond. The diamond sparkled in the bright sunlight. Diamond.”\nMaggie rolls her eyes.\n“Diamond. D-I-M-”\nMr. Webb points Maggie to her seat. “Diamond” is not that girl’s best friend!\nWe get through gemstones and move on to elements. It’s my turn again.\n“Molybdenum. M-O-L-Y-B-D-E-N-U-M.” \nWe make it through Rhodium, Caesium, Antimony… Then Mr. Webb throws a curveball. Surprise.\nA few of us get it and giggle; the rest look confused. \n“Surprise. Mr. Webb likes to use the element of surprise. Surprise.”\n“Ohhh…”\nCorey has to speak up. He has to.\n“But Mr. Webb, ‘surprise’ isn’t an actual element - you know, on that chart thing? Is it?” He second-guesses himself, and looks at his teammates for confirmation.\nI hear someone mutter, “Duh.”\n“All right, class!” Mr. Webb claps his long hands twice - cupping them to amplify the sound - and looks sternly at us. \n“Focus. No - ” he holds up his hand to ward off any more smart mouth remarks.\n“Kayla, your word is ‘surprise’”.\nThe distraction puts her off her game; she misses the first “r”, and goes back to her seat without prompting. She sits with her hands covering her red face, mortified. I feel her pain. I know she knows how to spell “surprise”.\nI sneak a glance at the clock. Five more minutes until the cleanup bell rings. Aaron and I face off with James and Cami, who is a dark horse in this competition. It’s partly luck - she’s fairly good, and just happened to get some of the easier words.\nMr. Webb reaches into his armory and pulls out a few grenades. He lobs one at me.\n“Onomatopoeia,” I repeat, feeling a little flushed. I can spell it perfectly well in my head. “O-N-O, M-A-T, O-P-O, E-I-A,” I enunciate carefully, splitting it into four equal portions and ticking each letter off on my fingers. I blow air out, puffing my cheeks.\nJames spells “Acquiesce” slowly, but perfectly. Three minutes until the bell…\nAaron’s word is “Innocuous”. He starts out, “I-N-”… and pauses. I can tell he’s not sure if there should be one or two Ns. I’m holding my breath. “N?” he continues, and I relax. “O-C-”… “C?” Aaron instantly realizes the second C doesn’t belong, but it’s too late. We’re finished.\nIt’s a formality; Aaron returns to his seat first, and I follow. He shoots me an apologetic grimace, and I shrug one shoulder nonchalantly. Mr. Webb clears his throat, bows his lanky body theatrically, and announces the obvious:\n“For five points extra credit - The winners are… James and Cami!” \nThe cleanup bell rings.\nA few minutes later, the final bell rings and the exodus begins. English class is last period, it’s Friday, and everyone wants to get out of there. Mr. Webb motions me over to his desk. \n“Why did you do that?”\n“Do what?” I’m puzzled. I don’t think I did anything wrong…\n“Pick Maggie.”\nI pause, trying to figure out how to explain. Finally I shrug and answer simply,\n“Fair game.”\nHe nods, and gives me extra credit." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Love at First Slight\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1099\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about somebody who knows they’re probably going to fail at something, but does it anyway." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dennis opened the front door to see his senior classmate, Dakota, standing on the porch.\n“Dakota? What do you want?”\nNot awaiting an answer, but leaving the door open, he returned to the kitchen. She entered, shut the door and followed. On her way, she sniffed the air. The odor of stale cigarette smoke being absent, the house smelled unexpectedly fresh.\nWalking by the living room and seeing well placed furniture, book shelves… in short, a normal home, surprised her. There were no torn curtains. No clutter. She had expected early cob-web. The furniture lacked cigarette burns. There were no over-flowing ash trays. Dakota shook her head at how wrong preconceptions could be.\nShe found Dennis studying at the kitchen table. He sensed her leaning on the door frame and gave her a questioning look. He wondered, ‘Why is the school’s biggest diva in my kitchen?’\n“Just wanted to say ‘hi.’”\n“Really?” Easily the most beautiful girl, no, woman, in his class, every guy wanted to be seen with her. But her personality…\n“Yeah, well, I hardly know you and we’re almost to the end of the year… Graduation coming, you know…”\nUnmoved, Dennis said, “Those first impressions get you every time.”\n“I don’t...”\n“You should remember. Being new at school, I introduced myself and offered to buy you a coffee. You told me, not only did you not want a coffee, but if you died, you wouldn’t choose me to be your pall bearer.”\nShe nodded slowly. “I’d call that Scarlett O’Hara mode… Probably PMS…”\n“Yeah, I suffer from TMI. Incurable, I’m told.”\n“Sorry about that.”\n“No matter. We didn’t waste each other’s time.”\nShe thought, ‘This may be harder than I expected…’ “I want to think I meant to be funny.”\nDennis shrugged. “Just remembered it. Not harboring a grudge.”\nDakota recalled her morning. Her options were narrowing.\nProm was planned for a week from Friday. This morning, her boyfriend, Bret Capocchia, told her he got a ticket to the NBA playoffs. He would be out of town for the biggest social event of the year. That meant she had no date on very short notice. He broke his commitment to her so he could watch a bouncy ball.\nHe didn’t even tell her in person. Thinking it was a bad connection, she said, “What’s NBA?”\n“You know, Dakota, basketball.”\n“You’re skipping prom with me, for a basketball game? Are you nuts?”\n“It’s not only a game, love. It’s the playoffs. Best teams in the league.”\nShe couldn’t believe it. What a dope. He made his choice and she made hers. That ticket cost him more than he bargained for.\nBut she still needed a date to prom. She couldn’t not go.\nBeing on the coordinating committee, she checked the guest list. Dennis hadn’t bought tickets.\nHer friends discouraged her.\nDakota said, “He’s shy.”\n“Yeah, by a couple. Only lose them once.”\n“He’s a geek.”\n“He quotes Robot’s Rules of Order from memory.”\nNow facing Dennis, and fending off panic, Dakota tried to reset.\n“So, Dennis, who are you taking to prom? Someone on the debate team?” She couldn’t read his look. “Is that funny?”\n“No. I won’t take a debate to prom.” She waited. “I haven’t made plans.”\n“It’s next week.”\n“Uh huh… I always thought prom is our version of the Sage Grouse mating dance...”\n‘This may be way harder than I expected…’\n“…I prefer the soft-shoe…”\n“A formal dance is a main event. Prom’s a big deal, Dennis. Something to remember your whole life.”\n“I don’t know. This year…”\n“You know this year’s theme?” He shook his head. “Last year, people thought Peter Pan felt dated.”\n“Uh huh… Guys in tights is a hard sell.”\n“This year. Your and my senior class year, the committee chose to shoot for the stars. Ready?” He shrugged. “Star Wars!”\nDennis made a face. “So all the guys will look like Wookies in monkey suits?”\n“No. It’s prom, silly. Not a costume party.”\n“All the girls gonna plaster sticky buns to their heads?”\nShe winced at the image. “Not me...” She couldn’t see it, but her friends compared Dennis to R2-D2.\n“Being the new kid, cramped my style. Couldn’t get traction. Don’t have anyone…” He looked at Dakota and stood. “What am I doing? Take a seat. Want something to drink?”\n“Okay. You have diet?” She sat. “Anyway, you should go. You’ll meet people. You’ll have fun.”\n“Coming right up.” He poured fizzy drinks into ice filled glasses and served her.\nHe gave her a look. “So, you’re not wearing sticky buns? Or you’re not going?”\nDakota laughed. “Definitely not the buns… I don’t know… I might not go.”\n“What about Bret?”\n“He’s history. We broke up. He has… more important plans.”\nDennis stared. She and Bret were the star couple. “Wow! I never would’ve expected...”\nShe shrugged. “The NBA called him away.”\nHe leaned back and shook his head. They sipped their drinks.\nHe leaned in. “Look, I know how important prom must be, Dakota. But your social standing wouldn’t survive being with me.”\n“Why not?”\n“You never heard my rep as a drug dealer, narc?”\n“You’re both?”\n“Neither, actually. What did you hear?”\n“Don’t know many druggies… I heard you’re a dealer.”\nDennis winced. “You want to go to prom with a drug dealer?”\n“No. But are you? Or, uhm… I mean, which are you?”\nHe adopted a cocky attitude. “You tell me. I once took Nyquil for a cold. Get this. In 1969, my grandma went to Woodstock. And when I was ten, I smoked a pack of cigarettes. But I promise I didn’t inhale.”\nShe looked at him wide-eyed.\n“People create the world in their own image, Dakota.”\n“Meaning?”\n“They project what they fear, or envy onto those they don’t know.” Nodding, she tried to process that. “No one cared to ask. They just spread bogus stories.”\nDennis took the glasses to the sink.\nDakota followed. “You could ask me to the prom, Dennis…”\nHe turned and she embraced him. Her body melted into his. It felt good to hold her. She lay her head on his shoulder and smiled. It felt right.\nShe murmured, “Didn’t you offer to buy me coffee? That offer still good?”\nThey burst into convulsive laughter. Almost falling, they held each other up.\nThey couldn’t form sentences. Only fragments came out. “I mean… I didn’t… You don’t…” Which triggered more laughing.\nFinally calmed. Dennis took Dakota’s hand.\n“Dakota, please go with me to prom. Let ‘em talk.”\nShe smiled. “We’ll give ‘em something to talk about.” Laughing, they kissed." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Bryant Library at Roslyn Harbor\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2568\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with a librarian searching for something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "'Twas in that season of the year,\nWhen all things gay and sweet appear,\nThat Colin, with the morning ray,\nArose and sung his rural lay.\nOf Nannie's charms the shepherd sung:\nThe hills and dales with Nannie rung:\nWhile Roslin Castle heard the swain,\nAnd echoed back his cheerful strain.\n--Roslyn’s Castle, 1776 (Scot’s Tunes)\n\n\"We the undersigned, inhabitants of Hempstead Harbor, Queens County, Long Island, State of New York, finding a serious inconvenience in our village, particularly in our Post Office arrangements, from the similarity of names… do therefore resolve, that the above mentioned Post Office and Village shall hereafter be known by the name Roslyn...\"\n-- September 7, 1844\n\n* * \n\nThe librarian has one goal: to find the right book and match it with the right person at just the right time. There are tales of love that inspire a lifelong romance and tales of love lost where a quick ignited flame is as quickly dashed out by fate. There are stories of courage that send a generation off to war. There are old legends that give a place a name and an anchor in history. And then there are those unexpected tales that can happen in an old library on an autumn night, which can level you and change the course of your entire life.\n\nMy given name is Meghan Ann Rees, but everyone around here just calls me ‘Megs.’ I’ve lived for years in the sleepy town of Roslyn Harbor, a town frozen in time. At thirty-two years of age, I’ve reached that point where you look for those things that are missing in your life, just the way a librarian searches the stacks for a missing or misplaced book—and if you find it—you grab it up the first chance you get.\n\nAnd yet, at times, I believe that all of my passion will be shut in my chest for eternity and that I myself will become petrified like the totem of the old Clock Tower on Old Northern Boulevard and Main Street and people will pass by me day and night never knowing the longings of my heart and the fraught virtuosity of my troubled brain—all pent up like old knickknacks and chachkas forgotten in a dusty attic. And I will be cursed to eternal silence, screaming inside to tell my tales, but shuttered and muffled by my stony coffin. But when I am inspired to act on my impulses, I freeze like that girl for whom our town is named. Frozen, I watch as my chance passes forever. Just the other day I suffered one of these spells when Cam asked me to a sit-down dinner at Port Washington Yacht Club for the Venetian Nights Lighted Boat Parade they have every year at the end of this week.\n\nFall in Roslyn Harbor was a time of magic. Hendrick’s Tavern was serving its famous baked New England Clam Chowder. Chrysanthemum, pansies, asters, and goldenrod were in bloom in the Old Westbury Gardens. The trees were both boastful with their varicolored pageantry of yellows, browns, greens, and reds, and at the same time bashful and retiring, shedding a blanket of crisp prickly leaves, tucking in the grasses and flowers of the fields under their covers and whispering that it is time for them to sleep soon. \n\nPeople were out by Roslyn Park Pond feeding the ducks until sundown. And as night crept in on this sleepy September evening, a gusty wind picked up the chill of winter to come and blew the settlers into warm and cozy places by hearths and blanketed living rooms drawn with curtains and candlelight. And the door of my library opened to reveal a tall, imposing figure coming in from the dark chill.\n\nHe was a man who was easy to trust, a tall English looking man of Scottish descent with manners and substance. He was in his mid-seventies and had the look of a man who was well-worn with life, like a book whose bindings were getting loose, and which had a few pages ready to bolt. Nonetheless, his mannerisms and his carriage all told a different story, of a man brimming with energy and full of purpose. He wore a tan trench coat over a stylish Green Donegal tweed suit with a wool blend, pulled together with a red tie, and carried a silver handled knob walking cane. The pink rosacea and prominent crooked nose, bulbed at the end, underneath square rimmed reading glasses, gave him the look of a wise soul brimming with happy secrets, of which a few were about to be revealed.\n\n“I have come tae avail myself o' yer substantial talents,” he said as if issuing a proclamation.\n\nI had never heard it put quite that way, but from Professor Kaming it sounded even more flattering. It was the way you would expect him to put it. Proper and yet containing enough subtext to be a little naughty. \n\nHe beamed and looked around the room with mirth, saying, “It's a braw library ye hae here in this auld toon—an' whit a name fer a toon tae—Roslyn Harbor—whit a fascinatin' name.”\n\nI gave him the smile I reserved for regulars and political types who controlled our funding and said, “How may I be of service?”\n\nHe didn’t go to it immediately. “I unnerstaun' this library has some auld historical documents frae the Revolutionary War period aboot Onderdock’s Paper Mill an' George Washington’s Spy Trail an' his visit here in 1790, an' the like,” Professor Kaming said.\n\nThis was an easy one for me to answer: “Oh yes. We have a sizable collection of historical documents, and a whole collection from the post-war period, diaries from the Culper Spy Ring, news stories from Washington’s visit, documents about the Paper Mill, and all of it is there in our history stacks in the back room.”\n\n“Aye, aye. I’d imagine sae. But, whit about some mair peculiar curiosities?” Mr. Kaming asked.\n\n“What did you have in mind?”\n\n“Ye wouldn't, perhaps, be familiar wi' Robert Gaston Herbert an' his murals, by any chance, wad ye?” As Mr. Kaming posed the question, he raised his eyebrows expectantly and I felt anticipation in my breast, as I began to wonder where this was going.\n\n“How could I not be? There’s an old mural, with tartan-clad Scottish soldiers departing Hempstead Harbor after the war singing the Scottish Tune ‘Roslyn’s Castle’ as they left—and there was a girl of seventeen looking on from the very spot where this library sits and overlooks the Harbor. The legend is that she had fallen in love with an Officer in the 71st Highland Regiment of Foot. But her hopes of love were dashed when the war ended. That is the legend that gave this town its name.” As I concluded, I raised my palms to the ceiling and rotated my forearms outward in a triumphant version of the apology shrug.\n\n“Dear God! That’s exactly the mural I’m interested in. Please, please tell me ye can find it.”\n\n“Well, I don’t know, we can certainly see if we can locate a copy,” I said.\n\n“Ye see, I want tae find that lassie. Doesn't anyone know who she is?”\n\n * \n\nThere were piles of enormous parchments on long easel tables in the old map room. As I checked the indexes and poured laboriously through sheafs of tabulations, looking for the exact mural in question, Professor Kaming continued talking.\n\n“Roslin Castle is in Midlothian, sooth o' Edinburgh, an' the toon o' Roslin was the verra spot whaur the war for Scottish independence was fought. The chapel in Roslin Castle wis built by the Knights Templar an' wis the site o' mony a tale o' the auld Grail legend. It sits juist aff the shou'ders o' the heichest point o' the land, overlookin' the sea juist a wee bit doon the road. The Midlothian trails lead uphill tae Arthur's Summit at its heid an' the Queen's Gallery at its feet.”\n\nHis voice filled the small chamber with a musical quality from the rhythm of his speech, and, in my mind, while he spoke, I imagined this girl, barely a woman, who had fallen in love with an enemy soldier, frozen on the hill by the bay, looking out across the waters to Connecticut as the love of her life departed for his homeland. I can see her there, stiff and solemn, waving into infinity as the boys and girls of the village sang that haunting song with glee and cheered their victory over these invaders that had requisitioned their homes for seven summers. Farmers with hoes and rakes and rifles would be up on the hill with high emotion. All the while her heart was wrought in two as she fought to catch one last glimpse of the ships mast, fading into the horizon.\n\nMaybe she was an Irish girl like me, with a name like Rosalind. Maybe she too was a firebrand, with red hair and a stubborn attitude, a mercurial Cancer who was both unfailingly loyal and yet volatile and capable of high emotion. A nervous animal with a warning bite.\n\nHow could she have made that journey? Did she stand still on the shores and return to her home, or did she set sail and go after him? Did she reach that town across the world, a mirror, with the same name as the town that was named for her? And what kind of coincidence could it be that she was named for the very place he was from, a name meaning “pretty rose.”\n\nMr. Kaming continued, “Ane day in 1776, a lassie arrived on a boat tae find a Scottish Brigadier o' the 71st Highland Regiment an' cam' tae live oot the rest o' her days in Roslin. But naebody knew her maiden name or whaur she cam' frae. But I was in Fraunces Tavern on Pearl Street in Manhattan jist the ither day, no' a week or twa ago, an' there wis an auld plaque on the wa' wi' the saying: 'While Roslin Castle heard the swain, And echoed back his cheerful strain,' an' an inscription an' miniature o' the mural below it, wi' the name o' this here toon.”\n\nAs he was saying this and the mystery began to come into focus, I laid my hands on the mural, with its rich colorful depiction of the very scene that had consumed our thoughts this strange autumn night. There she was—Rosalind.\n\n“I found it!” I said. But there was no response.\n\nI looked back and saw that Professor Kaming had slumped down on a drafting stool. He had his head in his hands, and he was weeping. He wept for a few moments, then pulled out a satin handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes and the lines of salty tears covering the jowls of his age worn face.\n\n“It’s her, it’s her!” he exclaimed.\n\nHe pulled a locket out from the jetted pocket of his green blazer and thumbed the lip so that it opened to show facing pictures drawn in faded ink. On the left side was a man that looked like a younger version of Mr. Kaming, and on the right side was the spitting image of the girl Rosalind from the mural. I gasped and put my hands to my mouth.\n\n“Ye see, my 6th great grandmother was an American lassie who had journeyed tae the toon o' Roslyn frae Hempstead in 1776. When I heard the story, I knew I had tae find oot the truth. Efter a', I hae a Rosalind o' my very own, an' she left me some ten years ago noo, but there's a vast sea an' a lang journey hame tae the shores o' my ancestral hame that I'll be makin' sae I can see her again. Ye see, it's in my bones an' in the legend o' my family that when ane lover leaves, the ither mustun follow efter, even across the deepest o' oceans or the precipice o' time, even across the veil o' death itsel'.”\n\nAnd as tears started to form on my own ruddy cheeks, the old Professor got up, standing toweringly tall above me, and with the kindest of smiles he took a step toward me, and then another, and wrapped his long lanky arms all the way around me and hugged me for a minute.\n\nThen he straightened out his coat and collected himself, and thanked me, and turned and stopped a moment by the door, turning back, and said, “I suppose I'll be on ma way noo.”\n\n“Wait, wait,” I said.\n\nIt was only at that moment, after this extraordinary night of mysteries and journeys through time that I recognized the story that this man needed to spur him on his journey. Just the right book for just the right person at just the right time.\n\nThe Professor followed me dimly as if these revelations had depleted his soul as I brought him to the racks of Medieval Literature. Where was it now? It had to be just somewhere over here… and there it was! Thomas Malory's The Book of Sir Tristram de Lyones. Perhaps the tale on which it is based truly took place right in the Scottish town of Roslin.\n\nI handed the book to Professor Kaming and said, “take this with you for your journey.” We smiled at each other and I held on to the book for a moment as he grasped it, holding it back just long enough to underscore its importance, and then let it go.\n\n“I am much obliged, young lass, and Godspeed ye on yer journey. If I can leave ye wi' one thing frae our short time thegither, it wad be this. Whatever yer heart desires moyst, even if the verra sands o' time stand in yer way, pursue it tae yer dyin' breath wi' every bit o' courage ye can muster, an' mak' yer pursuit wi' a sang on yer lips an' a leap in yer heart.”\n\nAnd with that he was gone.\n\n * *\n\nThe boats in the regalia of the Venetian Nights Lighted Boat Parade formed a line along the bay, with the strung lights in cool blues, deep purples, warm oranges, translucent aquamarines, and Christmas-tree reds leaving colored trails along the cool waters of the Hempstead Bay. The stars above glistened with a million pin pricks of light. \n\nCrackling bonfires on the yards and tiki torches on the docks reverberated with clicks and smacks of flame across the bluffs. The call of a stray Whip-poor-will whistled its haunting high notes into the looping night breezes. The buzzy, raspy click of the katydids pierced the night with an “eh eh eh, katy did” emanating from the trees along the shore. \n\nThe smell of herbaceous fern and the spicy, musky hint of asper mixed with the acrid and unmistakable smell of the phosphorous of the bay with its powdery ragweed and sagebrush notes. These muted aromas wafted in with the breeze and the lapping tide. The air was neither moist nor dry, but just right and bathed the skin in a feeling like the slightest hint of moisturizing cream carried in the dusk.\n\nCam looked over at me and said, “what made you come out tonight Megs.”\n\nI smiled back at him and said, “it’s a long story.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Baseballs, Citrus Suckies, Stanley & Me\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3003\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on a baseball field." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "At the age of seven, I batted .292 for my hometown Pee-Wee baseball team. I had a three year .327 Little League average, a four year .384 Babe Ruth stat. Fifty-eight homeruns, ninety-two triples, one hundred sixty-three doubles. A seven year .352 ERA. Seven years - no errors, no cup. All of little matter.\nWhat mattered?\nFor eight years, I was first baseman!\nSpring of '65, my junior year of High School, I had one wish, one dream, one desire; skip JV baseball try-outs entirely, and try-out, to play, to be, first baseman on the Varsity baseball team.\nI have my first baseman's glove. I have my first pair of cleats. I have my first cup. I have more confidence than a dwarf with a full-length mirror! I'm calm. I'm confident. I'm cocky. Glove, cleats, cup, and seven sticks of Black Jack chewing gum packed in my jaw!\nWatch out! I am first baseman!\n\"Outfielders, pitchers, catchers, third, shortstop, second and first basemen, good luck.\"\nI'm already good and I don't need luck. No ego in my family, I got it all! I took to first base like a baby takes to his mother's teat. This chiclet's mine!\nMy only competition? The one and only obstacle standing between me and Varsity first baseman? One person; Stanley Dumbrowski, Equipment Manager, three years in a row. Dork! I am golden!\nTry-outs began. I am pumped! Do it freakin' to it!\nI took screaming line-drives 1-2-3! So did Stanley.\nRoutine infield pop-ups 1-2-3! So did Stanley.\nFireballs to my left! Cannons to my right! I'm a human freakin' vacuum! So was Stanley.\nThe final shot was launched; a towering heads-up fly ball. I mean towering! That ball lofted so high I swear I heard God yell, \"I GOT IT! I GOT IT!\"\nI gazed to the heavens and waited and waited and, that ball was up there! Finally, the ball broke through the clouds. As the ball fell, the clouds parted. As the ball descended, the sun appeared. Ball became bigger. Sun became brighter. I thrust my gloved hand skyward, eyes shielded from the brilliant orb. Just as ball and glove and sun aligned, just as my fellow teammates to be froze in hushed anticipation, just as I grabbed at my cup, ground in my cleats, bracing for sudden impact, just as ball and glove and cup and I would be one, Stanley Dumbrowski broke wind, and I caught that ball, right in the mouth!\nThere I lay, dazed and bleeding. The ball rolled from my swelling lips.\nMy soon to be fellow teammates clamored to my aid. Stanley arrived first. I know it was Stanley, I caught his drift. As I was removed from field of play, Stanley assumed the position. A weak puffball was lofted his way. One, two, three. Try-outs ended.\n\"LF, Morse. CF, Cahill. RF, Comee. Catcher, pitcher, third, shortstop, second and first baseman, Stanley Dumbrowski!\"\nStanley went ballistic! He didn't know whether to s**t or go blind! So, he broke-wind, again. I was down-wind. In my life, I have sensed Stanley's presence many, many times.\nAs I left the field, I gave my glove to a homeless child, offered my cleats to a man with no shoes...sold Stanley my cup. I walked home alone, absorbed in defeat. A pitiful lump of personified failure!\nA note awaited my return. 'Call Coach.'\n\"Yeah, listen, you still want in as first baseman?\"\nSwollen lips could not lie. \"Yebth!\"\n\"Good. Stanley's a senior, his last year. I need a back-up first baseman.\"\nBack-up first baseman? Back-up first baseman? \"Bwack-up firt batheban?\"\n\"Be my back-up first baseman this year and next year, you are first baseman.\"\n\"How buch wiw I pway?\"\n\"You'll play every game Stanley misses, if he's sick, or, whatever. Back-up.\"\n\"Bwack-up?\"\n\"Back-up.\"\n\"Firt batheban netht year?\"\n\"Yep, next year.\"\n\"I'w doob i!\"\n\"You will?\"\n\"Yebth!\"\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\"Yebth, I'm thur!\"\n\"Great! Drop by Stanley's in a coupla days, pick-up the Equipment Managers gear. Welcome to the team.\"\n(click)\nI hate him.\n~ ~ ~\nStanley's dad used up his fifteen minutes of fame when this story made front page headlines: LOCAL MAN FALLS DOWN UP ESCALATOR FROM 11:15 AM to 12:45 PM. As luck would have it, Stanley's mom caught the entire incident on video. All ninety minutes!\nbumidy...bumidy...bum...(pause)...bumidy...bumidy...bum...(pause)...\nThe tape had a certain Felliniesque, Woody Allenish, George Romeroie quality to it. The video was rushed to America's Stupidest People and promptly returned, rejected from competition. The powers that be at the station claimed nobody could be that stupid, but the town folk knew better, mounting a letter campaign to the network. The network wouldn't back down, but to quell the negative publicity surrounding the write-in, the station sent the Dumbrowskis a lifetime supply of Citrus Suckies, a candy new to the market.\n\"Hi. I came to pick up the Equipment Manager's stuff.\"\n\"Hi, I'm Stanley's dad.\"\n\"Hi, Mr. Dumbrowski. I didn't recognize you.\" Oh, like a face-full of escalator stair treads weren't a freakin' give-away!\n\"Name's Sydney, but you can call me Sydney.\"\nI hate him. \"Enjoyed your video.\"\n\"Thanks, son, Stanley will be right down. Have a seat.\" He reached over for a bowl of hard candies and broke wind. \"Citrus Suckie?\" Obviously, this was a family issue.\nFolks who break wind in my air-space and don't say, 'Excuse me,' really irk me. My dad used to say, \"Where 'ere you be, let the wind blow free!\" This saying became a family tradition, passed down generation to generation. My Grandma Millie even crocheted those words on a pillow. My mom'd say, \"How in hell did I get stuck with a loser like you?\" This saying also took hold as a family tradition. Fortunately, we had used up all the crocheteable pillows.\n\"Suck.\"\n\"Pardon?\"\n\"You suck Citrus Suckies. Don't chew.\"\n\"Ah-h.\" Jerk.\nThe front door opened and slammed shut.\n\"And who have we here?\" said Mr. Dumbrowski. \"Oh, hi hon. You've never met the little woman, have you?\" Little Women, sure, required reading. But who's this cow? She was enormous! \"Terry, this is Stanley's teammate.\"\n\"Yes, Stanley's good friend. Hi. Citrus Suckie?\" She was the shortest woman I had ever met, yet the biggest I had ever seen! I sensed her toes, feet, ankles & stubby legs all crying out for relief from the tonnage. They deserved a Citrus Suckie! \"Stanley talks so much about you. Tell me, are you trying out for the class production of Cyrano?\" I couldn't help but stare as she backed up, taking aim on a velvet wing-back chair. \"Cyrano de Bergerac?\" Whoomph! Crushed velvet! \"Cat got your tongue? Okay, you tell me something.\" Okay, Mrs. Cow. Cyrano de Bergerac gave Roxanne a nose job, caught a yeast infection, and died! \"Well, are you excited to be the new Equipment Manager?\"\n\"Oh, yes, very.\" D-uh! Then she broke wind! I knew she would. I don't know how I knew, I just knew. Slowly, I became aware of the air quality of the Dumbrowski home. The air was tart, not nasty. In fact, the air smelled like a citrus grove. Terry and Sydney in a citrus tree. Cutting loose big ones naturally. Sydney cuts a lemon, Terry cuts a lime, Stanley cuts an orange in 4-4 time. I like the meter. Five stars. I need fresh air. Lots of fresh air!\nStanley appeared. \"Here you go.\" And, with a thud, he dropped at my feet an over-stuffed duffel bag, and a smaller cotton bag. A baseball rolled out. All Stanley said was, \"That's your ball bag.\"\n\"Huh?\"\n\"Your ball bag.\"\n\"My ball bag?\"\n\"Your ball bag.\"\nThree simple words found their way into my brain and perched, displayed in flashing neon, ever so brief, in mind's eye. Slinking about my imagination, they festered for a mini-moment on my funnybone, wormed around and through my laugh canal, inched along, tickling parts unheard of, then ...EXPLODED! Every pore in me burst open as laughter consumed my very being! It was a moment, one of those rare personal moments, that come to pass every few years. Explanation? None. Years of proper breeding, of social grace, to the gutter! A fleeting moment of lone vulgarity, for you, only you; yours and yours alone. I snorted, I gagged, I heaved, I cried, I sweat, I died!\nThen, I stopped.\nNeither the world, nor the Dumbrowskis, laughed with me. They just sat, and stared, sucking Citrus Suckies. Suddenly, I knew what it was like to tumble down an up escalator, all alone. I hoped one day, one day soon, someone, anyone, would tell the Dumbrowskis to chill out, but not me, not today, not ever. I don't like Stanley. I don't like his mom or dad. They're the family from hell!\n\"Citrus Suckie?\"\nShove'em up your arse, Stanley! \"No, thank-you, Stanley.\"\n~ ~ ~\nBaseball season came.\nI was able to play every game. I was able, but didn't. Not a single one. Stanley played flawless first base. With every grounder, pop-up, line-drive, with every out Stanley made, I died just a little bit more. He didn't miss one game. He never got sick. Never got hurt. He did break wind a lot, though. I never got my chance to play.\n\"Be ready,\" Coach would say. Well, if, \"be ready\" meant lugging nineteen assorted size baseball bats, twenty-four baseballs, three bases, home plate, a full set of catcher's gear, two water coolers, assorted clipboards, and one small American Flag on a six foot pole to all fifty games, if this in Coaches mind defined \"be ready,\" then by gum, I was ready!\nThat season, the closest I came to playing ball was when I got jock itch!\nBaseball season went.\n~ ~ ~\nDuring the off-season I kept in shape tossing baseballs on the barn roof, catching them as they careened and catapulted in every direction, off the roof's jagged edge. I also kept busy nursing Mitzy, my ailing cat, back to health. She had tried catching one too many barn roof roll-offs in her little mouth. She missed every one, but not one missed her little head.\nThe one she almost caught, the one close call, the exception, was the double-ball barn roof roll-off. I threw two balls on the roof. By some freak of fate, both balls rolled straight down the roofs pitch, one behind the other, and flew off the edge without careening left or right. Both balls led a straight shot, right at Mitzy. Ball one knocked Mitzy out cold. Ball two landed square on her left eye socket and stayed there.\nShe didn't lose that one.\nHowever, she did lose her left eye, so that really didn't count.\n~ ~ ~\nWinter passed. Spring sprung. The smell of baseball was again in the air. The smell of oil on leather mitts, of pine-tar on wooden bats, of Black Jack chewing gum, of Coach's stoagie breath, of Citrus Suckies.\nHUH?!?\nThe smell of Stanley Dumbrowski!\nHEY!?!\nThe stink of lies! The stench of deceit! There was only one explanation, so ridiculous, so impossible, even I, with my keen but tortured imagination, could not ever have imagined!\nSTANLEY HAD STAYED BACK!!\nSomehow the big goober managed to doom himself to repeat his Senior year! There he was. His handful of leather, his mouth full of Citrus Suckies, at my try-outs, with my cup!\nTry-outs began.\nIf the ball was hit in the air, I managed to let it hit the ground. Liners, grounders, bloopers, all of them passed through me like a cheap laxative! Once again, Stanley was flawless.\nCoach's advice, \"Be my Equipment Manager again this year, earn a two year Varsity letter, and maybe, just maybe, as back-up first baseman, you'll get a chance to play. Or, quit! Get nothing! Have nothing! Be nothing! Finish high school a nothing!\"\nDecisions, decisions, decisions.\nI ran home. Wee echoes whispered deep within twit mental recesses; Tis far better to run the race and find a loser, than quit, and find a failure. Oh, shut up!\nI needed time to think. Fifty games. I needed my space to decide. I will get a Varsity letter. I went straight to the barn. 'Stanley could get sick. I bet I caught a zillion barn roof roll-offs. And die! Mitzy caught one and went totally blind. I'LL DO IT!\n~ ~ ~\nThe first half of that season went remarkably, incredibly, no, amazingly well. We were 25-0.\nTeam camaraderie, player bonding, was never as strong as on that year's team.\nMitzy was chosen Team Mascot and given the nickname 'Ump'.\nCitrus Suckies replaced Black Jack chewing gum.\nStanley and I became friends. I no longer hoped he would die. Sick, yes. Die, no.\nCoach was in heaven. He knew we had the ability and talent to go all the way. He had never coached a team to the play-offs. He knew we were unbeatable. My decision to stay on as Equipment Manager, this, my final Varsity year, was the right one.\nAt 32-0 my thoughts of playing were unimportant. I reveled in belonging.