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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: I Think That's The Wrong Sign\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1018\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character looking for a sign." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was driving around in my car on a late Monday evening. I knew I was looking for something but I wasn't sure of it just yet.\nLet me start from the beginning and introduce myself, my name is Marcus Simmons. I still sadly live at home with my parents and my older sister ( I always thought you were supposed to move out when you turned 18 but here she is 2 years later living under the same roof). Everyday I wake up at 7:30am to go to a high school I don't care about, to go to classes I also don't care about. I suppose I just told you a little white lie, the only class I actually pay attention in and enjoy is art. On this particular Monday I woke up 20 minutes late, which would mean I would get to school 20 minutes late, which would mean I would miss 20 minutes of the only class I didn't dread going to. I walked into the art room 9:22 every pair of eyes were on me including Mrs. Jameson. \n\"You must have had quite the Sunday night if you are late to my class.\" She said with a little laugh at the end. \nI replied in possibly the most sarcastic tone ever. \"Well you know me always out partying.\"\n\"I bet.\" She said matching my sarcasm.\nNot just talking to me anymore but now the whole class she said. \"You know high school is supposed to be fun, you guys are supposed to throw big parties and stay up all night. You're supposed go out and do random things just because it seems fun!\"\nI looked around the room to see some classmates' reaction to this but nobody even batted an eye.\n\"Fine.\" She said, \"If you're not going to do these things on your own then I will make you, your next assignment is to go out and do something exciting and make an art piece about it.\"\nGreat, I thought now that means I have to move around to pass another class. The only other class I have to move around for is gym and there is no way I am passing that class. All through the day I was thinking of something I could do for art class but all day I couldn't think of anything. I got home around 4 as usual and guess who was laying on the couch. Yep you guessed it my older sister.\n\"Hey Alissa, when you were my age what kind of things did you do for fun.\"\nWithout looking up from her phone she gave the wonderful answer of \"I don't know, I probably just drove around.\"\nWith that wonderful input from Alissa I still didn't know what to do but I guess I could just drive around until I found something that peaked my interest. So that's what I did after supper. Once I finished eating I grabbed my keys and left. I drove up one street and down the next. An hour later I somehow ended up at a beach, I didn't even bother getting out because what am I going to paint the ocean, I don't think so. I just drove around (thank you Alissa for those very descriptive words.) for about another hour or so until I decide it was time to head home. I was looking out the window for something that would make a great art piece and boom there it was. A sign. Not just any old sign. An old bus stop sign that looked like it had about 3 years of dirt caked onto it. In a dramatic turn of events I speed away from the scene. I look over to my right and what do I see, the bus stop sign. What have I done? I think. Wait I'll be fine, I won't get in trouble for this. I don't even think I have seen a bus in this town. I get home and very quietly take the sign up to my room and I start painting. The next day I bring the finished product to the teacher but she only gave me a 75% because she said and I quote \"Stealing is bad.\" She also said something about it being \"Illegal\" but I'm not sure I fully believe her. I guess if want to pass all my other classes ( except gym because there is no saving that mark) I will have to stop stealing government property.\nEver since that fateful Monday I knew what I wanted to do with my life and no it wasn't steal street signs but it was graffiti. Once the teacher had graded my project I decided out of the goodness from my heart to put the sign back. ( I don't know where that goodness was when I took the sign in the first place but it's here now and that's all that matters. Right.) It took me a while to find the place I originally found it, but I do think I found the right place, if not and you have been waiting at a bus stop for a little while now. Opps! Sorry about that little inconvenience. I just set the sign on the ground because let's face it I don't own any tools to reattach it properly. The colors of paint I used, the color of the silver pole behind it and the green grass under it went together so well. Later on in that week I actually went to the beach but I obviously didn't go to look at the ocean. I spray painted the garbage cans. I just thought garbage cans are so ugly and they smell bad. I didn't fix the smell part but at least I made them look a little prettier.\nI guess every story is supposed to have a moral or a lesson so I guess the lesson I just taught you is don't steal street signs if you want to do good in school but do steal street signs if you want to find what you are passionate about." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Miracles Happen\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1171\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who would have complete happiness, if it weren’t for that one thing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Miracles happen.\nThe daffodils bloomed before the snowdrops fell this year, making the churchyard a veritable carpet of yellow. However, in late March,primroses blossomed among the graves, and some late daffodils put theirdelicate heads on the northern facade of the church. Together they replenish the yellow hues in time for Easter. On Good Friday morning, I turn my face to the sun. The weather is unseasonably warm, and the sun’s golden rays reach the rich earth, encouraging growing plants to bud forth. Birds twitter in the trees, nesting, while larks sing, winging on the air currents above. In the first year after the war, my life should be joyful because of the hope surrounding me. I would be completely happy but for the endless aching emptiness that dwells where his love should be.\nSighing, I turn my mind to feeding the animals. Ezra has planted the far field with wheat and has built a fence to ward off our neighbour’s marauding cows. He is lucky to have some, for we had scant animals when I returned from Paris last summer. He explained that they were killed for food or pressed into service when enemy vehicles ran out of fuel. ‘I hid mine,’ he said with a superior tone and a smile that did not reach his eyes.\nYou connived with the enemy, I thought, heat suffusing my body. Did you expose the men for in exchange your beasts? I walked away before I said something that could inflame passions when we need peace.\nChristabel, father’s favourite cow, survived thanks to Ezra. I do not know how he concealed himself from the enemy’s hands yet cared for her. Now sleek coated, she supplies us with fresh milk. She lows with contentment, heavy with her calf due in another month. My sole consolation is Andrew’s son, the image of his father. Sometimes it breaks my heart to see his smile, but I want my son to grow strong, tall and brave like Andrew. I pray Mama’s mind, damaged by Papa’s execution at the hands of Gruppenfurher Klocke, will heal in his presence. Papa was hanged with five other men in the autumn of 1942 forconcealing British spies, and she has not spoken since.\nThere has been no word of Andrew since he left us that hate filled autumn. Perhaps he drowned trying to reach the submarine or ended up in some Nazi concentration camp and did not survive. Maybe he has married and forgotten me. It’s the hardest thing to bear. So I have learned to be content with Andre’s birth in the cellar, attended by Ruth. Mama could not help as Nazis were everywhere in those days, even in our kitchen. They laughed, their jackboots on the scrubbed table, smoking Guitaines. They drank Papa’s best Beaujolais too, sneering at him. ‘You are nothing but ill-bred French peasants’, Gruppenfurher Klocke said with hate in his guttural tone that fateful autumn night.\nRuth’s rich tones call out from the kitchen and break my reverie. ‘Francoise, your son has his hand in my dough again. He is a mischievous imp.’ She speaks with such fondness, but I know her sorrow, too. She and Ezra escaped the SS, finding refuge in our barn behind a false wall, but not their sixteen-year-old son. He got caught helping Pierre in La Résistance and sent by train in a cattle truck to some terrible place in Poland the Americans found. They know he will never return.\nI shake myself; it does not help to dwell on the past. I must endeavour to make the farm profitable to ensure our security. I close the barn door, pick up my basket and walk across the yard as I once did with Andrew. The piglets scramble for the vegetable peelings I throw, squealing with excitement, and the chickens\ncluck as I throw them bread crumbs. I wish I could share their simple joys.\nOn Easter Sunday, I take Andre to church for the first time since his baptism. I avoid the other villagers. We sit at the back of the church for the service, shunned by many villagers. There, I bow my head and pray for a miracle. Upon exiting, the priest asks after my son, patting him on his head and gazing at me with soft eyes. He wishes us well, and we walk over to Papa’s grave. I pick a bunch of primroses for Andre to place on the mound where the fresh, bright green grass grows. Kneeling, the words on his gravestone blur, and I dash away the tears -a silent waterfall. ‘ Mama, don’t cry,’ says my son, his small brow creased with concern. ‘Grandpapa is in Heaven.’ He hugs me and touches my wet cheek with a fat finger. I smile and take his hand,and we walk along the path by the stream. Andre whoops when he spots a fish, but we cannot tarry, for I have Easter lunch to prepare with roast lamb for the first time since 1939.\nIt should be a happy occasion for my sister and family will join us.\nWhen we are seated, Ruth serves the meal. The lamb is succulent, the potatoes crisp, the dried green vegetables tender. Jeanne congratulates me. Then, in Papa’s memory, I raise a glass of Beaujolais the jackbooted enemy did not steal. After lunch, my sister and family return to their farm in another village. We hug goodbye, shedding tears at our loss of beloved Papa. Mama retires to rest, and Andre snuggles beside her. He tries to make her smile, and I sometimes see the corners of her mouth twitch when he hugs her, but nothing more, not even today.\nAs the shadows of the old oak tree lengthen through the kitchen window I sit in Papa’s old armchair dozing, a glass of Beaujolais to hand. A knock at the door rouses me. ‘Come in, Ruth. Mama and Andre rest, so you can wash the dishes now.’ I close my eyes as the door opens, but the step I hear is not light. Fear of jackboots still clings to me, and my heart bangs like a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil. But Klocke is dead. Pierre shot him in the back after he hung the six men, including his father.\n A shaft of light almost blinds me as the door opens. I see the outline of a tall figure. ‘Francoise, ma cherie,’ a familiar voice says, and my heart leaps, for it cannot be. I force open my eyes, the eyes that reminded him of the violets in the garden of his family home. He drops a small bag to the ground and steps forward, holding out his arms. ‘I have come from Father Armand. He will marry us next week if we get a special licence.’ \nI gasp and say, 'Andrew is it you?' I leap up and the world fades for now I am in his arms, his lips on mine. I am completely happy, the emptiness gone and I believe in miracles." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Between the Neck and the Knees\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2999\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that starts with the line “So, what’s the catch?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Between the Neck and the Knees. \nDouce I de Gévaudan, comtesse de Provence born 1101\nBy Susan Grant-Suttie\n‘So what’s the catch?” thought Douce I de Gévaudan, comtesse de Provence, as it always came down to something between the neck and the knees. \nHer young servant woman, Bruna, giggled then scratched her hair through her headscarf, most likely it was the persistent head lice that was bothering her. After sucking a piece of meat out from between her teeth the Bruna then leaned in for some exaggerated privacy to begin the conversation. \nDouce I de Gévaudan, comtesse de Provence, a young teenager herself, tolerated the odor that wafted around her maid like flatulence. Douce made sure not to lean closely, the young woman’s breath alone would offend a dog. \nBruna batted her pretty little brown eyes several times in coyness, being allowed to be so close to the comtesse de Provence and wanting to display some innocence for pressing the social boundaries then carried on with her story not realizing how hard it was for the young comtesse to remain so close. The two teenage girls with heads bent towards each other, shared the local gossip like two cats sharing a bowl of cream. Bruna handed her mistress a small bag of mint-like plants for that night’s tea (or so she assumed), Bruna’s original chore before being side tracked in conversation. \n“Isn’t it astounding how men think they control us!” Douce threw in this comment to encourage this young wench to share more titillating tidbits of market gossip. The servant girl made some mumbling comments then began her story about a sailor who wanted more from the serving wench then he should have asked and so there was a wall between them, as organized by the father, the publican. \n“The sailor asked her to kiss him but he was told to push his lips into the hole. No one said if the daughter kissed him or not but I wouldn’t put it past the publican to kiss the fellow instead, probably a peck.” The servant girl began to wave her hands around, again, as if she was trying to calm herself down in laughter. “Then, the sailor had the audacity to ask to touch her cunt, in fact he said he wanted to pet it!”\n“How did the publican handle that?” \n“He put his cheek into the hole and let the sailor touch his bearded cheek! The fellow petted it and thought it was real. After hearing this much I thought for sure the sailor was a virgin or at least an idiot, but he asked for another request.”\n“So do you think the publican’s daughter and the sailor will marry?” Douce made a face of disgust.\nBy now the two young women, caught by the contagion of laughter, were wiping tears from their cheeks as they reveled in the images of the publican fooling the dupable sailor. \nThey both heard the downstairs entrance fill up with guests and Douce shooed away Bruna. Douce bent her head towards the door to listen to see if she could infer who was downstairs before being seen, but she had suspected it would be the doctor and the priest, as requested by her in-laws to review a marital issue.\nTrue enough, there was a doctor and priest who were summoned at the same time to discuss with Douce the reasons for her childlessness. It was her husband, Conrad, Duke of Rothenburg, the fifth son of Frederick 1st of Barbarossa and in line of the Germanic throne, who was expected in this marriage to produce children immediately, hence the visit. The two had been married for two years now and not one pregnancy. Both Douce’s parents and his parents were concerned and both houses agreed to send a doctor and a priest to investigate the source of the malady, as neither house wanted to annul the marriage due to the wife being accused of being barren, but the issue had to be addressed. She had no fear of her husband being present for he preferred the hunt than the home on any good day. She felt it treacherous that no one planned to examine her husband as to his lack thereof, but only herself. \nThe manor’s man-servant stumbled up the stairs, knocked on Douce’s door and whispered as to their presence downstairs. Douce wriggled her cap into place and descended the stairs with some grace and made sure they could see her hold her chin high to give the air of confidence as she emerged into their company below. She stopped at the last step, standing a full six inches taller than the men at the bottom of the stairs, and nodded at them gracefully. They knew nothing, she thought, but she’d have to play the game. She wished she had the publican as her advisor at this point, he could have thought of a way for her to get out of this sticky mess.\n“My lady, it is delightful to see you, and we plan to make this as short and pleasant as possible.” The doctor was at least compassionate enough to touch the issue at hand whereas the elderly priest kept looking at the floor and mumbling what sounded like latin, but one could not be sure with his age - even his eyes were weighed over by pockets of wrinkles. Such dotards tended to hide in thoughts of religious mists to camouflage their ineptness. The doctor was at least young enough to counterbalance the awkwardness of the situation, bold though he was, he was also one who appeared to want to press through the matter. She watched him wave his one hand to his companion as if to motion, ‘let’s get on with this.’\n“Your husband is a knight.” The priest made statements that sounded almost like a question before anyone sat down. He began the interview in the middle of the hall. \n“Gentlemen, may we sit and have a warm beer and some bread as we discuss the situation.” Douce waved her hand and the humped over manservant reappeared with a tray of simple refreshments walking towards the large table in the middle of the room with facing chairs. The men sat down after Douce sat in hers. Douce, noticing the urgent attitude of the doctor, decided to skip a few questions ahead hoping the visit would be shortened.\n“You realize how important this meeting is?” Again the priest spoke with his question statements as if it were all just a rehearsal for something larger yet to be discovered.\n“Yes, and I would prefer to get to the point. For as disagreeable as I am about the unfortunate situation I am in, I will prove that it is not of my doing.” She sat with a straight back as if someone poked her. \n“Madam, are you aware of your duty as a wife? Of your duty to present yourself to your husband? Of your duty to go forth and be fruitful as the bible states?” At least this time the statements sounded more like questions. Still the older man kept his watery eyes down and his hands shook as his thin white beard bobbed up and down like a puppet’s face when he spoke. \n“If you are asking me if I make myself available to my husband when we are alone at night, I can say that I have.” Douce had no fear looking into the face of the old religious priest. It was he who would not lift his gaze, she felt quite in control. \nThe doctor adjusted his seat and spoke a little more forthcoming, “Can I ask if you are wearing clothing to bed that would cover below your...” He faltered, waving his hand around his waist. \n“Do you mean do I wear something that would restrict entrance from my husband into myself? No. I wear a simple shift to bed, no undergarments beyond that. “ Douce felt bold and now wanted the men to be embarrassed, not herself. She felt herself to be of a higher status than the men before her. She meant to impress upon them this fact, they would not embarrass her. \nThe old man coughed before he spoke. “As it states in First Corinthians, the husband should give to his wife her conjugal rights, and likewise the wife to her husband. For the wife does not have authority over her own body, but the husband does. Do not deprive one another.” The old clergyman rushed out his words without a question or a statement but now a quote. \nThe doctor looked at the priest with raised eyebrows and waited as a short silence rested between all three.\nDouce took up the path of logic and answered the unsaid question within one silent beat. “Do I deny my husband? No. Does he deny me?” She paused looking upward to the left. “Then again, he does not frequent my bed. So if there is a question as to conjugal rights, I neither ask nor receive from a man who is barely at home. I make myself ready, but I demand not as I was raised to believe that a woman who asks is a woman who is wanton.” Beginning to feel a little belligerent, Douce threw in a twist to the plot. “We have no sex on Sundays, because that is the Lord’s Day, and also on Thursdays and Fridays, which are supposed to be days preparing for Communion. As well, we have three lengthy periods of abstinence – during Lent, which lasts sometimes up to two months; then before Christmas, which if I remember was at least 35 days; and around the Feast of Pentecost we made sure not to engage with each other. But, I cannot recall how many days exactly but somewhere between 40 to 60 days we did not share a bed. Also, for every feast day for our holy Saints would be considered abstinence days as well. And of course never when I am on my courses. So, between the days the church allows a married couple to share a bed and my husband’s love of sport, I can say that I have been available and yet there have been outside constraints which have hindered any pregnancy. I would highly recommend that this information be sent back to both my parents and his.”\nThe old priest nodded his head and appeared to be quite appeased by the adherence of the holy days. It appeared the church and its strict adherence was to blame for the lack of progeny, he pondered. \nDouce had knocked down that skittle pin and now was focusing upon the doctor. She still wondered if she had to submit herself to any examination but that still was yet to be determined. \nThe doctor coughed and paused with his hand to his mouth for a moment longer than necessary. “When you do, come together, can you assure me that he does ride you and does leave his seed?”\nDouce turned her head and wanted to push back this doctor as she did the priest before he had a chance to embarrass her. She took a deep breath and plunged into the delicate nature of positions which she knew he really wanted to ask. “Does my husband mount me from behind like a horse, no. Does he seek me sideways, no. And in all cases neither do I. Do I or my husband request or without thinking, stand when having sex? No. We understand well the instruction from the church that all sex is to be done lying down facing each other. We understand that sex is a duty and not to be enjoyed.”