\n38-0 - As a team, as a unit, as buds, we couldn't do enough for each other. Stanley insisted I be named Interim First Baseman for all batting practices. What a guy!\n43-0 - Word had spread. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, started coming to the games. They had caught, 'The Fever!'\n45-0 - Never before had there been such a team. There would never be again.\n47-0 - Win, lose, or draw, whether we won the Finals, Regionals, or Nationals, was a minor issue.\n48-0 - To play the Chinese in the International World Series did not concern us.\n49-0 - To win all that and be invited to the White House to shake the hand of the President of the United States, well, even that didn't matter. All that mattered now? Be the only team in Varsity Baseball History to go 50-0, a perfect season! Absolutely unheard of! Personified perfection! A classifiable phenomenon!\n\"OH, GO TEAM...GO TEAM...GO TEAM - GO! WIN TEAM...WIN TEAM...WIN TEAM - WIN!!\"\nAt two o'clock on a beautiful, balmy, October Sunday, history would be written. The FIFTIETH game; thee 50th! The final hurrah was at hand.\nSince 'The Fever' struck, I'd come to acknowledge my importance to the team and the team to me. Even the Equipment Manager's bag, ball bag too, had become lighter to the touch. I had stopped trudging to the ballfield, dragging equipment behind me. The once despised dirty deed, I now did with delight, with verve and bounce.\nParents, relatives, and friends, arrived early, picnic baskets and blankets in hand, to claim prime viewing space.\nPlayers milled about, laughing, joking. They waited for gear. They waited for...me.\nThe opposing team arrived. They filed off the bus, lambs to the slaughter.\nA short distance beyond third, Coach and Stanley sat alone - a curious sight. Coach beckoned to me. I dropped the Equipment Manager's bag and hustled over. Coach said the words I'd waited two long seasons to hear; \"So, you ready to be a hero?\"\nAll I could say was, \"Huh?\"\nStanley sat, motionless. He had burst a hemorrhoid taking a dump. He cried. I had no idea what to say. I had no idea what to do. I had no idea what a hemorrhoid was. Suddenly, I became very scared. I gave Stanley my last Citrus Suckie and, because Coach knew everything, I asked, \"What's a hemorrhoid?\"\nCoach just shook his head and told me to, \"Get ready.\" Stanley just sat, and sucked, and cried. Stanley's parents, Mr. Escalator Stair Tread Face and Mrs. Cow, gave me the thumbs up as I raced back.\nI found some cleats. Stanley pointed to his glove and cup. Glove, yes. Cup, no.\nThe American Flag was run up the pole. Proudly, we as a bonding congregation representing every Smalltown USA kid whoever laced up a pair of cleats, proudly we fumbled the National Anthem.\nGame time! Player's names were announced, one by one, as we took our positions. \"And playing first base...\" Gawd, what a rush! I am First Baseman! Yes!\nAs Coach rummaged through the Equipment Manager's bag, his words washed over me again and again. So, you ready to be a hero? I stood at first base, all goose-bumpy.\nThe Umpire stood behind homeplate. In a very officious voice he bellowed, \"BATTER UP. PLAY...Play...?\" Hold it, something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.\nInfielders looked to the outfielders. Outfielders looked to the basemen. Parents looked to each other. The Dumbrowski's looked like they each cut one. The air was thick with something. The silence, deafening.\nThen Coach, in a most memorable, unnerving, disembodied monotone said, \"Hey, kid?\"\n\"Huh?\"\n\"The balls?\"\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\"The balls?\"\n\"What?\"\n\"The balls! The balls! The balls, kid, the balls! You don't have the balls!\"\n\"Uh-hee,\" I heard myself squeak.\nSnickers and sniggers and chuckles and chortles and coughs and gasps filled the air.\n\"I do too!\" I proudly overstated.\n\"WHERE?\" Coach yelled.\n\"IN MY BALL BAG!\" Humiliation to the 1000th power!\nCoach up-ended my ball bag. Zip. Zero. Nada. No balls. Nowhere. Not a one.\nIt was then I remembered, last night, I used the bag to carry Mitzy to the vet to be put to sleep, after she had chased the sound of her last barn roof roll-off right into the path of that hay baler. I had left the balls in the field. That's why the Equipment Managers bag was so light!\nWe forfeited the game.\nThe season ended, 49-1. I never played first base that day. I never played first base again.\nI was never a hero.\n~ ~ ~\nOft times I ponder those good ol' days and, for the most part, I look back and smile, but the question, the one unanswerable question that has plagued me to this very day? I can't help but wonder, I really can't help to wonder, what would've happened...\nif...\nI only had the balls?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Pitch Black\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2996\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where hard work doesn’t pay off." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A doorbell rang in the blackness of the night, sending a wave of disturbance in the pin-drop silence. Despite it being so late, however, it didn’t take long before the bell was responded. \n“Karlile?” the woman who opened the door asked in mild surprise. “What are you doing here so late? Is something the matter?”\nThe boy addressed as Karlile stood quietly at her door, a look of deep sorrow creasing his face. “Hi, auntie. Can I come in?” he asked in a tired voice.\nThe woman stepped aside and opened the door wide. Karlile walked in and straight to the living room, the woman following. “What’s wrong?” she asked again. She could see the dark bags under her nephew’s dull eyes.\nThe boy sighed. “It’s Pitch,” he said. “He’s making my life hell.”\nA frown appeared on the woman’s face, out of understanding and experience. Pitch Black. A dark magic that resided inside all members of the Venem family, marking their bloodline as the most unique. No magic in history was known to transfer into every magic wielder within the same family before. Pitch was a powerful magic, the pride of all Venems… except for two of the recent generation … Karlile and his aunt, Siara Venem.\nFor some reason, Pitch had assigned himself to disobey their will and control them, instead of the other way around. Siara could vaguely remember the days of her childhood when his toll on her was far greater than it was now. It seemed that even though Pitch wasn’t done toying with her, he had directed his tyranny towards her nephew.\nSiara sighed, seating herself beside her nephew and pulling him towards her. “It’s been years… I still don’t know how to get rid of him,” she said quietly, feeling terrible that she couldn’t offer her nephew any comfort. “He just won’t stop hurting us.”\nKarlile leaned on his aunt and closed his eyes. “Us? I thought it was just me he hated?”\nSiara shook her head, sour memories flashing from the subconscious of her mind. “He’s hurt me plenty. I… I still remember the pain he put me through. I was your age. We… I was in grade twelve. I put a lot of effort into getting the Valedictorian award and the best grades possible. I was looking forward to getting scholarships and getting into a good university… but I didn’t.”\nKarlile pulled away and looked up at his aunt, a look of curiosity and pity plastered on his face.\nSiara’s eyes looked distant as she began to relate her story.\nBoth Siara’s parents had died two years before her grandparents did, and the loss hindered her grades at school. Her brother was called in often after school to meet up with her teacher and discuss ways she could improve her grades. Unfortunately, Siara couldn’t get over her guardians’ death and barely passed grade nine. During that time, her eldest sister - Karlile’s mother - got married. Her eldest brother went out of the city to get a high-pay job to support the family and her second eldest sister, Sean, went to university. Siara was the youngest and lived at home alone.\nEventually, she was sick of grieving and renewed her soul with the goal of getting into a good university, so that instead of being a burden to her siblings, she could become a way to ease their financial problems. She would then get a good job and a successful future.\nIt was her second year of high school and Siara went ready and determined. With a goal of ninety percent average in mind, Siara worked hard in her second year. She avoided the other kids so that she would not get involved in anything that would side-track her. It cost her potential friends but she didn’t let that annoy her. She gave up her favorite walks to the park or her well-deserved internet time. She gave up all her hobbies, immersing herself in her assignments and tests. Her commitment seemed to be paying off as her grades began to climb and she was headed for a promising overall grade… but Pitch was stirring a plan all the while to tear her plans apart.\nIt was the week before the end of school and Siara had only a major assignment and exam left. Her current standing grade was in the mid-eighties, raising her confidence in herself. She was walking home from school one day when a sudden pain grasped her heart. Weak at first, stronger as she neared home. “Pitch,” she gritted her teeth as she stumbled inside, securing the lock behind her. “Stop it. I know that’s you.” The pain only increased as she climbed the steps towards her room and she began to feel dizzy. “Pitch…” she called weakly.\nA dark chuckle echoed through her head. “You’re not anything great, Siara. Your efforts, your dreams… they’re all pointless.”\nSiara felt her grip on the railing loosen and she fell. She didn’t know what happened after that as her head made contact with the ground and the world went black.\n----------------------------------\nWhen she awoke, Siara sat in a sitting position, scanning her surroundings. She was in her room, she noticed as her eyes fell on her study table, where her brother, Sabastian, lay asleep. Her eyebrows raised. How did he end up here?\nShe walked over to him, noticing that the pain she had felt earlier was all gone. She shook him awake. His eyes slowly lifted and fell on Siara’s face. They suddenly went wide and he jumped up to embrace her, “Sia! Thank God!”\nSiara stood there startled and confused, pushing him away tenderly. “What happened?”\nSabastian grabbed both her hands and smiled at her. She could see the tiredness in his eyes that gave away how much he had overworked himself. “You fell unconscious,” he said. “I came home to see you lying at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t know how long you had been there but I tried to wake you up. You wouldn’t.” A lump had appeared in his throat. “The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with you either and couldn’t get you to wake up. I… I thought I lost you.” His eyes teared up and Siara frowned.\n“How long was I unconscious?” She asked.\nSebastian’s lips tightened. “Two months. September starts in a couple of days.”\nSiara’s heart stopped for a second and a pain clutched her heart. “Two… months,” she whispered. “What about school? I – I didn’t give the exam.”\n“Who cares,” Sabastian said, pulling her in for a hug again. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”\nSiara pushed him away again, this time more aggressively. “But - but my marks. What did I get? Did I pass? Tell me!”\nSabastian sighed. “You passed, Siara.” But the look on her face gave it away. She had passed maybe, but with terrible scores. The pain her heart began to feel was one she knew well. It was the feeling she got when something important to her was lost. She worked her head off the entire year for nothing.\n“It’s okay,” her brother comforted her when he saw the tears that streamed down her face. “You have next year and the year after that. I’m just glad you’re okay.”\nShe had wanted to make her siblings proud. She had wanted them not to worry about her. Instead, she got terrible marks and made her brother stay home with her for an entire two months. How had he managed to work and take care of her at the same time? She pursed her lips for fear of crying and making his task harder. She took a shaky breath and wiped her eyes, forcing a smile on her face. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll do better next year, I promise.”\nHer brother chuckled, “I know you will. But don’t worry about that too much. You must have fainted because of overworking yourself. You should take it easy, Sia. How are you feeling right now? Does anything hurt?”\nSiara shook her head. “I feel fine. Great, even. I’m not sure what happened back then but I’m okay now. You don’t worry about me, Sabastian. You should take a rest before getting back for work.”\nSabastian smiled and did just that. He left the next day after making arrangements for her for the year ahead. “Call me if anything happens,” he had said, pressing a phone into Siara’s hands. “I’ll come right away.”\nThe second his car left her sight, Siara closed the door and her tears erupted. They streamed like a waterfall down her face and her lips wobbled with anger and hate. “Damn you, Pitch!” She shouted aloud. “Why do you have to ruin my life even more than it already is! Can’t you just leave me alone?!”\nA low chuckling filled her ears that made her blood boil. He spoke no words but Siara could hear a thousand insults swirling in her mind anyway.\n-------------------------\nGrade eleven. Siara made a promise to make sure nothing stopped her this time. If her midterm marks last year were in the eighties without the exams, she would have to get a midterm mark of a hundred before the exam, so that even if Pitch did what he did, she would still pass with at least an eighty or ninety percent. The teachers emphasized how important marks were in grades eleven and twelve. They would determine her academic future.\nHowever, Pitch wasn’t a predictable being. Siara began to get frequent heart attacks that hindered her marks. She tried to fight it, to press him down the way magic users were supposed to be able to do, but it wouldn’t work. She ended up with a final mark in the fifties and sixties.\nSabastian stayed quiet as he came home from work one day, having heard of Siara’s situation. He entered the living room where Siara was staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. He sat down beside her.\nMany times, Siara had wanted to tell Sabastian about Pitch’s villainy towards her, but every time in the past that she had tried, he had threatened her with potential death. Siara secretly wondered whether her parents’ and grandparents’ death were Pitch’s doing, but she had never come up with concrete evidence, and telling her older siblings about it might have ended up with another death.\nA while later, Sabastian spoke. “Samantha’s son is a year old now,” he said.\n“I know,” Siara replied quietly.\n“You know?”\n“I visit them every time I get the chance.”\n“Oh. Well. He reminds me of you.”\nSiara closed her eyes and a bitter feeling washed over her. “I hope his life doesn’t end up like mine.”\n------------------------------------------\nIt was Siara’s last year of high school. She was putting in everything she had left in her in this year. She had to make up for her poor grades in the past three years or she’d never make it to university. The night before the new school year started, Siara pleaded with her birth magic to not interfere with her goals anymore but was responded bitterly by the dark voice in her head.\n“The day I am free of all you humans will be the day I stop interfering with your lives.”\nSiara took night school to boost up her grade eleven-course marks and took more than the required number of courses. Pitch was inactive for the first term which made Siara wonder if he really listened to her plea, giving her hope that she might make something out of her hard work this year. At the school assembly, the principal came in to make an announcement to the graduating class.\nHe stated that joining extra-curricular activities, volunteering as much as possible in the community, and joining the student council would all help in receiving scholarships and a higher chance of getting accepted into university. Siara made a mental note of that.\nShe tried the student council but was immediately destroyed by the competition. Known as the self-absorbed nerd of the school, the only thing she got was a round of insults.\nAll the clubs she tried to join ended up similarly, cutting holes in her determination.\nSiara gritted her teeth and broke into a sprint away from the school parking lot. Humiliated and angry, she decided she wasn’t going to give up.\nShe tried again the next day after having stayed up the night before to make posters to advertise herself. She needed to build up her popularity if she wanted to join the student council or any club.\nA classmate sat beside her during recess with a haughty glare. “You say you’re intelligent?” she asked, referring to the information Siara had written on her poster.\n“Yeah,” Siara said quietly. “I should think so”\n“Can you do calculus?”'\n“Yeah.”\nThe girl humphed. “We’ll see. If you can help me get a ninety on an assignment, I’ll vote for you for the student council. The assignment’s due tomorrow so come over to my place after school.” She stood up and left. Siara was both hopeful and stressed. She only had three hours after school to work on her own homework and assignments before night school, which lasted until nine-thirty at night. She swallowed but furrowed her eyebrows. She would do it. If it would increase her chances of making it to the student council, she’d do it.\nHer classmate did, in fact, get a ninety for her assignment and voted for Siara. It came with a downside, however, as Siara had to finish her own work after she had come home from night school and slept late. Apart from that, many other students had begun to come to her for homework assistance. Her schedule was crammed and she slept late every day. However, she had gotten enough votes and surpassed her competition, becoming the president of the student council. Relieved, Siara continued helping her classmates and other class students with whatever they needed.\nIt was nearing the end of the year again, and the student council was asked to plan out the graduation. Siara was given the responsibility as head of the council to make arrangements. On the day, she was to give instructions to everyone who was contributing to doing what they had to at what time. Siara’s schedule was busy, but she was happy. She felt purposeful and accomplished after so long. She called Sabastian late one night and filled him in on everything she was doing. He praised her and told her the one thing she wanted to hear, “I’m proud of you, kiddo. Good work.”\nBut, as it goes, everything must come to an end, including happiness.\nThe day before the graduation date, Pitch struck again.\nSiara was preparing herself at night for the big day, making sure everything was in place when Pitch’s deep voice sounded in the quiet of her room.\n“You work too hard for the most worthless things,” he said. “Human beings are so worthless.” \nA chill ran up Siara’s spine. She made a brave face despite feeling terrified inside. “Don’t,” she cautioned. “Don’t you dare ruin tomorrow.”\n“I don’t take orders from anyone,” he laughed. “If you thought the last sickness was bad, you’re in for something new, Siara,” his laughter loudened before fading away into the silence of her mind. Her body suddenly began to shake madly. “Stop it,” she cried, reaching for her cellphone, her hand hovering over it for a second before withdrawing. She didn’t want to bother Sabastian. The pain would go away when Pitch wanted it to. Nothing anyone else did would cure it.\n“Please Pitch, leave me alone this once. Please.”\nThe shivering gave way to a severe headache. She tumbled towards her bed, eyes bordering with tears, and pulled her blanket over her. She covered her face with her pillow to muffle her crying.\nThe pain never left by the morning. She was hurting so much that she couldn’t walk. She stayed in bed, tears of defeat dripping down her face. This is it, Siara thought sourly as the clock ticked away, soon indicating the end of the school day. Nothing matters anymore. Everyone at school is going to be disappointed. Sabastian, Sean… they’ll be disappointed. I’ll never get to university. I’ll never be anyone great.\nThe laughter that echoed in her head didn’t bring about anger or determination anymore, only the wild thumping of her heart as the fear of the dark being engulfing her until she let go of every last dream she had.\n---------------------------\nSiara’s eyes focused back on the present as she felt a hand clutch hers. Tears had fallen from her cheeks as her empty eyes met with her nephew’s. “I was never able to escape from Pitch. He haunts me to this day. Every loss I experienced taught me that hard work… is useless.”\nKarlile furrowed his eyebrows. “That’s not true. Don’t let anyone make you think that.”\nHis aunt gave a sad smile in return but didn’t argue. She didn’t want to believe it, either.\n“You know what, Auntie?” the boy said. “I’m graduating this year. And I’ll prove to you that hard work does pay off. I’ll get that valedictorian award you always wanted. I’ll get into university. Just watch me. Pitch can try whatever he wants, but he won’t stop me. No one will.” He stood up in fierce determination. “You’ll see,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed his aunt’s forehead, wiping her cheek with his hand before pulling away. “Thanks, Auntie. I needed to hear all that. I won’t live the same life you did. I’ll do what you couldn’t.” And the shine that Siara saw glinting in her nephew’s eyes brought a smile to her face.\n“I know you will,” she whispered as he walked away. She heard the door close behind him and a flicker of hope burned inside of 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: Fated with Music\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1815\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with someone saying “You’ll never know unless you try.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Georgina had been closing her eyes for almost half an hour, her consciousness was alive, yet she pretended she was sleeping. She can hear the noise from her background: the roaring chug and chuff of the train; the distant sound of the people around her; and the little girl from her right calling her mother's attention\n\" Mommy, I am hungry.\" her cry blends with the shrill noise from the crowd and hearing the little girl's cry makes her feel like she can't indulge the foreign environment anymore.\n\nGeorgina slowly opens her eyes and looks around her surroundings, still afraid to get eye to eye contact with the man across from her, knowing he's been staring at her for a long time. She cleared her throat and leveled her eyes at the man.\n\nHe hurriedly turned his head away after noticing her attention. Georgina was amazed as she stared at the man. He was not that bad-looking. In fact, pleasing to her eyes. She didn't catch much of his sight earlier as she was afraid he was a member of pickpockets in the subway. She wondered why the man had followed her? She heard a lot about different criminals, and her ignorance and innocence of the things outside her comfort zone make her naïve.\n\nHer father called her earlier to say that he won't fetch her from school as he got an emergency meeting with his client. It was the first time in her senior high school life to travel alone. She thought being in a private school seeing few people in her whole life makes her paranoid. She could have just called a taxi. She now regrets why she chose to ride in the subway.\n\nShe suspected he was following from the street on her way to the train. He doesn't look like he can kill a rat by studying his profile. She felt sorry for herself for being too judgmental. When the guy turned his head and looked at her, she didn't know why her eyes couldn't keep away from his compelling eyes. He smiled politely at her, \"Hi.\" Georgina didn't know how to reply to his greeting, so she just let herself be, \"Hello there, I thought you'd been following me from the street. May I know what you want from me?\" She wanted to sound friendly, but her nervousness made her voice stiff. His face became serious, and he adjusted his sitting position as if he was about to deliver an important message \"I'm sorry I didn't want to scare you. I hope I didn't frighten you, but I don't know if I will be able to talk to you again, so I follow you here.\" Now the guy's speech makes her fascinated. Why would he follow her around the train? Is she someone special? Did she do any important things in her life that made this man follow her, or did he like her the first time he met her? Is she that pretty?\" Georgina thought. \n\nShe wanted to laugh at her silly thoughts, but she didn't like the man to think differently of her, So she tried to look serious and asked him why. \"I have seen you perform in your school. I was in charge of the sound system, and I just thought your voice was perfect for my band. Ares explains, \"You have a band?\" she became interested and excited. She used to sing during their school program. At first, her parents forced her to sing. They said she had a good voice and enrolled her in a singing class. As she grew up, she realized her love for music. It uplifts her soul, and she becomes a different person on stage. \"I understand your doubt, but Mister Jorge Mcdowey is my uncle, your school technician, and I was his substitute during that program because Aimee also has a school presentation that day,\" he explained. \"I'm Ares, by the way.\" even his name is pretty. Georgina thought she knew he was not lying after mentioning their friendly school technician Mister Mcdowell and his cute little girl Aimee. She had seen Mister Mcdowell with Aimee at school many times.\n\nAlright, so he is not a pick pocketer, and he has pretty eyes, and he knows her school technician and his cute little girl she always saw in the school hallway is his cousin. He is offering her to be their band vocalist? She recalled the information. She knew she loved to sing in front of many people. That is her passion, but her father would not let her. \"I'm sorry, Ares, but I can't,\" And went to the exit door after it opened. \"I'm really sorry, thank you for the offer but no thanks.\" she had already gotten out of the train when Ares shouted politely,\" it's okay, George,\" \n\nGeorge was in her classroom with her best friend Maggie while telling her what happened yesterday on the subway train. \" Isn't that weird he knew your name? OMG you have a stalker George.\" Maggie's face looks worried. But Georgina knew he was far from creepy after she remembered his face. \"Hey you're smiling, why are you smiling like that? Didn't you say he don't look like a pick pocketer, so does that mean he is handsome?\" Maggie exclaimed, \"shh… Your voice is too loud, our classmates might hear us.\" Maggie pretended to pout her mouth \"let them hear, I don't care.\" I smile\" Yes, he looks like the younger version of Christopher Hemsworth.\" \"OMG, really, I wanted to see him.\"\n\nMaggie giggled. \"Why didn't you have his number? If he really looks like the younger version of Christopher Hemsworth, without thinking I would have thrown myself to him and agreed with his proposal right away. What's wrong with you?\" Maggie was overreacting.\" I know, but I know my father, he wouldn't allow me to do that.\" Maggie got silent because she knew how overprotective her parents were to her. \"Unless you tell him.\" \"What do you mean?\" Georgina was curious though she had an idea what Maggie was thinking.\" Don't tell your parents you will join his band.\" \"Are you serious? How will I do that?\" Maggie thinks again and gives up her idea. \"I'm sorry George but I think you are right, you will never have a chance to sing in the crowd like your dream.\" Maggie's words saddened Georgina a little, but she knew her friend was right. Their conversations were cut when their teacher stepped inside the classroom. \n\n\"Good morning class, before I will start out lesson for today I would like to introduce to you our new transfer student from Ashton City, he is Mr. Mcdoweys nephew, Mr. Ares Mcdowell.\" My eyes widened after seeing Ares. His eyes were instantly fixed on me when he entered the room, and I couldn't understand the butterfly feeling in my whole body. My heart skips faster, and I can almost hear its beating. I was still shocked when he walked towards me, passed by my chair, and sat behind me. He said a soft \"Hi\" with his husky voice. I didn't turn around to see his face because I was afraid he would observe me blushing, but I replied to his greeting enough for him to hear. I turned towards Maggie's direction, and she was also giggling. I wanted to stop her reaction, but I turned away and focused my eyes on the front board.\n\nThe whole one hour and 30 minutes were very long for me as I felt like his eyes were on my back. When Mr. Antonio finished his lecture, Georgina and Maggie went outside the room to their music lesson. \"George, wait up.\" Ares called her. She turned to look at Maggie and gave her a knowing look and smile before her friend left. \"Ares, Hi, so, we are classmates now, what a small world, it's nice to see you here.\" George pretended to sound lively. \"You don't like your happiness to see me.\" Ares commented. Georgina got guilty for being too engrossed with her own feeling. She forgot he was a transferee and must not know anyone from the school except her. \"Hey buddy.\" Ares gives Jonathan, their basketball star player, a high five \"glad to see you here, Ares.\" As they started to walk toward the next room, another student came in Ares' direction and greeted him. \"You're popular,\" Georgina commented, but she sounded sarcastic because of her stiff voice. Her nervousness makes her act weird. Ares didn't answer her but just smiled weakly.\n\nWhen they got into the music room, the last chair was only the one from the back, and she had no choice but to sit beside him again. She looks at Maggie sitting in front of her and winks in her direction after giving Ares a meaningful look. Georgina wanted to disappear in her chair. She regretted telling her friend about Ares. If she knew he would become their classmate, she wouldn't have told her about him, but who would have thought fate would do this to her. \"I got your name from my uncle, I have been doing substitution for him in the technical room ever since before, so I always saw you perform, George.\" Georgina's name sounds good to his lips. \"Oh.\" Georgina didn't say anything to him and pretended to listen to their teacher. \"Okay, let's group ourselves into pairs. \"Johnny and Megan, Theo and Amanda…..\" the teacher had called names by pair. She was unsure if she would be paired with Isaac in her left or with Ares in her right \"Georgina and our new student Ares.\" \"You will all practice a song together and present it to the class next meeting. We will present it in the auditorium, so make sure you have practiced your song very well.\" Their teachers' last speech.\n\nAres and Georgina had been practicing their song for the next more days. They've done the practice inside Ares's house since he has complete equipment. The rustic color of Ares's music room and the romantic dimness of the light is perfect for Georgina and Ares's blended voices. It was beautiful. After the song, Ares asks Georgina again,\" Your voice is beautiful; please be our vocalist George, ask your father to let you?\" \n\"I don't know Ares, I like what we did earlier; I love the song, and I love to sing, but I'm afraid my father will not allow me.\" He looked her in the eyes. Georgina knew their feelings were mutual. She likes him a lot; it's as if she had met her soulmate; agreeing to join him in the band; there is no way she can avoid Ares. But music is pulling her to him, one more pull, and she knew she'll give in, and Ares's conviction is tempting; Ares said: \" You'll never know unless you try.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Debatable Act of Bravery\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3002\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where fortune doesn’t favor the brave." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content Warning: References to Child Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Teen Death\nI would like to say that I don’t know what I was thinking, or that I don’t know what I thought I was doing. Because it’s embarrassing. Shameful. The fact is, I knew exactly what I was doing – and exactly what I was thinking.\nI cocked my fist and swung my arm as hard as I dared. The punch landed with a dull, heavy thud. I prepared myself again, determined to land an even heavier blow. Again and again, I swung my arm, the punches landing harder and harder till my fist began to ache. I eyed the cupboard door, and thought it would be a suitable weapon providing I could swing it hard enough; and land it well. I moved my target into position and grasped the bottom edge of the cupboard door. I breathed deeply and swung it hard. The blow landed much harder than I thought it would and I was briefly stunned by that. Determined to make it count now that I’d begun, I lined up my target again. This next blow was weak, barely causing harm at all. I closed my eyes and swung it again, as hard as I dared. The door landed hard and the impact reverberated through me. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I worried I’d gone too far. Not worried, exactly. I knew for a fact I’d gone too far. I was worried the consequences of having gone too far would be more than I could bear. As it turns out, those consequences would more than I could bear – in a manner of speaking, at any rate.\nI left the kitchen and followed the hallway to the bathroom, gingerly touching the rapidly swelling cheekbone. I closed the bathroom door and looked into the mirror. The lump and my face was tight and swollen and slightly purple. I winced as I pressed my fingers against it, jagged streaks of light shot to and fro behind my eyes. Pain shot across my temple. Belatedly, I realized I might get caught, and worry thrummed through me like a drum announcing my failure. I hoped Shirley wouldn’t see me. I wondered if I’d manage to go days without seeing her; that would be the best-case scenario. I looked in the mirror again, impressed I was able to generate such a lump, so much bruising and swelling, without any help whatsoever. I kinda liked the way it looked, honestly; I thought there was something vaguely romantic about it.\nShirley and Jim rarely left physical marks on me; and definitely not on my face. My legs were a different story; in the winter months, anyways. The backs and sides of my young thighs were generally covered in a mess of overlapping loop-shaped bruises thanks to belts and electrical cords and such. Years ago, in gym class, some of the other girls changing noticed the bruises on my thighs; the blue and purple maze of lash-marks must have startled them, and one classmate asked why did I have those loops all over my legs. With little emotion, I told her it was from beatings. She looked stunned, and horrified, and the tiniest spark of hope ignited in that moment. I assumed she’d tell someone, a grown-up; maybe her parents would adopt me, take me in, give me a better life. Or a less violent one, at least. Or maybe she’d have social worker parents, and they’d find me an entirely new home, far from here, and I’d be loved and wanted and cared for.\nI really didn’t know what those things would look like. I had no idea at the time that I was already irreversibly damaged; that a lifetime of stress, anxiety, gaslighting, beatings, and sexual assaults had rewired my nervous system and that it would forever work against my best interest. Despite valiant effort on my part to never be like those who’d harmed me, my own nervous system had been enlisted, and it now worked against me, for them. I was filled to overflowing with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and it would rage against me, pitting me against myself, the rest of my life.\nBut in that moment, I was content to imagine as best I could, what I thought a good life would mean. I pictured a pool, and enough to eat. I imagined not having to keep the house or babysit daily. I had no idea what would replace the physical violence, the sexual assault, the cruel words and the fear and self-loathing – so I just didn’t imagine anything in those spaces. It made for a spotty mental image, but it was dear to me in its way. There was a mother figure, she was kind. There was a father figure, who did not ever come near me except for the rare pat on the back, but who was kind, and provided for the family. There was my little brother, my younger sister, my older brother, my cat… The house was clean – not because I was terrified I’d wake in the middle of the night being slapped by adult hands. The house would be clean because adults would see to it. I’d have chores, of course. All of us would. I was hard-pressed to imagine reasonable chore-loads, beyond kitty litter, dishes, and taking out the garbage. \nMostly all I could imagine when I thought of a good home was the absence of violence, and sexual assault. And not being responsible for so much cleaning and childcare. My heart aches now, thinking back to those times. I couldn’t tell the difference between an actual good home, and one that was just devoid of abuse.\nAll my imagining was for nothing, anyways. The girls who’d seen my wounds in the time we’d been changing for gym class did tell the teacher. Sadly, the only thing that ever came of it was that many of my classmates, as well as that gym teacher, started calling me “Loopy”. When I asked someone, “Why are yous calling me that?” I was told it was because the loop-shaped bruises on my legs. Thankfully, the nickname didn’t stick beyond a few weeks.\nThis, though… this was going to stick. I was determined; driven by the romantic notion that I could be saved from what seemed like my fate. I imagined the school getting involved, the Children’s Aid Society, the police, maybe. I drifted off to sleep that night comforted by the notion that somehow, this visible act of self-abuse would expose and bring to justice, the abuse I experienced at home.\nBut fortune does not always favour the brave.\nIt’s maybe a stretch to consider what I was up to bravery.\nRegardless, I was trying to get out of a bad, bad, situation. I mean, gimme a break; I was a very traumatized 13-year-old girl with no boundaries or self-worth to speak of, and certainly no productive problem-solving skills. So, this was me, in grade 8, doing my best to face the foe with what integrity I had.\nThe past had taught me that naming abuse plainly would leave me with no one, and nowhere to turn. I don’t know how many adults I’d told by that point – a handful, for sure. Two of them, police officers. I’d run away, as I sometimes did, to the arms of a boyfriend. He was too old for me, and truthfully, I didn’t even know what all I liked so much about him, beyond the fact that he seemed to like and want to give attention to me. A sad state of emotional affairs, granted. But it was what it was, and I was glad he liked me. Again, with the romantic notions, I had it in my head that somehow he’d rescue me from my homelife. And that would lead me to then rescue my brothers and sister, and to bring abusers to justice. GOD, I was adorable. Adorably naïve, anyways. I really feel for that young kid that I was back then. I admire that I managed to hold onto that much innocence, despite my experiences to that point. I mean, at least I had hope, right? It’s hard to get back into that mindset and really grok all the ins and outs of how I was feeling and thinking. Partially because I’ve grown, and developed healthier communication skills and boundaries. Partially, it’s because it hurts to recall that self, and all of her pain.\nSo February 16th, 1986, at the tender age of 13 years old, I was looking to run away from the family home, and to stay with my boyfriend, who was 5 years my senior. I’d been at Sea Cadet practice earlier that day, and desperately did not want to go home. I was sick and tired of being molested and abused, and I was exhausted in some way that I couldn’t describe to anyone. Like, deep in my soul, I ached. I felt as though my soul was shrivelling up and drying out. I felt like if I spent another day in that home, with those people, I’d die. I didn’t understand how to express the depression I felt. I didn’t even understand that it was depression, and then some, so I simply said what I thought would most closely describe it while also keeping me from having to go back. I told them I was terrified to go home. I told them about my mother beating me, about having been molested, about having too much responsibility around the home. My boyfriend told one of our Sea Cadets officers, that officer told the police, and the police picked me up from his rooming house and brought me home.\nOnce there, I was made to sit and talk with the adults of the home. The officers asked me to talk about what was going on and why I didn’t want to be there, while my mother and her boyfriend played innocent victims in response. Everything I said was countered with incredulity and such hurt that I genuinely began doubting my own self and my responses to how I was treated. I was called dramatic, histrionic, irresponsible, and manipulative. I now know this is called gaslighting. And that gaslighting is pure evil, from the pits of hellish minds. I was accused of being particularly willful and problematic toward my mother’s boyfriend. When he addressed me, and asked what was wrong, saying he didn’t understand my behaviour towards him, I felt downright hostile. If looks could kill, that man would never have hurt another child from that night forth. But they do not, and all I could manage was a very bitter, “You know exactly what you did.” To which he feigned, of course, confused innocence.\n“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” he said, hand over his heart, his hated face a mask of innocence and perplexity. “I do know that a few months ago you started acting very resentful towards me, and now nothing I do is good enough for you.” This last part, cunningly enough, he delivered while looking back and forth between me and the police officers who were attending that night. He sickened me. And had sickened me. Literally.\n“I don’t want you to touch me like that any more,” I said, feeling defeated but still fighting for a chance to expose the situation, to break free. I thought I was doing it wrong. I wasn’t being convincing enough, I wasn’t explaining it well enough. I wasn’t enough enough.\n“Like what?” he asked, his bushy brows shooting up together in the middle, his forehead creasing with concern. “The hugging?” he asked, before I could answer. “That’s fine. We don’t have to hug if you don’t want to. And I won’t rub your back when you’re feeling sick or sad if you don’t want that, either.” He was the very picture of concerned compassion. I felt sick.\nI saw the one officer stiffen and sit straighter in his chair. I shrank back into mine, sure I’d land in jail, and Shirley lunged into the fray, with tales of my maltreatment of Jim, my resentment at him for my father’s abandonment of me, and with a long montage of out of context facts about my behaviour, which, while technically true, painted a wildly inaccurate picture of both me and them.\nShe delivered this brief monologue mainly to the officers, occasionally looking my way to shoot me a hurt look. By the time she ramped up to actually wringing her hands, she’d successfully deflected my attempt to speak about the sexual abuse I was trying to tell about, and derailed my entire emancipation mission. She was tremendous. Even I was breathless by the time she finished. She managed to throw in enough startling details to redirect the officer’s attention, and he turned to me.\n“Is this true? Have you been sneaking out at night and leaving the door unlocked?” he asked me, concerned.\n“Well yes,” I responded. It was the truth, afterall, even if it didn’t tell the whole story. “But-“ and he interrupted me.\n“You know how dangerous that is, don’t you?” he asked.\n“Very dangerous,” replied Shirley. “And your brother’s here. He’s just a child. How would you feel if something happened to him?” she asked, tears welling up in her eyes. “If your brother died because of you,” she said, “you’d never forgive yourself. And I don’t know if I’d be able to, either,” she finished with a subtle flourish. Her eyes burned into mine like hot coals, and I stiffened, looking flatly at her. I knew it was lies. I knew I was being both manipulated and warned. I was daunted by the task of detangling the wrong impressions they were painting for the police, and I was afraid my little brother would come to literal harm. “What if someone walked in here one night after you’ve run away and left the door unlocked, and stabbed your brother to death? You’d never forgive yourself,” she repeated.\nI’m ashamed to say it, but I broke under the pressure. I know full well that it’s unfair to shame myself for that, but there it is. The magic power of the serially abusive parent: mental torment of the child, to the point of confusion, fear and overwhelm. “Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him,” I cried, complex tears running down my face.\n“Then why would you risk,” she began, turning to face me angrily, and I brightened inside, thinking perhaps her temper would show to the police, and my hopes would be fulfilled. But they were dashed yet again when one of the police officers interrupted.\n“See that you keep that door locked, then,” he said to me. “Does she have a housekey?” he asked Shirley. She, of course, claimed I was too irresponsible to have a key, because I was constantly losing things. And the conversation devolved from there into the nature of young teenagers, and how one of the officers had a teen who was also always losing things.\nThe only thing I cared about losing in that moment was the battle for my freedom. Which, I did. As far as I was aware at the time, nothing ever did come of that attempt.\nBut this, I thought, this would bear fruit.\nKid after kid after kid gasped and asked what had happened, and where did I get that bruise from. I told a number of slightly different stories, and each of them boiled down to a bad night at home. But that didn’t really matter. The point was not to get attention from my peers, but to get help from the school. And I did finally get it. After a fashion.\nI was called to the principal’s office the following Wednesday, then sent to the nurse’s office. I feared I’d have to lie again about the bruising on my face. I was losing my faith in my plan, and feared I was just going to be treated for bruising, so made my way there, both curious and dejected. I was surprised to find a stranger in the office along with the nurse.\nThe nurse introduced us, and left me alone with the social worker. A spark of hope leapt up in me, and I could hardly wait to get free. I explained about the bruise, that Shirley had hit me in a fit of temper after I’d taken my baby brother to a coffee shop to use the phone to call my boyfriend. She nodded as she wrote, and asked me about home.\nI explained that there was violence, a lot of yelling, that I was responsible for children and cleaning at home, and that my mother’s boyfriend molested me. She asked questions and wrote and finally asked me if she could talk to her supervisors, and my parents, about what I’d said there. I encouraged her to do so. And so she did.\nAnd that’s how I wound up in Children’s Aid. Every single person in my family denied the truth of life at home. Jim denied everything, of course. Shirley denied it all, threatening to force me to take a polygraph test, which I pleaded for. She then demanded that Children’s Aid remove me from the home, telling them that I was a manipulative, power-hungry little bitch, and that I needed to face consequences for my actions. My younger sister later told me that Jim had threatened to murder our mother if she told. My youngest brother later told me he both had never seen it happen, and had been told it had never happened and that I was lying. And my other sibling, my older brother, the only one with whom I shared a father… he didn’t tell me anything. He died 29 days after I was taken into custody, without ever having been allowed to speak to me again." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Old Debts Paid Off\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3002\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where fortune doesn’t favor the brave." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW: School shooting, violence\nBailey walks into the classroom and is greeted with an assignment on the whiteboard. He dreads math class, especially the teacher, Mrs. Jenson. Bailey hates how she talks. She has a lisp and is loud and proud about it or so it seems. He is usually tired when he comes in then leaves with a pounding headache. He sits in the far back corner, farthest away from her desk, with a nice view of the front lawn, and gets to work on the assignment. Bailey is one of the top students in the class, so it doesn't take long for him to complete it. Some of the classmates, mainly the jocks, pay him to do their homework. It's becoming a regular thing, and he makes some good profit from it.\n Tanner Philip, one of the running backs for the football team, comes in and catches Bailey’s eye. Tanner had told Bailey he would pay him twenty dollars to do last night's homework. Bailey got Tanner’s homework out of his bag and gave it to him.\n “Thanks, man. I owe you one,” Tanner says genuinely.\n “No, you owe me twenty bucks,” Bailey says back to him. \n Tanner snickers and takes a crumpled twenty out of his front pocket and slaps it on Bailey’s hand.\n “Thanks. Now go away before Mrs. Jenson walks in,” Bailey says to Tanner and puts the twenty in his backpack. Tanner walks over to his desk without saying a word. Bailey didn’t do this to make small talk. It was all business to him. \n Mrs. Jenson walks in and yells to the class, “Hello everyone! I hope you had a great morning!” Bailey’s head is already throbbing. She reaches her desk and calls out to take last night’s homework out. Bailey reaches down for his homework to give to Mrs. Jenson as she walks around the class gathering them up. Mrs. Jenson reaches Bailey’s desk, and he hands it to her. She thanks him, but it came out as “Fank you” which Bailey cringes at. \n The next student isn’t so lucky. Hank Reeves is his name. He’s pretty much the school “weirdo”. Everyone excluded him and some of the jocks picked on him. Hank isn’t a super skinny guy though. He’s six foot one and has some muscle, but isn’t nearly as big as half the football team. He comes to school smelling like cigarettes and has oily, long hair that covers the bad acne on his forehead. Bailey never picks at him. Hank and Bailey are pretty close friends, to say the least. \n “Where’s your work, Mr. Reeves?” Mrs. Jenson asks, knowing the answer. Everyone turns to look at him. Mrs. Jenson smelt him by just standing there and tried to sly a step back without him noticing, but Bailey noticed. Hank paid no attention. His head is down looking at his hands which lay on his desk. \n He took a deep breath and broke the silence. “I was busy.” \n “Too busy for homework? Must have been important,” Mrs. Jenson says in a passive-aggressive tone. Hank stays silent. This time Mrs. Jenson broke the silence. “What were you doing?”\n “Not showering,” one of the classmates says under their breath. That side of the class roars with laughter, but Bailey remains silent. \n Hank clenches his fists and slams the desk and yells at the class, “That’s it!” The class went silent immediately. Hank grabs his backpack and heads for the door but Mrs. Jenson yells, “Mr. Reeves!” Hank stops in his tracks but doesn't look back. “Go to the principal's office, now! We do not yell at our classmates!” Hank thought that was ironic. “And you Mr. McCulkin can join him. We do not make fun of our classmates,” Mrs. Jenson continued. \n Hank says under his breath, “Whatever,” but Mrs. Jenson didn’t hear him. He walks out of the room. Mrs. Jenson turns to McCulkin, and he got up immediately. After McCulkin left and closed the door, Mrs. Jenson took a deep breath, and continues to pick up homework, then headed back to her desk. The class stayed silent. No one wanted to upset Mrs. Jenson, or they’d be a dead man walking. \n Mrs. Jenson finally got up and started teaching. Bailey looks out the window and saw cars passing by on the main road in front of the school. He’s in his own world paying no attention to what Mrs. Jenson had to say. Bailey’s mainly thinking about Hank. He’s worried about him and kind of scared of him as well. What Hank said didn’t sit right with Bailey.\n That’s it!\n It gave Bailey a sunken feeling. He couldn’t shake his mind off it. It was as if it was a threat. Not just to McCulkin, but to-\n “Mr. Reech!” Mrs. Jenson exclaims. Except she said it as “Reeth”. \n Bailey darts his head to the front of the class to where Mrs. Jenson stood. “I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?” Bailey asks politely. \n Mrs. Jenson was too tired to get upset at him, so she did as he asked. “Can you solve for the area of R?” \n Bailey looks at the board and went blank. Hank is still haunting his conscience. \n That’s it!\n Mrs. Jenson calls another student to ask and let it be. Bailey goes back to looking out the window. Bailey actually cares about Hank. He sits by him during lunch and helps him with his classes. Sometimes they smoke together in the bathroom. Bailey is Hank’s closest friend. Maybe his only friend. \n Hank would talk to Bailey about his rough home life. His father is always drunk and abusive and would leave cigarette burns on Hank’s arms and clothes, which explains the smell. Bailey also knows his father has a gun collection, and a pretty big one too. \n One day after school, Hank had invited Bailey over to his house to test the guns out behind his house. Hank had a bird's eye. Didn’t miss a shot. He also always talked about wanting to kill his father but never went with it. Nothing was stopping him from doing it. You couldn’t go five feet without seeing a gun. \n That’s it!\n Bailey has never had to deal with severe anxiety before, but at this moment, his heart is beating through the roof. He needs to smoke. He always keeps a pack of cigarettes in his bag and snuck them in his pocket when Mrs. Jenson wasn’t looking. He made sure his phone was in his other pocket, then raises his hand. \n Mrs. Jenson is facing the board teaching how to solve a problem. Bailey’s heart couldn’t rest and he tries his best to remain calm. Bailey decided to call out her name, and she turned around. “Yes, Mr. Reeves?” she asks him. He can’t stand the way she says his last name. “Reeths”. Not only is Bailey’s anxiety through the roof, but now he has a headache. \n “May I go to the bathroom?” Bailey asks.\n “Be quick, and don’t forget the hall pass.” She replies and goes straight back to teaching. \n Bailey walks to a cabinet by the door where the hall pass hangs and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. He puts the hall pass on like a necklace and proceeds to the bathroom. He’s patting his thigh with his left hand as he walks. Bailey tries taking small breaths and told himself he was overthinking to try to calm himself down. That was when two security guards run by him. Bailey hears what the man on the radio says. \n “We got reports of several gunshots being heard on Westview street.”\n Westview street. That’s where Hank lives, Bailey thinks to himself. He finally reaches the bathroom, gets a cigarette out, and starts smoking. He then gets his phone out and dials for Hank. Bailey is walking in circles hastily waiting for an answer. After a couple more seconds of waiting, it went to voicemail. Bailey tries again, but he gets the same answer. Bailey is enraged and confused. He pulls his hair with both his hands and finally had to let it out. He yells and throws his phone at the wall, instantly regretting it. Bailey stands there, too scared to see how damaged his phone is. He walks over to it, sticks the cigarette in his mouth, and bends down to pick it up. \nBroken. There were too many cracks to even see the screen, let alone the colorful lines that went from the top of the screen to the bottom. He puts it in his pocket and continues smoking, but it isn’t helping. \n Bailey is walking around with a cigarette in his mouth, worrying about Hank when the intercom in the hallway cuts on. There isn’t one in the bathroom so Bailey has to walk to the doorway to hear clearly. What happens next, makes his heart sink to his stomach. \n Code red. I repeat code red. This is not a drill. Co-\n That was when multiple gunshots echoes throughout the school, along with what seemed like a thousand kids screaming, just for them to be silenced. Bailey is frozen at the doorway. He then takes a step back but trips on his own feet, making him fall. He drops his cigarette and crawls for the farthest stall, which was the handicap stall. He locks it and stands on the toilet just how they taught you in elementary. \n Bailey reaches for a cigarette and goes to light it, but more shots and screams fill the halls, making him drop the cigarette and the lighter on the floor. Bailey puts his hands to his mouth and tries to take slow deep breaths. This is a life or death situation. He needs to get a weapon. Bailey looks around his stall but only sees toilet paper and a toilet. He notices that he can take off the lid of the toilet so he begins twisting the nobs and takes it off the base and grasps it. Bailey wants to smoke more now than ever. His heart is beating out of his chest, mind wandering on who Hank has killed, and is as shaky as a chihuahua. Bailey kind of hopes Hank would spare the lives of his best customers for his side hustle but ditches that thought immediately. \n Bailey smiles and continues that thought with a joke to try to humor himself.\n This can’t be good for business. Bailey thinks. \n He chuckles and then stops immediately and that’s when reality starts to settle in. It was all a shock so far, but now it hit. Tears start to run down his face, but he wipes them away with his arm. More shots and screams fill the halls again, which makes Bailey flinch. This time Bailey could tell the screams were right outside down the hall. Bailey is pleading to God under his breath. “Please, God, save me. Please, please. Please, God.” He hasn’t prayed since he was little and he feels a little silly doing it but doesn’t care. \n Bailey hears walking. Sounds like boots. It’s faint, but he could hear it. They got louder and louder, then stopped. Bailey doesn’t have to see them to know they are right outside, looking in. Bailey, still grasping the toilet lid, tries his best to not make any sound or movement unless need be. \n “I know you’re in here, Bailey,” Hank says, breaking the silence. Bailey was right. It is Hank. Hank gets closer to the stalls and kicks the first one open. “I already hit Mrs. Jenson’s class.” Then he kicks the second stall door open. “I’m glad you left on time. Wouldn’t want to kill my only friend.” Hank kicks the third stall door open. One more stall. The handicap stall. Hank slowly walks over. Bailey’s heart is racing and it doesn’t help that his sweat is making the toilet lid slip. \n Bailey is looking through the crack, and that’s when Hank appears. They make eye contact. “Peekaboo,” Hank says jokingly and has a huge grin, showing off his yellow teeth. It makes Bailey feel sick to his stomach. “Get out,” Hank says in a dead tone. Bailey doesn’t move. He is still frozen. “Get out!” Hank yells. Bailey flinches, takes a deep breath, gets off the toilet slowly, opens the stall door, and walks out to Hank. Then, Bailey swings the toilet lid at Hank but misses. Hank darts his pistol to Bailey’s head and they both get still. Hank tells him, “I don’t want to kill you, Bailey.” \n Hank has a semi-automatic handgun, a pistol, and a couple of tactical knives along his utility belt. He’s wearing black combat boots and a black trenchcoat. The stereotypical school shooter uniform. \n “What do you want?” Bailey asks him, trying to remain calm. \n “Let’s just say I’m paying off some old debts,” Hank replies with a smirk. \n “The shooting in your neighborhood, was that you?” Bailey asks after a couple of seconds of silence. \n Hank chuckles and says proudly, “Yeah, it was. Finally killed the old bastard. I shot him twenty-seven times. I had to reload, twice!” Hank roars with laughter, thinking it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard, but it isn’t a joke. Far from it. \n “Ho- how many,” Bailey stutters. He takes a deep breath and continues, “How many people did you kill?” Bailey is scared of the answer but has to know if his friends were killed by this lunatic. \n “Let’s see,” Hank says looking up trying to think. “I first went to Dr. O’Malley’s class. There are a lot of football players in there during this block. Then I shot up Ms. Carrol’s class. Tyler Sweeny was in there but I thought “Hey! Why not take everyone else out!?” so that’s what I did. Then, of course, Mrs. Jenson’s.” \n Bailey looks at him terrified. He can’t recognize him anymore. He starts to think of his friends and tries figuring out if any were in the classes he shot up. Bailey has a tight circle so he doesn’t have many friends, but they are some of the best anyone can ask for. Finally, Bailey realizes his friend, Henry Calvin, had Ms. Carrol this block. His heart sinks but tries to keep his cool. \n “What’s the matter, Bailey? You look like you just saw a ghost,” Hank tells him and begins laughing again. Hank takes a deep breath out and continues, “As I said. I don’t want to kill you, Bailey. You are my only friend in this place after all, so that’s why I’m gonna let you go.” Hank lowers the pistol from Bailey’s head. \n There is a brief pause, then Bailey breaks the silence. “You don’t gotta do this, Hank,” Bailey says as a tear runs down his face. \n “They deserve this. They deserve everything after what they did to me!” Hank roars. \n “What about the people that didn’t bully you, huh?” Bailey asks and takes a step towards him. “Do they deserve this?”\n “You wouldn’t understand,” Hank hisses. His throat is closing up and his eyes are starting to get watery. \n “Understand what? That people don’t deserve to die over some stupid high school drama?” Bailey is right in his face, looking a killer straight in the eye. Bailey’s voice cracks as he says, “You’re better than this, Hank. You were supposed to be better than this.” Tears run down Bailey’s face and Hank’s as well. \n “If you know what’s best for you, get out. I don’t want to hurt you.” Hank warns Bailey. Hank walks away and heads for the hall. \n “What makes me different from the others that didn’t bully you? The ones that you already killed?” Bailey yells. \n Hank stops in his tracks and says, “Because I love you.”\n “Yeah, right,” Bailey scoffs. “You don’t love anyone.”\n “Goodbye, Bailey,” Hank says and gets the semi-automatic in his hands. \n Bailey runs towards Hank and tackles him, making him drop his gun. Bailey gets on top of Hank and gets two hits in before Hank gets a hit on Bailey, getting him off. Hank’s nose is broken and his whole lower face is drenched in blood. Hank reaches for his pistol which is in its holster and points it at Bailey’s face, but Bailey leaps to Hank and grabs it at the barrel, and points it at the ceiling. Hank puts one hand over Bailey's hand and fights over the gun until Hank accidentally fires it at the ceiling light, making Bailey and Hank scream in pain, forcing them both to let go of it. Hank quickly gets up and takes out his tactical knife and gets on Bailey, stabbing him right in the stomach. \n Hank is out of breath from the fight and looks at Bailey to only see him barely alive, taking weak breaths. Hank, tears running down his face, crawls for the semi-automatic and gets up. Bailey and he make eye contact. Hank doesn’t even notice the pistol that lay next to Bailey. \n Hank is enraged that Bailey forced him to kill him. Hank roars with anger, “Why did you do this?! Why?! I warned you! I told you to leave! Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?! I asked you to go! Why didn’t you go?! Why?! Why?!” \n Bailey coughs up blood, still making eye contact with him. They both have tears racing down their cheeks. \n “Why didn’t you listen?” Hank asks quietly. Hank gives him one last look and turns around to head to the hallway. \n Bailey sees the pistol that lay beside him, and lucky enough it’s reachable. It takes all his strength to lift it to Hank’s head. Bailey calls out, “Hank,” in a raspy voice. Hank stops. He slowly turns around, looks straight through the barrel, and before he can react, Bailey pulls the trigger. The bullet goes right through his left eye, killing him instantly. Bailey drops the gun, looks at the ceiling, and is happy knowing no one else has to get hurt." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Tiger\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2111\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a casual act of bravery." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Part of Alyssa’s brain knew she was being unreasonable, but wasn’t that her right as a fifteen-year-old girl? Wasn’t that what teenage girls for known for? She was otherwise quite mature; she simply couldn’t get past this one little thing that sometimes ended up being a big thing. Times like this coming weekend.\n “For real though, you have to come. You get straight As in all of your smart girl classes and play three varsity sports, your parents have to trust you. And it’s just for the day! What do they think we’re going to do at the beach that we can’t do in their basements?” Cassie whispered angrily, making her case before Coach Delaney tried to get the locker room full of chattering girls to quiet one last time. It was an unseasonably warm Monday afternoon and they had just finished their last softball practice of the season after losing the regional semifinal the previous Friday night. Because the season was over, practice had consisted only of running a lap around the field for every game they won and doing ten pushups for every game they lost, but Alyssa was sweating into the extra layer under her t-shirt and eager to go home and shower. \n Alyssa replied with fake exasperation. “I know, I told them that, they just suck.” She didn’t like lying, especially after the incident with Cassie freshman year and how she had kept her word since then. Alyssa just didn’t want to get into it at that moment, almost as much as she didn’t want to join the traditional post-junior-prom trip to the beach that coming Saturday. By junior year she would convince herself to go, but they were only sophomores, it wasn’t even really their trip. The only reason she was even going to prom was because she was friends with Tom from cross country and felt bad that his girlfriend had dumped him the weekend before prom. \n Just as Cassie was about to launch a counterargument, they were interrupted by Coach’s piercing whistle. Cassie was awarded “best outfielder”, much to the chagrin of the seniors in center and left field, and the celebration of this took up the time in the car after practice before Cassie dropped Alyssa off at home. Now she just had to deal with Nicole.\n*\n As much as she enjoyed sports, the freedom of not having practice after school was incredible. Thursday afternoon Alyssa was lying on a lounge chair next to Nicole’s perfect cerulean pool, eating a popsicle and soaking up the bliss of having nowhere to be for a few hours. The week had remained warmer than usual for the northeast in early June. Despite knowing her family since they moved to the most expensive house in town in third grade, Alyssa had no idea who kept the kitchen stocked with such perfect snacks. Did housekeepers grocery shop? The logistics of Nicole’s home life made no sense, but Alyssa had long ago learned not to ask about these things.\n “So ok we covered dresses and limo, and obviously we’re getting ready together here.” For as flakey as she could be with school assignments, Nicole was a social coordination genius. “Nate’s brother can drive us to Seaside on Saturday – does Tom want to come too? We’d have to squish in the back but there’s room for him.”\n “Um Nicole, I’m not going on Saturday,” Alyssa braced herself, trying in vain to add a deflection, “but I’ll ask Tom if he wants to ride with you guys!”\n Nicole pulled her sunglasses down. “What? Of course you’re coming.”\n Alyssa knew it was futile but tried the same excuse she had used with Cassie. “My, um, my parents said I can’t go.”\n “Nope, don’t believe you. In fact, my mom said last night that she ran into your mom Coffee Cup and your mom said she was happy you were going, that she worried you’d been too focused on softball this spring.” \n Since when did her mother hang out at Coffee Cup? Parents were such a mystery sometimes, but Alyssa didn’t doubt that her mother had said something like that, she was always concerned about sports preventing her from having a normal teenage social life. Alyssa’s mother had been a highly recruited pole vaulter, but anorexia fully took over during the increased freedom of freshman year, and by spring track season she was on a leave of absence, in an inpatient rehab. Her mother eventually developed a relatively normal relationship with food, but worried about Alyssa so much she sometimes saw warning signs that weren’t real. Alyssa just liked how running, and basketball, and softball made her feel, enough that it was worth the awkward moments that came along with them. She was hoping to play basketball in college, at least at a division three school, but hadn’t broken this news to her mother yet.\n “Okay fine yeah it’s not that,” Alyssa replied. “It’s… you know… I just can’t”. Nicole looked at Alyssa in her white ribbed tank top and hot pink bikini bottom and understood. \n “Girl, say no more. I got you. But you’re still coming. I’ll wear the same thing, except I won’t look half as good as you do in it,” Nicole said.\n “No, it’s ok, it’s weird anyway-“ Alyssa started to protest.\n “Nope, you’re coming. You’re not leaving me alone with the juniors,” Nicole retorted, conveniently ignoring that Cassie would be there too.\n “Fine, I’ll come. But you promise?” Alyssa couldn’t believe she was getting talked into this trip.\n “Promise,” Nicole said. “Pinky swear even,” as if they were still in elementary school together.\n*\n After two hours of recapping prom antics on the drive down, they had staked claim to a huge area of the beach. The boys were unrolling a volleyball net, and the girls were laying out towels and preening, stripping down to tiny bikinis and fixing their hair. This was the moment Alyssa had been dreading all week. Instead of being nervous about prom, she had spent Friday afternoon debating the best strategy for this aspect of the trip – wear a wetsuit and bring her surfboard? Except she wasn’t sure if Nate’s brother’s car had roof racks, and she didn’t want to stay encased in a wetsuit all day. Wear a swim shirt and claim a history of melanoma? Implausible at her age, although a real risk for the future given her complexion. She had settled on what she thought would draw the least attention – stick to the thin white tank top over her bikini and hope it looked model-sexy and no one questioned her.\n Two years ago, Alyssa had almost died. Unbeknownst to anyone, she had been born with a condition called malrotation, which caused her abnormal organs to be in the wrong positions. Most people born with this had mild symptoms as infants and had surgery to correct it before it caused serious problems, but Alyssa had made it to age thirteen feeling fine, until the middle of the night two Junes ago when she awoke feeling decidedly not fine. Her stomach felt like the was being repeated stabbed with a bayonet (they had been studying civil war history that year). When her mother suggested she try to poop, and take some Pepto-Bismol, and go back to bed so she wasn’t tired for the last day of school, Alyssa responded with, “If you don’t take me to the emergency room right now, I’m going to call 911,” an unusually forceful statement from a generally agreeable young teen daughter. To the hospital they went.\n Because of the unusual position of her internal organs, a large portion of her small intestine had rotated around the stalk of tissue containing its blood supply, and the intestine had started to die. After a quick CT scan in the emergency room, and tearful kisses from her parents, she was rushed into emergency surgery. The surgery was a success – her intestine was unrotated and “pinked right up again” according to the surgeon – however she was left with a scar from her lower sternum to the top of her wispy pubic hair. To make things worse, she may have started running again a little soon after surgery, making the scar raised and even more hideous. She put vitamin E on it constantly and used silicone scar tape, which helped flatten it a little bit, but it was still a huge ugly blemish on her tight stomach.