\n“So you have had sex, you have not become pregnant then.” The doctor, his young eyes staring into hers, had now asked a question she could not get around. \n“Sir, no I have not experienced any conjugal rights as of yet or should I say none that I would recognize as conjugal.” She sat holding her breath wondering what would happen next.\n“Well, then maybe we should have brought a lawyer with us,” replied the doctor. No one laughed and the quip fell into silence. Better than to blame the church for their strict rules, it appeared.\n“I presume you may bring that news with you as well for I have been available when the church states it is right to be so.” Now she did not know where to go from here. Douce may have just painted herself into a corner.\nThe old priest leaned over and grabbed a mug of watered beer and this time he did look her in the eyes. She could see the pink skin around his yellow eyeballs. This time his eyes slitted as if he found the weak link in her argument. “Tell me, have either of you committed adultery?”\nAgain Douce felt reprieved. She could honestly answer for herself. “I can rest my hand on the bible and swear that never in my marriage have I ever entertained even the thought of another man in my bed. I remain chaste and forever loyal to my husband. So as you can see, I am loyal to both the church and my lord. I am not at fault.”\nThe priest pulled at his beard. “Have you committed any sin so that the Lord Almighty may have reason to smite you?” His voice rose sharply as if he thought he had finally found the reason this couple had no children. His wagging bony finger pointed at her but not in beat with his words, then rested on his lap.\n“Father, I have followed the church rules, I have led a humble and pious life as is expected. The Lord has no reason to smite me. Those sort of questions should be put towards my husband. I presume you plan to have a meeting with him, or shall I venture he is blanketed with immunity.” Douce knew that oftentimes women were blamed for their barren womb when the men could not lift a thread with their cocks. She also had to consider how pressing the situation was if she were to pass the test of fertility and adherence to all the marriage laws. How far would they explore the situation with Conrad?\nEventually the priest and the doctor were satisfied with their discoveries and they would bring the news to both their parents who were both interested for more than familial reasons as to why this couple did not have any children. If the truth be plucked from her story alone it would appear that neither time nor opportunity was on the young couple's side. Both parties were innocent of any wrongdoing. It was only the doctor that harboured deep suspicions but due to the position of both families, he knew better than to explore the reasons that this young husband who was married to a beautiful young bride would not take her, and often at that. His suspicions lay within the facts of Conrad spending so much time hunting with his male friends, being either his preference for men or the illusion of hunting when actually he was meeting with another woman. Then again, maybe the young man did not know how to handle the invitation. No matter either of those choices, the reasons were not wise to chase. Even the doctor calculated that time and opportunity was the best answer for all involved. \nThe door to the room opened and the stooped man servant stood there ready to take instructions with the nod of his head. \n“What am I to secure for the reasons you have determined as to my lack of childbearing? What reasons will you give my parents and his?” She knew at this point to soften the approach. The whole argument could go sideways with one of these men pointing the finger at her.\n“It is simple my dear,” said the priest. “You have had no opportunity if you are so observant with church rules.”\n“And neither have you had time when your husband is doing his duty outside with his people,” continued the doctor. “We will discuss this further with his family to see if your husband was instructed in his duty.”\nThe catapult of blame passed right by her, thankfully. Douce smile. The result was much better than she expected. It appeared her forthright manner was the best way to meander down this difficult topic. The man servant, having heard the conclusion, gave a half smile to his lady and waved his hand towards the door to indicate to the visitors that the time was now to leave. \nDouce heard the men’s carriage wheels turn on the path before the manor and the sound of the horse’s plodding hooves slowly faded away. She picked up a small thread and needle that was tucked into a patch of cloth by the fireplace and aimed to place it back in her room. The stooped over man servant walked in, but since his bow to his lord and lady was in permanent half bend, he stood there making a small cough to remind Douce that he was still within ear shot. \n“I wish to have a hot cup of pennyroyal tea in my room.” Bruna had left her a small bag full of the minty flavoured infusion upstairs. Although pungent in odour, Douce had come to appreciate the sharpness of the flavour when mixed with a bit of honey. She never allowed her supply to go empty. Then she paused for a second thinking of how valuable she was between her knees and her neck.....her knees and her neck.\nThe man servant left shaking his head as he headed towards the kitchen. He said nothing, as no one asked him. But when the time was right, he would switch the pennyroyal with their own garden mint, when the time was right, and when she requested." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: COMPADRE\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1549\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone discovering a photograph that has something written on the back." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "it was a bright saturday afternoon in the streets of India. Raju was a student of Erudite Academy and was going back home from school with his two friends Shyam and babu. They had one week left for their school summer holidays and were discussing how they'll spend their weekends this year. On their way back home, Raju saw a photograph which was lying on the road. He picked the photograph and saw that it was a photograph of a beautiful butterfly with \" PALOS VERBES BLUE\" written on the back. They found the photograph so attractive that all the three of them kept starring at the photograph for five minutes. Raju took the photograph with him and headed towards his home. He then started collecting informations about the beautiful butterfly species named Palos Verbes Blue. While researching about the butterfly he found it to be very exquisite and kept on gathering more information about the species. he came to know that the so called butterfly species was only found in southwest Los Angeles Country, California and the United States.\nThe next day, Raju told his two friends about his research and where they could see the butterfly for real. Raju tried convincing his friends for a trip to California in their summer holidays to see those butterflies. But both Shyam and Babu refused going to California. He tried his best to convince them but they did not agree to him. He then disappointedly went back home alone. after reaching home, he kept looking at those photographs and decided to go to California all by himself. He checked the overall budget required to travel from India to California but it was exceeding his budget. He had no options but to drop his idea. He then gave a despairing little shrug and went to sleep.\nHe attended school the next day but was totally downcast. He kept looking at the photograph even during the classes. Seeing Raju, both Shyam and Babu came to him and told him that they'll accompany him to California to see those butterfly species. Hearing this Raju burst out of joy and hugged both of them tightly. Raju was once again happy and was filled with excitement to go to California. But travel expenses was still a trouble for them.\nAll the three of them tried their best to fill their expenses but could not collect the required amount. It was the last day of school and the three of them were still in need of money. That day, on their way back home they saw a poster for competitions including essay writing, painting contest and debate and the cash reward for winning each competition was 20,000 INR. All the three of them took part in all competitions which was held the next day. they gave their best in all the competitions and patiently waited for the results to get announced. As expected by them, they won two competitions winning 40,000 INR. They were very much pleased by the amount of money they won and went to Raju's house immediately to have a discussion. They counted their money and found that they now had the budget to travel to California and stay for two days. Although they had less money, they decided to go to California. They all hugged each other tightly and planned to book the flight tickets by the next day. Both Shyam and Babu went back home and Raju started packing his bags. After he packed his bags, he sat on his chair and started looking at the photograph again. He was very much excited to visit California and see those butterflies. Later, all the three of them peacefully went to sleep not knowing what was coming for them the next day.\nThey planned to book the flight tickets from a nearby computer store. They contacted each other and decided to meet exactly 12:00 at the store. Raju reached the store 10 mins early and was waiting for them. Shyam reached the store by 12:06 and both of them started waiting for Babu. They waited for an hour but Babu did not show up. They tried calling him on his number but the call was not picked. They waited for another 30 minutes but at last booked the flight tickets without babu as the store was about to close. After booking the flight tickets, they went to Babu's house but to their surprise the door was locked. They tried calling him on his number again but could not reach. They kept trying several times and finally the call was being answered but it was not Babu on the call. It was from the reception of Apollo Hospital. They were told that by the receptionist that the owner of the phone had met with an accident today around 11:55 AM. Both Raju and Shyam were shocked hearing this. They immediately rushed to the hospital.\nAt the hospital, the receptionist had told them that the patient was severely hit by a fast moving vehicle and needs to go through surgery within 24 hours or he might lose his life. They were asked 50,000 INR for the surgery. Raju and Shyam counted the money which was left after booking the flight tickets and got 40,000 INR. They requested the receptionist to start the surgery with 40,000 INR and promised to pay back rest of the money within 20 hours but the receptionist refused. Both Raju's and Shyam's mind were blank, they did not knew what to do next. After thinking for about 10 mins, Raju told Shyam that he'll be going out to see if anybody wanted to buy those flight tickets as it was the only option left for them. Shyam agreed to it and told him that he too would try finding money for the surgery. Raju went door to door for about 4 hours asking if anybody wanted to buy those tickets from him but could not find a single person interested in buying those tickets. Meanwhile Shyam tried contacting his friends, cousins for help but unfortunately no one was able to give them financial support. Raju went door to door in search of buyer for another 2 hour but could not find anyone. Having no options left, he lowered the price of the tickets by 3000 INR and went searching for buyer once again. Luckily this time after searching for about 1 hour he was finally able to sell those tickets. After getting the money he directly rushed to the hospital and paid the amount for the surgery.\nThey waited outside while the surgery was being done. After about 1 and a half hour the surgery was completed and babu was being taken to a ward. He was not allowed any visitors for the first 2 days. Later visitors were allowed but only for 30 minutes. Both Raju and Shyam kept praying for his recovery and luckily Babu gained consciousness after 5 days. Raju and Shyam were sitting beside him when he gained consciousness. Teardrops started falling from both of their eyes as soon as they saw him gaining consciousness. now, Babu started recovering very fast and regained his health within 2 weeks.\nHe was finally released from hospital after two weeks. Raju and Shyam took him to his house and they had lunch together after 2 weeks. While having their food, Tears started falling from Banu's eyes, Raju asked him why he was crying. Babu answered saying that because of him everything got ruined. Hearing this Raju stood up and gave him a tight hug and said it's okay. we'll go during the winter holidays. Seeing them Shyam too stood up and gave both of them a hug. After that they had their lunch together and had a quality time together. All the three of them were very happy.\nThey spent the rest of summer holidays going out to have lunch and spend time with each other. soon their school too reopened and they all got back to their normal life. They went school together and came back together. Raju after reaching home still kept searching for videos and images of the butterfly on internet. They had planned to go to California during their winter breaks after 5 months. They started collecting money from the very beginning so that they could have plenty of money till their winter holidays . Raju and Babu started working part time at a store and Shyam started freelancing himself.\nBy the end of their session they were able to collect plenty of money for their trip with 10 days stay at California. They once again booked their flight tickets and started packing for the trip. Hopefully everything went well and they were able to go to California this time. They had the best times of their life. They went to see those butterfly species, they visited many tourist places, tasted new food and met new people. Raju took several photos of the butterfly and framed them later when he reached home.\nAfter reaching home, Raju had a thought that everything happens for a reason in our life cause if they went to California during their summer holidays, they couldn't had enjoyed so much or stayed there for long as they had less money with them." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: President Lincoln and the Three Kittens\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1045\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a human and a cat that come to some kind of mutual understanding." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The kittens opened their eyes when they heard a new voice in the tent. Over the first weeks of their lives, after their ears had unfurled, they had grown dimly accustomed to the rise and fall of male voices, the quick step of boots in and out of the tent, and the click of the telegraph machine. This new voice, however, was thin and reedy, shrill enough to break through the kittens’ restless sleep.\nThe trio blinked and stirred on their scratchy blanket in the tent’s warmest corner. They looked for their mother, as they had everyday for the past week, but saw only boots. Mud-caked boots, cracked boots, and dusty boots. One pair of boots paced and two pairs sported cavalry spurs. Some boots hovered above the ground on the ends of crossed legs. \nSince the day their eyes first opened, the kittens had seen only boots. They didn’t have the strength to stand; they could barely raise their heads. At three weeks, they wobbled off their blanket, but couldn’t yet jump or climb to a higher vantage point. In a mass of downy fur, the kittens stumbled through the tent, searching for their mother.\nIt was a morning in late March when the visitor’s strange voice woke the kittens. They blinked and stared at the familiar sea of boots through blurred eyes. Then, as they did each time they awoke, they crawled off the blanket, mewing for their mother. In a heap, they sidled along the perimeter of the tent, such cries coming from their small mouths, that the men gathered around the telegraph turned.\nThe visitor turned toward the kittens and crouched, although his six foot and four inch frame still loomed over them.\n“Where is your mother?” he asked.\n“Those are our orphans, Mr. President,” one man told the newcomer. “Their mother died, and so did most of the litter. These were the only ones that survived.”\nGargantuan hands reached for the kittens, but they hardly noticed as they continued to cry and press against each other. The visitor cupped them in his hands, and lifted them to his lap. The other men fell silent as the three tufts of grey shifted and slid on his dark trousers trying to find their balance. The President stroked their heads with a single finger, and the kittens soon stopped crying. \n“Kitties,” he said. “Thank God you are cats, and can’t understand this terrible strife that is going on.”\nSilence filled the space as the men watched the President cuddle the kittens. Even the telegraph had ceased clicking. Only the muffled sounds of soldiers and horses moving about the camp permeated the tent. \n“Poor little creatures,” Lincoln murmured, his thin voice turning warm. “Don’t cry, you’ll be taken good care of.”\nHe pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at the kittens’ eyes, wiping away the mucus. The little ones could now see clearly for the first time, but it hardly mattered. They buried their tiny noses into the folds of Lincoln’s trousers and snuggled against him.\nLincoln glanced up at Colonel Bowers, who was standing off to the side, smoking a cigar.\n“Colonel, I hope you will see that these poor little motherless waifs are given plenty of milk and treated kindly.”\nBowers nodded.\n“I will see, Mr. President, that they are taken in charge by the cook of our mess and are well cared for.”\nLincoln turned his gaze back on the kittens, stroking them. The officers standing around him looked at each other, silent questions in their eyes. Lincoln had come to the Army of the Potomac’s Union headquarters at City Point, Virginia to be briefed on what they all hoped would be the final advance of the war. This was the eve of battle. The Union forces were about to launch the last phase of the siege of Petersburg, aimed at cutting off the supply source for Lee’s Confederate army. There was much planning still to do. Colonel Bowers raised his eyebrows at Lieutenant Colonel Horace Porter, nodding at the map spread out on the table, silently asking if they should get on with the work. Porter gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and the men turned away from Lincoln, shuffling papers and lighting cigars.\nThe President noticed none of this. The kittens had curled into a warm heap on his lap, kneading his trousers with their miniature paws. Their eyes were closed, and breathing was deep. Lincoln bent his gangly frame over them, listening. He heard a faint rumble that swelled with every breath. Their first purrs.\nLincoln’s face was hidden from the officers, who were huddled around the map. But if they could have caught a glimpse, they would have seen the deep wrinkles on his forehead softened with tenderness, the hint of a smile on his lips and a warmth in his eyes as he stroked the little bodies. The sadness that forever weighed upon him had dissipated.\nIn the days to follow, Lincoln would continue to care for the kittens. Officers and troops around the camp would see him scooping them up, wiping their eyes and comforting them. One officer was moved by the connection, and wrote, “Quite a sight it was, at an army headquarters, upon the eve of a great military crisis in the nation’s history, to see the hand which had affixed the signature to the Emancipation Proclamation tenderly caressing three stray kittens.”\nBut in that particular moment, as the President stroked the kittens for the first time, the war faded for President Lincoln. The thousands of dead and dying soldiers, the nation torn apart by four years of vicious battle, the uncertainty of the coming siege, the screaming headlines, the endless struggle against egos, politics and deception…it all disappeared. In that moment, he felt only the downy fur and fragile bones beneath his fingertips. He felt the steady breathing and the faint vibration of purring that grew stronger with each inhale. Lost in their first deep sleep of contentment, the kittens kneaded the President’s lap and burrowed into each other. In that moment, the grief of losing their mother faded. Lincoln sighed and the kittens purred on. In that one moment, the President and the kittens found peace." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A picture\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1090\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone discovering a photograph that has something written on the back." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "once upon a time there was a girl called Hope who always had a wish a bout a place that she wanted to go to. One day when he was going to visit her friend called Mike, on her way she saw a picture on the ground and behind the picture there were words which were written on it and these were Miami beach. Hope had no idea about what Miami beach was and she decided to go and ask her high school friend called Ornella to tell her more about Miami beach if she knew that place. Ornella had little information about that place called Miami beach but all she knew was that Miami was a great place to visit and for adventure and she told her that great memories can be got their. Basing on the information that Hope got from Ornella, she started to believe that her wish is coming true.\nThe following day, Hope went to visit her friend Mike and told him what happened to her when she was on her way to see him the previous day. Hope reminded Mike about the wish she always had and she told him about how she picked a picture on the way and the words that were written behind it was Miami beach and she told him that that is the place she wants to go to. When Mike finished listening to Hope, he asked her if she had any clue about the place that she wanted to go to but Hope only had little information that Ornella gave her. kindly Hope decided to ask her friend Mike if she could accept to come and they go together to that place if there is no problem. Mike told her that she will accept the offer after making his research about that place and will decide whether they go together or not.