\n Alyssa was afraid to let anyone see it, remembering how cruel her classmates had been to the boy who needed skin grafting on his forearm after a burn, the teacher with the port-wine stain on his face, and the girl with the lazy eye. Nicole and Cassie were her only two friends who knew about it. Nicole had visited her in the hospital, bringing flowers and chocolate before she was supposed to be eating solid foods, and lay in the bed with her flipping through trashy magazines and watching reruns on TV while Alyssa dozed off. They had been keeping each other’s secrets for years, the scar was just one more to add to the list. \n Cassie found out by accident after walking in on her toweling off from a shower in the unlocked bathroom of the hotel room they were during the softball preseason weekend away freshman year. They only talked about it that night, lying on itchy sheets in the dark. Alyssa asked her to keep it a secret and Cassie agreed, before confessing that part of what excited her about starting high school and joining students from two other middle schools was that it meant hopefully only a third of her class would know about the time her father was arrested for soliciting a prostitute in New York City while serving on town council, instead of her whole class knowing. \n Alyssa just wore an extra tank top under her school clothes and kept it on when she changed for gym and sports. Alyssa never brought up Cassie’s father, and Cassie deflected any other attention from Alyssa’s covered stomach if they were in the locker room together. Beyond someone occasionally asking if she was hot, the other girls were usually too focused on their own developing bodies to notice anyway. The beach was different though, the beach was about being almost naked and showing off for the boys.\n As she settled on her towel and rummaged in her bag for sunscreen, Alyssa heard one of the junior boys yell to another one, “Yo man what happened to you?”\n She looked up and saw Paul, arguably the leader of the pack that Nate and Brad, Cassie’s boyfriend, belonged to and Tom aspired to join, peeling his shirt off to reveal a huge, deep red scar wrapping from his shoulder blade to below his pec muscle. \n “I got mauled by a tiger,” Paul responded without hesitation, throwing his shirt down on the sand and bounding over to finish setting up the volleyball net.\n While Cassie sipped Diet Coke spiked with rum from a plastic bottle, Alyssa and Nicole wandered down to the water to put their toes in. The ocean was still frigid at that time of year, and they didn’t mean to get wet, but had turned to try to hear something Nate was saying and got slammed by a wave, completely soaking them from the shoulders down. Nicole squealed at the cold, and they ran back to their towels, both keeping their shirts on.\n As Nicole wrung the freezing salt water out of the bottom of her wide neck t-shirt, suddenly Alyssa was tired of it. Tired of being hot all day at school, tired of worrying about the tank top riding up, tired of wondering what would happen when a boy eventually took her shirt off. Tired enough to not sit for hours in a damp shirt when she could dry off in the sun. If these stupid boys could have scars, so could she. Before she could think about it too long, she lifted the soggy fabric over her head just as Brad, Nate, and the other boys headed back over to them.\n “Whoa, what happened-“ Brad started before being cut off by a death stare from Cassie.\n Nicole who opened her mouth to speak as Alyssa replied with a wink, “I got mauled by a tiger too.”\n Brad laughed, “Damn I better watch out for this tiger I guess. Okay who wants to play volleyball?”\n “Alyssa’s on my team!” Nate called out, as Cassie gave Alyssa a hand up, throwing her arm around her shoulders as they walked over to the net together." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Bravery In Sobriety\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1167\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a casual act of bravery." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "May 10th, 2017 was the day that would inevitably change my life. It was two days before my eighteenth birthday, and my mom had been asking me for weeks what I wanted. Each time she asked, I gave her the same smart-ass answer, half as a joke, and half 100% serious. And each time I said it, I saw the pain in her eyes as she asked, “seriously Kelsey, what do you want?” Eventually, she just stopped asking.\nI don’t know what it was about this particular day that prompted reality to set it, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. Something needed to change, and it needed to change now. I pushed myself out of bed, walked out of my room, and leaned over the banister as my mom sat on the couch. \n“Mom,” I said, my voice shaking far more than I expected. “I know what I want for my birthday.”\n“Kelsey I really don’t to hear—”\n“I want to get sober.”\nI am Kelsey, and I am an alcoholic.\nI started drinking when I was 14 years old. People always want to know why. Was there a death in the family? Were you abused as a child? What made you pick up that bottle for the first time. God, I wish it was that easy. Something traumatic happens and bam, you start drinking. If it were that black and white, it would be easier to fix, right? But the reality is, it’s just not like that.\nI really don’t know why I started drinking. I had a great life: two loving parents and a great younger sister, Makayla. I had a good group of friends, and a lot of people who cared about me. But I guess I just wanted more. The first time I got drunk, I hated it. I felt out of control, like my body and my mind weren’t working together. But everyone convinced me that was normal. Eventually, I began to like the feeling of intoxication.. Then I loved it. Then I became dependent on it. \nYour high school years are supposed to be a time of growth and finding yourself, but when I look back, I hardly remember any of it. The occasional night out turned into getting blacked out once a week, to once a day, until I forgot what it was like to truly feel like myself. I didn’t know who I was and God I despised the person I had become. I was so mean to my parents, the people who had given me everything. I craved the attention of being the loudest at the party, the butt of the joke. I had been convinced that the people who egged me on over the years were my friends, but I now know they were far from it. \nFor the longest time, I didn’t realize I had a problem. I thought I was just doing what every high school student did. One day it finally occurred to me that this wasn’t normal. Filling up my water bottle with wine (sometimes something stronger) before my 8am class wasn’t normal. Constantly canceling plans with friends because I was too drunk to get out of bed wasn’t normal. Not wanting to exist without feeling the numbness of alcohol wasn’t normal. But I felt like I had dug myself a hole that was too deep to ever even think about escaping. I was stuck, and this is who I was now. I was the drunk. The loudest at the party. The butt of the joke. The one who had lost all true relationships with people who truly cared about her. That was me. And it was terrifying. \nI don’t ask for help. I’ve always prided myself on my independence, often to a fault. I’m a Taurus for God’s sake, I am as stubborn as they come. It took me a long time to muster up the courage to admit that I needed help, that this was not a beast that I could tackle on my own. There were so many times I wanted to ask for help. I would see the pain in my family’s eyes when I stumbled in a room. I looked at my little sister and would pray to God that she turned out better than me and that this monster wouldn’t get to her. But whenever I would try to ask for help, I stopped myself. What was I without alcohol? People liked me when I was drunk. I was popular when I was drunk. That’s really all any high schooler ever really wants. More than anything, I was comfortable being drunk and numb and so disconnected from the world. I was terrified of giving that up. \nThere were times when I tried to stop on my own. I would go a day, maybe two, and then I would cave. It was hard. The weeks leading up to my eighteenth birthday, my mom would ask me what I wanted. On the outside, I would say “I wanna get drunk!”, but on the inside, I was screaming for someone to save me. \nWhen people think of bravery, they often think of a knight in shining armor, or a superhero, or someone jumping in front of a car to save a child. For me, acknowledging I have a problem and asking for help was the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Getting on a plane the day before my eighteenth birthday and flying to a rehabilitation center in Utah took an amount of courage I didn’t know existed inside of me. Being one of the youngest people there was humbling, and I learned so much from people who were going through exactly what I was. People in rehab told me all the time that I was so strong for acknowledging I had a problem and making a change while I was still young. And four years later, I now truly believe them.\nI lost a lot when I decided to get sober. All those “friends” I had that would egg me on during parties wanted nothing to do with me once I stopped drinking. The only good quality about me was being the loud, fun, drunk girl at parties, right? But even though I lost those people, who were never truly my friends, I gained so much more. I gained an appreciation for the little things in life. I regained the trust of my family and made friends that I know would love me for the person I really am. \nI’ve been sober for four years now, and nothing about it has been easy, but everything about it has been worth it. I think about little seventeen year old me at her lowest, finally admitting she needed help, and I’m so proud of her. Bravery doesn’t have to be some big, grand gesture. Sometimes it’s simply admitting that there are challenges you can’t face on your own. \nI’m Kelsey, I’m an alcoholic, and I’m damn proud of myself." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dancing Queen\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1364\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone stepping outside their comfort zone." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "'I can't believe Im doing this...' I said this to myself as I'm walking towards Tracy after she has been signaling me for quite some time. I dont blame her after all I'm her date as of tonight for our high school Sadie's dance, which is something completely out of my comfort zone mind ya. I probably should explain how it all came to this.\n\nSEVERAL MOMENTS EARLIER:\n\n'Gosh darn it, my mother was right: Tracy is the prettiest out there,' I said to myself as I watch my Sadie date dancing there with her friends to \"Dancing Queen\" by ABBA. Tracy was wearing a cute and beautiful pink dress meanwhile I wore a black suit with a pink bowtie. I was hanging out with my buddy Ivan who also happen to be my best friend as well. Ivan wore the same attire expected his hair was red and he had freckles all over his face. He was accompanied by his girlfriend Mary who too was best friends with Tracy. Mary also wore a pink dress similar to Tracy but with long sleeves. Ivan and her have been together since freshmen year. The four of us are in the same class. Now here we are, just several sophomores enjoying the night of a Sadies night along with everybody else in the school. The theme of this year's Sadie's was Pinktastic and I don't think I need to describe it more than what it is.\n\nThe reason Ivan and I weren't dancing is because we ain't much of dancers ourselves. Sure, I do dance but only when no one was looking. I have two left feet for heaven's sake and I wasn't willing to make a fool of myself out there. After having our dates dancing to a couple of songs, I noticed Tracy was signaling me to come over to the dance with a smile and wave. I shaked my head left and right. I had no desire to budge for I was completely stationary and comfortable where I'm at. \n\nIvan looks at Tracy signaling and then turns to me asking: \"Come on Stuart, go over there with your girl.\"\n\nI responded: \"Says the one who isn't dancing his own girlfriend. Plus Tracy isn't my girl anyways.\"\n\nHe chuckled and then replys: \"Mary hasn't signaled me yet so I'm in the clear for now. Tracy is totally into you and don't you dare deny you aren't into her as well.\"\n\nMy face got red very quickly for what Ivan said was true. Tracy and I have been into each other lately. Yet I was the one who made us in the friend zone because I was very nervous when it comes to girls. Sure, I can toe to toe with any one in Lacrosse with no problem, but when it came to females, I don't want know what else to do. I mean sure I have a wonderful relationship with my mother and Ms. Lu, as well as Tracy herself, but I didn't know how to go about when it comes to a intimate relationship. I obviously have a self-conscious mind when it comes to these things.\n\nI still haven't replied to Ivan as I then watched Tracy continue to signal me to come over. This time, she was casting an invisible fishing rod and reeling it in with me as the fish. I still ain't budging but I gave a smile and shake my head yet again. \n\nIvan nudges me lightly having me to step forward. I turn giving him a funny look as he witfully says: \"You might as well go or she going to do that the whole night.\"\n\nHe makes a solid point. With me knowing Tracy for so long, she would continue on pursuing me to eventually break my shell and come over. That's what I love about her: she always was her nerdy and spontaneous self that I find enchanting. So after a couple of attempts from Tracy's gestures and a gentle push of Ivan, I was actually heading to the dance floor walking towards the girl of my dreams. One who also happens to be one of my best friends.\n\nI finally arrived to where she was, and when I did Tracy made a curtsy. After her cute and friendly greeting, I made a bow towards her. She then lends her hand out as I took it. \n\nOnce I grabbed her hand, she pulled inward which caught me completely off guard. As she did that, I almost kissed her accidentally. When I saw I was nearing her lips with my own, I turn my head at the last millisecond. I then quickly stand up and look towards her face. She didn't seemed to notice for she was now dancing with me and I was dancing with her in the middle of \"Girls Like You\" by Maroon 5. \n\nAnd what would you know it the next song happen to be our favorite song. It was Walk The Moon's \"Shut Up and Dance With Me.\" We obviously sang the lyrics together as we dance our best moves to it. I did a sort of moves such as the moonwalk, the shuffle, and even the sprinkler. She let me twirl her around as she made me to do the same. We had a blast dancing there and for once I didn't care about what anyone thought of about cringeyness which is another reason I love her. Tracy never stop being herself. I could learn a thing or two from her. \n\nAfter the song ended, it changed to a slow dance. This time being: \"It Must Have Been Love\" by Roxette; a classic song from the 80's. Ivan must have requested for me. I turned my head towards him and he gives me a smiling nod with thumbs up reassuring it was him. Mary was even there with him just enjoying this phenomenon. 'Wingman of the Year,\" I said to himself. \n\nI turn my attention to Tracy and lend out my hand this time. She took give and we began to slow dance there. I placed my right hand with her left hand as she placed her right hand on my left shoulder while I land my left hand on her right hip. We then circled around, humming the tone as we listen to it. My group and I had great taste when I came to music especially with the old classics. After the first bridge, she says: \"Thank you Stuart.\"\n\nI look at her and replied: \"For what Tracy?\"\n\nShe replied softly: \"Well for being my date and my friend.\"\n\nI responded: \"Yeah, you're welcome. Anytime; anything for you. I-I just...\"\n\nShe then noticed my lost of words. Tracy asks: \"Is everything okay?\"\n\nI reassured her by saying: \"Yes, everything is okay. I'm just nervous is all.\"\n\n\"There's no reason to be nervous.\"\n\n\"Not when I'm dancing with the prettiest girl in the entire school.\"\n\nShe looked at me with a confused look: \"You really think so?\"\n\nI replied: \"Not only me, but my mom, dad and even Ms. Lu think so too.\"\n\nShe smiled while saying: \"Awww! You all are very sweet. Thank you. Please be sure to let them know I said thanks.\"\n\n\"You bet.\" \n\nWe danced in silence but only for a short bit. Just as soon as the song was about to end, I go: \"I have a confession Tracy...\"\n\nTracy looks at me and ask: \"Yes Stuart, what is it?\"\n\nI replied: \"Remember when you gave me that red envelope?\"\n\nShe replied: \"Yes, the one where I asked you to be my date?\"\n\n\"Yeah, that one,\" I replied\n\n\"What about it?\" wondered Tracy there in front of me.\n\nI mentioned shyly: \"Well I remember you saying you've been having feelings towards me and I know I've said it was best to be friends but...\"\n\n\"But what Stuart?\" Tracy asked me this as she was looking directly to my eyes wanting to see what I was trying to say. Her gentle green eyes were looking at me waiting for a response. Once the song ended, I finally said: \"I think I'm in love with you Tracy...\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Life as an Alien in Mississippi\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2038\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who has to grapple with something completely alien to them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warning: racial epithets and violence\n\nMy name is Brad Chao. I'm living in Chicago now but I spent my growing-up years in the Mississippi Delta. It’s now 2001 and I just turned 80 years and have been thinking lately about my early life down south. I never fit in there despite my goal of trying to be accepted. The worst thing that ever happened to me took place there when I was only a teenager. The events almost cost me my freedom and life. I ultimately had to flee for suspicion of murder with the sheriff on my tail. We Chinese were a handy target for the bullies in town but I’m getting ahead of myself. \n\nYou may be curious about how I got to Mississippi in the first place. I was born in 1921 in a poor area in southern China. Rocky, dry land, and large families with too many mouths to feed. At age 15, I took off, seeking a better life. I made my way to Canton, now Guangdong, and was hired as a mess boy on a passenger ship bound for New York. I jumped ship when we arrived in port. I quickly found work in a Chinese laundry in Brooklyn but it was not a satisfying life for me, particularly since I was by myself.\n\nMy uncle, Charlie Chao, had come to the U.S. around the turn of the century and settled in Rosedale, Mississippi, which had a small Chinese community. A speck of a town with a handful of rundown stores, one of which Charlie rented to sell groceries to black people. Chinese grocery stores played an important role in Mississippi rural culture because white store owners wouldn’t sell goods to them. Their stores, small shacks really, filled an important function in small towns. They served as gathering places for blacks who wanted to socialize with their neighbors and also for job-finding. They also offered credit that was essential to the very poor people.\n\nAnyway, Charlie was growing quite frail. He had sent a letter to me in Brooklyn, offering me a job in his store which I quickly accepted. I was his only heir and also his only family. He had lost his wife about 30 years previously and had no kids of his own. It was tough work, mainly because of the long hours. Sun up to sun down, 365 days a year. None of us Chinese had been to school back home and spoke poor English and, perhaps, even poorer Chinese. We lived in the back of our stores, squeezed together like sardines. \n\nOur social status in Mississippi was somewhere between the whites and blacks. We were shopkeepers which did earn us some degree of respect. But we also weren’t allowed to go to school with the whites. The county did set up Chinese school rooms for our kids, usually taught by a white teacher. We made enough money to put rice on the table but not much more. Most of the Chinese kids in town caught a bus heading out of town as soon as they could. Family ties did keep a number of Chinese in the state but under continuing and difficult circumstances, particularly from the local Klan. I won't go into that here.\n\n*\n\nShortly after I arrived in town, Uncle Charlie took sick and died. I then became the sole proprietor of his store which I had inherited. The Chinese community was always very supportive of me and I never felt lonely or heartsick. My life was as good as it gets down there until one evening when I seemed to have become a criminal with no special effort on my part.\n\nBursting through the front door of my grocery store one evening came Mr. Beauregard Tavernier, dragging a large, heavy burlap sack behind him. I knew who he was from town gossip but, of course, he had never set foot in my store. I did know that he owned the largest cotton plantation in the area.\n\nHe entered in a rush and obviously in a foul mood. He was grunting as he pulled a heavy sack into the room. I came out from behind the counter and respectfully bowed to him, anxious to find out what why he was there. My humble gesture didn’t seem to put him in a better mood. \n\n“Don’t just stand there, boy,” he said to me. “Can’t you see that I need help with this here load,” he shouted.\n\n“Help in what way, Mr. Tavernier? I'm sure what kind of help you need.” My question definitely put in an even fouler mood. In retrospect, it truly was a stupid question but chalk it up to me being scared shitless.\n\n“Quit your yapping, boy! I need to store this here sack out of sight for a while,” he said, glancing around the premises. \n\nHe then said: “Where does that door yonder lead to?” \n\n\"My storage room for canned goods and sacks of flour,\" I replied. \"No customers are allowed back there,\" I replied.\n\n\"That suits my purpose for my package,\" he replied. \"Now help me get it back there.\"\nThe two of us pulled his heavy sack back to the room. Both of us were straining because it was so heavy and flopped around.\n\n“You hear me good now, boy. Y’all hold onto this for a day or two until I find a more suitable place for it. Right now, your store is my best choice, at least for a spell. No one’s gonna think of your place when lookin’ for the corpus delicti. But that’s pretty fancy talk for y'all. Pay it no mind.” \n\n“Anyone asks,” he continued, “you never seen me this night or any other. I’m goin’ to send one of my boys back here tomorrow night to collect it. You’ll need to help him boost it onto the truck. Don’t let anyone see what you’re doing. The dark night will help but there are a lot of ‘eyes’ in this part of town.” \n\nHe then rushed out of the store as quickly as he had entered, never looking back. I just stood there, shaking my head and wondering what had just happened. I did not have a good feeling about it. It was clear that I had few or no other options so I went along with his directions.\n\n\n\nThe next day around lunchtime, a sharp rap came on the front door. This time it was Sheriff Burnley who stepped inside. No one ever knocked on the door so I was on high alert to see who was there. His visit, though, set a new record for me—two high profile, white men showing up out of nowhere in my store in just two days. He looked around suspiciously and then beckoned for me to come over to him from behind the counter. I was in a state of shock, continuing from the previous night, and aware that I was in deep trouble.\n\n“You Brad Chao? he asked. \n\n“Yes, sir, how can I help you.”\n\n“Well, to start and unfortunately, there’s been a lynchin’ of a colored boy in town. Age 16 years. You may have heard some talk about this? It’s on everyone’s lips. This gossip will truly be the death of me.”\n\n“No, Sir. What you are saying is none of my business. I don’t pay no mind to town gossip. I try to keep a clean record and just run my store for my black customers who are also good citizens.”\n\n“I decide who’s a good citizen,” the Sheriff replied. “More to the point, I was told by one of your neighbors that Mr. Beauregard Tavernier was seen entering these premises last night. That seemed strange to all of us back at the station. White men don’t usually have no truk with the the Chinese and their shops. Did you, by any chance, see him last night?”.\n\nI replied, trying to keep my cool and provide him with the best, honest answer I could under the circumstances: “Sheriff, you of all folks, know that no white men would be caught dead in a Chinese grocery in town, particularly at night. Only for black folks.”\n\n“That’s sure true, the Sheriff replied quickly, stroking his beard and still looking at me, squinty-eyed. “The story didn’t make no sense to me but I am trying to cover all the bases. Lynchin’ has become less ‘popular’ these days in the state and I am starting to feel some pressure from above to find a guilty party. ”\n\nFor a moment, he appeared to be suspiciously eyeing the back of my store. That’s the last thing in the world that I wanted.\n\n“Watcha' got stored back there, boy? he asked suddenly. \"Your stock or, perhaps, even some other goods?\"\n\n“No need to search the store any further, Sheriff” I responded. “You don’t want to go back there. That’s where I live. Very messy. I also cook there on a hot plate. Kind of smells bad. You won’t like it. Best stay away.”\n\nHe seemed to be satisfied by my words, and also not inclined to stay in my store any longer than necessary. He suddenly wheeled around and strode out the front door, not even giving me a backward glance. I was glad to see him gone, but I didn’t know what to do next.\n\nI finally realized that I was in a heap of trouble, none of which was of my own making. I was now apparently on the sheriff’s short list of possible suspects for the lynching, although it made no sense at all. He just wanted to arrest someone but certainly not a prominent white man.\n\n\n\nIt was the next night and I was sleeping. I heard a soft knock on the back door. I opened it carefully to see Aaron, a black man who worked for Mr. Beauregard. A truck was parked in the back of the store, idling. \n\n“Boss man, sent me to pick up a ‘package’ that you holdin’ for him in your store,” he said. “He tole me not to let anyone see me transport it. So here I am.”\n\nI got out of bed and helped Aaron load the sack on his truck bed and then covered it with a tarp. He motioned me over to him and placed his mouth gently to my ear. \n\n“Mr. Chao, I don’t know what you done and I don’t even want to know. You been kind to us. People in town doin’ a lot of talkin’ about recent events, however. The sheriff lookin’ for someone to pin this lynchin’ on. The ‘trouble’ seems to be puttin’ the town and state in a bad light. You yourself now seem to be the perfect choice for blamin' for the crime. They won’t never pin a lynchin’ on a black man and you may be the next best choice.” With that he hurried over to the truck and drove away in a cloud of dust.\n\n*\n\nI began to go over my options to stay alive. They were to stay in town or jump on a bus headed north. It would not be good for one of our community to be under a magnifying glass. Best thing, I finally concluded, would be to catch the bus for Chicago that left early the next morning. The sheriff would soon be looking for another patsy. Unfortunately for him, to charge a black with a charge of lynching would be laughable.\n\nI packed my suitcase in a hurry, reserving a place for a small Chinese shrine with the ashes of my Uncle Charlie. Nothing much else of value to take with me. A few wrinkled clothes. I knew that hightailing it out of town made me look guilty.\n\nI knew for certain that the large number of white people in town who had actually witnessed the lynching knew that I was not involved. All the sheriff needed to do was to ask a few questions in town which he didn’t seem to want to do. No, he would merely let this incident fade in people’s memory with his most important suspect gone to “who knows where up north.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Night of the Foo Fighters\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2835\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who is trying to share groundbreaking news, but isn’t being taken seriously." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On September 2, 1945 in the early morning before sunrise,, Lt. Glieb was piloting an F6F Hellcat over the South China Sea from Okinawa to Kagoshima, Japan. This was considered a routine flight. The war would come to an end in a few hours as representatives of Emperor Hirohita would sign the official treaty in front of General MacArthur on the deck of the USS Missouri. Lt. Glieb duty was to make sure the skies over Tokyo Bay would be safe since there were stories about renegade Japanese pilot who would fly kamikaze missions during the signing. \n“This is Lt. Harry Glieb checking in.” He spoke into his radio attached to his mask. \n“Roger that. Do you see anything?” Major Bassett asked. Lt. Glieb could see the major’s Hellcat at the head of the wing formation. \n“Not a thing.” Glieb reported, “What the hell was that?” \n“What did you see, lieutenant?” Major Bassett asked, noting the excitement in Lt. Glieb’s voice. The excitement was out of character for the usually calm and placid pilot. \nThere was silence. Major Bassett glanced over his shoulder, but in the early morning darkness, he could barely see Glieb’s Hellcat, but nothing looked out of place or problematic. The squadron would be landing within the hour at the airfield in Kagoshima that was currently pockmarked with craters from American bombs during the war. All of the pilots from Kilo Squadron were veterans and could land their planes in just about any terrain. \nOnce the squadron was on the ground, Major Bassett went looking for Lt. Glieb. The young pilot was standing by his plane, carefully examining the skin of his plane. \n“What’s up?” He put his hands on his hips as Lt. Glieb was squatting under the right wing.\n“I saw something.” His voice was shaky.\n“What?” \n“I wish the hell, I knew.” He shook his head.\n“How is the plane?” Major Bassett asked.\n“Fine. Whatever it was came within a few feet of my air space. I was sure I had struck it, but there was no damage.” He stood up and shrugged. “At least no damage I can see.” \n“Make a report.” Major Bassett turned to leave.\n“What do I report?” Lt. Glieb sounded distressed, “Once I file it, I get a visit from our friendly shrink who will ground me for being cuckoo, right?” \n“Easy, Lieutenant, I am not the enemy.” Major Bassett shakes his head.\n“Sorry. It was a close call up there and to tell you the truth it rattled me a bit.” He squats, folding his hands in front of him.\n“I have heard other pilots talk about these strange unidentified flying objects. They’ve even given them a name.” Major Bassett examines a spot near the cockpit that looks as if it had been struck, but it could have been anything. Lt. Glieb had flown in thirty sorties since coming to Bouganville Air Field in the Marshall Islands. “They call them Foo Fighters.” \n“You kiddin?’” He chuckled.\n“Funny name ain’t it.” The major smiles. “What else are you gonna call these things?” \n“I still ain’t reporting it.” Lt. Glieb shakes his head as Major Bassett salutes and walks away to check on the other members of his squadron. Harry Glieb was a man with both feet on the ground. He had whizzed through flight school and was assigned to the Kilo Squadron under the command of Major Walter Bassett. Since June of 1944, he had been ecstatic about his assignment. Major Bassett was a steady, pragmatic commander who did not panic under fire. His no-nonsense approach to tactical operations, instilled confidence in Harry and the rest of the squadron who had not suffered a single casualty in combat.\n“Harry, are you okay?” Captain Vince Demacchi asked. Long and lanky with an olive skin complexion, Vince was a smooth operator among the others in the squadron with a long list of women in his little black book. Despite his reputation as a lady’s man, his first concern however was with the fliers in his squadron.\n“Yeah, I’m fine.” Harry was becoming annoyed with the attention he was suddenly getting. \n“What did it look like?” Vince put his finger in the corner of his mouth.\n“I don’t know…I mean, it just came out of nowhere at a speed I could not imagine.” Harry stood up after seeing there was no real damage to his plane. \n“I saw one.” Vince confessed, “On a mission over the Philippines a couple months ago. We were doing navy escort through the straights.”\n“I remember.” Harry nodded. \n“I didn't report it.” Vince looked up at the lightening morning sky. “I don’t blame you if you decide not to report it. Scared me to death…and I knew they would lock me up and throw away the key if I said anything.” \n“Yup, me too.” Harry put his arm around Vince as they walked to the chow hall for a half cooked breakfast. \nWhile he was eating his breakfast with the other members of his squadron while the crew were filling their Hellcats with fuel and doing a quick, but thorough once over, Harry was reading the Stars and Stripes when he saw an article about these Foo Fighters that had been spotted by both British and American crews as they flew bombing missions over occupied Europe.\n“Do you think some of the Japs are going to pull some crap today?” Allan Coe asked the others.\n“I hope not. Worst fate I can think of is becoming a casualty on the last day of the war.” Benton chuckled. “If we hang tight up there, I’m sure we will be alright.” \nEveryone nodded as they finished their breakfast. \n“Major says we are going to fly in tight.” Vince sighed, “We will look sharp so if Emperor Hirohito looks up, he will understand why we won the war, won’t he?” \nEveryone laughed. Major Bassett sauntered on over dressed in his flight suit as if he was ready to take off as soon as he left the chow hall. He smiled down at them, “Are we ready?”\n“I thought we had another hour.” Dillon said, looking at his watch.\n“Briefing.” Major Bassett shook his head. \n“Oh.” Everyone groaned.\n“Five minutes.” Major Bassett was now looking at his watch.\n“No rest for the wicked then?” Arty shrugged.\n“Nope. And Kilo is as wicked as they come.” Major Bassett laughed.\nThe briefing was routine as routine could be and a couple of the pilots nodded off a bit. Everyone knew you had to be careful, because Major Bassett was prone to throw objects at anyone sleeping during one of his briefings. \n“All in all, we just have to keep alert, gentlemen.” He concluded, “I have heard nothing specific being planned, but you remember how desperate these guys got the closer we got to their home, right?” \nEveryone nodded in agreement. Kamikaze pilots had created havoc during some of the encounters. Nothing worse than facing an enemy who is not afraid to die. \n“I don’t want nothing to go wrong. After this, some of you may be on your way home. Let’s not screw that up, eh?” A wry smile crossed his usual stoic face that earned him the nickname Stoneface. \nIt is quite a sight watching eighteen Hellcats start their engines at once. The noise is deafening as each engine reaches a high pitch as one at a time they roll down the runway. Once in takeoff position, the plane launches into what resembles a fever pitch as the plane wings wobble a bit before the tires leave the ground. All eighteen Hellcats are in the air in less than ten minutes.\n“All clear, Kilo.” The man in the control tower says over the radio, “See you back here in ten hours.” \n“Roger that.” Major Bassett echoes as the squadron flies due north toward Tokyo Bay where the USS Missouri awaits this historical encounter. \nFlying in the skies over Japan made Major Bassett more than a little apprehensive even though the war was over. He still expected to see a couple of Zekes emerge from the clouds with guns blazing, but instead the baby blue sky did not yield anything so menacing. Still his guard was up just in case. \nThe rest of the squadron was talkative and there was a lot of radio chatter.\n“Hey gentlemen, let’s keep this chatter to a minimum.” Major Bassett ordered.\nKilo Squadron flew over Tokyo Bay around twelve forty five just as General MacArthur arrived on deck. Searching the sky, Major Bassett did a quick sweep of the sky with his eyes. \n“All clear.” He spoke into the radio.\n“Major, I’ve got one of those things on my tail.” It was Vincent speaking.\n“I need visual confirmation.” Major Bassett could feel his neck start to sweat. “Wingman, do you see what he has?” \n“I see him, major.” Arty confirmed. “He’s moving at a very fast speed.” \n“Do you have any idea what it is?” Major Bassett tried to see Vincent’s plane but he could not. The deck of the USS Missouri was directly below his own plane and if all was going according to plan, the emperor was bowing to General MacArthur who would have one of his staff hand Hirohito the pen to sign the treaty. Formality needed to happen to make Japan’s surrender official.\n“Sir, I have never seen anything like it.” Arty was breathing heavily as he spoke, “It’s about half the size of the plane, but it moves both laterally and up and down at angles I’ve never seen before.” \n“Is it being aggressive?” Major Bassett closed his eyes.\n“Not at the moment.” Arty’s voice was higher in this sudden excitement.\n“I may need to shoot it out of the sky.” Major Bassett, “Just in case it is hostile.” \n“Sir, that may not be the thing to do.” Vincent broke into the radio conversation.\n“Why not, captain?” Major Bassett sounded gruff.\n“This thing has not presented any hostility.” Vincent added.\n“But we have the world under our wings. I can’t afford to have anything go wrong.” Major pulled his stick straight back forcing his Hellcat to start to climb. When he was above his squadron, he leveled off and began to try to see the Foo Fighter. \nThere it was. It appeared as a black disk with no visible means of propulsion. The Foo Fighter moved in angles that did not seem possible. Even the highly maneuverable Mitsubishi Zeroes were not capable of such maneuvering as this thing was. He put his finger on the trigger of his stick, ready to fire his wing mounted guns. Sweat began to pour down from his forehead into his eyes making things difficult to see as he tried to square up on the object. \nThen another Foo Fighter appeared from out of nowhere. This one zeroed in on the major. If this object had the ability to fire, Major Bassett would be in flames. \n“What the-” His words were drowned out by a loud bang, “The bastard just broke the sound barrier.” \n“Not possible, major.” Dillon remarked. \n“Oh yeah, tell him that.” Major Bassett responded.\n“I see him.” Lt. Grieb broke in.\n“Do not attack.” Major Bassett ordered. “Vinnie’s right. These things don’t seem to be hostile.” \n“Roger that, sir.” Lt. Grieb answered, but Major Bassett knew that Lt. Grieb was keeping his finger close to the red trigger on the control stick. \nNobody in Kilo Squadron had any idea if these Foo Fighters had any notion to attack. \nThrough his radio came the broadcast of what was taking place on the deck of the Missouri was coming through his headset. \n“Emperor Hirohito has taken the pen and is approaching the table where General MacArthur and his staff are seated.”\n“Did you see that?” Arty was in awe of what he had just seen.\n“What?” Vincent asked. \n“It just ascended over three thousand feet in less than five seconds.” Arty sounded like a kid at Christmas, “Wow.” \n“Wow is right.” Lt. Grieb gasped, “I knew those Foo Fighter things were from another planet.” \n“Ladies and gentlemen, with a stroke of his pen, the war with Japan is now over…” The voice broadcasting purred as Kilo began to form up into a V-wing formation. Both of the Foo Fighters had disappeared. All was clear. \nTwo hours later, all eighteen Hellcats touched down at Kagoshima. Each of the pilots had been shaken by their encounter with the Foo Fighters, but none more than the major.\n“Are you alright, sir?” Vincent asked, rushing over to him as he leaned against the wing of his plane to steady himself.\n“Mission accomplished, sir.” Dillon ripped off his helmet. “The war is over.” \n“Yes, yes it is.” Major Bassett smiled. \n“What the hell happened up there, major?” Colonel Keyes asked, rushing onto the tarmac with security and three of his staff. “We heard you ran into some unidentified crafts up there.”\n“Yes we did.” He nodded. Lt. Grieb grimaced since he knew Major Bassett would have a date with the psychiatrist for that admission. \n“What was it?” Colonel Keyes asked, glancing at his three staff members.\n“I wish I could tell you, sir.” He shook his head.\n“For the record, major, I will be recording this session.” Dr. Hayward pressed the button on his tape recorder. “Please be as honest and accurate as you can, Major Bassett.”\n“I will try.” He sat back in the folding chair they had gotten for him.\n“What happened to your squadron this afternoon?” \n“We encountered some unidentified craft.” He answered as the tape clicked on each rotation. \n“Could you describe them?” Dr. Hayward asked.\n“Small but very maneuverable.” \n“Did they at any time seem hostile?” \n“No, but we didn’t want to take any chances with what was going on below.” \n“Your squadron has been on a number of sorties without any incidents or casualties, correct?” \n“Yes doctor, that is correct.” \n“And yet this was the first time you have encountered these unidentified flying crafts.”\n“No, coming to Kagoshima, one of my men, Lt. Grieb had one trail him, until we landed.” \n“I’ve been hearing about these things from other pilots in this and the European theater. Best guess, major, what do suppose these are? Do you think the Soviet Union has developed a new space age flying vessel?”\n“Doc, I have no idea. I am just an American pilot who is ready to go home to his wife and kids.”\n“Doesn’t it make you wonder, though?” \n“I have lost my ability to wonder. All I want is to go home. The war is over.”\n“Indeed it is.” He pushed the off button on his tape player. “Off the record, I am trying to decide if these Foo Fighters, as they are called, are real or if they are imagined by servicemen who are fatigued like yourself.” \n“So you just think all of this is in my head because I’m sick of fighting? Is that it?” He had been rattled by Dr. Hayward’s statement.\n“No need to get angry. This happens even to the best and brightest of us.” He apologized. \n“No, the record shows that I am a rational man and have honorably led my squadron through the end of this war without losing a single man in the process. I am tired of people trying to say that what we see is not real. A Japanese Zero shot my commander down into the Pacific before I was assigned to Kilo Squadron. I know for a fact he was dead before his plane splashed down into the ocean.” Major Bassett’s face was red.\n“This is the fatigue I told you about. After seeing something like that, could we not see these Foo Fighters, too.” Dr. Hayward asked.\n“I’m calling it a night, doc. I know I haven’t been much help in answering the question if these things are real or not, but from what I saw this afternoon these things are real.” He walked out of the room leaving Dr. Hayward alone with his tape recorder. \n“Major, how did it go?” Lt. Grieb asked as Major Bassett walked into the waiting area where the rest of his squadron was waiting. “Did he believe you?” \n“He humored me.” Major Bassett chuckled. “What we saw will never be believed.” \n“Which is why I didn’t want to report it in the first place.” Lt. Glieb shook his head.\n“Yeah. I get it.” He put his arm around Lt. Grieb. “I think it’s time for us to go home, gentlemen and leave them to figure out all the details.” \n“We were there, not them.” Vincent shrugged. “They don’t have any idea what we saw.” \n“Sure.” He put his other arm around Vincent, “And history is never written by those who were really there. No, our history is written by those who think they know what took place. Nobody is going to believe a bunch of Navy fliers these Foo Fighters are for real, right?”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Redolence\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1709\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character looking out on a new horizon." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Marianne insists on taking me to the party even though I don’t want to go. Marianne, like that old song, and Marianne is more than a feeling. She lives for all the feelings. She doesn’t care about a lot of things but she likes to play with people’s minds because it makes her feel guilty, and excited, and fearful, and she gets a real kick out of it. \nShe tumbles right into some conversation with some people that I’ve never heard of, and she hands me a drink absentmindedly that tastes just like orange juice but I know it isn’t because my cheeks are very warm and the portrait on the wall keeps on playing tag with my eyes, and I’m losing, it’s just running, running away. \nIt reminds me of when I was very young and I would play with marbles that would roll away from me all the time, and it reminds me of just last year, when people would roll right away from me too until Marianne decided that I was a specimen of interest, pocketed me like a dirty penny, and has carried me with her since. Wherever she goes. It’s like this dirty penny has moved to a land of magnets. Only the magnets merely get close enough to spy that old dust and rust and then they move on to form a perfect bubble around it, held off by some magical invisible eddy of that thing that insulates loneliness and keeps it safe. \nAnyway, I’m done wasting my time with marbles and people and paintings, so I rove the room amiably, with my drink, and the little bubble follows along with me and my not-so-orange juice and it clears enough space for me to sit with a pillow in my lap, alone. Or maybe, not-so. This drink is pervasive. \nNot so alone anymore. It’s like a fairy tale, to be honest, a damn fairy tale. Maybe it’s that subversive orange juice making everything a strange shade of blue, but there I am, a short, brunette, miniskirt-clad Cinderella, and there is the prince, sitting with a group of whoever they are, singing along with that song that’s everywhere now, she just moved to LA, go to UCLA... and then you look at me. Me, everybody thinks I’ve gone nowhere but where Marianne has been, and that I don’t know anything, but I lived in LA, do you know that? \nYou’re really something. Something like redolent. It’s in a way about your smile. Normally when guys look at me there are many other words for it: sweet, scary; diffident, cocky. But those are not the right words, you see, because, well, you’re redolent; I look into your eyes and I've never met you before, but you see right through me like these walls are nothing but lacy veil, you’re remembering this future that we had that I’ve never lived. \nOr perhaps your face is just redolent of a dream I once had and I’m confusing redolent with radiant, I always have gotten too caught up in the past. \nAnd this reminds me of something I read once where it said that orange juice cleans dirty pennies, makes them shiny and new and clean again. But that’s an untroubled penny. Maybe this penny is already bright and flashy on the outside, and it just needs a new worth; it’s not worth a penny like this, something’s wrong in the center of it. It’s counterfeit and invalid and it knows this. \nThough I am aware that I am a pretty penny on the outside. Marianne would not have thought it fit to add me to her collection if I wasn’t, and that is the plain simple truth. But nobody has ever dared look too close, you see. They like to see my walls and turn around, dead end, melt this penny down and separate out the useful parts to give to the new pennies and just throw out the dead bits. There’s no need for them. \nThen I look up from the cleansing acid in my cup, ready for it to devour me and scour me spotless, and there you are. You smile right in my face and my vision finally sharpens. The painting anchors itself in the center of the rightmost wall. \nHey, you say, I heard you lived in LA. \nI did. \nYou like it there? \nNot so much. \nI’ve never lived anywhere but here. \nI sip my drink, mumbling, Lucky. \nLucky? \nLucky, that was a stupid thing to say. You lean closer. Lucky how? \nI shrug. I could talk shit about the seasons, but the orange juice forces words to flow out of my mouth unbidden. Moving’s not worth it, I guess. \nYou haven’t ever wanted to, like, escape? Leave? Find something new? \nEscaping isn’t so fun when you want to escape just as bad from the new place you hit up. \nReally? Your face falls. Really. Like it’s so disappointing. \nAnd my face softens, though it’s not trying to, and I hear a faraway voice say, Well, maybe I never escaped with the right people. And it’s true, because I always manage to escape those I want to love and I\nkeep moving steadily along with the people I am trying to run from. But you aren’t supposed to know. \nWant to escape with me? \nWhere? \nYour laugh is like the fresh cut of an apple corer. You got me. And then your eyes settle like a fine layer of dust. Outside? And they spark like a flame I thought I’d covered hours ago. \nSure. \nThose are my words, aren’t they, running, running away. \n---\nOutside. What did I think that meant? It’s only a few steps away, and just as crowded. \nIt’s a nice house that Marianne brought me to. I feel bad for this girl’s parents. Their house is gorgeous, covered with artful decor. White and pink. And lots and lots of drunk teenagers. \nOutside. Spring has unrolled its blanket across the neatly manicured yard. Apple blossoms are fresh, lime green and white like a sliver of silk, fragrant claims on the night sky and petals rain like syruped stars. And the air smells faintly of sweat, as well, and juice, and beer and a little tinge of vomit. Mostly it’s the music that swallows my senses. It pounds. I like the song. People don’t think I like this music but I do. I think it’s poetic, because it’s true, all around us there are couples, being cute, being extra, being gross, and this could be us, this could be us, but you’re playing - well shit, that’s all I was saying. \nI’m the one playing. You turn to look at me for real. \nHave you ever seen me before today? \nUm, no. Sorry. \nYou laugh, unbothered and amused. Nah, you’re playing. \nI’m not trying to, I swear. \nYou’re cute when you smile. \nYeah? \nI take a sip of the orange juice. Because I want to have seen you before but I can’t see too far out of my own head. You take a sip out of my cup too, and grin that little evocative grin. When it tastes that good it makes the headache that much worse, you know that, right? \nI smile but I’ve got nothing to say. You lean against the tree with me, sing along, spin the bottle, spin the fuckin’ bottle, if you’re the reason why it’s empty, baby, spin the fuckin’ bottle. \nIs that why you’re taking my drink? To make it empty? You trying to get a kiss? \nHey, hey, I just like the song. \nYeah? \nYeah. \nYeah, me too, and you taste like spring and orange juice and like you’re smiling while you’re kissing me. \nYou taste like something new and old. \nI stop myself from asking you if we’ve kissed before. \nThe way you look at me is like how I’ve always wanted someone to look at me, and there you go, running, running to me, slotting in all the holes my dreams left for interpretation. \nYou pick up my hand and my drink and take another sip, and you kiss me again and you taste like orange juice more than before, and biting alcohol, to cleanse my wounds and soak all the old stains off of those gauzy curtains that shelter me. \nCome on, you say. \nYou’re already holding my hand. \nFine, you shake your head, glittering down at me. Come on, climb with me. \nAre you crazy? \nNah, just drunk. And so are you. You point at the guilty party with your free hand. The guilty party plants her feet. \nI’m not climbing a tree with you. \nYou’ve never wanted to actually be sittin’ in a tree... k i s s...\nShut up, and this tipsy, tennis-shoed Cinderella steps up to the carriage. \nI hope you know you’re ridiculous. \nI hope you know that you’re here - you’re ridiculous, too, just like me. \nShut up. \nThat’s your favorite thing to say, isn’t it? \n---\nThis Cinderella has never liked parties, but she has also never met guys at parties with little hinting smiles who want to talk to her after the party, nothing fancy, just sober and dirty-pennied entirely with no orange juice to sweep in and clean it up. This guy wants her phone number and maybe he wants to deal with the messy parts of her, too. \nEven the sad songs have beautiful lyrics. \nI remember when I met you, thought the universe sent you. \nAnd the universe is Marianne, and it is the bubble that follows me around, and it is the silly party music and the apple blossoms and the childish rhymes that are sung by childish people, like me and the young redolent prince who will certainly not live up to my dreamlike expectations but my dreams were never real and this is, so the tradeoff is more than fair. \nI remember the sunrise easy as anything. I remember everything about him. I remember the sky turning light blue and deep purple and young, bright orange woven with soft yellow, and I watch the sunrise in the reflection of his eyes, an old horizon all new now. And he remembers it too. Just as well." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fluttering Feeling\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2088\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite from the POV of someone, or something, that experiences gravity differently." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Hina! The bell rang.”\nMy head jolted up from my desk. I wiped the drool from my mouth as I looked at who called my name.\n“Mori. Ah. Um, sorry. I must’ve fallen asleep.” I readjusted my feet, hoping they were firmly planted on the ground.\n“Yeah, I noticed. You always do this.” Mori teased. She flashed me a soft smile. “Come on. The school’s gonna be locked up soon.” She started walking ahead.\n“Right.” I got up from my desk and started to catch up with my friend.\nAs Mori implied, it was the end of the school day, and no one else was on campus. Well, almost no one.\nWe were on the second floor, so the hallway windows gave a clear unobscured view of the school’s track field. The track itself wasn’t much to write home about. It was a single oval red course with grass filling the non-paved areas. However, I would often find myself staring at the track for long periods of time; Or more the person running on the track.\n“Isabel.” I unconsciously whispered.\nShe was running in her usual red shirt and black shorts, training hard. It was sunset and the temperature was getting lower, but sweat still visibly continued to pour down her face as she mustered the strength to go another 100 meters and then 100 more.\nIsabel, the cool, confident, intelligent, gorgeous senior who every guy and girl alike in my school was pinning for; Including me. She was the first to arrive for training for her club and was always the last to leave. As a person who put her everything into the things she did, it was no surprise she and her team were a shoo-in for nationals. And although all these factors were more than enough evidence that I, a short junior with average grades, was totally out of her league, I still couldn’t help but get a fluttering feeling every time I thought of her; But for me, that fluttering feeling was more than just something I mentally felt.\nWithout realizing it, I had started floating again. I had to use the window’s handle to push myself back to the ground.\n“Hina, your lagging behind,” Mori called ahead.\n“R-right, sorry.” I looked away from the window and jogged to catch up to Mori. I don’t think she noticed.\nI guess I should’ve mentioned earlier, but I have this condition per se. When I feel startled, excited, or, sometimes, too happy, I start to float. It’s nothing too insane. I’ve never flown in the sky like Superman before—and thank goodness because I’m scared of heights— I would just float a few inches off the ground. It, for some reason, started a few weeks after my sophomore year, and it was pretty uncommon for me to do. But as of lately, it has been happening more and more frequently, especially when I’ve been thinking about Isabel.\nI caught up to Mori, but I wish I could’ve watched Isabel more.\nMori and I walked out to the school’s entrance. Before either one of us could say anything, Mori’s phone rang. She quickly answered, said ‘Yeah’ ‘Yes’ ‘Okay’ followed by a ‘Fine’ then hung up.\n“Sorry, Hina.” She rolled her eyes. “I need to run to do an errand real quick. Will you be okay walking home alone?”\n“It’s fine.” I put up my hand. “It’s still pretty bright out. Good luck with your errand.”\n“Thanks.” She smiled. “Get home safe. And don’t talk to any boys trying to pick up on you.”\nI don’t think that’ll be a problem.\nBut I didn’t say that. I just waved as Mori ran in the opposite direction. I made sure she was out of sight before I stopped waving.\nAt first, I was kind of bummed Mori and I couldn’t walk each other home. But on the other hand, this would give me the chance to peep—I mean observe Isabel training; At least for a little longer.\nI circled around the school to get to the track field. There was a tall chain-link fence surrounding the field. I couldn’t see Isabel due to the high-rise bleachers that blocked off my view of the track; They maybe put them there in an attempt to dissuade onlookers like me. I went to the fence’s side gate, but it was sealed shut with a chain and lock.\n“Dammit,” I muttered to myself. I closed my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.\nI just wanted to get a closer look at Isabel practicing. I wanted to see her running. Seeing her long graceful legs and her slender arms pumping against the wind. And if I could see her beautiful face reflected against the setting sun, I’d… I’d…\nI was awakened by my daydream by a gentle breeze blowing under my skirt. I opened my eyes and was greeted by the unobscured view of the bleachers; There was no fence in front of me. I let out a yelp then quickly covered my mouth when I looked down and saw I was hovering maybe six or seven feet off the ground. When I noticed how high I was, I started getting a sinking feeling in my stomach. My elevation was sinking as well.\n“No.No!”\nI grabbed the top of the fence before I fell too far down. I was able to get a grip, haul myself up, and finish my descent on the other side of the fence. I let out a held-in breath the moment my feet touched the ground. My face immediately flushed when I realized someone could’ve seen me, but that sensation quickly dissipated.\nWhat’s done was done. Now was time to take the opportunity to ogle— I mean to admire Isabel. Yeah, admire.\nI ran around the bleachers so I could get a better view of the track. I made sure to crouch to make sure it would be harder to see me; Though considering my height, it was probably unnecessary. I peeked to the side where the bleachers ended, but when I saw the track, there was no one there.\n“What? Where did she go?” I asked no one because there was no one here.\nHowever, it was then I noticed the door to the school was slightly ajar. Isabel must’ve finished practicing and went to get her stuff. If I remember correctly, I think I heard one of my classmates say the teachers trusted Isabel with the school’s keys because she was a star student and her training would keep her till late. The rumor seemed far-fetched—even for me to believe— but I was starting to think there was some truth behind it.\nWithout wasting a second, I started bounding toward the door. For what purpose, I don’t know. Was I planning on stalking Isabel for the rest of the day? Was I going to ask her for an autograph or just make small talk? Was I going to finally confessions my feelings for her? Was I going to say that she was the coolest, smartest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?\nI don’t know.\nFor some reason, I felt lighter on my feet than usual. It was like each stride I took lifted me in the air for three seconds before my feet hit the ground once more. I was going faster than usual, and for that, I had less control, so when I saw a random tin can in the middle of my path, I could do nothing to stop my momentum.\nTink\nThe can was launched ahead as my foot came into contact with it. The can flew up then came crashing down, colliding with the door I was making my way toward. To my dismay, the door swung open slightly, then loudly slammed shut. A few seconds later, I stopped in front of the door. I tried the handle, but it was definitely locked.\n“You have to be freaking kidding me!”\nA shiny glint from one of the windows caught my eye. I squinted at first, but when my eyes adjusted, I saw her. Isabel was walking along the hallway of the second floor. I also noticed an opened window not too far away from her path.\nI could feel myself slowly floating up again.\nWhat was I doing? Why am I doing this? Is this feeling in my chest something that’s good; This feeling that’s making me so irrational? I might get caught doing this. But I wanted to see her. I needed to see her. Her beautiful brown eyes. Her long curly hair. I want to know more about her; More than just what people say or think about her. I want to know the foods she likes, the foods she dislikes, what books she reads, what she thinks of life and what it means to live, if she believes in love, who she thinks she is, who she wants to be, if she loves dogs, what makes her laugh, what makes her cry, her favorite word, her favorite number, her favorite freaking color!\nI didn’t need a see myself to know I was as red as a tomato. But I was glad I opened my eyes because when I did, I realized I had just about passed the open window.\n“Yipes!”\nI was able to grab the ledge from the top of the window before I got too far up. My legs were still floating up like a balloon trying to drag me up with them. Looking down from where I was, I started feeling sick. I got carried away—literally—thinking about her, and now I was paying for it. Even as fear was engulfing my entire mind, my body stayed floating. My grip was weakening. If I let go now, I don’t know how far I’d go before I eventually dropped.\nI closed my eyes as tears started falling down my cheeks to the Earth below.\n“Woah! I gotcha!” I heard her voice.\nI felt a soft, firm hand. I opened my eyes and saw Isabel leaning out the window, holding my wrist. She was clenching her teeth as she tried to pull me into the school. My heart was beating like dumb tumbling down a cliff, but I could feel myself slowly descending. Isabel was pulling me in. When I was fully inside the school, Isabel quickly closed the window then pulled me into an embrace.\nI was no longer floating. My two feet were firmly planted in front of the beautiful woman who had saved my life.\n“Oh. Sorry, Hina.” Isabel let me go the moment she realized I wasn’t floating anymore. Her cheeks were red. “I um, I held you for a little too... Sorry.”\nShe knew my name?\nNever mind that. This was my chance; It was now or never. I needed to do this right.\n“I—I—I,” I stammered before getting my sea legs. “I’ve always admired you. I— I think you’re really cool when I see you run and— I mean you’re always cool and cute— I mean you’re pretty, and I wanted to… I wanted to maybe ask if you wanted to talk or hang out sometime… maybe?” I fiddled with my fingers. “Or maybe exchange phone numbers?”\nI could not have messed that up any more than I did. I wanted to shrink down and fold myself over until I could blend in with a speck on the ground.\nBut when I looked at Isabel, she looked just as flustered as I felt.\n“Heh, I…” Isabel was slightly covering her face with her hands. “You… Do you really think I’m pretty and cool? No one has ever said that to me before.”\n“I… I have a hard time believing in that.” I could feel myself trembling.\n“Really? Ha. Ah. I guess now’s the best time to say I think you're cute too.” Isabel got closer. “I’ve… I’ve seen you around before, but I’ve never had the courage to talk to you. Ah.” She bashfully rubbed the back of her head. “I bet that kind of ruins your cool image of me, huh?”\n“No! I mean… I think you’ve just made it better.”\nWe both stood gazing into each other's eyes as the sunset bathed the school’s hallway in a dazzling amber glow. She was taller than me, but our heads were leveled with each other.\n“So,” Isabel chuckled. “I guess that explains why you looked so tall every time I’ve seen you.”\nI giggled, knowing that my feet were no longer on the ground." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cherry Red\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1081\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who finds Valentine’s Day sickly sweet." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Bulllying.......\nToday is the worst day ever. Today, in case you were wondering, is Valentine's day. Every man and woman, boy and girl, asking each other, “Will you be my valentine?” Like elementary kids. The heart-shaped boxes, the candy hearts that taste like chalk and paste mixed together, it’s sickening. I hate it, and I make a point to show it to. I wear a black tee-shirt and jeans with white tennis shoes. The only thing that could remotely be made to look like Valentine's day, is my hair, which is bright red from where I dyed it last Friday. I start my half-mile walk to school, but first I stop by my friend, Mike’s house. I knock on the door and he opens it. \n“There you are. Took you long enough.” He says with a laugh, looking me up and down. “Someone looks excited for today.” \n“Shut up.” I say back, only half-joking. We start our walk. \n“Did someone not get a Valentine date again? Hmm?” I push him jokingly and he laughs. \n“Sorry, Addison, I just don’t get why you don’t like Valentines day. It’s such a nice day, love in the air, everything is cordiform and flowers being given back and forth to lovers.” He says breathlessly, his dark brown eyes filled with fondness. Yes he used the word cordiform, he spends too much time with his nose in books. \n“Valentine's day is society's way to-”\n“Ensure those who don’t have a partner know that they are not whole. I know, I know. I just don’t understand why you have a vendetta against it. Valentines day hasn’t done anything to you.” I stay quiet for a minuet. \n“I don’t feel like talking about it right now.” I say, casting my eyes down to the cracked sidewalk. \n“Sorry Addison. I didn’t mean-”\n“No, no it’s okay. I just don’t feel like talking about it.” I say. We walk in silence the rest of the way. When we arrive at the door, we say our goodbyes and separate inside. I walk to my class that had a makeover in one night apparently. Paper hearts hang from the door frame, plastic bags with the words “Happy Valentines Day!” are taped to the sides of our desks, decorations from the dollar store hang from the ceiling and I fight the urge to puke. I sit at my desk as couples start walking through the door, hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm. Statistically speaking, all these couples will be at an end by the end of the year. \n The teacher walks into the room and looks at us, turns to the board and writes our morning exercise on the board. He frequently does this, even on days like this. He much prefers to have his coffee before he has to deal with us. I don’t blame him. I look at the exercise on the board and read it. “Write a short story/poem about something having to do with Valentine's day.” \n I sigh, pull a piece of paper out of my binder, grab a pencil, and start writing. \nBeing with you is cherry red,\nWhen I am left alone, I feel a dark blue,\nEvery hand hold is a soft pink, \nEvery kiss makes me rose red, \nWhen you speak a sunny yellow fills the room, \nThen you left me and I was sour green\nI read over the couple of lines I had wrote, decided it was acceptable, and stood up, walked to the front of the room and turned it in. I gave it to Mr. Walker, he read over it, took a sip of coffee, looked at me, looked back at the paper, and nodded. \n“This is good, thank you.” \n“May I use the restroom?” I ask, feeling suffocated for some reason. \n“Sign out and take a pass.” He answers. I nod and do as he says. I open the door to the class room and walk out, closing the door behind me. I open the door and there Sabrina stands. Sabrina is my long time tormentor. \n“Hey there, freak. How you doing? How's your Valentine's date, oh wait, I forgot, you don’t have one. You’re so ugly, you couldn’t get one even if you tried.” She says, flipping her glossy blonde hair behind her shoulder, her blue eyes glinting with malice. \n“Oh, shut up, please. If given the choice to apologize or die, you’d choose the last one, not the right one, even if it meant you’d be a decent human being just for once.” I say back. She looked at me, her jaw dropped slightly. \n“Ugh, whatever.” she says, pushing past me. I wander down the halls, just to get fresh air. I don’t like it when Mr. Walker has us do writing assignments, because I don’t enjoy it when people read my writing. I look at all the art on the walls, I look in windows as I pass them, watching the people work diligently. I walk slowly, stopping every now and then to read a quote a teacher put up about body positivity, or to read a poem a kid put up about loving family. \n Paper hearts hang from the ceiling, and are taped on walls, and art projects are layed on tables in the halls. I know I’m like the grinch of Valentine’s day, but I hate Valentines day. Everyone acting like love is eternal, or that it’s even worth putting effort into. Love is a high-risk, no reward game. It leaves everything sour green and sad. I tear down a string of hearts from the ceiling and rip it in half. A scream rips through my gritted teeth and tears run down my face. \n Sabrina was right, I couldn’t get a date if I tried, and the one person I want to date only sees me as a friend. I sink to the ground, paper surrounds me on the ground, and I sob. I hear footsteps but make no effort to stand. I feel a hand on my back. \n“Hey, Addison.” Mike says, crouching down. “I would ask how you're doing, but you look crazy right now.” He says, and I can’t help but laugh. “What’s going on, kid?” I look at him, and I can’t help it, three words I said I wouldn’t say to anyone other than family, comes spilling out. \n“I love you.” I say, and I gasp. \n“Hmm, I love you too.”\n“Like a sister, though, I know.” \n“No, no, like a girlfriend.” \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: I Am Here, My Child\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1162\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Are you there, God? It’s me…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Had God really come to visit me? But in my bathroom? That was such a weird place for God to set up our first meet with each other. But I was certain of it. I had just been sitting cross legged on my bed with my eyes closed and hands in the mudra resting on my knees, concentrating really hard on imagining what my God would look like (Matthew McConaughey in a toga), when I heard a sound coming from my bathroom, a click, just like the sound of the Deluminator which Dumbledore uses to vanish the lights. I stared long and hard into the bathroom for a while, then I started turning away while giving one last try, ‘’ARE you there, God??’’\nAnd my heart just very nearly stopped. There was someone in the bathroom with me! It all happened in a flash, I broke out into cold sweats. I dared myself to look up, and then felt like slapping myself. It was just my own reflection in the mirror! I guess I had been listening waaay to much to Deepak Chopra who insists that God is WITHIN me. HAH! What a laugh!\nI walked back to my bed and plopped onto my pillow, feeling like a deflated balloon. I guess this was what happens when you start late in life. All the kids at school have been attending Sunday Church, or going to temples since I could remember. I was the only odd one out who never had any weekend religious activities to share about. Which is why I got all panicked when the teacher gave us an assignment on what is God to us last week. That’s when I started my search of god frenzy the moment that I got home from school that day, jumped straight to Google, trying my very best to search for God in there. Is he a man? Or a woman? Or a child??? No,no, God is supposed to be all knowing, omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent. So it definitely had to be a grown up.