\nMike took his time to think about it as he had promised and gave his response to hope’s proposal as soon as possible because he was honestly very excited to go on a trip with hope too as his friend. So, as they were in summer vacation, they used the opportunity to go by then before the vacation ends,\nso they organized everything and went. It was hope’s first time to get in a plane, so mike made sure he comforted her and reassured her that everything was going to be fine until she fell asleep and\nmike woke her up when they had reached their destination. Hope was amazed by everything she saw as her dream was becoming true at the moment and finally, she was standing on the beach with\nher own feet and touching the sand with her own hands. Mike was so glad to be the one with hope at her best place and they had much fun and their bond grew. Hope called Ornella a lot to tell her\nabout her days and how amazing the place is, Ornella enjoyed it a lot that they had promised to come back to the place together, as a girls’ outing. So as days went by and they were planning to come back to their home country, Mike had a confession to make to Hope and he had decided to say it while they were still in the trip and he told her that he liked her more than a friend and asked her if they could start dating, but he told her that it was fine for her to take her time and think about it. which made hope very disappointed and got distant with him, and just like everything else she called Ornella, her friend and told her about it, it was a long call and Ornella told her to follow her heart and take everything slow as she needs to think very well about it and the consequences of every decision she’s planning to make. So Hope thought a lot about it and finally told Mike that she only could love him as a friend and nothing more, Mike got sad because of the answer but he tried to understand her and asked her if they could just forget everything and focus on their friendship which was very hard to do after that but they tried their best because they were both good friends to each other.\nHope and Mike came back from the trip but something had changed between them and even the way they talked to each other changed. As the days went by, Hope started to see Mike in a different way which was different from friendship and on the other hand, Mike was trying to move on and forget about Hope even though it was hard to bear an forget easily. As the days went by, Mike started to be close to Ornella the friend of Hope because they lived in the same place. This was a worst thing to Hope because she had started getting into Mike. This brought bad feeling between Hope and Ornella where by they stopped talking together and no one was seeing each other. Hope decided to go and ask for an advice from another friend of her who was called Derrick and told her about what happened to her and Ornella and the reason it happened. Derrick had a crush on Hope but she never told Hope about it because she thought Hope was not at the same level as him and that he could be rejected. Derrick advised Hope to stop all the things she had in mind and move on. Hope decided to move on and accept the things the way they are.\nWhen Hope came back to school, she tried to make a way to talk to Ornella but it was not easy for both of them. On that school, there was the cousin of Mike called Omar and he was also a friend to Hope and Ornella but this time he was lost because he had no idea about what was going on between them. He decided to come near them and asked what happened between them that made them to stop talking to each other. When they told him about Mike, he was surprised to hear that his cousin was the cause but Ornella told them that there was a misunderstanding because there was no special friendship between her and Mike that instead Mike always loved Hope and no any other woman which made Hope happy and decided to get back with her friends especially Ornella." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Me\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1314\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cat living in an ancient temple, like the Acropolis." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Me. They have come. Again. To see… me. Some wearing rags. Some wearing crowns. Accessorised as ever will they be, all of them.\nBecause of me.\nThey would be sufferable if they were to remain silent. But they rarely do. Supplicating for… something.\nBlah blah whoever needs… whatever.\nPlease, they plead. And so mote it be. Want want want. It’s only ever about them. And their want.\nI have heard told that a narcissist is one who only ever thinks of themselves instead of me.\nAnd daily, I am reminded of this.\nPeasants.\nFor years I have graced this temple. And in that time, attendance has only ever grown. They come in droves. Ceaselessly.\nDue to me.\nI do not care what they want. And I don’t care what they say.\nYet they beseech. Persistently. To me.\nThey do not understand that I cannot give them what they ask for. Nor would if I could.\nCumbersome. My burden. My crook to bear. As it were.\nI want.\nAnd I get.\nThis is the way of things.\nThey call me Tivali. Gift of God. Fitting. But that is not my name.\nSome of them approach me. Enchanted, as they are, by my loveliness. Intoxicated with my alluration.\nA hand reaches. I move away.\nToyingly.\nThey like it.\nTaunting.\nI never let them touch me.\nNo.\nPerish the thought.\nIt is I that brush them. With my sleek coat, and occasionally, my tail.\nBut, as with all things, alas, I tire. Their expressions of disappointment at my departure fill me with such… magnificentia.\nIt’s Latin.\nIt means… grandiosity.\nYou’re welcome.\nThere are the others who frequent this temple. When the peasants have gone. I hear them moving about, although I rarely see them from my plush-pillowed plinth of repose. I only observe that which they have done.\nCleaning. Tidying. Cool water. Fish. Fresh, of course. Pulled from the river that day.\nThe way of things.\nSuch are my days. It’s repetitive, but I don’t like surprises.\nInfrequently, on the rarest of occasions, something unanticipated will happen.\nSuch as the time I caught a rather unobservant spiny mouse. It was around midnight. My temple was still. The fish had gone hours before. And I had again become hungry.\nIt was if Isis herself had heard my thoughts. Perhaps there is something in this supplicating.\nI was dozing, just drifting off, when it touched me without warning.\nI don’t like surprises. I was displeased. Claws drawn and rage in my heart.\nIt was a distraction. The mouse. I had my supper. Satiated.\nIt was a most enjoyable three hours.\nThen there was the time the cabinet was left open. A large wooden cabinet. Ornately crafted. Placed in the outer ambulatory, just a few steps from my plinth. When they brought it in, for me to inspect, I had shown my approval by adding claw marks down three of its legs. The fourth one I do not like. It smells. The addition of my precisely placed scratchings greatly enhanced its overall beauty.\nThe cabinet is normally opened only briefly, by the ones I do not normally see. When I am elsewhere. Distracted. Dealing with other matters. More important matters. But one day, it was left open. The door ajar. Unattended. I was ecstatic. I was wary. Cautious. Curious. Investigative. Determined.\nUnstoppable.\nI crept towards it. Paused, listening for footfalls. There were none. I stepped. Silently. I drew nearer, within a whisker’s length. Pause. Sat. Groomed. Waiting unwatchingly for the shhh shhh shhh of the one who had only just realised how stealthy I can be.\nThere was no one.\nSave for me.\nFirst a nose. Then a face. And that was it. I was in. And what wonders my cabinet contained.\nRoll upon roll of papyrus. Neatly stacked. Bound with string. Beautiful. String. It may have been red. It may have been blue. I don’t care.\nHow many pieces in total I cannot recall. After all the time that has come and gone since, I am still in possession, prized possession, of a single piece of the string I had wrenched from one of the scrolls that day. That glorious day.\nAnd I still have it. Here. In my temple.\nSomewhere.\nNeedless to elucidate, the wrenching gave way to shredding which gave way to blind frenzy and it was the grating sound of my scythe-like claws deftly maiming the sheets of dried pith that gave the game away.\nMy decision to swiftly vacate the temple for the following few days had nothing to do with unseen ones’ shouting. Or their chasing. Sweeping brushes waving above their heads. In exaltation, of course. Ridiculous. It was my Devine Prerogative. To venture out amongst the commoners. My choice.\nAnd mine alone.\nThe streets of Waset, I must say, I found… curious. People. Everywhere. Toing and froing as they were. Enthralling to watch.\nIt was late in the day, Ra’s barque resting on the horizon. The people seemed to be tidying, much as the unseen ones had in my temple. They were packing items away and travelling to places unknown. All of them performed these acts furiously until there were none. And I was alone. As darkness fell.\nAlone.\nThe most unexpected sounds I heard that night. But I wasn’t afraid. I found a discarded basket, the soiled lid resting at its side. My shelter for the night. I longed for my plinth.\nThat night, I didn’t sleep. But it wasn’t because I was afraid.\nThe following morning, they were at it again. Toing and froing. Countless multitudes.\nI stretched. I yawned. I went forth from my basket and greeted the living.\nIt was on this day that I encountered the girl.\nThe small girl.\nShe was young. She was enchanting. She was beautiful.\nShe reminded me of me.\nOn the first encounter, she smiled. On the second, she sang. On the third, she brought food.\nBoiled fish. It was beautiful.\nAfter eating, she sat at my side and stroked my fur.\nI captivated her with my purr.\nThe next day, she brought more fish and a small bowl of milk.\nI sat on her knee.\nShe brought her face close to mine.\nThe nuzzle was nice. She seemed to enjoy it. Our eyes closed in mutual adoration.\nMutually adoring me, that is.\nBut her hand suddenly touching my tail without warning surprised me.\nAnd I don’t like surprises.\nDo I?\nI conveyed my displeasure in the only way I know how.\nPoor thing. I’m sure she’ll heal.\nI haven’t seen her since. And more poignantly, she hasn’t seen me.\nI returned that day to my temple. By then, all had been forgiven. In my absence, the unseen ones had repented.\nAnd I had absolved them.\nAll was as it was.\nA horrible phrase. But accurate.\nI have just thought of a few other instances where events have strayed from the norm but quite honestly, I tire of this monologue.\nCatalogue.\nI shall, however, ne’er forget my sojourn, my time on the streets. I have lost count of the days since then it has been.\nIn all actuality, however, and given the choice, I prefer infinitely the solace of my temple.\nFresh fish brought from the river. The occasional mouse. Cool, refreshing water as I want.\nBut every now and again. When the urge strikes. And a sentimental reminiscence descends upon my spirit. I will spare a thought.\nTo the milk.\nBut not often. Not every day. Nor even every week.\nAnd now, on I go. On to other matters. More pressing matters. And my plush-pillowed plinth.\nIn closing, and to be most truthful, I have reconsidered and am decided that there is actually a part of me that cares. And I am convinced now, having thought about it extensively, that, in fact, the string was, most definitely, blue.\n\nThe End\n\nYou’re 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: The Future Shines Bright for Some and Dark for Others\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1408\n\nPrompt:\n\nAn apparent coincidence occurs. Write a story about a character who suspects paranormal, spiritual, or criminal causes." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I wish I could relive this day, like how one hits the reboot button on a website. For this was the day that would change my life forever.\n“Greetings students! Welcome to UNE History 1,” cried the teacher as everyone finished taking their seats, “I’m so glad you chose this class. In this course, we will cover the entire history of the UNE.”\nI glanced around nervously, scanning the sea of students for anyone I knew. This was my first day of Upper-Level Education, and I was scared to death. I don’t know anyone here, I thought to myself nervously, I’ll just have to make the best of it. \n“Attention students!” cried the teacher derailing my train of thought. “Please sit back and relax, while we watch this informational video to introduce you to the history of the UNE!” \n“Welcome. The video you are about to see discusses the history of the UNE. Please enjoy,” said the monotone narrator as the film began. \n“The UNE was an organization that came into existence in the year 2030. The United Nations of Earth was brought to life by Arther Winchester. The U.S. Supreme Judge had a dream to bring the world together, after the devastating events of World War 3,” claimed the narrator, “This war caused the downfall of every single country except, Russia and Canada. The world was left to ruins, so Mr.Winchester, and other remaining world politics, joined together to create the UNE. Using their limited resources, they were able to construct a large enough army to take down Russia and Canada. Bringing a new era of peace to the planet Earth.”\n“After taking out Russia and Canada, the UNE claimed the world as theirs. The UNE rebuilt many cities but also created new ones. Under the UNE countries could not exist, making it easier to unite the population of Earth,” continued the narrator, “Some people were still angry about the war. These unfortunate people had to be terminated, so the rest of the population could flourish. Today the UNE can ensure a peaceful and accepting home to all of humanity. This year is the 25th anniversary of the UNE’s take over. Thank you for watching!” \nBriiiiing! The lunch bell rang. The video was finally over. I couldn’t wait to get out of here. Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Robert K. I don’t have a last name because I was abandoned by my parents at the hospital. Luckily a special government program picked me up. They named me Robert K. The name Robert is honoring the 1980’s and the K is my alphabetical designation for the special government group. I’m a tall and skinny kid, with pitch-black hair, and blue eyes. You can always see me wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I’m a 17-year-old student at UNE High School number 5,672, in the Northern World Region. I’m a straight A+ student with lots of friends. Speaking of my friends here they come now. \n“What’s up, bro,” shouted Matt F over the lunchroom crowd. \n“Not much Matt!” I shouted back. “Meet me at our table!” Matt nodded in understanding.\nWhen I reached the table, Matt was waiting for me. His eyes shone with excitement. I knew something bad was going to happen. \n“So me, and the other guys were wondering if you are up for a challenge,” stated Matt with a cunning tone in his voice.\n“Sure. What is it?” I asked casually.\n“We all double-dog dare you to take a walk down Danger Alley after school,” he says excitedly, “All by yourself.”\n“I don’t know,” I said skeptically. I had heard terrible stories about Danger Alley. People would go there and just disappear.\n“Come on man! Don’t be a wimp!” he cried loudly so everyone could hear. Now I knew there was no getting out of this. So I accepted his challenge. \nLater that day, after school, I went straight to Danger Alley to get this over with. The alleyway looked awful. Trash and litter was strewn all over the place. Rats and cockroaches twice their size had invaded the alley, and taken refuge within the garbage. I had to be careful where I stepped, or I would hear something squish or squeak beneath my feet. The smell from all of this was enough to kill someone. I need to get out of here, I thought to myself before it's too late. I began to turn back the way I came, but suddenly a man was standing there with a sly grin on his face and a gun in his hand. \nI could instantly feel my heart begin to pick up speed as the man took a silent step closer. My worst nightmare had come true. I would disappear without a trace like so many others who had traveled down this alley. My palms become sweaty, and start to shake uncontrollably. For some reason, I felt compelled to fight this man before he shot me, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen, not in my frightened state. I felt like I was going to have a panic attack, so I did what any sensible person would do, I ran.\n Stop! Go back, a voice screamed in my head, You can take him. I don't know why my mind would ever think such a thing in this kind of situation. I kept running down the alley. My chest began to hurt, and I was drenched in sweat. I continued to run until I ran into a dead end. My heartbeat even faster now. I swear I could see it getting ready to burst out of my chest. The man was still walking silently toward me. I knew he would be here any second, so I began frantically searching for an exit. I ran my fingers along building walls searching for an escape route. Finally, I found a hidden window. I struggled to open it at first, but I got a rush of adrenaline when I saw the man was only 4 feet away. The window burst open, and I practically flew through it. I was met with what felt like 1,000 volts of electricity, and then everything went black.\nI awoke later with blurry vision and a headache. I had somehow arrived at the police station. My head felt like a ping pong ball was bouncing around inside of it. When I finally felt somewhat better, an officer approached me.\n“Thanks for your help kid,” said the officer with a concerned look, “because of you we caught that murder in the act.” \n“Excuse me what?” I stuttered confused. At that moment I instantly remembered this man. “You’re Matt F’s Governmental Guardian!” \n“Yes, I am. Jim Hopper is my name, and crime-stopping is my game,” said the officer enthusiastically, “Matt told us you volunteered to risk your life and draw that man out.”\n“So Matt tricked me?” I asked stunned. “He dared me to go to Danger Alley.”\n“Oh,” said the officer with a surprised look on his face, “We thought you had volunteered to help us catch this crook that we’ve been trying to catch for months now.”\n“No of course not!” I shouted angrily. “Why would I risk my life like that?”\n“Well you did, and I thank you for that.” the officer said compassionately. “Oh, and sorry about using a taser on you. We thought we had gotten the crook.”\nI stood up and stormed out of the police station. Officer Hopper tried to convince me to come back, but I was too focused on getting far away from there. \nLooking back I see how this greatly affected who I am now. I later confronted Matt and told him we were no longer friends. He told me it was a joke, but it wasn’t funny to me. Now I’m always cautious around people because they can be dangerous. I feel like I can never trust a human being ever again. I now know that the darkness of the world waits around every corner. Like my parents leaving me, or that man with a gun, or those naive police officers. They are the darkness I now have to look out for. My life is like a crosswalk, I’m always looking for cars hoping not to get run over. This one incident caused me to realize what the world really is. Now I must brace myself for what is still to come." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Don't be an idiot (a story about a boy and a cat crossing paths in Classical Athens)\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1432\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cat living in an ancient temple, like the Acropolis." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "**********************************************************\n\nLying on the ground, in the mud\nGrass between my fingers\nHeart beating pain\nNo courage to pull out the blade.\nContemplating my destiny patiently\nThe caring touch of rain on the earth\nWhat an ancient and sacred ground\nEons and eons, layer over layer\nDifferent colors of soil, different textures\nIron, bone, and void\nRoots spreading beneath, into another world.\nTo the mystical powers of Gaia, the giantess, and her children\nTo Hecate, the goddess sorceress\nThe earthly Hermes, who accompanies the souls to the Underworld\nI'll drink to my future king and queen, Hades and Persephone.\n********************************************************\n\nWho's there?\nOr where.\nA crossroad in the woods\nA thick blanket of salty mist hovers everywhere like a disease.\nWild dogs' barks break the eerie silence.\nWhat kind of dark nymphs lurk on travelers,\nWhat kind of sick illusion the children of the Night will play now?\nA torch! Shh... Someone's approaching from a distance, let their purpose appear.\nWho's there?\nIt's not one torch but three, held by three figures, female forms walking side by side.\nOh, the great protector of crossroads and travelers!\nBowing, I see closely the rocky path and decide to go forward\nI hear the sound of water, and instantly, deep inside I know what I must do, I should meet the boatman.\nAhead there's a man holding a walking stick leading the group.\nAll walking, with a still sense of time until we finally got there, at the edge. \nMore people await their ride.\nBut no one's making conversation.\n********************************************************\n\nTraveling through my memories, an odd sense, time confused. I let myself go, and I stop resisting.\n\n\nThere I am, as a teenage boy, accompanying my father to the Agora. We come from Erchia, and we are from the clan of Aigeis, one of the famous ten clans of Athens. Going to the Agora always was of great joy to my father despite the travel time, we would go there once in a while to find it busy, crowded, and lively. Men are casually walking, greeting, gathering, and shouting. There are some other people running errands in a rush. He used to say that it was the place to be, meet, and socialize to get information on what is going on, and seemed to value it rather highly.\n\n“Son, one day you will be a citizen, you must learn to be responsible and care about public matters”\n\"But, why?\"\n\"It's our city, only an idiot cares for himself alone. If something happens to our city, would it not affect the people living in it, our family included?\"\nI nodded, and he touched his gray beard with a serious look, which years later finally understood, was a concern about the future.\n\nI was curious about his expression for a moment, and then my attention diverted to the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, it was a cat with fur like red ceramics, pale paws, and light green eyes. I followed the creature up the hill to his hideout, a small corner outside the yard of the Parthenon temple on the Acropolis hill.