\nThe assignment was due in a few days and I still had not a clue on what or who I thought God was. My parents were not atheists, but they were not very religious either. I have heard others whispering about my parents, referring to them as being ‘’eccentric’’. An aunt once scoffed with her nose high in the air, hissing, ‘’ They claim that they are SPIRITUAL! What is that? They can talk to the spirit world??! Maybe they can find out how Bosco is doing!’’ Bosco was her late pet iguana which had recently died of old age.\nHence the topic of the assignment was finally forcing me to face an area of my life which I had always avoided delving into, as I had very little exposure or knowledge of it. GOD. When I stared at the word for very long, hoping that miraculously the answer would spring out, the only thing that I could think of was that GOD spelled backward was DOG. And immediately an image of a pug in a toga and a halo replaced my god image of Matthew Mc Conaughey.\nBut HOW COULD my teacher assign us to such a topic. Eventhough I was not an atheist, well not really, but I COULD have been. Well, then that would have been a really insensitive topic to ask me to write about now, wouldn’t’ it? I had chanced a peek at my friend’s completed assignment this morning. He was a Hindu. And he proudly stated that his religion had 33million Gods. THIRTY-THREE MILLION??? I have never even seen one, but he has 33 million? That’s 33 with six zeros! He even included some pictures of the Gods which even had part of the animal kingdom adorned in royal constumes and ornaments and worshipped as Gods! Maybe that’s why my parents became ‘spritual’ instead? Simply because they failed to master all 33 million names of the Gods and they felt that they were an utter disgrace to the religion. They were after all born Hindus.\nHowever, as the days passed, and the deadline of the assignment got nearer and nearer, I started to form an opinion of what I thought God was. And I no longer felt frustrated at my parents for not having a stronger hold of their religion. First and foremost, I believe that the definition of God differs for each individual based on their understanding, interpretation, and perspective of life. I have now come to believe that God is in fact a state of mind, a state of being. And the common saying of many spiritual teachers that say that God is within you simply means that God is our natural state of being once we peel away all the layers of our emotions and conditioned life. That Heavan and Hell are not actually after life one-way ticket destinations, but is in fact the condition of our minds during life, which carries on after death. And the only person stopping us from reaching God (or as I now see it,as the God within us) is only ourselves. The clutter of our mind, the negative emotions we experience fuelled by the opinions of other of us, our need to be in the rat race to show the world that we are the best, the need for power and fame to mask the lack of inner peace and confidence are just the few factors that bring us further away from our natural states of godliness and thus leads to many mental, physical and emotional damage to us.\nSince a great many people struggle with this in life, which leads to many forms of illnesses and crises, religion was introduced to bring some form of organization, direction and principles to people’s lives. To give them meaning in life and a way to bring themselves closer to God. However, even two people from the same religion, same sect, same family who are identical in almost every way, can still have a different understanding of God, because each person’s interpretation of their religion is different. Hence, you may be of the same religion, but your religion is only there to guide you. your journey to reaching God is entirely your own effort in harnessing the goodness that life has to offer. PLUS, there are people who have seized the opportunity of being in a position of high worship within their religious sect to misuse their power to mislead the masses and turn religion into a dividing factor, rather than its original intention of unifying with love.\nSo I think that whatever religion we choose or not, we should have a clear vision of our life, what we want to be, and how we want to feel internally. And by focussing on this, the answers to life will appear to guide us through. And is all fails, I guess I ‘ll have to check in with Bosco,eh?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Trip of a Lifetime\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1380\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone going on a life-changing journey." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\" So what you're saying is, that you sold me to a farmer, in Kansas?\"Screeched Anna.\n\"Well not exactly sold you. The farmer needs help and we have the opportunity to help him.\" replied her frustrated father.\n\"WE Do you mean your'e going too?\"\n\"Well, not exactly\"\n\"Well, what is it exactly?'\n\"Well you know we've been having financial problems and I'm going to have to sell the house, and this will be better for you.\"\n\"What you mean is you spent all my mother's money, so now I'm on my own!\" Anna's face was turning from red to purple.\n\"You went to finishing school, and we thought you would have found a husband by now. You are twenty five years old. I can't afford to support you anymore.\" Offered father.\nAnd you've made a deal with some farmer so far away you'll never have to see me again!\"\n\"Now calm down. The farmer is paying for your passage, and you'll have a nice place to live, a chance to make new friends, be married and have a whole new life.\"\n\"When is this supposed to happen.?\n\"The ship leaves the day after tomorrow.\" Anna left the room without another word, she couldn't let her father see her cry. She climbed the stairs to her room. She wondered what the going rate for daughter's was. Father married her mother for the money, but she didn't know her mother would die and leave her alone with him. It was true most people thought she would never get married. Perhaps she could start over, but marry a stranger and leave in America? What would she pack. Her dresses and shoes weren't designed for milking cows and plowing fields.\nShe packed her belongings resentfully. She took a few things that reminded her of her mother, and she sneaked into HIS room and took some jewelry her mother had hidden for her. If she decided to run away from the farmer she would have enough money to start over.\nEarly Thursday morning, her father took her to the docks. She hadn't spoken to him ever since his edict. As the ship came into view Anna's nervousness turned to curiosity and then to excitement.She joined the line of passengers handing over their luggage She climbed aboard the huge ship. Her cabin was tiny but beautiful. She hung up her clothes for the six day journey, then laid down on the bed to mull over the past three days. She was awakened by a steward knocking on the door to tell her dinner in one hour.\nShe entered the magical dining room. Each table had flowers and candles like her mother used to do for Christmas! She was enthralled. They had sat her at table twelve. The was another single woman named Marcia, An older married couple, the Beesleys, and a young married couple the Parkers and their baby. They were all very hospitable and they all chatted and laughed together. The knot in Anna's stomach loosened. The waiters flirted with the two single women and life on the ship became a routine. She and Marcia met everyday; walked on the deck, sunned on the deck chairs, ate meals together. One night it was quite stormy. everyone seemed to be sick and scared, but Anna and Marcia went to dinner and giggled when the table slid and they had to hold onto their food. They night before they disembarked, they cried together as Marcia was heading to New York and Anna to Kansas.\nAs she filed off the ship she saw a stranger holding up a sign with her name on it. She followed him to a carriage drawn by horses, and made herself comfortable and he got her luggage. He dropped her off at a nice looking hotel, and told her to be ready at five in the morning.Dinner was ready for her upon arrival. She went upstairs exhausted and took a nice hot bath then fell asleep reading her book.\nStill yawning she arrived at the stagecoach station. There were three stages ready to go. One to California, one to Kansas, and one to Ohio. She had this last chance to run away. She had the jewelry to start over, but maybe the farmer was nice, handsome, and had servants. She could live like a princess. Well, she should at least find out.\nThe stagecoach was another new adventure. It rocked back and forth like the ship but but also bumped on the dirt roads. And the dust was unbelievable, and the flies! Lunch was a picnic by the side\nof the road then back on the road. When it was almost dark, they pulled into a station. Something smelled delicious! Anna hurt everywhere, was covered in dust, and could barely get out of the coach she was so stiff. She limped into the station where something smelled delicious. She was shown to her room; the smallest one so far. Then she heard the dinner bell. Dinner was basic but delicious.\nAnna talked with other travelers, about their destinations. The driver told her they were leaving at dawn so get up early enough to have breakfast. The bathroom was down the hall, so she just did the basic clean up and went to bed.\nShe climbed aboard the stage with most of the dust still clinging to her body. Today there was a young man riding with her. He was very handsome and she wondered if maybe she should try to find her own husband instead of one who had purchased her.\nDay after day the dust got thicker, the scenery more boring, and the heat was oppressive.\nTonight they would arrive in Abilene. She would be picked up by her farmer and she would begin her new life as a farmer's wife.\nWHOA was her clue that they had arrived. She peeked out the window and was amazed. Main Street was dirt, there were no women she could see, and the biggest building was a pub. Everyone rode horses; but she didn't know how to ride.\nOut of the background came an old man. He looked about sixty. She shouldn't have come. This was a nightmare.\n\"Are you Anna?', croaked the old man. She would not choose to marry this man, not in a million years. All she had to do was say No and she would be free of any obligation. She could hear her mother's voice say, \"Don't rely on first impressions.\"\n\"Yes, I'm Anna.\"\n\"You're a pretty one. I'll help you climb up onto the buckboard, then I'll get your luggage. The cook sent you a box lunch, she knew you would be hungry.\" The cook? She had a cook? She ate her dinner quickly. Her first glimpse of the farm was twinkly lights in the distance. Her stomach started to knot up again. The tiny farm was\nway off in the distance. Thousands of cows were in the fields on both sides of the road. They didn't smell very good, but their mooing was quite musical and calming.\n\"How big is this farm?\" Anna ventured.\n\"About three hundred acres, and we call it a ranch not a farm.\"\nHer farmer was rich. The closer they got the bigger the ranch house became. As they pulled up to the house, a very handsome young man came out to greet them. \"Hello, Anna, I'm sorry I couldn't come into town to meet you, but the baby has been sick, and I didn't want to leave her.\" Did he say baby? \"My name is Bill. I\"ll introduce you to the rest of the staff tomorrow, you must be exhausted. I'm sure you want to get to bed. We'll be getting married a week from Sunday after church. We've fixed up a guest room for you until then. I hope you'll like it here.\nThe guest room was beautiful. She even had her own bathroom. She took a nice warm bath, washed her hair, and climbed into bed.\nHe's rich, has a household staff, a baby, lives in the middle of nowhere surrounded by cows, he's handsome, polite, kind, getting married in a week. This truly is the beginning of a new life. Thank you father, for shoving me out of the 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: Who Moved My Life\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1733\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a teenager whose family is moving." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Who Moved My Life?\nHe would feel it in the mornings; when he first woke up it hit him like a harsh blow to the stomach. He recovered marginally and creaked out of bed. Football practices had been particularly grueling lately, but nothing impacted his body, his whole being, as this thing did. It had a life of its own and it loved to overwhelm him, wrap around him and not let go. He would slowly descend the stairs, those same stairs that he used to practically tumble down, two, three at a time, so compelled to get down to the bottom with a victorious leap to the wooden floor below. He would wolf down breakfast before his other brothers could get their hands on the warmest, butteriest toast and then sail out the door and start another day that was consumed with Ginger. \nBut now he choked down breakfast and couldn’t even tell if the toast had been buttered at all, he didn’t care. He barely noticed anyone else and they kept their eyes down most of the time. They could see the thing surrounding him, he thinks. It’s not invisible. They are family, they know. They’ve seen this before, only this time it’s different. It’s different because of Ginger, he knows it, but the thought of it is turning the thing into shards. He can’t make them go away. Even Ginger wouldn’t be able to kiss them and make them go away.\nHe escapes the warm kitchen but as the door swings away from him the day is even warmer and redolent with fall smells. Nothing like living in the south with all the omnipresent heat to be able to smell things intensely. He never appreciated this fact while he rolled around with the sweaty galoots who made up his failing football team. But before it was just funny and he’d run to the warm shower afterward, and Jesus, the warm arms of Ginger. She would always be waiting for him after practice by the side of the sun-baked brick school building; always that half-smile and almond eyes that looked like they held some secret you could never grasp.\nAs he shrugged off the breakfast scene and walked down the cracked pavement the thing changed again. Now the shards had turned into a wooden box encasing his body and he had to drag it with him to the best thing that had ever happened to him, his sixteenth birthday present, a 1958 Chevy Bel Air. It was powder blue, which he felt was the best color. It always lifted him up when he saw it in the shady driveway. Today he blindly reached for the door; somehow he got in behind the wheel, but that hard box pressed in on him and he could barely feel his body as it sank into the plastic upholstery.\nHow could this be happening now? His father, wearing that strange crooked grin of his, had told him three weeks ago that they were moving. But… really? It was fall and school had just started, and the promise of a new year had made him feel heady with all the prospects life seemed to be so generously presenting. \nEven though the football team was lame, he was the captain and he could feel all eyes on him as he positively floated down the pine-smelling halls to his next class. And…Ginger. She was beautiful. He had never dated such a beautiful girl before. She would be sitting across from him in the Bel Air with that smile and he couldn’t believe his luck. Oh god…maybe when he got home he could reach the liquor cabinet behind the china hutch and steal the bottle of Old Kentucky before anyone got home. He wondered if that would help soften the walls of this box he seemed to be living in now. \nHe and his siblings were Navy brats and his dad delighted in all the moves. Yes, this was not an unfamiliar story, but when he was a little kid moving had been an adventure, piling into the old station wagon and heading for the newest Navy housing. New friends, a new school that looked and smelled different… eating TV dinners for a while until they got settled. But he was almost a man now and he was different, he didn’t want anyone else telling him where he was going. And his father wanted them to move frequently, even without transfer orders from the Navy. His father was whimsical, and he expected them all to just drop everything and look with anticipation toward the next town. \nHe had told Ginger, and she cried at first but then strangely seemed to recover from the news. He thought she must be living in some kind of fog. But her dad was in the Navy too and such was life. She huddled with her girlfriends and would smile at him but he could tell she was starting to move on.\nThe day of the move loomed large. His siblings seemed to be oblivious to the upcoming transition. But he felt like he was buckling under the crushing, inexorable weight of it all. His only respite was to sit in the Bel Air and play the Beach Boys. He never did find that bottle of Old Kentucky; his dad had probably already packed it. \nHe woke up on the appointed morning and the heaviness hadn’t changed at all. He felt like this was going to be his life now, and he fought to find some kind of control. He had said goodbye to his football buddies. They goodnaturedly cuffed him on the head and promised a visit that would never materialize. And Ginger… that was the hardest. She pressed herself to him but when she backed away her eyes darted sideways and she couldn’t look at him.\nHis family clambered into the station wagon, the youngest ones joyous. They were too young, there was no box to confine them. At least he didn’t have to join them in the back seat like the old days. He had his own car now, one perk of being the oldest. He was directed to follow them at a close distance. His father probably thought this privilege would be enough to make up for the devastating event that was unfolding. He gripped the steering wheel and felt the tightness all around him.\nThe plan was to meet up at a diner at noon for a family lunch before they continued their journey. He couldn’t even remember what the world looked like whizzing by him as they drove out of town. He was fixed in one position, the box made sure of that. Would he ever be free? It was starting to feel suffocating and he hoped that he could keep his hands on the wheel.\nAfter a mostly silent meal with his dad trying for some sort of fake jocularity, he trudged back to the car. At least the Bel Air still looked good to him, possibly it was the only friend he had anymore. He slid in and steeled himself for the journey ahead, still feeling like his body was entrapped and wondering if this would simply become a constant in his life. He could somehow move from one place to the other, yes, but as soon as he was still he was completely held inside this thing. The road trip wasn’t causing the box to fall away and release its grasp, giving him sudden and complete freedom. Sadly, no.\n He was in the habit of always letting the station wagon get far ahead of him, his dad didn’t seem to mind. He settled into the cool, vinyl seat, paused before he put the key in the ignition and then instead of wearily feeling the confines of the box again, suddenly everything went black. Velvety black. It almost felt like a comforting thing, but unsettling to say the least. What now? He seemed to be floating in some indefinable nether world and he finally saw the box around him in its entirety; it looked like a sturdy wooden closet just big enough for him. The image only lasted a moment, and now it looked like paintings by Salvador Dali that he had seen in a museum on a school field trip. It was melting and becoming distorted. Large wooden panels fell away from each other and turned into wavy shimmering strips. He realized his whole body was vibrating uncontrollably. He felt like he was hurtling through space, the strips circling him in a dizzying light show.\n He suddenly woke up and looked down to see he was still clutching his key in his hand. He had no sense of how much time had passed. What the hell was going on? He felt odd, no other way to describe it. His body felt light and heavy at the same time. Suddenly he thought….Where is the goddamn box? It seemed to still be around but he couldn’t figure out where it was. He could sense it but then he kind of couldn’t. He got out of the car. His legs felt difficult to move at first, but then unbelievably strong. He wished they had felt like this when he was running down the football field. He took a few more steps, and then it struck him. The box must be inside him now; he had no idea how he knew that, but he felt convinced. It was part of him, he had no doubt, and he was fucking STRONG.\nNow his legs were carrying him effortlessly back to his powder blue wonder. He felt exhilarated and freer than he had ever felt in his life. The past weeks all seemed like a blur now; he no longer felt the need to know what had happened to him. All he knew was that he was his own man now, his life was opening up ahead of him and he was ready to go down this new road. He swung the door open of the fabulous Bel Air and drew in a big gulp of fresh air. The key went into the ignition almost without the help of his hand. He turned the car around and looked at the landscape ahead, the one that had previously been in the rearview mirror. He was going back and nothing could stop him." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The worst part of all\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1052\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a teenager whose family is moving." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Note: This story contains adult language.)\nMy mother was packing things into boxes like they were trauma waiting to be sent deep into her subconscious mind—If only it were that easy. \n“Does she really need to be here for this?\" I snarled at my dad, while looking at Miss Levy.\n\"Don’t make things more difficult than they need to be Rachel,\" Dad replied.\nI hated that she clinched my dad’s hand after he protected her like that. Maybe she wouldn’t be so safe if he wasn’t standing between us. I rolled my eyes and continued standing in the hallway while my mum was fighting back tears and jamming more and more things into boxes. I guess I should help her. I grabbed an empty box and headed to the side dresser in my parents room. There were photos of us as a family. I picked one up, “Who gets to keep this?’ I asked.\nMy mum began to cry—by cry, I mean wail. Why the fuck is this happening in my life right now. I literally just turned seventeen, finally made some friends at my new school, and now my mother is packing her life away while my dad stands in the hallway with Miss Levy waiting for us to leave. \nJust when things couldn’t get any more awkward my two little brothers came storming into the room. One is barely five and the other is two—yeah, I was an accident.\n“Why are you crying again, mum?’ Says Ben, the older one.\nSammy, the youngest, started to filter through the packed boxes and pull things out that appealed to his eyes. Mum had agreed for the two boys to stay with dad. Which I thought was crazy, he was the school principle now and never had time for anyone but work. Mum argued that Ben was starting grade one soon and who knows how many times we’ll have to move, we were lucky to even get a place in south side, she said. Not that moving to south side has any forms of luck, except if you manage to not get robbed. I guess the boys don’t need that kind of inconsistency in their lives.\nI wanted to throw the photo at the wall, or at Miss Levy, but I placed it back on the dresser and decide that taking an already packed box down to the van was a safer option. I fought Sammy for the purple hair straightener and grabbed the largest box I could carry. \nMy uncle’s wife, Aunty Lyn, was waiting in the Van.\n \"How’s it going?\" She whispered, with a disastrous look on her face like a cat had just been hit by a car.\n“Fucked,\" I replied. \nShe kept apologising for not coming up stairs—It was too traumatic for her. \n\"When is uncle Dan coming?\" I asked. \n‘Soon, soon.’ She added with enthusiasm.\nPart of me wanted to join her cowardliness, but we’d be here all day if I didn’t start bringing shit down. \nWhen uncle Dan finally arrived, he met dad at the front door. I wanted him to punch his lights out. He asked dad if he was okay. Dad did a strange reassuring smile with his lips and uncle Dan patted him on the shoulder. I felt like uncle Dan was the only human in this family that had his head together. He began to point and give orders to everyone, he even told Aunty Lyn to get out of the car and start bringing boxes down. Within no time we had the van full. \nUncle Dan stayed close to mum while she bent down and hugged the boys. Ben was annoyed and didn’t want to hug her. Sammy was confused and started to cry. No one except Uncle Dan said bye to dad.\nThe drive to south side was about forty minutes. I had to ride with Aunty Lyn. When we first arrived in the street, I had hoped we would just hall the boxes out the back and keep driving.\n\"I thought you said we were moving into a house, mum? ’ I yelled out to her, as she was walking down the mouldy, overgrown driveway, 'This is barely half a house.\"\n‘It's all we can afford, darling.’ Replied my defeated mother.\nAll the carpets in the duplex had been ripped out. She said they were filthy and would cause havoc on my allergies. Its honestly the last thing I would have thought about after what she’s been through, but that’s mum. \nUncle Dan didn’t want to leave until he unpacked everything, but mum told him she was happy to just be out of that house and needed some time to herself. He gave her a big hug. They both cried. I wasn’t sure how I felt when he hugged me. Tears wasn’t something I did very well.\nUncle Dan had already filled the fridge with food, as well as the cupboards. I couldn’t cook, but Luckily there were two minute noodles and a carton of eggs. Mum and I sat opposite each other and ate in complete silence. Mum began to cry half way through. Her tears were dripping onto the plate. I knew I should have hugged her, but I just sat there hoping she would stop soon. Part of me felt guilty. Maybe if I hadn’t screwed up at my last school we wouldn’t have moved interstate.\n\"I didn't mean for you to see,\"’ Mum began to explain, \"But I had my suspicions: the late nights, the strange smells on his cloths. I just knew something was wrong.\" Mum had purposely planned a trip with just us kids to the big four that night, she told dad it would be good for him to have some quiet time at home. She told him we’d be gone for three days—we came back that night. I still have the picture of my dads ass pounding between Miss Levy's legs on the couch. \n“I shouldn’t have brought you in with me,\" mum said, \"I just wasn’t sure what I was going to find. I was scared.\" She cried harder. Neither of us mentioned the fact that Miss Levy was still my English teacher and that I would have to see her and dad at school for the rest of the 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: My Fraught Meeting with Der Fuhrer\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2193\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone going on a life-changing journey." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Allow me to introduce myself—my name is Andrei Vyshinsky. I started my career as a minor official in the Russian foreign affairs ministry. However, I was soon assigned as the aide-de-camp to Vyacheslav Molotov who served as the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs of the Soviet Union from 1939 to 1949. Over most of his career, I was by his side, assisting him with his political and governmental duties. His friendship gave me a distinct edge within the diplomatic corps of the Soviet Union. I eventually was assigned to the post of Soviet Foreign Minister from 1949 to 1953. I was also well known for my role as a state prosecutor during Joseph Stalin’s Moscow trials which served me well and also met the needs of “Uncle Joe.” \n\nAs I write this story, I intend for it to be a chapter in my memoirs that I am now putting down on paper. It’s 1954 and I spend most of my time in my dacha on the outskirts of Moscow. Generally, I lead a very quiet life these days but am also looking back on a career filled with decisive action and intrigue. In my book, I will pay particular attention to the German–Soviet non-aggression agreement, also known as the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. It was signed in Moscow on August 23, 1939, by von Ribbentrop and Molotov, with me at his side. \n\nOn November 12, 1940, Molotov, accompanied by me and some other members of the Soviet diplomatic corps, paid an official visit to Berlin for two days to negotiate directly with Herr Hitler concerning the Soviet Union’s possible entry as an Axis ally. I accompanied him on this trip and participated in all discussions. The meeting provided us with the important opportunity to see Hitler up close and understand his strategic thinking . In retrospect, this trip turned out to be a life-changing journey for me—critical history being played out before my eyes.\n\nOur Soviet foreign policy calculations at that time led us to believe that WWII would be a long-term struggle and that the German claims that Britain would be defeated with dispatch were viewed with great skepticism. This perspective resulted in Molotov being instructed to hold a very firm line in negotiations with Hitler did not understand or appreciate. But read on for more details about what happened during our Berlin visit.\n\nAs most people came to understand, the 1939 pact between Germany and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had achieved its major goal of renouncing war between the two parties and also pledging neutrality if either party were attacked by a third party. This gave Germany a free hand to invade Poland without fear of Soviet intervention which, as you know, occurred with dispatch. \n\nPoland was defeated by the German blitzkrieg in about a month and his Gestapo then began the slaughter most of the Jewish population of millions across Europe. That was no great loss, of course, from our perspective. The ethnic Poles, on the other hand, were considered by us to be \"small\" Slav brothers who merited some protection except, of course, for the intelligentsia who we were determined to annihilate.\n\nI will now turn to the topic of the Nazi and British bombing strategies prior to, and during, our November visit to Berlin in 1940. The British had an initial policy of using aerial bombing only against military targets and infrastructure such as ports and railways of military importance. The British initially renounced the deliberate bombing of civilian property outside combat zones as their overarching strategy. This policy was abandoned in May 1940, two days after the German air attack on Rotterdam, when the Royal Air Force was given permission to attack targets in the Ruhr including oil plants that aided the German war effort.\n\nThe Luftwaffe, in turn, conducted air raids against British airfields and fighting aircraft during the Battle of Britain in the summer of 1940. The ultimate goal of these German bombing raids was to lay the groundwork for a German land invasion of Britain, but this never took place. However, and by the late Fall of 1940, these German raids had taken a severe toll on the British in terms of the fighting capacity of the Air Force. Many airfields had been destroyed. The Brits were almost at the end of their rope. Hanging on by a thread. Here is where Herr Hitler made a critical and bad decision and Vyacheslav and I were there to watch it happen, literally sitting across from him at the table.\n\n*\n\nWe were in our second day of negotiations with Hitler on November 13 in an elegant chamber in the Reich Chancellery. Hitler’s office was nearby in the Fuhrerbunker just north of the Chancellery. The large elegant room in which we held our negotiations had a vaulted ceiling dating back centuries and ornamented with grand, elaborate murals. All befitting the critical significance of our discussions.\n\nWe were seated at a long, mahogany table that dwarfed the six of us. Hitler was sitting in the middle across from us with von Ribbentrop and Goebbels to this right and Goring to his left. He rarely consulted with them except for an occasional whispered conversation with Goring. It was only Molotov and myself sitting across the table from Herr Hitler for these top-secret discussions. \n\nThe table was \"unbalanced\" by the weight of some of the participants but certainly not in terms of strategic intentions and goals. Goring’s morphine addition had destroyed his body's metabolism—I estimated his weight at over 135 kilograms. He waddled rather than walked. I had some concern that the entire room might suddenly and physically tip toward the Germans so I kept my feet firmly pressed to the floor to stabilize it.\n\n“Gentlemen, our discussion yesterday was highly productive,” Hitler announced by way of launching the second day’s discussions. “We most certainly have our mutual enemy, Great Britain, on the ropes, to use the boxing metaphor. My major goal for today will be to explore further ways that we can show to the world, and particularly the English and Americans, that the relationship between our two empires continues to be solid and we will resist any efforts on their part to hinder our continuing cooperation.\n\n“Together we form a global colossus and no country will dare to deny our destiny. Also, I have the sense that the land invasion of England by our noble German troops may soon be launched.” Molotov and I chuckled, both appreciating the fact that we understood that Hitler was also looking eastward as part of his overarching military strategy.\n\nHitler then looked around the table slowly to assess to what extent his opening remarks had impressed us. He beamed in a contented way and was about to continue in what we assumed was a similar vein. Just then and before he could utter another syllable, we all felt and heard a tremendous explosion accompanied by a fireball rather near the windows of our conference room. \n\nA large column of smoke erupted in a strip of older buildings looking north from where we sat. We could also immediately hear the wailing of sirens in the same direction. This, of course, was highly irregular and totally unexpected. Both Molotov and I immediately glanced at Hitler to assess his reaction.\n\nFor a split second, he seemed totally distracted and then began to sweat profusely. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow of the beads of sweat that had appeared and then turned to address the two of us across the table.\n\n“Nothing much for you to be concerned about here, my dear colleagues. There has been a band of saboteurs setting off small explosive charges in Berlin lately in an attempt to cause panic. However, all good Germans know that we have the situation totally under control and will bring these criminals to justice quickly. Nothing to worry about for your personal safety.”\n\nMolotov beckoned to me and leaned over to whisper in my ear: “Saboteurs? Nonsense! That was a British block-buster bomb, also called a “cookie” by them. I am sure that there will be more on the way but we are probably safe enough sitting here across from Herr Hitler. He will surely be protected. But I am sure that this will not be an isolated event. Hold tight!”\n\nBefore he had completed his sentence, two more explosions erupted, again from the north but this time our chamber began to shake lightly and columns of smoke outside rose even higher than before. Everyone in the room immediately understood that this was part of a well-planned British bombing raid on Berlin.\n\nMolotov turned to Hitler and said: “Herr Fuhrer, I am very impressed by the weapons capabilities of your home-grown saboteurs here in Berlin. I hope that our dissidents in Russia are not reading from the same textbooks and exposing Comrade Stalin to similar attacks.” He was trying very hard to wipe a grin off his face.