\n\nWhere had he come from? Perhaps he had run away from a ship at the Piraeus harbor and followed the flow of people and smells of food, finding the way to the city. Or perhaps, started some farm up from Thebes, smuggled himself in a merchant's carriage, and made his way in the Long Walls, which was another stop of his adventurous travels. I was fascinated by what its story could be, such a mystery. \n\nI kept going to Agora with my father and finding chances to feed the cat and play near the hill, which was like our observatory, and starting point for exploring different streets and corners of the city. I had a stick from an olive tree and he seemed so fond of chasing the yet-green olives. One day, I was thinking about what would be an appropriate name for him, and finally, I found the one: Planet. It means \"he, who wanders\", which seemed perfect. I was overjoyed, and since that day, Planet and I had become best friends. \n\n\nHe was yet a kitten when I first found him, but as I was growing up, he was growing as well. He became an adult cat. Soon, I was of age to vote at the city gatherings.\n\nThings had changed a lot. My father was weak and sick, and I was considered the man of the house, responsible for participating in the city gatherings, managing our property and resources, and taking care of my elderly mother and my two younger sisters. \n\nAs if these were not enough, a war was going on, and I had to carry out my military duty as a citizen. Bad timing, but who knows what Fates have in store in any case. I was not good at fighting, I knew as a youngster when I tried my hand at sports. Again and again, it was proven it was not my gift, and I was fine with it. I just liked to watch theater performances of great stories, listen to philosophers rant with no end about what is a virtuous way to live, and spend my time carefree on sunny days laying under the shadow of a fig tree. Was that too much to ask? I am an Athenian, I am not a Spartan warrior, neither had I ever wanted to meet one for that matter. They didn't appreciate the arts and were incredibly rude and direct, or so I heard.\n\nI wanted to go back to my carefree times, as those thoughts were crossing my mind with Planet by my side. He was the symbol of my most innocent times. He seemed tense as if he was feeling the god of war himself approaching our beloved city. It was in the air, the screams, the smoke, the smell of blood.\n\nI wished to get away from it all. But I had responsibilities to my family and duty to my city. I petted Planet and decided to walk with him a round of the city before I head to battle. It is like he felt that I was not coming back, I did not want to think about it though. I felt like an imposter, with the armor hanging on my body, such an unfamiliar feeling, pulling me closer to mother earth.\n\n\"Alright, off you go!\", I showed him a way out of the city, but he was just sitting there, staring at me.\n\n\"Go on, then! Go, save yourself, my dear friend, you are the only one who is free to go, do it for the both of us\"\n\nAs if Planet really listened, he nodded with his eyes wide open, and escaped through the opening, moving with grace and elegance. As I admired him for the last time, I held my weapons next to me and headed to the designated meeting place I was supposed to present myself. To escape the moment, I kept daydreaming about the next travels and adventures of my friend, who would be running away, going towards the countryside.\n\nAccording to the stories I heard when I was growing up, the oracle said, \"The wooden walls will be your redemption\". That divination was perhaps three generations ago. What was that even supposed to mean? Well, to many it meant the obvious, to stay in the fortress-like protection of the Acropolis. Others thought it was suicide, as our resources would run out and we would turn against each other. They preferred going to the ships, our fleet being strong and skilled. This is how we won the sea battle at Salamis against Xerxes and the Persian navy. But now, against the Spartans, would it work again? Which wooden walls this time?\n\nIt didn't matter much, as we were being defeated at all fronts, and slaughtered by the opposing side.\n\nThey told us, \"Don't be an idiot, let's fight, and we shall win, we are worthy of winning\", politicians and generals seemed sure. Alcibiades was not to be trusted from start, and many like him made plenty of promises.\n\nIn this war, I didn't see any winners, only weary souls, mourning mothers, sick, and dead bodies.\n\n\"Don't be an idiot, glory awaits\", Aries whispered to the ears of the soldiers with a greedy grin. Then, there was only blood.\n\n\n\nMaybe the only redemption for this costly foolishness of mortal men will be in the wooden walls of graves, I discovered as I was arriving at the crowded gates of the Underworld.\n\n**********************************************************" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Potential\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who starts noticing the same object or phrase wherever they go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"You're very talented, sweetheart.\"\n \"You're not like other kids.\"\n \"You're special.\"\n Ever since I was born, I've been told I was extraordinary. That I was smart, that I was creative, that I was bright and clever. And I believed it.\n I pushed myself to every limit and went through life floating on the appreciation, the admiration. I could draw, I could write, I could sing, I could speak, I could do math problems in my head. It was all perfect until ninth grade, when I 'grew up'.\n Ninth grade was supposed to be the hardest class yet, where smart people failed. But I was determined to excel at it and prove everyone wrong. I took on many classes and worked meticulously, not letting anyone or anything lead me astray.\n I had a major friendship crisis that year, in which I alienated myself from my best friends (only friends, really), but I still trudged ahead. I broke up with my longterm boyfriend, but I still didn't let it distract me. That is, until my midterms.\n My mouth went numb and my mind shattered; there's no way I could possibly have gotten such average marks! I went about that month numbly, the emotions I had channeled into my work now rising up and swallowing me. And when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. Because that's when the phrase started.\n My math teacher was disappointed in my marks and sighed to my mother, \"She's got potential, ma'am, she's just not working hard enough.\" I looked at my shoes, tears filling my eyes. I had worked hard. How much harder did I have to work?\n The next week, my German teacher told me, \"Dear, you're a bright chid. I've never quite met a student like you. You've got potential.\"\n \"I know you can do better.\"\n \"You're a bright kid.\"\n \"Work harder.\"\n And so it began. Even after ninth grade, where I somehow managed to rank in the upper 2 per cent of my class, it continued. Even after I took on new teachers, it continued.\n Potential, potential, potential.\n I could be truly great, if I just tried. I was gifted with an IQ so unusual, that I was wasting it by scoring just slightly above than average grades. I had potential.\n Now it's been three years. I thought I'd left that phrase behind, the phrase which quite literally haunted my dreams. But it was not to be.\n I had recently taken on harder subjects, so as to gain admission into a respectable college next year. I was doing many extra-curricular activities and trying to keep up with the work. It was difficult and I was barely keeping my head above the water but, I was trying. I was kicking and thrashing, not letting the water level rise. But then.\n \"Your daughter is very intelligent, but she can score better. I know she can. She's got the....\"\n Potential. Some might take these words as a compliment, which is probably how the speakers meant them, but to me, it was always a blow to the stomach. These matters hit me much harder than they're supposed to and this recurring nightmare of mine had finally broken me.\n After this incident, I went about my life the same, but it was much more difficult than before. I struggled to keep up with my work and attending classes was torture. Every moment and action drained me, my voice dropped to a dull whisper and I could not enjoy anything.\n My head was well and truly below the water, and it was only a matter of time before I drowned.\n Potential, potential, potential.\n Every time someone told me I had 'potential', I always had a vivid mental image: I was a thin, copper wire, curled into a small spiral. Electricity flowed through me, golden and powerful, humming at the edges. There was so much of it, that I could burn the world if I wanted to. A little spiral with too much potential energy. But how much of it could I utilise without melting and permanently damaging the spiral? Nowadays, I felt burned and charred, my electricity slowly dying.\n Everything accumulated and festered and it finally broke free one day. It was simple enough: my sister was taking a shower in the bathroom we shared, even though I wanted to do so before her, in order to fit in a small study session before school.\n I dropped to my knees as my mother frowned at my 'overreaction' and I clasped my hands on my ears. I felt like clawing my skin out, because there was nothing else I could do. There was nothing I could do about the huge pile of work I had to do. 'Potential'. There was nothing I could do about improving my academic performance. 'Potential'. There was nothing I could do to better myself. 'Potential'.\n So I screamed. I screamed as loud as I could, my voice breaking in the middle, the sound slightly muffled by my hands. The scream sounded unnatural and funny perhaps, but it felt nice not to hear anything for a change. It drowned out whatever my mother was reprimanding me for, whatever my father was disappointed in me for. It drowned out that insufferable word that would not leave me. It felt good, hands on my ears and my throat ripping, the coolness of the marble floor on my aching knees.\n After my voice left me, I curled into a ball and wept. My parents worriedly clamoured around me as I explained my plight to them, my hurt and my hopelessness. My mother hugged me without offering any solution whatsoever, which felt nice.\n I wish I had done it. I wish I had screamed. Because I just stood still and wept silently, it festered more. Nobody knows the rotten fungus growing inside me, and I wish I had told them. I wish I could escape that word. That phrase. And all the responsibilities that came with it.\n potential." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Satan's Tongue\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2894\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character being led somewhere by a stray cat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sunlight dappled the fallen leaves of the ground as Astrid Blackwood skipped through the well-worn pathway. She took a moment to breeze in the fresh spring breeze as she made her way into the Tumbledown village square. Her basket was thumping against her chest and her hair loose in her back. She hopped into the market square, heading for the direction of the bakery. She needed to buy some bread for her and her family’s supper. Her eyes glanced past the bakery and saw a black cat, prowling around the edges of the alleyway. That cat was the village cat, the one that no one ever adopted. It tended to just prowl around the neighborhood, watching over other houses. The cat was staring at her blankly, as if trying to send a message with its eyes. Astrid felt an urge to go up to it, to go inside the alleyway. \n“Whatcha looking at Astrid?” A voice called from behind her. She broke her stare with the cat and looked at whoever was calling for her. It was Helen Applebottom, the girl who lived beside her house. She was carrying a laundry basket, probably about to wash clothes by the river. Helen was okay, but she tended to be a little ditzy and tended to be quite giddy most of the time. \n“I’m looking at the cat over there. Maybe I should go in the alleyway and find out what’s in there.” Astrid answered, happy to see her. She was quite fond of Helen, despite her behavior.\nHelen frowned as her face darkened. \n“Oh, but won’t that be disobeying your father? I wouldn’t dare to displease a man!” She said, dramatically placing her hand over her forehead. “Why, that would be un-lady-like.”\nAstrid nodded her head, smiling slightly. She wasn’t going to listen to Helen though, though she did want to listen.\nShe opened her mouth to say something back before someone brushed past her, making her nearly fall over. She got up and glared at whoever knocked her over. It was Drian Pakson, the son of one of the richest men in the village. His father owned a cattle farm and owned two cottages. He was pampered like a baby, which led to him being quite snobby and spoiled. \nWhile Astrid was fuming from the clumsy move, Helen seemed as if she were about to faint from delight. All the village girls fawned over Drian and would do anything for him. Though I didn't know what they saw in him. \n“What are you girls doing here loitering in the middle of the marketplace?” He asked, sneering. Helen smiled dumbly as Astrid looked at him up and down with suspicion. \n“Why, I’m just about to head to the lake to wash my clothes!” Helen said enthusiastically, nodding her head towards her basket. “Would you like to join me? It would be such a pleasure walking with you.” She batted her eyelashes as she leaned towards him.\nDrian just ignored Helen and turned towards Astrid. \n“And what are you doing here?” He asked her, pushing Helen to the side. She stumbled, nearly dropping her basket of laundry. Astrid glared at Drian under her hair, wishing that he would just disappear. Why was he curious about what she was doing? \n“Why do you want to know?” She snapped, glaring at him hard. Helen gasped in horror, even though he had just pushed her to the ground. Talking rude to a man was strictly forbidden. Drian’s curious gaze hardened as Astrid kept her head high.\nHe grabbed her by her shirt collar and threw her on the ground. She landed with a thud, her basket\n“Just a warning to you, Blackwood. You do not want to cross me. You’ll learn to regret it.” He hissed as he turned away from them. “Tumbledown doesn’t take people like you.” \nHelen gazed sadly at him and turned to Astrid. She gave her a sad smile as she walked off to the river. She felt guilty for Helen, but she deserved to have someone better than Drian. \nShe turned to the side, finding the cat in the alley again, the same position as before. It was staring at her with empty eyes, as if beckoning for her to come follow it. This was the longest she and the cat had been with each other. They stared at each other for a while, not making a move until the cat finally broke eye contact and turned to run into the alleyway. Astrid hesitated for a second. \nShould I follow it inside the alleyway? She thought to herself. But, going there could possibly risk my safety, and Mother would be upset I’m late. Especially past dark. She looked longingly at the cat, its shape getting farther and farther away. But I would die of curiosity if I don’t! \n“Urgh!” She screamed through gritted teeth. That earned a few strange glances from the other villagers milling around the square. Astrid let her curiosity run over her as she chased after the cat, its tail just disappearing from the corner of the alleyway. She ran after it, running through the tilted boxes and pieces of trash lying around the alley. The cat was going everywhere, turning left and right and making turns so sharp that Bernadette nearly lost it a couple times. The dark alleyway slowly went from the dark concrete pathway and turned into dirt and patches of flowers and grass.\nIt’s leading me to the forest! She thought as she took another turn through a few trees. The branches scratched her face and her hair got caught in the sticks. Astrid took a moment to catch her breath, panting heavily. The cat was staring at her as if waiting for her to catch her breath before shooting off into the woods again. \nShe groaned before running off towards the cat again. This time, the cat stopped short, leaving Astrid skidding on the ground. She took a moment to look at her surroundings before seeing that the cat had led her to a wounded animal. Not just any animal, a bear. \nBears were said to be dangerous, known to be brutal with anyone straying outside of the village. Mothers would warn their children to stay away from the forest, from the bears. Astrid backed away from the bear, trying to get as far away from it. She expected it to leap up and attack her, but paused for a second. It was breathing heavily, its eyes closed as it bled. She stepped closer, kneeling down to examine the wound.\n It was no predator, She thought, lifting her hand to her chin. There were no scratches, except a hole in its leg, clearly a gunshot. Astrid winced as she saw that the wound was pretty deep inside its flesh. \n Who could it have been, shooting a bear? Astrid pondered, shifted her legs. She didn’t want to get hurt or attacked, but she didn’t want the bear to die, either. \nShe sighed, getting up from her place on the ground. No creature deserved to die like this, even though it could kill men with a swift whip of a paw. Astrid opened her basket and took out her small canteen of water. She poured a little on its wound to clean it before dabbing it gently with her dress. \nNow what? She asked, putting her hands on her hips. The sun was starting to set behind the trees and Astrid was worried whether she would have to walk through the woods in the dark. She could wrap some leaves around it, but that might infect it even more. Astrid looked hard at the bear before ripping some of her dress and soaking it in the water. She wrapped it around the bullet wound, tying it up so it wouldn’t fall off. Blood immediately soaked through her makeshift bandage, spreading quickly.\nThe bear’s breathing hadn’t calmed, and she was worried whether it would heal or not. She wasn’t a healer or anything, only men were so her knowledge was quite limited. Astrid sighed and sat down again. It was dark now, and the woods were starting to turn into a dark blur. The cat leaped down from its place on a tree and walked around the bear. It was as if it were thinking about what to do next. It stopped short upon the uneven bandage Astrid had made and seemed to look at it closely. Alice blushed with embarrassment before she could stop it.\nGetting embarrassed because of a cat, get a hold of yourself, Astrid. \nThe cat kept examining it before sitting down. It stayed in that position for a few minutes before something strange started to happen. Astrid felt…tingly. It felt as if a thousand ants were crawling up her arms and legs. Then, her hands started to flow. She gasped, nearly falling over. Bear’s leg had started to glow as well, the tingly sense getting stronger and stronger. \nWhat’s happening? She thought, panicking. Why was everything glowing? The light on her hands and the leg of the bear started to fade away before it was back to normal.\n Astrid was in shock. What happened? What’s wrong with me? The thoughts swirled in her head as she tentatively took off the bandage of the bear. She gasped when she saw that the bullet wound was gone! She looked towards the cat before looking back at the bear.\nHow is this possible? She asked herself.\nAstrid didn’t have a moment to think before she heard yelling and the sound of footsteps beating on the ground.\n“A WITCH!” A voice roared from behind. Astrid whipped her head to see that a group of villagers were behind her, holding torches and pitchforks. John Pakson, the father of Drian, was leading the group of villagers. \n She looked up nervously, making eye contact with him. \n“A Blackwood girl? What are you doing here, girlie?” He asked, leaning in closer. The torch pushed into her face, the heat making her flinch. “What’s that cat doing here?” He spat, nodding his head towards it.\n“I wandered into the woods by accident and found myself here.” Astrid started, trying to look convincing. “The cat has just followed me there, and I am no witch.” \nShe still had no idea what had happened with her and the bear’s injured leg, let alone whether she was a witch or not. \n“A witch and the tongue of Satan! We must burn her at once!” John announced, pointing at her dramatically. The cat hissed and started scratching at his pants. Kicking the cat away, he raised his hands to the air. \n“Hear hear!” The villagers roared with agreement. They waved their torches with excitement. They advanced towards her, grabbing her by her arms.\n“No! Let go of me!” Astrid screamed, prying the arms of the villagers off of her. “Please, I’m not a witch! Let me go!” She pleaded, falling down onto her knees. Tears sprung up into her eyes. \nThe villagers ignored her pleas and more came to grab her. Astris kept struggling as they dragged her through the forest and into a clearing. The baker from the market place was holding her hands together while his wife and some other villagers were tying the rope to her hands.\n‘Mr. Baker, please! You’ve got to know I’m innocent.” Astrid said, looking up at him hopefully. \nHe looked at her coldly, a look he had never given her before. “You are a disgusting witch, I would never help you.” He snarled, turning away from her.\n“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!” The villagers chanted loudly. They started gathering straw and leaves and placing them under the stick. Astrid looked desperately amongst the crowd. She could see her mother. Surely she would help her!\n“Mother! Please help me!” She cried out, trying to get her attention. “It's me! Astrid!” Her mother looked up to see her, her eyes widening with surprise. To her surprise, her mother shielded her eyes and turned away from Astrid, as if she didn’t want to even see her. Astrid choked out a sob. Her own mother didn’t want anything to do with her. The villagers kept piling up the straw and wood until everything was all set up.\nSomeone, a young boy, walked out of the crowd, holding a large torch. Astrid had to squint to see who he was.\n“People of Tumbledown Village, you have been gathered here tonight to witness the burning of this witch.” He announced, turning towards her. It was Drian, smiling at her with a wicked smile playing on his lips. “The speaker of Satan, the Daughter of Lucifer! We cannot have such evil lurking in our town. Tonight, she will burn!” He cried, raising his arms. The villagers went wild.\n“No!” Astrid cried, kicking through her ropes uselessly. “You are the real evil lurking around this village! I have done nothing wrong! Release me at once!” \nDrian clucked his tongue, his mouth turning into a terrible sneer. “There, you see, she speaks the tongue of Satan! We must get rid of such abominations!” \nA murmur shot through the crowd of villagers. Drian’s face turned into a dark scowl. \n“Tonight, we will give the honor of burning this witch and favoring God Himself to this fine lady right here.” He said, motioning for someone to come forward. \nIt was Helen! She walked up to the front of the crowd nervously, fiddling with the end of her dress. Astrid could see doubt playing in her eyes. Maybe if she could just convince her to stop maybe I could save myself and her. \n“Helen,” she croaked, looking into her eyes. “Helen, don’t do this. This isn’t you.” \nShe looked at me apologetically, before looking at Drian. He nodded. Helen stood, trembling in her place, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. The world seemed to lean in as she raised her torch slowly. She dropped the torch on the hay bale, setting the wood aflame. \nThe villagers cheered as they ran forward to place their torches down as well. Drian turned to me and smiled maliciously before placing down his own torch. \nAstrid screamed as the flames started to build up higher and higher. The heat licked at her feet, as if testing its limit. Hot tears streamed down her face as she screamed for someone, anyone, to save her.\nShe looked to the side to see that the cat was watching her with its wide eyes, staring at her blankly. Astrid snarled. It was the reason why she was in this in the first place. She was about to turn back away when she noticed that it had something behind it. It was the bear from earlier, lumbering through the forest with its big legs. \nThe bear burst out from the forest trees and roared. The villagers screamed in terror as they dispersed, including Drian and his father. \nThe people were the least of Astrid’s problems, though. The flames were building higher and higher, nearly reaching her ankles. She screamed for help, looking desperately at the animals.They stood there helplessly, not knowing what to do.\nAstrid kicked her legs and tried untying the rope, but nothing was working. Then, the tingly sensation came over her again. Her ropes glowed and slowly, they untied. Just in time, too. The flames had reached the wooden stick she was on and started to go up in flames. \nAstrid had escaped the rope, but how was she going to get through the mound of flaming hay and wood? She was trapped, it was useless. But, somehow, the flames went out, leaving only a trail of smoke. She looked at her hands to see if she had done it, but there was no glow or tingle. \nAs the smoke cleared up, she could see that it was Helen, holding a bucket of water. \n“Astrid, I’m sorry for setting the hay ablaze,” She said quietly, setting down the bucket. “But you and your…friends need to get out of Tumbledown now. The villagers will be coming back anytime soon to finish what they started. Get out while you can, Astrid.” Helen warned, her eyebrows furrowed in worry.\nShe was about to turn away before Astrid grasped her hand. She looked deep into her eyes before letting go.\n“Thank you so much Helen. I know it wasn’t easy disobeying the rules, especially around… you know.” Astrid said, staring at her. \nHelen looked down with embarrassment and sadness. \n“I don’t like Drian, Astrid.” She said quietly. “I like you.” Astrid’s face went up into flames. She liked her? Astrid stuttered for a second before Helen planted a kiss on her cheek. \n“Now run off and don’t ever come back to this town, understood?” She said sternly. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”\n“Can’t you come with me?” Astrid asked, grasping her arm. Helen looked down again, shaking her head.\n“I must stay here, for my family.”\nShe nodded quietly, both in silence before a crash came from the other side of the woods. Helen’s head whipped up.\n“It's the villagers, hurry, you must go!” She whispered, pushing her forward. Astrid, the bear, and the cat scurried to the forest, taking one last look at Helen. \nShe waved sadly before disappearing into the forest, never to return to Tumbledown 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: Looking in a bookstore or library for a sign from God. Why not a church?\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1073\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character looking for a sign." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I almost always get lost. It is a habit; I think. Why? To find one’s self, one has to be completely lost at times.\nThat is at least part of my thought process. I usually look for a sign to follow.\nExamples?\nIf I am new to a town and want a great place to eat? Find a large person who eats out and follow them or ask them where they like to eat.\nWhy? Most large people or strong people tend to eat at good places because they like decent meals.\nSigns are everywhere these days, about the ends of time. But I keep on ranting and raving and finally giving up on people. Why?\nBecause it is the signs of the time.\nCan only point out 666 and 2000060606 so many times as the patent number for cryptocurrency being put into the vaccine. Before people don’t listen. Or maybe they already accepted their fate and don’t care?\nFate? That is a sign. Fate is real.\nLet’s be honest, I used to believe in you make your own luck. And? I am a fickle person to luck. I have lost my business, my career, my eyesight, my left foot, right ankle, etc. I thought God had a plan for me. And luck be there, I will fulfill it.\nNow?\nNow I realize Fate is real. It is not what you expect. Everything, even evil, is planned out for by God. Which means? There is no such thing as chance.\nChance? Betting all that is wild, not luck or chaos. There is no such thing as chaos.\nThat seems rather not true people claim. All I can say is John Von Neumann’s last paper, which is not published in this reality, stated the math terminology that chaos is not real.\nThat makes this whole game absurd if you read the Secret of Light and realize you are nothing more than an advanced avatar in an absurd game called life.\nI thought I would play the game of life better, to be honest with you.\nA sure sign that I don’t know nothing and you? You need to figure out the signs of the time.\nThe religions are dying.\nPeople are not praying.\nPray for peace is all I can say. That too is a sign.\nPeace, peace, but they will get nothing but war.\nThat is the signs of the time.\nWith that as an introduction. At times, I get lost by signs. I recall being lost in Washington, D. C for a time. Circled the whole city twice because they removed a off ramp sign. And?\nI found a bookstore. And asked for directions. And they told me the sign was down. Would have saved me an hour of driving if I had done that sooner.\nHowever, while I was there. I found a book. I would suggest you read it with care.\nIt is a dark secret. If you read it wrongly, you could end up who knows where.\nThe book? The Secret of light. What will it tell you?\nComplexity and poetry aside?\nThat if you eat plants, and plants are stored light / energy. You are nothing more than stabilized light. Or an avatar? In some absurd game called life.\nWild no?\nOther secrets you can find at a library if you look for the right signs?\nDepends on what day and what reality you are in, I suppose.\nFor some realities, they have forgotten how to read. And being ignorant, they proclaim their intelligence. By making those who read, sit back and watch the ends of time.\nI suppose the Bible is a good sign. It shows a road map. Be good. Sure, sure. Do good. Yeap, yeah. Nothing wrong with stating do unto others as you would have them do unto you.\nPray for peace? That is extremely good.\nPray even harder maybe that will change reality?\nWhy?\nThe signs all point to the ending of time.\nMark of the Beast? Yeap got that Revelations 13.\nPlague of the beast? Yeap, got that too Revelation 6.\nFamine in the world? Seems more than two billion people are hungry. Instead of water or food, someone is paying to make them into vaccinated robots? So, Revelation 6 famine year, yeah that too.\nWar? The book “50 Facts That Should Change The World” says a third of the world’s population is at war. So war of 25 percent of the world seems already doable in 2008 and in 2021 even more.\nSo signs? What is the reality we live in today?\nMe? I don’t live here. I am passing through. That is a sure sign. I am passing through and say thank you for being here. I hope you pray for peace and pray to God for repentance and change your ways of doing good and being good.\nThat is, there are the signs needed for today. To pray for peace. Not just scream peace. Live at peace.\nWhat signs am I looking for?\nI am no longer sure. I used to be able to look at signs in the library or bookstore and could tell which way a reality was heading.\nWhy?\nToo much sex decay. Too much war poverty. Too much food gluttony. Too much evil lack of justice.\nThe signs were always on the bookshelves. Meaning? You walk in and could tell what people and the world were thinking about. Meaning? You are what you put into your mind.\nAnd the outcome of what you put into your mind is already historically shown what the outcome is.\nYou put too much x in you get triple rated xxx. You put too much violence in you get too much violence.\nThe same with bookstores and libraries.\nIf you wanted stable families, you would put in Walton’s or some family show where people cared.\nYou want divorce or unhappy women. Give them a love romance where the guy pays the bills. Comes home fixes her hair. And washes her cats. All while making love to her. Come on. You become what you think.\nMeaning? There is a reason the dragons stopped eating people in these realities. So many village idiots because a dragon knows you become what you eat. Signs?\nSure I can see signs. What can you see?\nSo? There I was in a library looking for signs. And? I found one. Read the short story in comments." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 So Stories\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1777\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a big cat — whether that’s a lion, cheetah, etc., or just a chunky pet." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Richard III. The Wicked Witch of the West. The first Mrs. Rochester.\nThey’ve all had their day, the retelling of their stories. No longer unadulterated villains thanks to sympathetic authors, these figures have overcome the prejudices of history to revel in the spotlight of understanding.\nNow it is my turn to right a terrible wrong. My name is Satya, Bringer of Truth, and I am one of that most noble of creatures, a Bengal tiger. Many years ago my great-great grandfather happened upon an ailing tiger in our jungle. His name was Shere Khan, and thanks to that bastard Kipling and those mealy-mouthed humans at Disney, it is a name that lives in infamy to this day.\nWhat were his crimes, you ask? Being a tiger, evidently, and caring about his fellow creatures, no more than that. Yet here he was, burned, crippled, and dying. He spent his last few hours relating his story to my ancestor, who has passed it down through the generations in the hope that one day the truth would be told about this most virtuous feline.\nSo here is Khan’s story in his own words, starting from the beginning, because that is where all the best stories start.\n\nI was born with a lame foot. In the jungle, this generally means death, as a lame tiger cannot hunt or protect itself. (There’s good reason the phrase ‘It’s a jungle out there’ isn’t meant to imply the place is full of soft, cuddly creatures.)\nMy parents could not hide their disappointment at my infirmity and my father soon left, as is the way with our species. My mother continued to nurture me for a while, thought she nicknamed me ‘Lungri’, the Lame One. Eventually, I learned to use my hated foot well enough to hobble around and run for short bursts, but I could not keep up with my brothers and sisters, who ignored me as someone they knew was not long for this world.\nOne morning I woke from a deep, pain-filled sleep to find I was utterly alone. My family had stolen off quietly to find better hunting ground, leaving me to fend for myself, knowing it was very likely I would die. Even my own mother had finally abandoned me.\nIn the following days I found that by staying incredibly still I could lull small rodents into close enough proximity for me to grasp them in my powerful front paws, and for a while this was the only food I had. But it was not enough to sustain me indefinitely. I could feel myself weakening day by day, until at last I simply gave in to sleep most of the time rather than contemplate my impending demise.\nBut on a particularly sultry night I was awakened by an unusual noise. It was unpleasant, like a cacophony of buzzards cawing simultaneously, and I smelled fear. Then I saw a flickering reddish-orange light approaching my lair, reflected along the underside of the jungle canopy.\nAlthough I’d been shunned by the other cubs, I’d overheard my mother telling them about a dread intruder known as ‘man’. This ‘man’ brought loud exploding sticks, she said, and they killed our kind for pleasure; not to eat or to survive, but simply to brag of their bravery and wear our magnificent skins in arrogant pride. They were aided by a horrific ‘red flower’, which had been known to swallow whole jungles and leave only blackened ash in its wake. Mother warned her cubs to keep far from this creature as it was proven to be vengeful and vindictive.\nNow, though, it looked as if I had no choice in the matter as the red light came ever nearer. I scrunched backwards, terrified, into the shelter of a bush as the chattering, cawing sounds grew louder, until suddenly the red flower was there, right in front of my eyes, and the man thing attached to it was making deafening, drawn-out noises. I lashed out in desperation to save my life, and my claws sunk deep into the man’s chest, quieting it instantly. Behind him was another, with a longer mane and more red flower, so I clawed at that one as well, until it also was quiet.\nI lay there panting heavily, and that was when I saw the man cub, hiding in the trees at the edge of clearing. I could smell that this was where the fear was strongest. It turned suddenly and ran, and I was simply too exhausted and slow to follow. I looked down at the two still creatures in front of me, and as my panic receded I realised that I would finally be able to fill my belly for the first time in weeks. But the loss of the young one continued to trouble me, and the next days were filled with unease even though my hunger was finally assuaged.\nAfter a week, my strength renewed, I groomed myself as best I could and set out in the direction the man cub had run, which I knew led toward the den of the local wolf pack. When I reached the cave, the wolf guards froze as I approached, and I felt my own touch of pride. The tiger is the acknowledged master of the jungle, and I attempted to walk more evenly so they would not note my lameness.\nI approached the leader, Akela, and politely demanded to know if he had seen the man cub. When he asked why, I explained what had happened, and that I thought it would be best to dispose of the man cub to prevent him from returning with reinforcements to destroy our home.\nTo my shock, Akela admitted to harboring the creature, and refused to give it up! Here I was, trying to save all of us, and being thwarted by this upstart dog.\nI may have spoken some harsh words in my dismay at this behavior. But being a lone tiger amongst a pack of wolves, I decided it was not the time to challenge Akela, so I turned around as gracefully as I could and headed back toward the jungle. After some distance I was conscious of being followed, and looked back to see some of the younger wolves from the pack. I growled at them and was pleased when they cowered from my majesty. One approached and asked me to repeat my story to them. Upon hearing it, they gathered together in some sort of discussion, which sounded merely like much yipping to my ears, and then thanked me graciously before heading home.\nI heard later that they challenged Akela, but I am not cognizant of the details and it was frankly none of my business. I was on my way to see Kaa, the eyes of the jungle, to ask for his assistance in spotting the man cub.\nKaa is a slippery fellow and one with whom I would not ordinarily want to do business, but he is a useful scout, and he agreed to help as long as I sent any extra live, embraceable food his way.\nI returned to my clearing to find one of those wretched jackals eating my kill. He was a mangy thing and ran for cover at the first site of me. I settled down for a nap, but the jackal kept trying to creep closer, obviously desperate for sustenance.\nHaving experienced starvation myself and being in a rare giving mood, I eventually gave the unfortunate creature permission to eat, which he did after approaching with some trepidation. Once sated, he retreated to a safe distance and nodded his thanks. I blinked my acknowledgement, which was apparently enough to encourage the jackal to tell me his life story. His name was Tabaqui and he became the only friend I would ever have, bringing me small offerings of food, sharing my own kills in return, and relieving my loneliness, although heaven knows there were times when peace would have been much preferred. How that jackal could talk! But though tigers are solitary as a rule, particularly the males of my species, there are few of us who revel in constant isolation, and eventually I came to trust him with my innermost thoughts. Tabaqui was also a useful messenger between myself and the other inhabitants of the jungle.\nIt was through Tabaqui that Kaa notified me when the wolves decided to send the man cub, who they had named Mowgli, back to its man village, and so began my long and tortuous journey to prevent it from reaching home and gathering reinforcements. It was a massive undertaking and there were skirmishes against many a misguided foe including a panther, a daft bear, and an insane monkey tribe. But I never wavered in my duty to protect the jungle and those within it, even when the wolves cruelly killed my faithful Tabaqui, leaving me bereft once again.\nIt is to my eternal shame that I failed in that duty, and soon I will be no more thanks to the inevitable return of the man creature with his red flower, just as I predicted would happen. I have done my best, but have fallen short. All I ask is that you share my story as a warning to others, for I can do more.\n*\nSatya here, again. Shere Khan died soon after he’d finished relating his sad tale to my great-great-grandfather. Lame, injured, and abandoned by all, he had nevertheless sacrificed his life to try and save his fellow creatures and the jungle that was his home.\nWorse still, time has proven his actions more than justified. Man has thrived, and now regularly brings the red flower to the forest to destroy us. My kind have nearly been wiped from the face of the planet, where once we ruled with grace and majesty. To this day we continue to be killed for our handsome skins, and others of us are forced to live humiliating lives in ‘wildlife parks’ where small, drooling man cubs watch while we despairingly prowl our tiny enclosures.\nYet over and over the name of Khan is vilified by dishonorable ‘man’ through its books and films in an attempt to rewrite history in its favor. Khan is credited with unwholesome deeds in which he played no part. This paragon who, if he was a human, would have been coddled and protected, is instead presented as sly, vindictive, overly proud, and a killer for pleasure. It is a masterwork of projection.\nBut now that you have heard his story, gentle reader, I will leave you with the final judgement. Shere Khan: Villain…or Visionary?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Necklace\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1951\n\nPrompt:\n\nAn apparent coincidence occurs. Write a story about a character who suspects paranormal, spiritual, or criminal causes." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The forest was quiet that day, the usual chirping of birds was replaced by the sound of leaves brushing against each other and the crack of sticks as Willow followed her favourite trail. The clouds hung low on the sky in a promise of rain but she didn’t plan on going back to her house any time soon. She had a horrible day at school, her bullies taunted and pranked her more than usual and all because of the dress she wore that day. She didn’t understand what she did wrong, it was a nice dress that she liked very much, it made her feel magical and pretty but I guess the goal of Jason Hollis and his group of devoted puppies was to shred any once of confidence Willow worked so hard to maintain. Her mom tried but failed to make her feel better with a kiss on the forehead and reassurance that she looked beautiful but that didn’t work so right after dinner she made her way to the woods behind her house. Not a lot of people came to that part of the forest because of the lack of marked hiking trails and Willow liked it that way. When she went out there the goal was to be alone, so she could think of all the things she wanted to say to her bullies but ultimately always decided against it on her way back home. So she walked and walked, recognizing some trees and bird nests along the way not really paying attention to the fact that the dress she wore might have been a little too long to be appropriate hiking attire. It occurred to her only when her skirt got caught on a root and her cheek nearly hit the ground. Pain shot through her palms that she used to break her fall and she groaned. The fall made her feel even worse, so she didn’t make a move to get back up, simply lying on the leaves and staring into the sky.\nShe didn’t know how long she spent laying there but a sudden rustle of the bushes startled her into sitting up. Willow looked around but she didn’t see an animal or a person nearby but decided to head home anyway. She was about to get up but a shimmering object peaking from underneath the leaves caught her attention so she kneeled near the spot and begun pushing the leaves and stick around. What she found made her surprised but happy at the same time. Taking the object into her hands she examined it curiously, it was a necklace, dirty and a bit muddy but looked to be in good shape. It has a silver chain with an amber pendant, the kind of amber pendant that had something encased inside of it. In this particular case, it was a small and delicate white spider. It was beautiful and Willow immediately decided to take it with her, it was too unique not to wear and if somebody recognized it while she wore it she would return it to the original owner. The walk was a good idea after all.