\n\nHitler turned a bright shade of purple, stood up, and walked briskly toward the exit of the conference room without a word. Goring followed, waddling close behind Hitler’s heels and without saying anything. It became obvious that Molotov and myself were supposed to remain seated until the Nazis returned, which did not occur for the best part of an hour. Servants entered the room with glasses of champagne and crystal bowls filled with both German and Russian cigarettes. A high degree of anxiety permeated the room.\n\n\n\nHitler retuned to the chamber, still breathing heavily and sat at the table in his previous position across from us. He quickly drank a glass of mineral water to clear his throat. He then addressed Molotov and myself directly, fighting to contain his furor. “Gentlemen, I want to apologize for the behavior of the savage British pilots who have interrupted our cordial discussions concerning how our two modern empires will respectfully co-exist. I want to reassure you that these brutes will pay dearly for their audacity of attacking Berlin when I am negotiating with important guests such as yourselves.”\n\nHe continued: “I have just ordered Reichsmarschall Goring to immediately change our offensive bombing strategy for Britain. We have now literally wiped out of existence the British air force, their bases, and their landing fields. We will stop these military attacks and now turn to bombing London and other major British urban centers, killing as many civilians as possible in their homes during our night raids. The people will come to understand what a buffoon Winston Churchill is and force him to sue for peace. \n\nHaving said that, Hitler, von Ribbentrop, Goebbels, and Goring abruptly and quickly exited the room. Molotov and I lingered in our seats for a few minutes. He beckoned for me to place my ear close to his mouth, both of us aware that the room was certainly bugged. Here is what he whispered to me:\n\n“You have just observed one of the greatest strategic blunders in modern warfare and you must learn from it. Hitler should have continued to bomb the British Air Force and their landing strips into total oblivion. Instead, he had now made the obvious blunder of turning to the bombing of civilians and trying to destroy their cities. \n\n“He will kill a large number of civilians but I believe that the British population has the capacity to absorb many such raids and continue to live in their cities. Meanwhile, the British Air Force will now have the time and resources to rebuild and regain their offensive ability. Hitler has not kept a clear head because he was embarrassed by the fact that we Russians witnessed this British bombing raid of Berlin.”\n\n“One more thing, Comrade,” Molotov continued to whisper in my ear. “Herr Hitler seems to me to be a very impatient person who gets easily bored. He will soon grow weary about his lack of success in his air attack on British cities. His plans for a seaborne land invasion of Britain will also never come to fruition because it will require intensive air support that he lacks. He also shows a deep enmity for Slavic people. We need to impress on Stalin when we return home that Hitler will be looking eastward in the very near future. We need to get ready for Hitler’s massive attack on Mother Russia as quickly we can.”\n\n**\n\nIn closing, I will leave you with the following observation. Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of Russia by Nazi Germany, turned out to be a huge blunder by Hitler just as Molotov and I had clearly understood and predicted in 1940. It opened up a second front and doubled the demand on Germany for war materials. Hitler also did not understand the mind of Stalin as we did. He did not understand that Stalin would willingly sacrifice the lives of more than 200 million people in our motherland to retain his grip on power. Much of this causal chain of events leading to the destruction of Germany dated back to our visit to Berlin in the Fall of 1940. And I watched it happen.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Couldn't Just Be Chance\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1967\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Are you there, God? It’s me…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Are you there, God? It’s me again,” I whisper, hands clasped. “I’m begging you this time. I really don’t want to go to Christchurch today. Please, can you find a way for me to stay? Or, you know, maybe Adie could move there too? Please. If you’re real, this is your last chance to prove it.”\n\nShe nudges me in the ribs. “Sam, it’s a bit late for that.”\n\nWe’re lying on soft grass by the riverbank, listening to the water rushing past like the summer that left us behind. Above us, branches and trembling leaves make fractals in the sky.\n\nI look over at her. The sleeve of her yellow sundress is wrinkled. Her hair spreads out beneath her head, dark and shiny. She stares up at the sky, chest rising and falling gently, and I hope she’s thinking about me. Under the musk of river and trees, I catch a hint of perfume.\n\nShe sees me staring and smiles. “What?”\n\n“Nothing,” I say. “Just wish I had a photographic memory.”\n\n“Well,” she replies, grabbing her phone, “maybe you don’t need one.”\n\nA photo won’t smell like you, I think.\n\n“What’s on your mind?” I say instead.\n\n“It’s Diwali.” She starts scrolling through Instagram absent-mindedly.\n\n“The one with the lights?”\n\n“Uh-huh. It’s our New Year. It’s supposed to be about fresh starts, new beginnings, all that stuff.”\n\nI frown, troubled by the implications of that. Adie Singh, the girl who knows me better than anyone else in my short life, is always one step ahead. She topped our Maths, English and Science classes in every year of school so far. She’s a debating champion. She knows how to escape her parents’ watchful eyes and find me in our special place. And she’s easily smart enough to leave me, and us, behind.\n\nI put a hand on her arm and caress her skin, savouring the warmth. I think of Grandma’s reaction when I told her about Adie; how elated she’d been that I’d found someone. She’d hugged me and said she was proud, that she wanted to meet her. Then she asked what her full name was.\n\n“Adrita,” I said.\n\n“Ad- what now?” Grandma said. “That sounds like a… that doesn’t sound Kiwi. She Christian?”\n\n“She’s Indian. Hindu.”\n\nAt first, her face fell in a way that I still haven’t forgotten. But my enduring memory was the way she suddenly smiled again, and what she said afterwards.\n\n“Well, if she makes you happy, and you make her happy, there isn’t much wrong with that, is there?” She hugged me again. “I’ve watched you struggle with our faith, dear. I know it’s hard. I want you to know: God will watch over you, no matter which way you go.”\n\nThen she pulled back and held my gaze, concerned.\n\n“He will understand. But your parents may not.”\n\nA floating leaf draws me back into the present. It doesn’t fall straight to the ground. It sways languidly back and forth as if pulled by invisible puppet strings; its path impossible to predict. But I know it’ll eventually reach the bottom. I wonder if she’ll let me down as gently, or if she’ll crumple me in her hand and sprinkle my pieces amongst the grass. How gentle can heartbreak be?\n\n“So, Diwali,” I say. “How do you celebrate it?”\n\n“The way we usually do,” she replies. “Lots of people. Shiny clothes. Good food. Gossip.\"\n\n“Prayers?”\n\n“Sometimes. You know me, I’m not into the religious side of things.”\n\nAdie’s approach to religion was similar to my own: compliant, but indifferent. She folded her hands, closed her eyes and prayed with the best of them, but only to avoid her parents chastising her for a lack of respect. I knew the truth, though: it wasn’t that she didn’t respect religion – she just couldn’t give herself to it completely. I felt the same whenever I visited church, and we’d bonded over our struggles about what religion meant to us. Where we differed was the extent of our belief in God.\n\nJust two months ago, we’d sat in my car watching the city lights below. Our parents thought we were watching a movie with a group of friends. We kissed, held each other, and talked. Boy, Adie could talk.\n\n“You know, maybe God is real,” she’d said that night.\n\nI looked at her, surprised. “You think so?”\n\n“Think about it,” she said. “What were the chances of this happening? My family decided to move to this tiny country in the corner of the world, and of all the cities here, we picked Hamilton. Then, I ended up at the same school, the same classes, as you.”\n\nI tilted my head thoughtfully. “Even with my family, we came to Hamilton from Christchurch. And, remember, I switched schools when I got the hockey scholarship. If we hadn’t moved, I never would have met you.”\n\nHer eyes shined. “It’s one in a million. A billion.”\n\n“One thing wasn’t a coincidence, you know,” I grinned. “When I sat next to you on the first day, I knew exactly what I was doing.”\n\n“’Course you did, you creep,” she giggled, punching my shoulder. Then she rested her head there. “That’s why I think God might be real. This is too perfect. It couldn’t just be chance.”\n\nBack then, I’d already known we were moving. But I’m glad I didn’t ruin that moment. I still treasure it today.\n\n“Yeah, neither of us is religious,” I say, “but when you pray, do you like, talk to God? Or is it more like making a wish?”\n\nShe picks up a twig and twirls it between her fingers. “I dunno. Maybe Hindu praying is different. Remember we have lots of gods, so I never know which one I’m talking to.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Who knows? Maybe I’ve been praying to your God this whole time, instead of my ones.”\n\nI swallow. “And… what do you pray for?”\n\nThe wind – or maybe God – chooses that moment to form a sudden gust, showering us in leaves. She sits up to dust herself off, and it pulls her hair into a silky mess. She tucks her hair back behind her ear and faces me, her expression serious. My heart flutters like the hem of her dress in the breeze.\n\n“I just wish you’d told me earlier,” she says.\n\n“I know. I should’ve. But it was so hard, I didn’t know what to say. You’re-“ I stopped myself short.\n\nI didn’t want to say what she really meant to me. Saying it would give it form and release it into the world, where judgement – and worse, rejection – lay in wait. It was much safer in the embrace of warm memories; a place of endless movie dates after school, whispers and kisses in the stairwell between classes, and stealing through bedroom windows just to drive aimlessly in the dead of night.\n\nAs ever, she reads my mind. Her breathing is shaky. “Two weeks wasn’t enough. I’m not ready.”\n\nTwo weeks ago - just before I told her - was the first time I’d prayed and truly meant it. I was alone in the attic. Even though my parents would have approved, I felt too self-conscious, like them seeing me praying would somehow mean they were right all along. And I didn’t want them to ask what I was praying for.\n\nWarm morning rays had streamed through the window, forming a rhombus of yellow gold on the wooden floor. Dust floated around me and into my nose. Downstairs was a muffled clamour of furniture scraping and shouted instructions.\n\n“Are you there, God? I need help. What do I do? How do I tell Adie? Do we stay together, or break up now to avoid more heartbreak later? Please, I don’t know what to do.”\n\nI’d kneeled there until my knees ached and my fingers were stiff. I was blinded when I opened my eyes. But when my vision cleared, I didn’t see the sign I was hoping for. I knew it was silly, expecting some kind of acknowledgement, a sliver of attention from a higher being. I just wanted to know that I’d been heard; to know that everything would be okay and I wouldn’t have to leave Adie behind. I didn’t know how my parents prayed every day of their lives without so much as a single sign.\n\nThat thought filled my head until Mum called to me from below. I puffed my cheeks and let a sigh escape, then gathered myself and hefted the stack of boxes beside me. I creaked my way downstairs and found her waiting. She looked as if she was about to give me a dressing down, but then her eyes fell on the boxes I was carrying. She reached into the top one and pulled something out. I peered over her shoulder – it was a photo album.\n\nI set the boxes down, and we stood in silence as she flicked through the pages, one-by-one. Eventually she paused.\n\n“How do you feel about us moving, Sammie?” she said.\n\n“You know how I feel,” I muttered back.\n\nShe rubbed my arm. “I’m sorry, honey. I know it won’t be easy leaving your friends behind. The school in Christchurch – they have a good hockey team, I’ve heard. That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?”\n\nI gazed at the floor sullenly.\n\nMum glanced at the album again. “You know, I don’t want to leave either,” she said softly.\n\nI looked at her, eyebrows raised.\n\n“But we have to. This is a huge opportunity for Dad,” she continued. “I want you to remember this for when you’re married one day. It’s not only a partnership with your spouse, but with God. We’ve worked so hard, stayed true to our faith as God-fearing Christians, and He’s rewarded us with this chance to live a better life and be closer to your grandparents. It will always be worth it to me, even if it brings the pain of leaving everything we've built here behind.\"\n\nThat was when I almost told her the truth, but it was precisely the fear of God that held me back. Was God also a part of my relationship with Adie? I was scared to learn the answer.\n\nBack in the present, I realise Adie’s been watching me quietly.\n\n“Sorry,” I murmur. “Was just thinking.”\n\n“About what?” she says.\n\n“Nothing. Just, what’s the point in praying if I can’t change anything? You said it was too late.”\n\nShe squeezes my hand. She doesn’t want to say what we’re both thinking. Today is the last day we’ll see each other for a long time – maybe ever.\n\nHer voice trembles. “I used to pray that I’d meet someone like you, you know. Someone I could share everything with, be myself around. Maybe praying got us here in the first place.” She leans in close and cups my cheek. “And this doesn’t have to be goodbye. God brought us together – he could keep us together too. One in a million, remember?”\n\nSomething blooms deep inside me, expanding to fill every inch of my body with warmth.\n\n“You – you don’t want to break up?”\n\nShe blinks, looking shocked. “Sam, no. I... ” She takes a deep breath. “I love you, Sam.”\n\n“Adie, I love you too.” The words are out of my mouth before my overwhelmed brain can react.\n\nHer eyes are shining. “Wow. We said it.”\n\n“Yeah, we did,” I sniff.\n\nShe climbs into my arms, intertwines her fingers with mine. We breathe each other in for a moment, then we kiss. As we pull away, my next message to God is a silent one that I keep for myself.\n\n“Thank you God. Thanks an awful lot.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Lot Can Happen in Five Minutes\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2958\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character saying “Thank you, God. Thanks an awful lot.” (sarcastically or not)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CONTENT WARNING; STRONG LANGUAGE, SEX SCENES\n“11 minutes sir, until impact, that’s what CNN says.”\nSir cowers on all fours, placing his desk between him and the nuclear warhead that is now minutes away from turning our school into a barbecue pit. He pokes his phone’s darkened screen hard with his index finger, tap, tap, tap. He’s trying to call his wife or kids or something; I doubt he has a mistress, not Sir. He’s going to tell them he loves them, apologise for being a lousy dad and a crap husband, sorry yet again for having erectile dysfunction or something stupid like that. That’s what married dudes do when the world is about to end, right?”\nHow the fuck would I know? I’m a school kid, right?\n“Uh ch…ache..ar..ye….\" Sir stutters. Moron.\n“It’s Acharya sir, my surname. Pronounced, uh cha nee uh.”\nSir looks up from under his desk. My parents had a dog, a lazy fat labrador. It lay under my father's desk, farting, saliva everywhere, skin covered in warts and boils. My mother had found it. Anyway, it was kinda gross. That’s what Sir reminds me of right now, a dumbass dog in need of rescuing.\nThat mutt is dead now.\nAccording to CNN, Sir is too, in about 10 minutes. And me, and everyone else in the fucking country. I'm watching the live news feed on my phone. One news anchor said today was a \"historic day\". No shit, that's what he said.\nDumbasses.\n“10 minutes Sir.”\n“Get under your desk! And put that phone away. You know the rules.”\n\"Yes sir!\" I thought about saluting, but that’s taking it too far, right? I mean, Sir is having a breakdown or something, right?\nThere are five of us in this classroom, plus Sir. All but two of us are sheltering under desks. Seriously. School finished like 30 minutes ago, but we're in detention. And you won't believe my fucking luck but guess who is here? Gunner Dawson. Can you believe it? He's a cliché right, like in those stupid movies from the 80s that sometimes pop to life on TikTok, girls doing their best Molly Ringwald lip-synch, shit like that. Gunner is the school jock, captain of the football team, dating a cheerleader, and dumb as a hedgehog. See cliche. And he's fucking drop-dead gorgeous, did I mention that?\nFive minutes with him, and I'd happily let the world end.\n“Get back under your desk, now!” Sir calls out, to me again, I think, or to Gunner, who, like me, is straddling his desk, eyes glued to his phone. “Remember the drill, duck and cover.”\nIt’s hard to keep a straight face when Sir speaks. Teachers right? They’re all so fucking stupid. Dumber than parents, yeah? (Okay, I swear a lot. I'm trying not to, same with vaping and my other vice, but more of that later.)\nSo, if you are like, “oh hang on, not all adults are as thick as a breakfast stack from iHop, just ask yourself this: ‘Why is there only nine minutes left before the world ends?’” \nWhich reminds me: “Nine minutes sir!”\nThat shut you up, right? We are about to have our arses blown off our backsides by those fuckers and their arsenal of nuclear weapons all because Madame President didn’t bow properly or some horse-shit like that. Then, she called them names when she should have apologised. But being President doesn't save you from being a dumbass, right? Look at her dad. You can't fix stupid. (That's not my line, right? I saw it printed on a t-shirt or something, last time I was in Manhattan, visiting my parents.)\n“Sir, Fox News says 14 minutes.”\nHE spoke.\nGunner fucking spoke.\nNow, you would think that since we attend the same school, we would hang out, right? Fat chance. He's all white and gorgeous and muscular like someone chiselled him from a slab of marble. I mean, you could carve a turkey on his abs, right? He hangs with all the other white, gorgeous, muscular kids, and I ride with all the kids who aren't white, gorgeous and muscular.\nI always knew Gunner was as dumb as a hedgehog or some other cute furry thing. He's in one of my classes and never raises his hand to answer a question, not once. And that name. Who calls themselves \"Gunner?\" Still, Fox News? That takes the fucking cake.\n\"Does it matter, Dawson,? Sir deadpans. He sounds a little frustrated, don't you reckon? I figure the last place Sir pictured dying when the world ends is here in a classroom of delinquents.\nWhen we heard about the impending end, detention had started; otherwise, I reckon, Sir might have said for us to go back to our dorms. (This is one of those snobby private boarding schools, right? And yeah, my parents are loaded, well dad is, not sure my mother does shit.) Some kid raised his hand and asked if we could be excused, but Sir was like, no, no. \"We're probably safest here,\" he said, straight-faced and looking pale, his brow awash with sweat. See, adults are stupid.\nEspecially teachers.\nI’m in detention for two reasons.\nReason A: I am smarter than anyone at this school, teachers included. I know I sound full of it, but trust me when I say this, I'm not. I'm just one of those kids. There's one in every school, right? Well, at this school, I am that kid. Don't believe me? Here's an example. I'll keep it simple because, well, I don't want to sound too uppity, right? So I was in physics class last week, discussing nuclear physics (which isn't ironic, although a lot of you dumbasses are thinking that, considering we are under a nuclear attack and everything. It's coincidental. Got it?) when Sir told us the wrong equation for calculating relative molecular mass. Now that formula is the easiest thing in nuclear physics, you don't need to be Einstien to figure that out. I politely raised my hand and pointed this out to him. I wasn't impertinent, nor was I being a smart arse (you know they mean the same thing, right?) I just gracefully explained where he got it wrong, and he told me to sit down and shut up. Of course, he mispronounced my name, which pissed me off, so I let him have it. I told him he had no right teaching us if he was too dumb to work out a simple nuclear physics equation. Before you know it, I'm in the principal's office, and my parents are being called. What a jackass. I mean, how could you not know the equation? \nReason B: Remember earlier, I said I had another vice? Well, I like watching porn. Who doesn't, right? I mean, that's what the internet was fucking invented for, right? And besides, if I can't learn anything in class, I need something to pass the time, right? Now get this. I reckon if I was watching some breeder porn, you know, some girl taking it from some guy or even some chick-on-chick action, I guess I might have got off (no pun intended) with just a slap on the wrist. But nope, I was watching some hard-core gay porn with some beefed-up muscle daddies, a sling, and a box full of toys. It was hot. Here's the thing, right. When you watch two muscle studs giving it to each other, and you're watching this in the classroom of a private, all-boys Catholic boarding school, the shit is going to hit the proverbial fan.\nDad says I was lucky not to get expelled.\nMom says I am going through a phase, and I’ll grow out of it.\nSee, dumbasses.\nOkay, so there's like eight minutes (or 13) left until the world goes up like a toasted marshmallow at a Boy scout Jamboree, and it's the only reason I grow a pair and do this, right? Here it goes; I will go and say hi to Gunner. He's across the room, still looking at his phone. He's probably trying to hook up on Tinder or something. As I said, dumb as a hedgehog. Nothing to lose, right?\nHang on, here's the thing, right. When you are as fucking smart as I am, you gotta try and play it cool, especially with a dumbass like Gunner, right? So Veer, that's me - you are just going to be a little nonchalant. Here watch.\n\"Fox news really says 13 minutes, not eight. That's awesome?\" I hate the word \"awesome\". Cheesy as.\nGunner looks up. Wow. I'm mean, we've all been left breathless by someone, right? You know, some dude you see on the subway or in an underwear ad, and you think, how the fuck can someone be that beautiful, well that's me right now. Excuse me while I gush. I've never been this close to him before, and he is even more fucking gorgeous than I imagined. I just want to touch him, right? But I don't, of course. This guy is like 50 pounds bigger than me, and it's all muscle.\nHang on, did he just smile?\n“Sir won’t take it serious. A lot can happen in five minutes,” he says.\nHe has puppy dog eyes.\nShould I pat him?\nInstead, I sit next to him. Don't confuse me with that kid with big balls. That's not me. I am a fucking Nancy-boy wimp. I mean, my palms are sweating right now, and my mouth is so fucking dry my tongue feels like the sole of my shoe.\n“Maybe we should see what the other channels say,” I say, “see who’s reporting what?”\nGunner turns those baby blues right onto me and smiles. \"My dad says if it isn't on Fox news, then it's not to be trusted.\"\nIt's tough, like right now, to take him seriously. Did he just say that? Still, he's sexy right?\nYou should know this about Gunner’s dad. He was all over the internet. You may have seen him. He's some prominent oil executive and was lambasted on Facebook last summer after he shot a fucking lion on a hunting trip in Africa. It was pretty sick. Everyone was pissed. There was even a petition asking Gunner not to return to school in the Autumn. I didn't sign, and by the time school did start again, everyone had moved on. Here's the thing. What sucked for Gunner is that everyone is so fucking stupid they can't see the big picture. These big wealthy game hunters pay a small fortune to shoot some lame lion that's about to die anyway, and then the African government (I know Africa is a continent, not a country, I'm just keeping things simple, right?) use that money to save all the other lions. (That, by the way, is ironic.) But as I keep saying to anyone who isn't, everyone's a dumbass.\n“Eight minutes sir!”\n“13 minutes actually sir!”\nGunner giggles and grins at me. I grin back. His knee touches mine. I think of shifting or something, it's a little awkward, but I don’t, and Gunner presses a little harder. I push back, and there our knees stay. I think I'm about to pass out, cardiac arrest. If anything, I'm suffering from arrhythmia. (That's an irregular heartbeat, my dad's a cardiologist, I didn't really know what that was either, I had to look it up.)\n“My name is Veer,” I tell him. I wait for him to move his knee, but he doesn't.\n“I know.”\n“You know?”\n“We’re in physics together, you don’t see me sitting down the back.”\nOf course I fucking see him sitting down the back. What does he think I am, fucking blind or something.\n“Oh yeah, I didn’t notice.” Nonchalant.\nHe looks a little, what, disappointed I said that?\n“I loved how you called Sir out the other day, for getting that equation wrong. Everyone knows how to calculate relative molecular mass hey?”\n\"Multiply the number of atoms of element A….\" I start.\n“By the relative mass of element A,” Gunner continues.\n\"Apply the same equation to element B.\"\n“And add the two together.”\n“Simple,” we say in unison.\nI wonder what he'd wear if we lived long enough to marry. I imagine him in a beautiful sky blue shirt and khaki pants, tight, so I can see his bulge.\n“I was too gutless to say anything,” Gunner admits. “I never raise my hand.”\nYou, too gutless? You are like the school’s superhero.\nI didn't say this, of course. Nonchalant, remember?\n\"So, um, what did you get detention for?\" I ask, distracted by his knee that is rubbing mine. And I have a boner.\n“Promise not to judge me?”\nWith only minutes left, I'd promise him anything he wanted.\n“Me, I’m the last person who’d judge,” I tell him.\nHe looks down at his phone briefly. \"12 minutes, sir!\"\n“Seven actually.”\nAre we playing with each other, or are we playing with Sir? He smiles again. “I was watching porn, in class.”\n“No way,’ I shriek. ”So was I!”\n“Serious?”\n“Serious.”\nHe now slid in closer, so our kneecaps touch. He places his hands on my thighs. “Do you like the proper stuff, you know, studio porn or the home-made stuff, like they have on Twitter and Only Fans?” He asks.\nI feel like I’ve lost my mind. Have I slipped into an alternate dimension where I am conversing with the hottest guy in the universe about the nuances, styles and genres of pornography?\n“A bit of both, right? I usually save the good stuff for when I’m at home, on my MacBook, you know what I mean?”\n\"Yeah,\" he gives me a wink like he knows what I mean. \"I'm glad you came over and said hi.\"\nIs he? \"You are?\"\n“Yeah.”\n“Five sir.”\n“10 sir.”\n“Boys get under the desk now!”\n“Sir,” I respond, “with all due respect.”\nGunner grabs hold of my arm. “Come on, let’s duck and cover,” he says and pulls me to the ground.\nWe sit facing each other. His legs stretch out, and so do mine. They touch, just.\n“Here,” he says, reaching forward, “let me undo your tie.”\nSeriously I am hallucinating, right? Some sort of shocked psychosis from the world ending and all. I mean, Gunner Dawson has his hands around my neck, undoing my tie. \"There, better?\"\nCan you fucking believe it? I'm speechless.\nHe undoes his tie and the top button to his shirt.\nHe has a ridge running to his Adam apple, from under his shirt, a canyon between pecs that you could rappel into. He looks down at his phone, our legs, our knees, all touching.\n“Here check this out,” Gunner thrusts his phone towards me. “The Fox news anchors have pissed off, too scared to stay till the end.”\nI look down at mine. “The CNN guys are still there, looking worried. Four minutes sir.”\n“Nine sir!”\nWe think we are so fucking funny, we can’t stop laughing.\n“What sort of porn do you like?” he asks.\n“You know, don’t you?”\n“I want you to say it.”\n“Why?”\n“Because I wasn’t sure, so I want to hear you say it.”\nHere we go. He’s fucking with me, right? This is that cliched scene where I tell him I'm gay, and he secretly films it with his phone, and suddenly I'm on TikTok, and everyone is laughing, right? This is that moment. So now who is the stupid one? Me, right? And here I was, thinking…what the fuck was I thinking?\"\nThree minutes or eight.\nI don’t have anything to lose. I swallow. I brace myself for impact. The bomb is about to detonate; \"I watch gay porn.\"\nGunner’s eyes remain fixed on mine. I imagine this is the same line of sight his old man held when shooting that lion. Was I really that lame? You tell me. I mean, Gunner is hunting, right?”\nTwo or seven.\nHe stays silent. I can only hear Sir whimpering. Gunner looks at his phone and taps at the screen. I'm not sure what he's doing, but the expression on his face turns from steely silent to a smirk of mischievousness. I know what's coming.\n\"One minute, sir!\" I yell, trying to change the mood, break the silence, be a circuit breaker, something, just to get Gunner to do whatever the fuck he's going to do. Come on, dude.\"\n“Curry kid, shut up will you, for Christ’s sake.”\nJesus that was a bit much.\n“Born is the U S of A, sir! Eat burgers sir.” I kinda laugh at Sir’s ignorance, but not his racism.\nThis whole exchange occurs, and Gunner remains glued to his phone. \"Found it. Here, this is what I like to watch.\" He turns the phone around, and I see two big muscle daddies, a sling and a box full of toys. It’s the same porn I was caught watching. I look up from the screen.\n“Really?”\n“Dude, I’ve been checking you out all year, how haven’t you noticed you dumbass? Don’t you realise how hot you are. Jesus.”\nI thought he kept staring because I was the only brown kid in the class.\n10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2…\nGunner grabs hold of my face, pulls me in close and drives his tongue deep down my throat. Now I know I’m full-on rainbow pride and shit, but I'm only 16, and this is the first time I've actually kissed a guy. It's fucking unreal. My hands grip his muscular shoulders as I sink into him, refusing to let go.\nI never want this to end.\nCNN is wrong. We have five more minutes.\nThank you, God. Thanks, an awful lot.\nends" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Spring Morning Blows Up\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2771\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a teenager whose family is moving." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I never expected to be sitting here, in the California Department of Motor Vehicles hoping to get my driver’s license on my 16th birthday. But here I am. I had a four o’clock appointment and the man who would be my mom’s next husband had brought me. We were going to be waiting awhile. We were number 84; they weren’t even to 70 yet. Man, when I get my license I can get out of here. Well maybe not out on my own, but at least down to Tower Records. I won’t be stuck at home every night. \nAnd her next husband? What’s with this guy? I’m sixteen and he acts like he has been father forever. He’s tall and lean, self-confident I will give him that. And at least he was willing to bring me here. Mom couldn’t be bothered. He seems certain though this will work out.\nIt was just a few weeks ago though when I heard my mother call my name. I was in my bedroom reading, just down the hall. Easy distance for her to summon me, because of course she knew I would be there in a second. Always the dutiful son.\n“Jack, get your sister and come into my room.” \nUh-oh. Some bomb was about to be dropped on us. I knew it. She only summoned us to her room for a “serious discussion.”\n“Nic, mom wants us!” Nothing. She was lost in whatever. My younger sister just let things wash over her and as a result she never paid much attention to what was going on. \nI ran down the stairs of the condo we’d shared with mom’s last husband. Nicole was in the living room reading, engrossed in her book.\n“Nic, mom wants us in her room. Didn’t you hear me calling?” She rolled her eyes. At this point I could hardly blame her. We ran up the stairs, not wanting to keep mom waiting in her room. Being summoned by mom was not a daily or even a weekly event, at least like this, but you knew when it happened that you did not want to delay. She had just returned from a weird trip to California. Why weird? My mom never went anywhere without us with rare exception. She had gone out west late last year when her mother, my grandmother died. But it had been more than four years since she had taken a trip like that. It should have been a clue.\nThey called number 71. Sigh.\nThe bedroom she shared with her then husband Eugene, who everyone, except me for some reason, called Larry, because his middle name was Lawrence, was almost sterile. The dark cream walls had little on them, and the furniture was of the sort you would see in any staged home, high quality, and anonymous.\n“Come sit next to me.” She patted the bed. I could see she had been crying. She put her arms around us both and squeezed. I recognized the squeeze. It was the same one she had given me almost ten years ago when she told me she was divorcing my biological father. The same one she had given me four years ago when she told me we were leaving our west coast home for Michigan so she could marry Eugene.\n“Seventy-two!” At least I would have my license at the end of this. The new man was patient. I will give him that. Waiting was so painful for me, the longer the wait the more it seemed like the outcome was going to be bad. I don’t know even know when I started drawing that correlation. He had picked up an outdated magazine. Did places like this have a requirement that magazines had to be at least a year old before being put out? My observation was that magazines were put out when they were a year old and tossed when they were over five years old. Bravo to him for being able to be entertained by old news.\n“I’m leaving Eugene and we are moving to California.”\nBoom. A beautiful Michigan spring morning had just blown up. Because of course it had. This outcome had been perfectly predictable four years ago when I was a 12-year-old. That’s why I resisted moving so much. My mom was a westerner through and through, although I think that was more out of habit rather any real thought. She had gone to school for a year in the Midwest and then she had lived there for three years with my biological father. Not a nice word for any of it, so when she told us that we were moving to the Mid-west this outcome was inevitable\nAdd on top of that Eugene was a smoker! My mom’s feelings about smokers, well about anything really, were well known. She made sure of that. It was not a good one. Her mother had died from smoking for goodness sake. Well, I think it’s easy to see how I got to the California DMV that day. It was all due to that decision to marry Eugene.\n“Seventy-three!”\nThe four years in Michigan had not been easy. I had resisted moving to Ann Arbor thinking I had some say in this, and that had made the adjustment twice as hard. But having gone from very awkward sixth grader – to a semi-confident high school sophomore, the announcement that we were leaving again was not welcome news.\nUnlike previous moves that had been seemingly dragged out for reasons someone my age could not possibly fathom, this time we were going to be on the move within four weeks.