\nWhen she returned home she was in a much better mood, she cleaned the necklace and showed it to her mom who admitted that it was indeed beautiful and helped her put it on. As soon as the chain was clasped around her neck Willow felt strangely safe but brushed the feeling off and decided to take a shower and go to bed.\n*\nWhen she woke up the next day Willow had a strange feeling, the one you have when you know you had a dream but you cannot remember what it was about. She tried to remember what it was but then her mom called for her to wake up. It was a Friday so Willow had a little more bounce to her step excited to get the day over with and be free of the hell hole that was her school for two days. She dressed, ate breakfast and hopping onto her bike she rode to school.\nThe first two periods were okay, English and Art were her two favourite subjects after all but the third period was math that she unfortunately shared with Jason and two of his goons. Her friend Lacy always walked with her to the class as a safety precaution and every day she said the same thing.\n“You really should talk to Principal Hayes about this. They’ve been bullying you for years!” Willow sighed\n“You know I talked to him about twenty times already and it only made it worse each time” She replied clutching the math book to her chest as her eyes scanned the hallway in case she needed to run or hide but it was too late. She felt someone shove her roughly into the nearest row of lockers.\n“Good morning freak!” she heard and turned to see the vicious grin on the face of Jason Hollis. Lacey immediately stepped between the two of them.\n“Leave her alone asshole!” Lacy yelled “Go look for the two brain cells you usually have, you must’ve dropped them somewhere” Jason only laughed and pushing past Lacy he walked into the classroom. “Are you okay?” Willow nodded but she could feel the bruise forming on her shoulder.\n“Thanks” she mumbled but Lacy waved her off as she assessed the damage. “I just wish he would leave me alone or better yet disappeared from the face of the earth so he can’t hurt anybody else” As soon as she said that a shiver travelled down her spine for visibly no reason.\n“Yeah I know” the bell rung “I gotta go but I’ll see you at lunch okay?” another nod and then Lacy was off leaving Willow alone to take one last deep breath before she walked into the classroom.\n\nThe weekend passed quicker than she would have liked but she enjoyed it, nevertheless. She went with Lacy to see the new horror movie that was in the cinemas, she bought a new book and spent some time with her mom. Ever since she got the necklace everything seemed to work out great and she dreaded the day she would have to give it back to its original owner but so far nobody claimed it. So, Willow kept it and never really took it off, she brushed off the occasional cold shivers, weird feelings of anticipation and the dreams she had nightly but couldn’t remember them and just lived her life.\nShe was pleasantly surprised to realize that nobody bothered her when she arrived at school the next Monday and she didn’t see Jason through the first and second periods. When she met with Lacy at lunch she said\n“I think that Jason is sick or something, nobody bothered me all day”\n“You haven’t heard?” Lacy asked surprised\n“Heard what?”\n“Jason is in the hospital” Willow raised her brow in surprise\n“What happened?”\n“From What May told be supposedly she got bit by some sort of venomous spider during a hiking trip with his parents and now he’s in a coma” Lacy explained “And the rest of his pals got caught drunk driving the same day and all of them were sent to a correction school” Willow couldn’t believe it.\n“Will he survive?”\n“I don’t know” A now familiar cold shiver run down Willows back. Something didn’t seem right here but she couldn’t quite place it. She instinctively grabbed the spider pendant on her neck and it hit her.\n“Willow? Are you okay?” She heard Lacy ask.\n“Yeah I just, I gotta get to class. See you tomorrow”\n**\nThe remaining two classes she had passed in a blur, she was so deep in thought that even her teachers got concerned but she couldn’t stop thinking. No, it’s not possible, is it? Stuff like that only happens in books and movies. She thought could the necklace be protecting her. Because she was a naturally clumsy and unlucky person, always sick or injured from a minor accident but since she found that necklace she had about a dozen near misses that could have ended horribly but somehow she got out of those situations unharmed. Going back to that moments in her mind she noticed that every time she was in danger she felt a hand on her left shoulder either pulling her back or pushing her forward. Willow was not a sceptic but she wasn’t a total believer in the supernatural either so the thought of something trapped in the necklace protecting her seemed bizarre but possible at the same time. There was only one way to test that theory.\nWillow did not even bother to go home, she drove straight to the edge of the woods, dropping her backpack to the ground and running to the nearest cliff-like constructions that the forest was full of. Once she was there she assessed the drop, it wasn’t high enough to kill her but it was high enough that if she jumped off of it she would definitely break a bone. So, taking a deep breath and laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation she prepared to jump when she felt a cold hand clasp around her wrist. When she turned around to see who stopped her she could not believe her eyes.\nThe creature was at least two feet tall and skinny, it had grey skin that was covered in something that looked like tattoos. Its face looked human-like but it was hollow, the eyes were black and its mouth and nose were covered with a black veil. It had some hair on the top of its head and a pair of wide stag antlers. Willow froze but for some reason, she was not scared, why would she be the creature who protected her after all. They looked each other in the eyes for a second and then she felt a slight tug on her wrist again and understood that the creature wanted her to step away from the cliff's edge.\n“Oh yes, sorry,” she said and stepped closer to the creature looking back up at it. “Who are you?” the creature stayed silent but let go of Willow's wrist. “You can’t speak?” the creature nodded. “Okay. Can I ask a couple of questions anyway?” another nod. “Are you protecting me?” The creature nodded “Why are you protecting me?” a pale grey hand with long fingers pointed at the necklace that Willow suspected was the reason for the whole bizarre situation. “Do you want me to set you free? Send you away?” this time the creature shook its head violently the antlers rustling some nearby branches. “Okay! Okay, I won’t send you away. I’ll let you protect me” The creature calmed down visibly and slowly sat down on the ground so now it and Willow were face to face. “If we’re going to stay together I need you to promise me something” another rustle of leaves as the creature moved its head to the side in a questioning manner. “If you are going to protect me and make people disappear I’d rather you not harm them physically if you can. Make them move out or do the thing you did with Jason’s friends but I want Jason to wake up and his family suddenly decide that they should move out of town okay? I don’t want to have people getting harmed on my conscience.” The creature hummed reluctantly in agreement. “Good. Now what should I call you?” its grey shoulders moved in a shrug and Willow thought for a minute looking at the creature's antlers.\n“I think I will call you Bambi”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Touched by Time and Paws\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1213\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cat living in an ancient temple, like the Acropolis." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Passing along these ancient ruins of Ephesus, tourists felt the same nostalgia one experiences when they see an abandoned lot. A sense of human kinship for a time never lived through. A sadness at the remains of what was once a bountiful landmark. The happiness and pride in man-made architecture that has stood the test of time. The immortality of human creation. Travelers could rest easy knowing that one day their descendants would look upon their skyscrapers with the same nostalgia they felt in the crumbling Arcadian Theater. They could almost see the Greeks sitting in the dilapidated seats; listening to a lecture from philosophers or laughing at a comedy.\nOf course, they saw nothing. Except for some cats. Which caught their attention more than the history of their ancestors. Families and couples made cooing noises at the sight of cats that prowled out of their reach. There were many names thrown out to these cats. One of the patched mackerel tabbies with a white belly was affectionately named Hercules. \nHercules was like the rest of her fellow felines. She wove through the crumbling architecture with grace and sat in the sun with every intention of a mid-day nap. When the humans came to explore their domain, it unperturbed them. The visitors didn’t know the ruins as they did. They could disappear and then reappear in the blink of an eye, unbound to the 3D world like the humans were. There was an air of magic within the ruins that translated, to tourists, as nostalgia. Hercules and her furry companions knew the truth. This truth was not shocking to them, far from it. It did not stop them from their daily sunbaths nor their hunts for small birds. Hercules was less of a bird cat and liked to test her luck at the port to see if any fish came in. Today was one of those days. \nHercules jumped off her stone perch and made her way down to the port, making it there in seconds. She nosed at the shore when a fish finally came in through the tide. She put it out of its misery, eating clean off the bone. She made her way through the port entrance where the spirits of Ephesus began to flood the Arcadian Road.\nHercules strolled past glowing merchants who were selling tools to spirits and oblivious humans. Farmers shouted their prices for their olives and cheese. A mother was bargaining for honey and meat while her children ran alongside Hercules. They were attempting to tug her tail to no avail. Not enjoying the feeling of ghost children messing with her tail she leaped away from them and ducked behind the vast merchant stands. The smell of grains and wine mingled with the musk of merchants working to sell whatever they could. The rocks on the road flitted aside as she jumped out of the line of stalls, the spirits disappearing behind her. \nShe dipped into a brush and skidded just out of bounds of an incoming athlete making a very impressive long jump. Hercules scurried out of the gymnasium as the roar of the audience echoed behind her. Cats could teleport between the 3D and spirit world. No one said they were good at it. Trying again, Hercules relaxed; finding herself at the Fountain of Trajan. She walked up to one of the fading stone pillars, taking another nap after her trip. The voices of people dead and alive mingled together as Hercules sank into sleep.\nWhen she awoke it was entering sundown and almost every human, ancient and tourist alike, were gone from Trajan. Hercules stretched and wandered along to Odeon. She slipped behind the seated audience, climbing to the top row of seats. She placed herself near some stragglers in the back who couldn’t get a closer spot. Every seat was occupied. Hercules didn’t care much for the theatrics, but she couldn’t say no to a mesmerizing melody. \nTragedies had the best kind of melodies. While simple in harmonies, the lyres told the story that the actors couldn’t. The uplifting and light notes gave hope and excitement that buzzed through the crowd. Enter the protagonist. Who ran towards adventures that lie in wait as the lyres quickened their tempo. The soft grass tickled the protagonist's feet as his ego led him through victory. When the notes lost spirit and began a haunting harmony, it left the audience on the edge of their seat. Their protagonist came across an opponent he couldn’t defeat with ego alone. One last hopeful strum of the lyre echoed above bated breaths as the protagonist stood tall one final time. A slow, wistful rendition of the original melody brought the tragedy of greed to its end. \nThe crowd clapped and cheered through tears and bittersweet hearts. They mingled with one another, creating bonds that only humans could after experiencing a life that wasn’t theirs. It was a time for their community to come together, to laugh and cry together. Hercules did not need to see their shows, she had to walk around them daily. And their tragedies didn’t have lyres playing in the background so she made her way out of the theater. She stepped between a huddle of trees and appeared at her favorite spot of rest. It sat atop a hill but the structure was anything but mundane. A wonder, some would call it. The immense size and historical relevance made no impact on Hercules. That’s not what made the Temple of Artemis wonderful to Hercules. She ascended the stairs and made her way to the foot of the steps that held up the precious metals and marble. \nDevotees of Artemis came inside the temple with offerings and gifts to the goddess of fertility. Many women found solace within these pillars, confiding in Artemis their hopes and anxieties. Mothers pray for their daughters to be lucky with children. Young women ask for strength as they go through the trials and tribulations of everyday life while carrying a child in their womb. Other women prayed for the other aspects Artemis ruled, like the hunt or chastity. The evening was waning as Hercules waited at the lip of the temple. \n“I’m sorry, did I keep you waiting little cat?” A soft voice spoke out. Hercules looked back at the older woman standing behind her, unimpressed by the lady’s tardiness.\n“You must be weary. I’ll sit right here.” The woman adjusted her peplos as she sat against one of the pillars. She altered her position until she found the comfort she was looking for. She looked over at Hercules and smiled, the crow's feet at her eyes and laugh lines deepening. There was a timeless glow to her. She invited Hercules to rest in her lap; as if Hercules needed the convincing. Hercules turned and pawed at the woman’s lap before finding her spot and burying herself for a night’s rest. Hercules twitched her head up towards the woman. A warm chuckle emitted from her as she started to scratch behind Hercules’ ear. The older woman recounted her day while Hercules purred at the appropriate times. Until the moon illuminated the temple, casting a milky glow over Ephesus. \nFireflies danced around the duo as Hercules fell into a peaceful slumber." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Whale of a Tale\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1586\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who starts noticing the same object or phrase wherever they go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "High school: the land of stigma. The stereotypes run rampant, like racoons in in a landfill; it’s a field day. Anyone and everything is fair game. There’s Spider Mike who rides his Spider-bike, a ten-speed decked out to the T for Spiderman. Squishy is this girl who stepped or gum with her brand-new Vans, she only got the nickname cause she freaked out about it trying to pay Freddie Hawker to scrape it off. Pencil boy is Brady Guffaw, twin to the valedictorian, he can’t seem to remember a pencil, ever, whether or purpose or by accident no one knows. Don’t forget Diver Dan, a kid who got caught sifting through the garbage bins for his retainer freshman year, he’s a senior now and even the new freshmen know his label. So, kids get associated with these behaviors and symbols, sometimes to no fault of their own other than an unfortunate scuffle with fate. Mine is whales.\nWhale Raincoat Girl. Rachel Chattelson was gone, replaced by this freak. All because of this stupid coat. It’s a thick rubber raincoat that’s navy blue with green little whales all over. It has two drawstrings for the large hood and two pockets, one on each side of the button stretch. I wear it every single day. Why? I don’t know.\nAll I know is I wake up and the coat is there, I go to bed and the coat is there. I get dressed and put the coat on. I shower and take it off, but once I’m toweled off, I put it back on. I wear a dress and the raincoat overtop. I wear jeans and a sweatshirt, and still the raincoat overtop. When I’m getting dressed, if even for just one second, I consider not putting it on I get sick to my stomach.\nA wave a nausea just flows over me, and my knees go weak. The room starts to spin, and I regret everything I’ve ever done, sometimes I have to grab the bedpost. It’s some sort of innate rule, cast by witches, warlocks, kings, emperors, magicians, or even God himself, I don’t know. All I know is I follow it, no matter what it does to my social status.\nI didn’t used to be this way, but no one seemed to remember who I used to be, and honestly neither could I. I don’t know what happened. My entire memory isn’t gone. I remember being a kid: eating ice cream, hugging teddy bears, riding a bike, good stuff like that. And I know my name, where I live, who my parents are, but one day it all goes black. I just don’t know why. And for another unknown reason, I have zero desire to try and figure it out.\nI just exist like this, adding the moronic rubber slicker to every outfit I pick out and going to school. This behavior, of course, attracted the attention of the high school sharks, earning me my new nickname. I’m not exactly sure how long it was before I realized the new norm wasn’t always my norm, a month perhaps two. But I’ve accepted it. That’s another rule: nothing bothers me, I don’t care about anything, I don’t even want to know what happened.\nThese whales follow me, and not just on the coat. On TV there’s a nature documentary on the matriarchal societies of whales. The neighbor kid runs through the yard with his inflatable Shamu pool toy. At the dollar store there’s a whale shaped succulent pot. The whales are everywhere, and so are the stares as I walk into the grocery store in the middle of July with my indifferent attitude, shorts, tank-top, and childish raincoat.\nOne night around 10:30 PM, however, that all changed.\nWe were sitting on the couch, that stupid documentary on the TV, me, Mom and Dad. Mom was playing Candy Crush on her cell phone, Dad was sort of watching sort of scrolling Facebook, while I stared blankly at the TV, not quiet absorbing the information, because, again, I don’t care. Suddenly, Mom bolted upright.\n“Oh my God.”\n“What?” Dad sat up too, concerned.\n“It was supposed to come today, in the mail.”\n“Oh man, you’re right.” Dad turned to me. “Rachel, sweetie, would you mind going and bringing in the mail, please?”\n“Sure, whatever.” I stood up. The lighting flashed through the sliding glass door; it was raining. I was the obvious choice, since I had the idiotic raincoat on.\nI made my way outside and crossed the street to the dark green mailbox. It was weird. Since I’d noticed the blackout in my memory, I hadn’t actually been in the rain, even though I constantly had a slicker on. The sticky summer heat started steaming inside the coat, white camera flash lighting kept bubbling up the sky, the rain pitter pattered its percussionist rhythm on my coat, the coat was sticky, a car swooshed past in the rain, the rain got stronger plinking even more drops on my coat, the sticky coat I didn’t even want to be wearing anymore, but the innate rule said I had to.\nNo.\nAt that moment, something else inside me snapped. Something stronger than the innate rule, it finally wanted to know why, why I had to wear this dumb thing at every possible moment. So, I quickly grabbed the mail from the box, tromped inside, plopped it on the kitchen table without a word, and I opened my eyes.\nThe answer was everywhere: the fourth chair at the dinner table that I didn’t seem to notice anymore, the pink pair of converse sitting untouched on the shoe shelf, a closed door we didn’t open, and worst of all, the pictures hanging on the wall.\nIt was like a switch. I’d turned the lights back on in my brain and suddenly I could see everything I didn’t want to remember. Her smile, with rainbow braces, her hair, in two little blonde braids, her laugh, what a beautiful laugh, the kind that was infectious and pure. And she loved whales, not me.\nAnna.\nI stretched the soft A syllable of her name in my head. My sister, my baby sister who’d recently grown taller than me. And that day, that horrible day, when it rained, and she forgot her coat. I wouldn’t turn around and go home, we were already late for school. She was throwing a fit in the passenger seat, going on and on about how I didn’t understand how important it was and that I just didn’t like her stupid coat. I looked over to retaliate, when the tractor pulled out in front of us. It was backing out of a driveway, trailer full of farming equipment towing behind. I saw it just a smidge too late and my brakes failed just a smidge too much.\nMom and Dad were sorting through the mail I had just brought in, oblivious to my presence. This weight came crashing down on me, this knowledge that I’d tried so hard not to want, not to know. It was suffocating. I tried to speak, my voice harsh and croaky, it barely came out a whisper. I tried again, stronger this time, but still weak.\n“Mom. Dad.” They looked up. Tears started welling in my eyes, anguish obvious on my face. They saw it, they knew what was coming next. “Anna.” I practically whispered.\nThey dropped the mail and came rushing to me. Four arms enveloped me like a storm of love. My knees gave out, but they had me. I was safe, I knew, as all that pain finally broke the surface tension of my repression. I could remember it all.\nEverything. The day she was born, sharing goldfish from the county fair, fighting over the plastic princess plate at dinner, spray painting the neighbor’s cat’s tail, watching the same movie a hundred times, crushing on the same boy on summer vacation, disagreeing about the best ice cream flavor, braiding each other’s hair. I even remember the day we went thrifting and she bought the whale raincoat. She had been so excited, it had whales, her favorite, and it was the perfect size. She joked that I’d better not steal it from her, since we could now share clothes, I promised I’d never do such a thing in a million years, hideous jacket.\nBut everything meant the bad stuff too. The blurry whir of sirens and hurried trip to the hospital. The confusion and terror when I couldn’t find her. The frantic questions that no one seemed to answer directly. The nasty scar from my eye to my chin that I chose not to see in the mirror. The awful day when we all wore black and pretended the well-wishes made us feel better. The quiet days in the empty house. And finally, the day when something inside me broke and I put up the wall, blocking it all out, all of it.\nAs it came back, I cried, and my parents cried with me. As much as it hurt, it was so much worse knowing I had tried to forget all of it, even the good stuff. I felt guilty that I’d tried to erase my sister from my memory for the sake of my own pain. But together, with my parents I felt safe and comforted and loved. I knew whatever happened next, no matter how hard, I would always have the whales and with them I’d never forget Anna 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: Feline Promachos\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2516\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cat living in an ancient temple, like the Acropolis." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It wasn't a simple job to serve as the protector of the Acropolis, but oh, it had certainly been a glorious one. \nThe sun began its customary ascent into the sky, casting golden rays of light across the city of Athens to stir its sleeping inhabitants. Within a few hours, tourists hailing from the city and never-ending cruise ships would swarm the promontory. They would take countless photos of the ruins and learn about the ancient history, only to let it slip from their minds by the time they returned home to their beds. But Ailuros never forgot.\nShe lay outside, curled up against one of Doric columns of the Propylaea- her preferred spot for a morning nap. As was routine, she had spent the early hours of dawn chasing away the other strays who dared trespass on her property. It was an everyday occurrence that had only worsened over these past one hundred years. Why they felt the need to continually test her patience was beyond her. Surely they had better chances finding food in the city with the humans, who would only be too eager to toss leftovers in their direction. This was her territory.\nThe Propylaea was Ailuros’ favorite structure, though she would never admit it- as a protector of the Athenian Acropolis, she didn't think it was appropriate to show favoritism (what would the gods think?). Many tourists came for the Parthenon, but were stunned into revered silence as they approached the ‘gate’ to the plateau. How could they not be? The structure was indomitable, complicated, and a wonder to behold. With the exception of the missing portion of the roof and triglyph, it had held strong through the city’s complex history. It towered proudly over all who entered as if proclaiming, “I am still standing after all these years!” \nMnesikles had outdone himself. \nAiluros recalled the days when the Greeks began construction on the building. It was her favorite pastime to lounge on a neighboring rock and watch leisurely as they carried in the heaping chunks of marble. On occasion she offered her advice to the architect. She was the one who had suggested the creation of the south wing, which she felt gave the multi-level building a much needed sense of symmetry. It had irked her when Mnesikles combined the Doric and Ionic order for the columns- she was a traditionalist, and found the Ionic style to be too flouncy and improper. Over the years, of course, she had come to appreciate its beauty. \nWhen it was finished, she circled a nearby column a few times, sat tentatively, and finally gave it her seal of approval by curling into a ball in front of it. And that was that. It was her place. Here she could bask lazily in the warmth of the morning, keeping one watchful eye on the entrance to her sacred space, and the other on her beloved marble structures that stood imposingly over all who entered. From the great chariots that sped by during the ancient times, to the foot traffic of current day pedestrians, she saw it all from this perch.\nA light breeze tickled her fur, and she awoke to see the sun rising higher into the blue. If she narrowed her eyes, she could almost see the horses and chariot preceding the ball of light. Good morning, Helios, she thought, purring in approval. Not that she expected anything different- this was how the mornings began since the beginning of time. Helios carried the sun across the sky in the same fashion today as he did back when the Greeks defeated the Trojans. The gods and protectors of the city had their roles, and they performed them dutifully, day after day. And Ailuros was no different.\nShe stood up and stretched, pushing her backside towards the sun in effort to get warm. She could feel her joints pop as she scratched her claws along the stone ground. The noises were more frequent as of late, especially when she climbed up the steps of the Acropolis. I’m getting older. Well, what could she expect as a 2,700 year old feline? She was on her ninth life now- she had gone through two of them during the Ottoman conquest alone, when artillery fire was a constant threat. Flicking her tail a few times to give it a good ‘swish’ she entered through the Propylaea, taking stock of her domain. \nThe rocky terrain of Greece made it one of the most unique landscapes in all of Europe, and the Acropolis was no exception. Craggy rocks and stone jutted out from all angles with patches of grass peeping through the cracks, yearning for sunlight. This is where Ailuros thrived. She was swift, light as a feather, and never once slipped in all her years. She could dart across the rocks with her eyes closed and never falter. This place was her oikos. Her temple. She knew it better than any other creature, except perhaps the gods. In her youth, she loved challenging Aeolus, ruler of the winds, to races across the plateau. He was one of the few humans she tolerated.\nApproaching the Erechtheion, she lifted her head to gaze at the remnants of the still beautiful (and still very well preserved) temple. The six caryatids stood strong and steadfast, balancing the weight of the once walled room with their heads as they had for thousands of years. Whenever Ailuros felt lonely or in need of companionship, she would jump up next to one of the maidens and sit in quiet contemplation. It was also a convenient vantage point to survey the Acropolis and ensure the tourists were behaving themselves appropriately. They particularly loved to snap photos of her sitting atop the wall. She could only imagine how many photographs existed over the years of her and the lovely maidens sitting… watching… judging.\nThe sacred olive tree stood near the west porch of the Erechtheion. This was one of Ailuros’ preferred places to curl up for her afternoon nap, particularly during the summer months when the sun was at its harshest. The green leaves were vibrant this morning, almost beckoning her to come relax under its shady canopy. Well, if you insist…\nAiluros remembered the day when the goddess Athena planted that very tree to compete for the title of Athens’ patron. At the time, king Cecrops had just founded the city, and Athena and Poseidon both desired to be patron of this young ‘polis.’ As a test, the serpent king asked for a gift from each of them. Poseidon struck the ground with his trident, which erupted into a salt spring that proved far too salty for Ailuros’ preference. Athena, on the other hand, buried something in the ground, which soon grew into the lovely olive tree, providing wood, oil, and food for the city. Ailuros loved to feast on the olives, and it was through her heavy suggestion (rather, insistence) that the citizens chose Athena as the patron. Ailuros would never forget the stormy look on Poseidon’s face when he lost. He was always in a foul mood, and enjoyed his revenge by tormenting the city with drought. Typical. He was definitely the one responsible for sending the strays.\nBeing the protector of the Acropolis certainly had its adversity, however. From the beginning of its conception, this noble city experienced the legendary highs and crushing lows that accompanied a powerful empire. The people created beauty, innovating the most ingenious structures on Earth. They were skilled in mathematics, medicine, and philosophy. Even so, Athens had also endured the wrath of the gods, and the ravages of war. Ailuros had seen it all- witnessed the sorrow, the unimaginable loss that befell her sacred temples. She was the one constant in the ever-changing world of her Acropolis.\nShe could recall the hallmark sixth century A.D., when the citizens of Athens converted to Christianity, turning her temples into churches. Athena had been so enraged at this violation, Ailuros thought for sure she had failed her job. The gods certainly enacted their vengeance upon the Greeks by sending the Ottomans in the fifteenth century. This act didn't help the Olympians, however, as the Parthenon became a mosque, and the Erechtheion was reduced to a harem! Oh, such disgrace! At the time, Ailuros felt shame that the humans could turn their backs on the gods and goddesses that protected (albeit, tormented) them. But now, many of the humans that visited the Acropolis didn't prescribe to any religion at all. She didn’t know which was worse. \nBut perhaps the greatest tribulation of all was the bombing and destruction of the Parthenon in 1687- the event that had cost her two precious lives. The bombing was nonstop for eight straight days- it turned her whiskers grey, and she lost patches of fur that to this day still hadn’t grown back. However, as relentless as the siege was, Ailuros was even more so. She was the protector of the Acropolis, and she wasn’t going to acquiesce without a fight. \nDuring the day, she took shelter in the crevices of the terrain, biding her time. At night, she struck. The Turks didn’t see her slinking in the shadows, sneaking into the Parthenon where they stored the gunpowder. She sacrificed a field mouse, and prayed fervently to Athena for god-like strength. Her prayers were answered, and she spent several nights dragging the bags of gunpowder out of the building and tossing them off the cliff. In total, she disposed of almost half of their supply. When that fatal shot hit the Parthenon, Ailuros watched as her sacred space was destroyed, but not completely decimated. It was because of her efforts that the Parthenon was still standing today. \nVandals and looters eventually descended on the Acropolis, and Ailuros spent her days clawing and sinking her teeth into their pant legs, sending many of them scurrying. When that blasted Elgin arrived and began robbing the temples of their of priceless sculptures, she terrorized him endlessly until he finally departed. One one memorable occasion, she leapt from the rocks and scratched the side his face, leaving a nasty red welt. He would have stolen the entirety of the Parthenon frieze and all of the caryatids from the Erechtheion had she not given him cat scratch fever. Who knows what else he might have taken, if not for her.\nHer feline ancestors had proved to be far superior to other animals in their cunning, wit, and independent nature. Those infernal dogs were passable for hunting, but not much else. And look! Now they were demoted to mere companions, sitting on laps- at the mercy of their humans for food and shelter! Pathetic. \nHer cousin, the Sphinx, served as the guardian of the city of Thebes, devouring all who were deemed unworthy to enter. The Nemean Lion and even the Chimera were relatives that, despite being categorized as monsters, were known for their unyielding strength. They were remembered. Ailuros was proud of her heritage. She would never allow herself to become a domestic plaything- she was built for much more. Perhaps one day, Ailuros would be commemorated as the feline patron of Athens. She purred at the thought, slinking towards the eastern end of the Acropolis. She might get a statue built in her honor, although a temple would be appreciated, considering her years of service. Humans received plaques for much less. She’d want it to be located near the Propylaea so that she might continue to watch and survey from beyond the grave. \nArriving at the Parthenon, Ailuros bowed her head in reverence to the goddess. I hope I have served you well. She felt a light breeze flow past her, the slight hint of olive. I’m glad.\nThe Parthenon was a magnificent feat of architecture, even if the friezes that once adorned it were now across the sea in another land. At night when the lights of the Acropolis lit up, the Parthenon shone brighter than all the stars in the sky. Ailuros never tired of seeing it. It was the pinnacle of Greek classic design, and was still standing after all these years, after all it had witnessed. If walls could talk, the Parthenon would scream. \nThis entire acropolis had persevered, not entirely unlike cats. They both found ways to adapt and maintain relevance in an ever changing world. Ailuros knew an alley-cat who had multiple restaurants at his disposal- they were slaves to his every whim. \nShe had made her home here on the Acropolis, her “high city,” and she vowed long ago to reside here and protect it for the remainder of her days. Not even bombs or hoards of tourists could dissuade her. She pledged to the gods to serve as the feline embodiment of Athena Promachos (oh, how she missed the iconic statue!), always watching over her beloved Acropolis, her own Athens. To her dismay, most of what had made this plateau so extraordinary had been destroyed or ransacked over the years, leaving the skeletal remains of today. She had watched as the buildings that had once stood strong began to wither away and decay. It weighed on her, but then again, that was life. Everything eventually came to an end. But not Ailuros- not just yet. She was one of the few relics left from the days of old when the humans celebrated the Panathenaia, and the mystery cults worshipped in revered temples.\nShe walked up the steps of the Parthenon and sat, surveying the area. Within the hour, countless tourists would ascend the hill and marvel at the ruins while taking in the spectacular views of the city. They, of course, would have no idea just how much history they stood on- how many people had come before them. How could they? \nAnd undoubtedly, they would point and google at the tabby sitting on the steps of the Parthenon. They would smile and reach their hands out, but she would never come. She had a job to do, and she much preferred her solitude. \nAiluros licked her paw and smoothed her head. There was just enough time for a grooming session before the humans arrived. \nLooking out at the tiny ships that dotted the sea, she closed her eyes and felt the wind. This was her home, her ‘polis’. She had lived here for thousands of years, and here she would remain, with the sharp rocks, limestone walkways, marble columns, and magnificent olive tree until the end of her days, whenever that may be. Whereas Athena was the official patron of the city, Ailuros was the silent protector, the watcher, the feline promachos. It was a role she took very seriously, and with great honor.\nA noise stirred her out of her reverie. Opening her eyes, she caught a glimpse of movement on the left. A tiny lizard slithered along the rocks, stopping on occasion to bathe on the warm stones. He was blissfully unaware. Poor creature. Such is life, after all. \nHer tail twitched and with a sudden leap, she was gone." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Galinthias\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2993\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character being led somewhere by a stray cat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When my mother looks at me it is as if she is seeing me the day I was born, belting thunder, and covered in gore. Her gaze sparkles with the miracle of it. I don’t understand what is so miraculous about a dirty, scruffy-haired, ten-year-old boy. When my father looks at me it is with stiffness, as if he sits on nails and my hands are red. My hands are not red. I washed the blood from them long ago with the help of Mother’s gentle fingers and briny tears.\nWell, they had looked at me like that over a year ago, as Father decreed, I should go tend to the herds with his shepherds for a time. How long? I’d asked but he didn’t answer. Mother told me this wasn’t a punishment. Father’s pained grimace made me think it was exile. But what would I know?\nI stumble in my bare, too-big feet. The herders ahead are chattering, staggering under the weight of wool in their arms and slung over their shoulders. They don’t notice me, struggling on the uneven course out of the mountains. I wonder if I’ll see my parents when we reenter the city. If they’ll fetch me back to the palace Father claimed when they escaped Mycenae. Beyond the next sculpted crest, the buildings of Kadmeia pebble the plateau rising from the mist. (Kadmeia is the name we call the Mycenean Thebes. There is another Thebes near the Necropolis that I’ve heard traders speak of. I never wish to go there. It is a land of other gods.) Helios is low and burning. He’ll have the mist gone soon.\nA dark shadow slithers around two stones, flowing downhill. First I think it is a stream, but it does not continue between the divot in the mountain side. Then it must be a snake. A constrictor, spawn of Python. The nursemaids used to whisper of how I had strangled two venom-filled snakes in my crib as a newborn. Their eyes would beg for the tale but I never spoke of it. How can I be expected to remember something that happened when I was an infant?\nLost in my head the dark trickles out of sight before I can catch it. I wiggle my fingers to remove the dawn mountain chill. That’s okay. I don’t think it meant us harm. I didn’t want to have to kill it.\nThe snake makes me think of hideous gorgons, those women with ashen skin and serpents for hair. It must be hard for them to sleep with all those writhing, worming bodies. At least they aren’t poisonous. I don’t think so, anyway. Do gorgons get bit by their own hair? The idea makes me giggle even though it’s not really funny. It’s more sad. Perseus, my great-grandfather, might have known. I wish we could speak to shades in the Underworld, I would ask him. He’s the only man to have ever slayed one. Medusa, who’s grim head ended up set in goddess Athena’s shield. There’s a fresco of Perseus brandishing it, regal and god-like. I think I look like him, though I’m stouter and broader of the shoulders and where his face is that of a hawk mine is wide like a lion’s. My hair crimps, long and loose as a lion’s mane. So, Mother says. I haven’t seen a lion.\nThere goes the darkness again, slipping closer. I pause and tip my head. The herders still pay me no mind and I hate my empty hands. They wouldn’t let me carry any wool or skins, afraid I might rip them on accident or in a fit of madness. They think if they ignore me my anger will dwindle, and I won’t bash their skulls as I did Linus’. It only makes me scraped raw and lonely. If sorrow is the oposite of anger, then maybe they’re right.\nA shadow shimmies between stones, twining nearer. Green gems flash at me from within it’s indistinguishable face. A raised tail waves like a banner. My hand flashes as I try to grab it just as I would knuckle a fish from a stream, but it evades me easy as a man cringes from death. A frown creases my small lips. I jiggle my calloused fingers. I’m not used to missing. My scuffed toes stop moving completely and I stare into the distant conifers. The shadow streaks towards the trees, at a diagonal from the path.\n“There is something here,” I raise my voice to the herders, murky-brown eyes bright with curiosity. It is rare I face new things. Herding is mostly the same. Wake up, eat, brush the flock, keep them here or there, scare wolves, try not to fall into stony crevices, pretend you aren’t eavesdropping, don’t cry when you discover someone has stolen your blanket again, fall asleep cold. Repeat. You get used to it.\nOne of them looked over his shoulder, tunic grimy with sweat and distended belly bouncing. “Come on, Heracles. Or we’ll be late to the market.”\nI just stare, fingers twitching, longing to strip off my tunic and run as if in a race. “Will my parents come?”\nThe other jockeys the fat one. I do not use their names, for they don’t seem to like mine. When it passes their lips, they either wince or spew it with the grace used to speak of sewers. This one’s skin is a permanent dark tan from many burns of the sun, and he is knobby. I count his bones sometimes when I’m bored. A flick of my fist and he would topple, breaking everything along the way to the ground. “Just come, boy. We’ve work to do.”\nI remain rooted to the spot as they amble, about to crest the rise. They slap at each other now, laughing and bellowing louder than the whole herd put together. Out of the corner of my eye the shadow weaves about tree trunks, somehow darker than their shade. “There is something here. I think it wants me.”\n“Nothing wants you boy, that’s why you’re with us,” the fat one chuffs at a loss for breath.\nThe slender skeleton man sneers, flicking his companion’s bloated, laboring stomach. “Keep up, boy, or aidos will be proud.”\nAidos is the word for shameful. It is a Mycenean expression. Keep up or you will bring us shame.\nThe breeze pushes their sweaty stink to my nose. They don’t hesitate to cross the rise and vanish behind the spur of earth without me. My gaze flickers to the trees and I meet the darkness’s stare head-on. It is more shadow than anything, those eyes perfect liquid dripping among the dark. Narrowing my eyes, I see it. Two pointed ears, tail wrapped over paws, a rippling sea of black fur, and a soft pink nose.\nIt’s a cat.\nThe cat meets my stare with surety, as if it knows secrets about me. I cock my head. “I don’t have any secrets.” The breeze spins my words lazily, hampering my call. It’s true. If anyone asked me about Linus, I would tell them. Sometimes the knowledge butts against my teeth like a battering ram against Kadmeia’s gate. But no one asks, so my thoughts remain locked up.\nThe shadow mimics me, tilting it’s head, whiskers flicking. I swat away a gnat and take a step off the path. Quick as a bird the cat slides among the trees. “Wait!” I cup a hand to my chapped, too-pink lips. Cats aren’t owned by many here, they go where they please. In the year I’ve traversed the mountains I’ve never seen anything smaller than a panther. I stand on my tip-toes to peer at the trees. The herders’ cackling has faded.