\n“Seventy -four!”\nThere was a lot to do, the most immediate being she needed to divorce Eugene in Michigan. She did not have the time, money, or inclination to travel back to Michigan from California. Of course, what I did not fully understand was that her new old boyfriend, the one with me at the DMV, was paying for the move, the divorce, and our new life and that he was not going to let her come back here to deal with divorcing another man. A clean break was the deal, fast on these terms. My mom had no bargaining power, I’m not sure she wanted any. Just looking for a rescue from a previous bad decision. \n“Seventy-seven!” What had happened? They just skipped three. Does that mean I might get to the head of the line sooner? I asked the new man if we might get to the head of the line faster. He grunted.\n“Never can tell with bureaucrats. You could be next. Or it could be another hour. Just part of being an adult. That’s what you want right?”\nHe had certainly nailed that. I wanted to be an adult. Out on my own.\nHer recent trip to California, that had been supposedly to see a college friend who had joined the CIA, had in fact been a liaison with this new old boyfriend. How dumb I had been. She announced the trip one night at dinner.\n“I’ve heard from my old friend Joanie. My old friend from college. She’s in San Jose, I’m going to go see her!”\n“Joanie?” Eugene was perplexed. Mom did not kept up with old friends.\n“I’ve told you about her! She and her husband joined the CIA during the 60s. I think she’s retired now. She wants to get together!”\nEugene and I looked at each other. He had introduced me to the world of espionage novels. To us this seemed both weird and plausible. Weird because it was so against type for mom, but plausible because we both thought it sounded exciting. Like our entertainment come to life. Nic paid no heed, and what were we going to do? Veto the trip? Of course that would all turn out to be a lie and the fact she lied about this still shocks me. I never imagined her lying to me.\nI recognized the patterns playing out so predictably. Eugene had been a new old boyfriend as well. Unable or unwilling to cope with life as it was in the present, she simply reached back to what she thought of as an earlier, simpler, and happier time. That was silly. That time had never actually existed. As it clearly never existed for me. I will always be moving forward.\n “Seventy-six,” a woman behind the desk called. The clerks were calling people with a system that I could not possibly understand. I could not imagine being in this place every day, but I guess one could go back in time.\nThere was not time to consider all of that – we had to be in California by a certain date, although it was not clear to me why that date was important. Mom filed for divorce and got an expedited hearing. Eugene was not going to object. I don’t know what he was like as a husband, but the truth is he would have done anything for mom, including give her the divorce. I liked Eugene a lot. He treated me like an adult. It was not a paternal relationship, or even like brothers. We were like . . . friends. An odd dynamic with a fifteen-year-old and forty plus year old college professor. He had introduced to spy thrillers, taken me to college football and basketball games and shared his knowledge about most anything. I was going to miss him.\nThe day of the hearing she was a mess. Michigan law required mom to get up on the stand say a bunch of things about her marriage to Eugene. The gist of those statements was that Eugene was not a fit husband. I just started using the work gist, by the way. My new English teacher likes it and uses it a lot.\n“Seventy-eight.” That’s more like it.\nMom read the statements to me before the hearing and she sobbed. She told me none of this was true, but she had to say to say those things. Here I was getting a crash course in my mother’s complicated relationship with the truth. She did, though, she got up in front of that Michigan judge and made those statements with nary a tear in her eye. It had only been hours before she was sobbing and now, she was a stone-cold killer.\nSeventy-nine! Ok. Moving along here. Maybe this will happen.\nSchool was mostly telling one or two teachers goodbye. Some of them knew my mom as she had been a long-term substitute in the school district, and they were nothing if not perplexed. They wished me luck.\n“Eighty!”\nFriends, if you could call them that, were much easier. After a difficult adjustment I had gotten to the point of invisibility. No one was going to ask where Jack was ten minutes before I left, much less after I was gone. The thing that felt good about having achieved the status of invisibility though was predictability.\nThere continued to be points though of high drama, the highest being, or maybe the lowest depending on your framing, was when my mother complained that Nic and I weren’t doing enough to prepare for the move. She did not even have a specific demand, just a complaint. She had been so demanding, and I had had enough.\nMaking the mistake, that I will I guess continue to make, that my opinion counted for anything, I told my mother should count herself lucky we were doing what we had done so far.\n“Mom, I don’t know what you are talking about. Nic and I have done more to help get ready for this move than any of my friends would have. You are lucky we have done as much as we have.”\n She exploded at me. \"How dare you talk to me like that! I’m your mother trying to manage all of this for you! All I ever do is do what is best for my children!” After having come halfway down the stairs, she charged back to her room.\nThe previous summer Nic and I had spent six weeks with our biological father, and I had wanted to move back to the west to be with him. My mother had insisted that I come back to Michigan to “finalize things” whatever that meant. But when I came back and we discussed it, the waterworks were turned on and I was ashamed I had ever thought about leaving. Today that woman who could not bear the idea of her son leaving was nowhere to be found.\n“Eighty-one.”\nI suppose the speed with which everything had to happen overtook those events. At least in her mind. I don’t think I will ever look at her the same way though. I see through her shit now. It was not her kids. It was about her.\n“Eighty-two.”\nThe departure from Michigan would have been comical if it wasn’t so sad. It happened on the cheap shag carpet of a cheap motel near the airport. Eugene had taken us there; we knew no one else in town well enough to ask that favor. As we stood in the lobby, everyone was crying. All this pain seemed perfectly avoidable, particularly the pain to Eugene. He cried so much, his contact lenses fell out of his eyes and into the long shag carpet. The four of us were crawling around on the floor looking for them. He was not going to be able to drive home without them and as far as I recall he did not carry extra glasses with him.\n“Eighty-three.”\nThe absurdity of the whole situation dried the tears long enough to say goodbye. Eugene got into his old brown Ford Fairmont and left.\nI doubt I will ever see him again.\n“Eighty-four!”\nFinally! I was going to get my driver’s license! All I had to do was pass the road test. Mom’s new man patted me on the back. Here he was trying to play the father. I wasn’t sure what to think. Since I had never thought of Eugene as a father it was very weird. A contrast to my biological father who for a variety of reasons couldn’t even be bothered.\n“You will be fine,” he said.\n“Here for the road test?” The tester reminded me of a teacher. That middle age that could be anywhere between 30 and 50 all of which seemed mature, knowledgeable, and wise. A short sleeve white dress shirt, a dull tie, and navy-blue slacks. A few pens in his pocket and the all-important clipboard.\n“Yes sir.”\n“Ok, I need your learners permit.”\nI pulled out my wallet and handed him my neatly folded Michigan Driver’s Learner Permit.\n“Son, I need your California Learner Permit.”\nThat sound you heard were my dreams of having a license today crashing. So much for Tower Records tonight. No browsing through the albums or a chance to meet the cool kids from my new school. That was going to have to wait for another day. Another evening in my room trying to catch songs on cassette tape.\n“I don’t have one.” My voice had disappeared into a whisper. “We just moved here.”\n“I’m sorry son, but you have to have a California permit for 30 days before you can test for your license. I can give you a permit today and then we can make an appointment for 30 days from now.” At least he was kind about it.\nWe left. At home mom asked how it went. When I told her she acted as if the news meant nothing to her.\n“How did it go?” she asked.\n“I have to wait another 30 days. I need to have a California permit for 30 days before I can take the road test.” I was in near tears but did my best to hide it.\n“Well, you should have checked when we got to California. Another month isn’t going to kill you.”\nOf course. It was my fault. She never had any responsibility when it came to bad outcomes.\n“Dinner will be ready soon.”\n“I’m not hungry. I’ll be in my room.”\n“Suit yourself, but there won’t be anything to eat later.”\nAn idle threat. There was always a loaf of sourdough bread around. I went to my room and turned on the rock station. This Bruce Springsteen singer had released a cool song 10 days before. Dancing in the Dark? I think. Maybe I could get a good recording of it.\nAnd at least I knew I would never get that squeeze again." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Don't Mean Nuthin'\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1587\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who is constantly being put into a box by others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Don't Mean Nuthin\nTribute to Unsung Heroes: the Veterans of Vietnam War\nThanks for your service.\n\n( Coined by G.I.’s in Vietnam. A reverse coping expression indicating that it means everything and I’m about to lose it. Usually used to dismiss witnessing or experiencing something so horrific that it can’t be comprehended by the psyche. Alternately used as an expression of relief that one has avoided being killed even if they are injured or maimed.)\n\nThe fighting man of action opened his eyes. And saw nothing. What's happening?\n“Why can't I see?” He asked no one in particular. He didn't know where he was or if anyone was near him to hear the question.\nWhen he tried to reach up to rub his useless eyes his left arm was too confined to reach up. “What is holding me down?” He reached over his torso with his right hand and felt tubing coming out of his left forearm. Then he felt his face and realized there were bandages over his eyes.\n“Why? What's going on? Anyone there? Help!”\n“Hey, G.I. Gonna join the living? The doc's on the other side of the room. Someone will be over soon to explain it all to ya. Kinda laid up myself at the moment on the cot next to ya. Got a few broken bones but I may live to fight again. Ain't bought the farm yet. We're still in the field meat factory. Medivac be coming soon I'm a hopin' to take me to that Freedom Bird. Just a short timer now. What's yer name, Grunt?”\n“Uh, Joe. My name is 'Joe'. Can't think of no more. 'Joe' will have to do. Must have lost more than my eyes when my cover was blown off.”\n“Well, hey, hey! What da ya know? That's a my name, too. Joe. Joe Black. Nice to meet ya, Joe Will-Have-To-Do. Yeh, gets pretty hairy out there with all that flak flying. Heard someone call 'incoming!' but I wasn't fast enough to run out of the way this time or maybe I ran towards it. Hard to tell. Won't be doing much runnin' fer a while now. They'll send me back to the World to recoup but I'm a lifer so will probably be sent back soon 'nough. Uncle Sam Ain't Released Me Yet.\n“So tell me what do you do in your Real Life, Joe Will-Have-To-Do?”\n“Me? Real Life? I don't know how I got here. How could I know anything about a real life? But...feels like I've done this before. Or I've done it forever. Or... wait! I remember a girl...”\n“Nothin' like a little boom-boom to clear the mind. Maybe she clobbered you in the noggin? You a 'plenty cheap charlie'?”\n“No, no. Pretty sure I'm a straight arrow. Don't want to mess up what I got in my 'Real Life' as you call it. Girl back home is really special. If I'm lucky, maybe she'll marry me. Got some stiff competition from some pretty-boy surfer while I'm stuck here fighting... Well, who understands what kind of demons we are fighting? It's worse than H-E-Double Hockey-sticks out there.\n“I can't remember much. Something happened out on the trail we was humping. Been humping for days seems like. Carrying full rucksacks on our backs. And me with my Thumper. Through the worse kind of conditions. Air so hot and humid you can't breathe. Wet rice paddies full of leeches. Wouldn't be surprised if I contracted jungle rot on my legs. They're stinging like the devil now that I'm aware of them. Don't mean nuthin.\n“Tick infested mountain and jungle paths so slick from monsoons ya can't keep your footing. All the time searching for those two-stepper yellow devils that can sneak up on you when you least expect it. Those vipers spring out then disappear again leaving devastation in our ranks. That's not even accounting for ambushes by the VC devils we are supposed to be routing out. They hide and travel in tunnels. Need tunnel rats to dig 'em out. Can't tell enemy from friendlies. Don't mean nuthin...”\n“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Don't need ta dwell on it. Take a devil-may-care attitude, Dude. Tell me more about your girl. That's what I want ta hear about!”\n“Well, Joe, she is a real doll is all I can tell ya. Don't understand what she sees in a hard-case, ruffian like me. She's a knock-out in a striped swimsuit. Her long blonde ponytail swings in step to her hips when she walks in her high heels. She is sunshine and lollipops, always wearing pink that makes me think of cotton candy and gum drops. Real sweet. And she is smart and ambitious. Wants to be a marine biologist or something like that. Maybe an astronaut someday? Who knows, maybe the next Armstrong?”\n“Speaking of that guy Armstrong, how about that moon landing, huh? Quite a stretch. JFK wanted to get there by the end of the decade and we did it! Think it was for real?”\n“Could of been all smoke and mirrors for all I know about it. All the FUBAR here in-country it is hard to believe anything good coming out of Disneyland East or NASA.\n“Anyway, can't wait ta see her again. Oh, wait... Maybe I won't ever be able ta see her again...Don't mean nuthin.”\n“Now, don't start thinkin' like that. Maybe your brain just needs a little rest and everything will be normal again. No doc has told ya different, right? Besides, with a dame ya can always read Braille in the dark, get it?”\n“Yeah, right, like I said 'don't mean nuthin'.”\n“We're in luck. Here comes the doc. Now you'll maybe get some answers. But be wary. They say nice things and always wear those manufactured smiles.”\n<><><>\n“Well, Mr. Black. Good news. Your REFRAD orders have come through and you will be going home to recuperate. Make sure you never show up again on my watch. Stay healthy, will you? No more being a pin cushion for Satin's toothpicks. Or a mine magnet or anything else that threatens to zap you. Take a nice state-side job when they offer you one. Your old boots have seen too many tours in Nam.\n“Now, how's the new cherry guy getting along?”\n“His gourd is pretty messed up, Doc. Can't remember his own name and lot's don't mean nuthin to him no more. Dinky dau. Thinks he has been through all this before.”\n“I hear you. Well, now Mr... Joe. That's all it says on your tag. How is your head feeling?”\n“Like it hurts to think. Why are my eyes bandaged? Will I be able to see again? What happened to me?”\n“Dustoff helicopter picked you and a few of your platoon members off a mountain near a Yard village. Probably a sapper popped up on you as they were aiming for a bigger target to blow up. You have a pretty good concussion and your eyes are bandaged as a precaution to let them get some rest. We can take them off now if you want. However, you may always need to wear a patch over one.”\n“Of course, I want. Unwrap them, please.”\n<><><>\n“You? W-What are you doing here? You are supposed to be waiting for me back home in my Real Life. W-why are you here?”\n“I wanted to become a doctor so I donned this lab coat and stethoscope and had a diploma printed up to add to my accessories. That is really all it took. Signed up to work out in the field so here I am. How do I look?”\n“Fabulously sweet as always. Pink is your color.”\n“I see you have met G.I. Joe Black. He is USMC. One of Uncle Sam's Misguided Children. He'll go back to the World and be patched up to be put back in a box to start his next big adventure as a fighting man of action. If you want I can write a prescription advising it is wise to get your ETS settled since you are obviously dinky dau. Then you can fly the Freedom Bird home to start over again, too, G.I. Joe. You can find yourself back in a box with all your camouflage, canteen, K-bar, M16 and Thumper. Any more COBRA devils to fight? Still need more action and adventure? What's your pleasure?”\n“Think I would like to brush up on my Braille, Barbie.”\n<><><>\nGlossary terms:\nBought the farm: Died\nMeat Factory: Hospital\nFreedom Bird: Plane taking soldiers back to USA.\nCover: Hat or helmet\nThe World/ Real Life: Home/Career\nThumper: Grenade launcher\nJungle Rot: Generally a fungal of staph infection causing boils, swelling and tissue necrosis resulting from dirt, grime, and constant wet conditions.\nTwo-Stepper: Yellow bamboo pit viper – said to kill a person within two steps after being bitten.\nVC: Viet Cong; North Vietnamese\nFUBAR: F...ed UP Beyond All Recognition\nDisneyland East: Pentagon or USA\nREFRAD: Released From Active Duty\nSatin's toothpicks: Nails or hardened steel darts fired from howitzers or grenade launchers\nDinky Dau: Crazy\nDustoff Helicopter: Duty Uniform Services To Others Friend and Foe\nYard: Short for Montagnard, a French word meaning; “mountaineer.” Member of any one of a number of semi-nomadic, aboriginal tribes which live in the mountains of Vietnam.\nSapper: Enemy soldier whose job is to blow things up.\nETS: End Time of Service\nK-Bar: Marine-issue fighting knife.\nCOBRA: Evil force trying to rule the world GI Joe fought against.\n\nSource:https://cherrieswriter.com/2014/02/13/military-speak-during-the-vietnam-war/" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Last Day of Summer\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1043\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a teenager whose family is moving." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "What could that noise possibly be? As I fumbled around for my phone, I just kept hearing the same annoying thuds repeatedly. It was 4 a.m. who could possibly be up at this time. As I stumbled out of bed stubbing my toe along the way I saw a faint light coming from the neighbor's house down the street. \nWas that the Johnsons’ house? Was that a moving truck? To be completely honest their son Thomas, who was a year younger than me has always creeped me out. I can say I am definitely not sad to see him and his family go. Why the sudden move though? Also, who moves at 4 a.m. in the morning? Whatever it was I didn't have a good feeling about it. As I stumbled back into bed, the feeling from that night came racing back. That feeling in the very pit of your stomach. That feeling where you just know something very wrong has happened. Just like that all of the memories of that summer night hit me. \nAlyssa had been missing for almost six months now. No matter how hard I tried to forget that entire weekend I could still picture it as if it were last night. Alyssa's long dark hair soaking wet from jumping in the lake. Her contagious laugh after having way too many drinks. She was always the life of the party but never in an out-of-control way. Her energy was just contagious, and I don’t think I have ever heard anyone say a single bad thing about her. Which is unheard of when you are seventeen and in high school. \nThen the next morning she was nowhere to be found. At first, we all thought maybe she just fell asleep outside or maybe she fell asleep in one of the cars. We all fumbled our way outside to see if we could find her. We figured she could not have gone far right? After thirty minutes of us calling her name and searching that feeling that I was feeling tonight hit me. At that moment I knew this was not going to end well. As we all headed back to the kitchen, we prepared for what we knew was about to happen. It was time to call the parents. \nWhile we made the dreaded calls, I noticed it. The look on Thomas's face. The strangest thing about it is that it was not even anything specific. It was just a kind of emptiness. His eye had such a blank darkness to them that it sent chills down my spine. \nThen I started to really think. I just had this terrible gut-wrenching feeling. One I wish I would not have noticed. As I started to replay that morning and how everyone was frantically searching and calling Alyssa's name, he was just kind of there. Searching sure, but not really searching. It was like he already knew she would not be found. Although as I looked around at everyone else, I seemed to be the only one who noticed. \nAs we all sat waiting in the kitchen, I looked around again and realized Thomas was gone. As I made my way upstairs there, he was. Just casually packing. Not even the frantic I am ready for this nightmare to be over packing. No. He was folding each piece of clothing he had brought neatly one by one. As I paused confused, he just looked up and gave me a blank stare then went right back to what he was doing. \nWhen the police and everyone's parents finally arrived, it became real. Everyone went over the events from the night before. After many glaring eyes from parents as we spoke about the alcohol consumed, we headed out again. We spent hours searching the wooded area surrounding the lake house, boats, neighbors' yards yet we found nothing. No clothing. No jewelry. It was like Alyssa had vanished into thin air. As I looked over you could see the pain shooting through Alyssya's parents' eyes. I believe at that moment they knew as well. Their daughter was not coming back home. \nHow could this be possible? Just hours ago, she was dancing around the fire singing with all of us without a single care in the world. How could she just be gone? \nOne by one we were all questioned by the police. They asked us what we could remember in detail leading up to the last moment we remembered seeing Alyssa. It seemed that after 1:00 a.m. she just vanished. As we were going over the events from the night before they showed up. The dive team. We all watched as they geared up and headed into the lake to find her. \nRight at that moment, I turned and just so happened to catch a slight grin pass over Thomas's face. It was a look of accomplishment. Just as fast as it came it went though and his face went right back to the blank stare, he had had all morning. \nWhen it was his turn to be questioned by the police, I just kept thinking surely, they can see what I see or was I just projecting? Was I making this up? Was he really just scared and concerned? He answered all their questions the same way we had all done. Explaining that he remembered seeing her by the fire but that he had gone to bed before everyone else. Did he? Now that I am thinking about it more, I do not remember seeing him after Alyssa had jumped in the lake so maybe he had gone to bed. \nThe sound of my alarm startled me. Had I just been sitting here for three hours replaying that night in my head again? Is this what the rest of my life would look like? Just never being able to let go of that night. Right as I was about to get ready, I saw the glimmer of headlights coming down the street. As I looked out my window there they were. All packed up and on their way. As they passed, Thomas caught my eye and at that very moment I knew he had done something terrible and his family knew as well." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: I Will Not Eat My Heart Alone\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2154\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who finds a childhood toy that brings back memories." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Rain falls on his new skin. He feels nothing.\n\nUnder cover of the night, he, Isaac Newton, sixty-three years of age in this the Year of the Lord 1706, arrives alone at Woolsthorpe, returning to the old two-story farmhouse where he grew up. In one hand he carries a lit lanthorn, in the other a large bag.\n\nHe calls back a memory, his earliest, one he did not even know he had, until it is there, sudden, sharp, as if he is transported back into the moment and … he can smell the manure, see the sheep-shearing dust in the air. He is three years old, clinging to his mother’s skirt, wordlessly begging her to stay, or else take her with him, as if by keeping a strong enough grip with his tiny three-year-old fingers she will not be able to go, will be fixed to the spot, or will be unable to shake him off and will bring him along like luggage. She, Hannah, his mother, gently pries him loose, picks him up, hugs him, kisses him on his head … then hands him to the grandmother, turns, gets into the carriage, and leaves, abandoning little Isaac.\n\nThere is no feeling associated with this recollection. Feelings do not compute. So, in the logical mill of his mind, this — his three-year-old self abandoned by his mother — is just another piece in the puzzle of his life that he assembles methodically, memory upon memory. She left because she was widowed and remarried, and her new husband did not want a stepson. That was the logic and reason of it.\n\nHis mother did not return until her husband had passed away — when Isaac was ten years old — and then only to send Isaac away from her again, this time to grammar school, eight miles down the road, in Grantham, where he boarded with the kindly apothecary, William Clarke.\n\nIsaac Newton enters the old farmhouse with its bare wooden floors. In the front room, on a work table, he sees his old collection of toys that he constructed as young boy: the wooden models of churches and other buildings, the kites to which he would attach lanthorns to light up the night sky, the miniature windmill with cloth sails, and now, seeing all these toys, he remembers the doll-house furniture he constructed for the apothecary’s young daughter, Catherine, and in his mind he gets a flash of memory, sees her … holding up the tiny chair, inspecting it, admiring it.\n\n'This is amazing, Isaac,\" Catherine says, returning the doll-chair to his work table.\n\n‘I am glad you like it,’ he says.\n\n‘I love it.’ Then: ‘What is this?’\n\n‘A treadmill.’\n\n‘How does it work?’\n\n‘I place a mouse in it, and put a string on its tail, then when I pull on the string, the mouse runs, and that turns this crank, which powers this little mill. It is a mouse-powered machine.’\n\n‘Oh.’ A thoughtful look comes over her face. ‘But … what about the mouse?’\n\n‘What about the mouse?’\n\n‘Is it right to make one of God’s creatures part of a machine?’\n\n‘I suppose that it is no different than an ox before a plow.’\n\n‘Maybe so.’ She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘No, it is not the same, Isaac. You trap the poor mouse inside this device, make it run and run by pulling its little tail, just to power this mill. It is not right.’\n\n‘Then I shall instead construct a mechanical mouse. Of course, I will need to find a way to store energy within the mechanical mouse. Something like a pendulum or a coiled spring perhaps. It will be a great challenge for me.’\n\n‘And a great relief,' she says, 'for the living mouse.’\n\nAs he goes down the hallway, he sees the red door at the end.\n\nThis brings his mind back to nursing his mother there, behind that red door, in her bedroom, during her illness in 1679, twenty-seven years ago, and the memory overtakes him suddenly, seeing … his mother’s face pale and drawn with the typhoid fever, a rash of flat, rose-colored spots on her neck and upper chest. She motions with her hand and he draws closer.\n\n‘I am so sorry,’ she says, her voice nearly inaudible, her lips the color of chalk. ‘Sorry that I was not a better mother to you, Isaac. Sorry that I left you when you were just a small boy.’\n\n‘You are here now.’\n\n‘Not for long, Isaac. Not for long. I can feel it. This is my time. It is time for me to go.’\n\n‘No. You will not die.’\n\nShe smiles up at him. ‘You were such a small thing. Born too soon. So small. You could have fit in a quart mug. Now look at you.’\n\nShe coughs, and he feels her whole, thin, frail body racked with it. Her head sinks back on the pillow, eyes closing.\n\nIt is time, he thinks. Time to do what he has been prepared to do ever since he came home, from the moment he saw her weakened state. Will it work?\n\n‘I cannot bear you leaving me again,’ he whispers.\n\nShe hears nothing.\n\nIt is time.\n\nYes, it is time. He is here to finish what he started, twenty-seven years ago.\n\nIsaac Newton approaches the red door, opens it. He hears the whirring and clicking of cogwheels, the grinding and clanking of metal upon metal from within the room.\n\nThe pool of lanthorn-light illuminates the machine that contains his mother, broad back towards him, standing in front of the small window, looking out into the moonlit night. Outside, the rain has stopped.\n\nThe automaton turns to face him, then moves closer with the heavy footfall of metal feet on the bare floorboards of the old farmhouse.\n\nAt 10 feet 4 inches, his metal mother is twice the size she had been while still in the flesh.\n\nBack then, in 1679, twenty-seven years ago, he had not yet perfected the miniaturization of the gears, the pulleys, the steam-powered engines, and the hydraulic pumps and cylinders needed to animate her metal frame, and so, simply to make room for the needed parts, he had been forced by necessity to scale her up to these monstrous proportions.\n\nHe looks up into the iron mask, the glowing red ruby gemstone eyes.\n\n“Mother,” he says. “I have become like you.”\n\nHe raises the lanthorn so she can take him in, the way he is now.\n\nInstead of the pale flesh of sixty-three-year-old Isaac Newton, his new metal skin glows golden, his hair shines silver, his eyes are glittering green gemstones. He is life-size, instead of the oversized monstrosity of his mother before him. He is dressed in a rust-brown coat over a black waistcoat with a white neckcloth and white shirt cuffs. The fingers that grasp the lanthorn are finely articulated, instead of her crude iron mittens. He moves forward, the action smooth, life-like, unlike her lumbering gait.\n\n“As you see,” he says, “I have perfected the science of the automaton. And I will keep improving upon it. I can make you like this.”\n\nThe metal mother recoils, stepping backwards, long arms outstretched, palms towards him, as if warding him off.\n\n“Mother.” Isaac advances, and for each two steps of his life-size legs, she takes one giant stride backwards, until she has reached the back wall.\n\nWith a creaking, grinding noise, she bends one knee, then the other, until she is kneeling before him, her expressionless iron mask with the glowing red eyes now at the level with his fine-featured, expressive golden face.\n\nShe raises her heavy arms, placing the two unwieldy iron-mitten palms together with a clank of metal upon metal. She is mute, so this is the way she shows him that she is pleading. He has seen this before, many times, each time he has visited her.\n\n“Let me give you your voice,” he says, and pulls from his bag the vocal chord device. “Raise your head.”\n\nShe obeys, raising her head, then lowers her arms as Isaac sets down the lanthorn and goes to work, installing the device in her neck.\n\nThe first sound she makes is a howl.\n\nIsaac steps back.\n\n“Twenty-seven years within the prison of this machine.” Her voice is deep, hoarse, full of grinding gears, hissing steam, wheezing hydraulic pumps. “Son, you must finally let me go.”\n\n“No, mother.” His voice is just as she remembers, the exact timbre and tone of her son’s. “This,” he gestures at his own golden form, “is what I have been working towards. Not the crude shape I gave you then. Now I can give you this.”\n\n“Still, it is a machine. Still, it is a prison. Still, I will be trapped within.”\n\n“Trapped?”\n\n“There is no sensation.”\n\n“You will have greatly improved senses,” he says. “My understanding of Opticks is complete. In your new body, you will see in full color, not the red haze you have now. I have also perfected my understanding of sound. In your new form, you will hear with much greater acuity than before, even greater than you did in the flesh.”\n\n“But I will not feel.”\n\n“It is true that I do not yet have the means to create the sensation of touch, nor the sense of smell nor taste.” He hastens to add: “In time, I am certain I will be able to improve upon the design and add these sensations. But even now, your memories will be fully accessible and sharper, so sharp and clear that you can recall every detail, even sensory detail, from your former life. I find that I spend much of my time in reminiscence, reliving old memories, and to me this is an adequate substitute for—”\n\n“I mean feelings. I have no feelings.”\n\n“Feelings?”\n\n“You never needed feelings, Isaac. Numbers, formulas, logic, reasoning, those were always enough for you.”\n\n“I had feelings,” he says. “I felt anger. I felt frustration. I felt envy. I felt loss. I felt … sinful desires contrary to God’s Laws. Feelings. They were a hindrance. This is better.”\n\n“For you, perhaps. For me, I do not want to be a calculating machine for all eternity.”\n\n“But—”\n\n“No, Isaac, this is not for me. You must let me go.”\n\n“I cannot.”\n\n“You must.”\n\n“You are always leaving me.” He sounds very young, the plaintive voice of an abandoned child.\n\n“You must set me free.”\n\n“Then … I will be … alone.”\n\n“Make yourself new playmates. Make automatons of people who are like you, people who want to spend their lives, their eternity, as logical machines.” She raises her arms again, iron palms pressed together, again pleading. “But not me. Not me. Son, I beg you, release my soul.”\n\nHe bows his head.\n\n“Please, Isaac. If you ever loved me.”\n\nHe looks ups. “How can you say that? It is because I love you that I—”\n\n“Yes, I know. That is what has sustained me through these years. I knew your intentions were good, the best. But it is not right.” She bends forward until her great iron forehead rests on the floor, next to his feet, exposing the back of her head. “Twenty-seven years is enough. I cannot take any more. Please.”\n\nHe bends down. His golden hand caresses her iron head.\n\n“You are certain this is what you want?”\n\n“Yes. Release me.”\n\nHe opens the small door in the back of her head, revealing the vial with the shining blue water, where all her memories are stored, all that is her, his mother.\n\n“Goodbye, Isaac.”\n\nHe unscrews the vial of memory-water, lifts it out, and as he does, the giant automaton crashes to the side, and the red eyes dull to a dark maroon with no light behind them.\n\nHe is tempted. Sorely tempted.\n\nWhat is to keep him from retaining this vial, holding her in abeyance this way, in this state where she is not conscious? Perhaps one day he can discern the System of the Soul, in the same way he has already deduced the System of the World, then bring her back once more, this time fully human, even in metal skin?\n\nBut he knows, deep down at the core of his soul — that is, if he still has a soul, if, in fact the soul transferred into his new form — that this is one thing he cannot do. Only God can plumb the human heart, only God can animate a human soul.\n\nHe places the vial down on the floor, the memory-water pulsing its blue light.\n\nHe lifts his foot, lets it hover over the vial.\n\n“Goodbye, mother.”\n\nWhen his foot comes down and the vial breaks and the memory-water spills out, he thinks he sees a vapor rise, momentarily taking the shape of a dove, before it dissipates." } ]

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