\nA sound, violent and gentle jolts through the rocks. It vibrates into my sore soles. I hold out my hands, expecting one of Poseidon’s quakes. The world stays still, the buzzing insects hold their breaths. My heart patters in cadence. A low sung word enters my being, Galinthias.\nI frown. That’s familiar but I don’t know why. I don’t think I’ve met anyone by such a name. Then, seeping up from the ground, Heracles.\nI obey with a jolt. Feet pounding the stones and toes curling into wild grass, I rush up to the woods. My legs pump with strength and my blood whooshes in my ears. A grin tugs at the corners of my lips with force. Still, the rumbling continues, growing stronger.\nConifer branches jostle above me, blocking the sun. Shade splinters into my eyes. Pine needles stab my calloused heels. I kick pinecones and dodge roots and gullies. The shadow keeps ahead of me. Winding through the trees and high-altitude scrub with little effort. My lungs and calves burn. Showing my teeth, I continue. The easy rumbling pushes me onward. I never tired physically as others have. Mother says I’m godborn but will not tell me which Olympian did the siring.\nI bound up a slope, cascading pebbles, and dirt. The dew is still slick and coats my feet. My nails are filthy. I burst from between the branches of an evergreen and halt, panting. The darkness is sitting in a small clearing. The cat watches me, not even winded. The rumbling is radiating from it’s chest. It’s purring. Setting my jaw, I plop down, cross-legged before it. The purring ceases. Heracles, the voice resonates, prodding my mind.\n“Cat?”\nThe cat shakes its head, lifting one paw to lick it. A pink tongue darts, stroking inky fur. The routine is enthralling. I stare at the flash of thin fangs. It’s so much neater than a tawny panther, like a painted piece of glass. I get the feeling it shouldn’t be out here, where so much is bigger than it. An eagle could snatch it on the slopes. “Why are you here?”\nI am Galinthias. Pale green eyes the consistency of an eggshell blink, heavy. I feel judged. You know me, child.\n“You’re not my cat.” I press a hand to my chest, voice dipping. “I wish you were my cat.”\nThe cat puts its paw back on the ground and blinks again. I am Hecate’s companion.\n“H-Hecate’s cat?” I scramble to my feet and step back. Mother said that Hecate is the titaness of darkness, of bad magic. Forcing a thin breath through my nose I hold my ground. I’ve already left the path, might as well find out why. “Are you lost?”\nNo, a purr again that I feel warm through the earth. I came for you.\n“Me?” Its lousy for me to ask, I know. I shouldn’t question a sacred creature’s words. Mother thinks I’m special but isn’t that just an excuse to explain why I’m stronger than other boys? Why I’m stupid where they’re smart and I killed my tutor in a fit of rage while they did not?\nIt is time you learned.\n“Learn what? I’m learning with the herders.”\nLearn the ways of a warrior. You are destined for great things, Heracles.\nI bow my head, hands balling into fists. “I’m not.” I can’t be. I know where murderers go in the Underworld and it’s not Elysium.\nLook at me.\nSniffing, I raise my chin. The cat is glaring at me, tail coiled over prim paws. I am Galinthias, it repeats. And I did not become this so that you could waste your potential.\nMy forehead creases, my eyebrows dipping like severe boughs. Something fuzzes at the edge of my memory. Some tale Mother once fed me like herbs to soothe me to sleep…\nThe cat straightened. I was your nursemaid. Hera set forces in motion to prevent your birth. I undertook to distract the goddess of childbirth, one of Hera’s divine daughters, announcing that you had been born. She was so shocked her concentration broke and your mother was released.\n“Galinthias,” I breathe, gaze round with wonder.\nHera turned me into a cat to punish me. Now I serve Hecate.\nSomething catches in my chest. “I’m sorry.”\nIf possible, the cat’s expression softens. There are worse fates.\nI shrug, picturing the blood spouting from the crack in Linus’ skull.\nYou will be a hero, Heracles.\nShaking my head, I look to the ground. “I have tainted myself with crime.” The words taste like mud in my mouth.\nYou were purified. Now you will learn to control your rage.\nWhat if I can’t? I want to wail in a way I haven’t since I was a baby. My jaws clench. Now the truth curdles inside me, and I cannot speak it. I have waited for this moment for so long, and now I freeze. How can I describe the way my temper closes over my head like water? It drowns me, I’m at its mercy.\nCome closer, child.\nThe cat’s gaze is intense and steady. Breathing ragged, I drag out a step. My feet are stone. The moment it takes for me to reach her is really an eternity. The world seems to flip and turn. I wonder if the purification didn’t work and this vision is a way for the Furies to lead me to my death. How can I trust this is real?\nI lean down, grasp at her silky fur with my clumsy fingertips. The cat’s reaction is swift. I see it first as a shadow. Her spine curls, her lips draw back, as her neck recoils her paw shoots out. Thick, shining claws emerge where there was none before. One snags my skin. Blood beads across my palm. The trickle fills my life-line with red. A hiss tumbles from her throat, ears pressed back. She’s a demon.\nThere’s that blackness swamping my vision. I look down on her from a great height. The sting makes me startle, but the ire replaces the pain with purpose. My other hand swings downward. I grip her scruff in my hand and lift her above me as if she’s a feather. The cat yowls and thrashes. My nails part the fur. Her claws flash. I could break her neck. No, some part of me begs. The rest doesn’t listen. I shake her hard until her eyes cross. Why would she turn on me after asking me to come to her?\nHer paws stroke the air slower now, but she still writhes. There is a flash of crimson, a spot of something wet and thick on her paw pad. All my muscles go rigid. The pain fills me with a dull beat. My eyes narrow. I take my bloody thumb and brush it over the spot. More blood. A small broken shaft like an arrow. The cat’s struggles renew, fallen to mewing and kneading nothing.\nThere’s a thorn wedged in the cat’s paw.\nThe world grows muted. Sweat breaks out on my brow. I swipe it with the back of my hand and feel the blood smear. Blowing a breath through my nose, I huff twice more before bringing my shaking hand up. It takes all my concentration, all my nerve, to push back the black rage. My muscles bulge as if I hold a charging bull by the horns. My earlier thought resurfaces. I don’t want to kill it.\nI don’t want to hurt anything else the way I did Linus. Not because I can’t stomach the life leaving the eyes or the empty vessels, the last weak sputter of air from their stifled lungs. Not because the missing throb of a pulse. But because it was so easy for me, so quick. There is no honor in being controlled by some force that isn’t you.\nI don’t have to hurt her. I can do this. My whole frame trembles. Whoever my god-father is, I’m sure he laughs. My lips press flat. I don’t care. I’ll show him.\nThe pad of my thumb fumbles on the shaft. The cat kicks and lurches. I hold her steady. My pulse is an anvil on the interior of my wrist, striking the delicate bones. It is a chant, end this, end this, end this.\nMy grimy nails slip off the thorn three times, then hold. I yank it out without ceremony. A bit of blood leaks across night-dark fur. I toss the thorn aside. The cat screeches, piercing my hazy mind. I drop her and try to cover my ears.\nThat’s when I notice the rustling. The shift and clop of hooves. I lift my head, straightening and altering my stance all at once. At first all I see is a man’s torso, sculpted and dark and hairless. He is taller than any man I’ve ever seen, even at the agora. His face is lined and grave, brows heavy, lips heavier. His nose is large and straight as an accusatory finger. His long mane is braided down his back. He carries a bow over one shoulder.\nThen I notice the rest of him. He’s not riding a horse, he’s melded with one. His chestnut coat gleams with sweat, the hide magnificent, the scent wild. A centaur. Father calls them savages. My mouth drops open in awe. He holds no weapons. I can’t read his face. Is he a savage? My muscles freeze once more but my pulse doesn’t spike. If it’s a fight he wants, even though I’m just a boy and would lose, it is a fight I will give him. Just don’t ask me to swing first.\nAfter several long moments, he releases a sigh. “You could’ve killed that cat.” My eyes dart to find Galinthias, but she has gone. I shake myself as he speaks again, feeling as if I’ve just emerged from a desert mirage travelers speak of. “I’m glad you didn’t. You have the baring of a hero.” There’s a twinkle to his wise features. “I’m Chiron.”\nChiron must’ve witnessed everything. It takes a moment to recall the cat’s words, but then the ice releases me, and I smile. “Heracles.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Notes From The Red Balloon\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2140\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who starts noticing the same object or phrase wherever they go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There's something over there, around the corner. It's round. It's red. It slowly turns out from the alley and makes its way slowly down the streets. It's a ballon. A red balloon. Something is attached to it. It looks like a note. I can't read it. All of a sudden, I hear screams out of nowhere. I see flames. Then, I see... my school. The visions stop and the red balloon is all that's left. \nI wake up with goosebumps covering my body from a chilling dream. I'm not actually gonna let a dream get to me though, right? I look at the clock. 3:27 am. I shake it off, knowing I would forget about it by morning, and fall back to sleep. \nI wake up, not feeling very well rested, but drag myself out of bed and get ready for another day. I remember waking up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, but I can't even remember what my dream was about. All I know was that it gave me chills. \"Chlo! You should probably be leaving soon!\" my mom calls from downstairs. \"I'll be down in a sec mom!\" I call back. I finish getting dressed, grab my bag, and run downstairs and out the door. However, before I get into my car, I see a red balloon next to my mailbox, and there was a note attached to it. Where have I seen that before? It looked familiar. I walked over to look at the note. Flames shall light the day with terror. I stare at the note confused, thinking it's probably just some neighbors balloon that got loose. I let go of the note and get in my car. Ugh, I am way too exhausted to go to school today. I mean, obviously I'm always tired before going to school, but today I'm more tired than usual. It must be that stupid dream that interrupted my sleep. I open my eyes and drive off to school.\nI pull into my parking spot at the same time as my best friend, Mackenzie. Her spot was right beside mine. \"Hey girl.\" she says as we get out of our cars. \"Rough night?\" she asks examining my look. \"No sleep.\" I say. \"Really? I bet you were thinking about that boy that you 'don't like', huh?\" she says with a laugh. \"Hayden? Of course not! I had a dream, that's all.\" I say. \"What was it about?\" she asks. \"I don't even remember. I woke up with goosebumps though.\" I say. \"Ah, a nightmare. Yeah, those are pretty good at taking your sleep.\" she says. I nod. The bell rings and we begin making our way to our first hour. \"Catch me in detention, cause I'm probably going to fall asleep in all my classes.\" I say. \"Oh, do NOT get yourself into detention, you'll sit there doing nothing and then you won't even being able to try to stay awake.\" says Mackenzie. I sigh. \"It's gonna be a great day.\" I sarcastically say before walking off. \nI make it to my first hour and sit next to Hayden, who Mackenzie supposedly thinks I'm crushing on, which I am NOT. \"Let me guess, already dreading being here?\" asks Hayden. \"You know it.\" I say with a sigh. \"He laughs. \"So, how was your first day?\" he asks. In my head I thought normal, boring, the same as any other school day in my life. But I didn't say that. \"It was good. How was yours?\" I ask. \"I'd have to say the same, it was fine, nothing much to it. Although, you look tired. Did you get much sleep last night?\" he asks. \"No, not really. Dreams are getting in the way.\" I say. \"Good or bad ones?\" he asks. \"Bad ones.\" I respond. \"Well, I'm sorry to hear. What was it about?\" he asks. \"I don't even remember, it was probably nothing.\" I say. \nI feel the urge to close my eyes but try to keep them open. I don't want to go to detention and fall asleep in there, cause we all know multiple punishments will follow that. The bell rings and some more students scurry into the classroom. \"Good morning students.\" the teacher starts, grunts and sighs from students following. \"I'm feeling the energy.\" he says. \"Okay, let's get started with todays lesson. MLA format. So, can anyone tell me-\" RIIIIIINNNGGGG! Mr. Forbes was interrupted by some sort of siren. That doesn't make sense though, the bell just rang. And this didn't sound like the hour bell. It sounded like... the fire alarm! RIIIIINNNGGGG! It sounded again. I hear screams and running in the halls. \"What is going on?!\" Hayden asks. Then, the principle comes on the loudspeaker. \n\"Attention students and faculty, there is a fire in building C. Teachers please get all students out of the school and to the parking lot across from the school.\" she says. More screams follow, from students inside our classroom and out. \"Everyone! Make your way through the double doors at the end of the hallway and to the parking lot, go fast, but go in an orderly manner!\" Mr. Forbes says. The students basically ignore what he says and all run out of the classroom as fast as possible. We burst out the double doors and run down the stairs. To my right I can see tons of smoke and flames coming from building C. Terror filled the school. I made it to the parking lot across the street looking around for Mackenzie. \"Mackenzie! Kenz, where are you?!\" I yell. \"Chloe!\" I hear from behind me. It was Mackenzie. \"Oh, good. You made it out alright.\" I say. \"Yeah, but do you know what caused this?\" she asks. I shake my head. But wait. I know where I have seen this before. In that awful dream I had last night. And that red balloon that I saw this morning. It was from my dreams. And in my dreams, I saw flames and screams at my school, and the note said 'Flames shall light the day with terror'.\nThe note on the balloon and the visions in my dream were about what was happening right now.\nThe flames demolished about a third of building C. Two fire trucks came and the firemen worked to stop the flames, which they were thankfully successful at. I was currently on the phone with my mom explaining the situation. \"No, I'm fine mom. The fire is out and nobody got hurt, stop worrying. Okay, I'll keep you updated. Love you too, bye.\" I say and turn to Mackenzie after ending the call. \"Well school is obviously canceled for the rest of the day...and probably for a while.\" Kenzie says while texting her mom.\nAll I can think about is the red balloon. I keep replaying my dream back in my head...the balloon slowly lurking through the streets, down the alleys, and then stopping in front of my house with a note attached to it. \nIn my dream, I didn't read the note, but instead saw visions of the fire. It. Was. Awful. Blood curdling screams. Burning flames and smoke. People sprinting out of the school so fast, they could outrun a cheetah. Then when I woke up the next morning, it was all a blur. Even when the balloon became my reality and I saw it in person when I was leaving for school this morning. \nThat was when I first read the note. Flames shall light the day with terror. Just saying that in my head sent chills down my spine. The balloon and note was obviously about what had happened today. \nIt was only seconds later after having my chilling thoughts that I spot something in the distance. Something is lurking behind the burned school wall. Something...red. I began walking closer to this mysterious object once my eyes could finally make out what it was. It was the red balloon. With yet again, a note attached to the string. It made its way out of the school. I don't understand. This can't just be a coincidence or a silly prank! This balloon has to have had something to do with all this chaos.\n\"Chloe!\" Mackenzie says, who apparently had been trying to get my attention. \"Sorry. What did you say?\" I ask. \"I was asking if you are okay. You look, I don't know. Uneasy or something.\" she says. \"Oh. Yeah, I'm okay.\" I lie. \nBefore she could say anything else, Hayden runs up to us. \"Hey! I lost you when we were all running for our lives.\" he says out of breath. Mackenzie looks from him to me with a smirk. I give her the 'don't even think about it' eye. \n\"Yeah...it was quite a scramble. Kenz this is Hayden. Hayden this is my best friend Mackenzie.\" I introduce them knowing that if I don't, I'll hear about it from Mackenzie later. \"Well hey there!\" Mackenzie says and I know she has the thought that I've found a special someone. \"Hi. Nice to meet you. Do either of you know what started the fire?\" he asks finally catching his breath. I shake my head while Mackenzie explains. \"Some chemistry lab spill on the top floor.\" Mackenzie briefly says. But was it?\nBefore Mackenzie can explain anymore, the principle pulls out her loud speaker to make an announcement, \"Students and teachers, the fire has been put out, but due to the strong smoke and deconstruction of the building, we are going to have to send all of you home. An email will be sent to all students and parents tonight regarding information about the incident and when students will be able to return.\" \nNo school? Um, yes please! I mean, don't get me wrong, I understand this is a serious situation, but if it means getting me out of prison for a couple days, I will remain happy. \"Hey, since there's no school, do you guys want to go grab a coffee at Jumpin' Beans?\" Hayden asks. Jumpin' Beans is the local coffee shop that everyone goes to. It's been around for as long as I can remember. \"We would love to! Wouldn't we Chloe?\" Mackenzie says eagerly. I practically roll my eyes at her craziness. \"Let's do it.\" I add. \nThe three of us sat down with our coffees and casually made small talk. My eyes drifted off to a bunch of balloons that stood near the entry way, but there was only one of them that I was fixated on...the red one. It kept bringing me back to my dream. The balloon. The note. It just didn't make sense. Where did it come from? Who wrote the note? And how the hell did it predict the future? I wish I could just let it go, but I can't. \"Chloe!\" Mackenzie said, snapping me out of my thoughts. \"Yeah, sorry.\" I said. \"What's wrong? Are you still in shock from the fire?\" Hayden asked. I didn't want to tell them about the balloon and note, they would just think I'm crazy. \"Yeah, I guess I am.\" I lied. \"I should get home, it's getting dark and my mom wants be back.\" I say before picking up my bag and leaving. I know Mackenzie and Hayden are probably confused, but my mind was too boggled to stick around for small talk right now. \nI blow dry my hair after taking a 30 minute shower, hoping the hot soapy water would do something to ease my mind. It didn't do much. I put the blow dryer away as I am now finished and lay down on my bed before picking up my phone. \nText message from Ken Z:\nKen Z: Why did you leave? I was really hoping you and Hayden would hit it off. \nI have been to frazzled thinking about this creepy shit to even think about Hayden. If I'm being honest, Mackenzie did have a point. Hayden is kind. He is SMOKING hot. And I mean, he seems to kind of be into me, right? Woah. This is the first time all day my brain has been on a different subject. \nChloe: Sorry I had to cut it short, my mom needed help with dinner. Hopefully Hayden and I will hit it off next week. Text you in the morning. \nI shut off my phone and flick off the lights, my eyes close in and I fall into a deep sleep. \n ........\nI wake up at 3am, drenched in sweat and completely out of breath. No. This can't be happening again. I jolt out of bed and looked out the window. Tears of panic filled my eyes. There it was, right in front of my house again. The red balloon, with a brand new note." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Unnatural Habitats\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2179\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character being led somewhere by a stray cat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Unnatural Habitats:\nby Nathan You\nLucy had always loved the atmosphere of Victorian London streets. The way the gaslights cut through the heavy fog. It gave the whole city an air of beauty and mystery. There wasn't anything like this back home, everything there was so boring. She was too used to that place, there was nothing new there, nothing interesting. But here it felt like there was some new secret to uncover everywhere she looked. \nIt almost made up for the discomfort that came from having to wear a corset. She desperately wanted to tear the stupid thing off but if she was going to be here she'd have to try and pass for a respectable Victorian gentlewoman. And despite that going against pretty much everything in her nature she felt like she'd managed to pull it off quite nicely. Her clothes, despite being made from synthetic materials, looked the part and she styled her hair into a bun that hid most of her purple highlights. That combined with an impression of an upper class accent which she honed through watching far too many period dramas completed the facade. It may not be perfect but it seemed to pass muster as an acceptable if slightly odd picture of a young lady. Unfortunately there wasn't much she could do about the creeps who gave her dirty looks for her light brown skin.\nThe look had been good enough at least for her to pass long enough to finish her mission here. She opened her basket and started rummaging around through the note covered papers and odd bits of highly advanced equipment. Eventually she fished out a thick black book. Its cover read \"The Origin of Species\", she opened it to the first page where the name Charles Darwin was freshly signed in blank ink. She smiled and rather carelessly dropped the book back into the bag, another memento of her travels and another item off her bucket list. She chuckled to herself as she suddenly had the thought that if she was trying to pose as a respectacle gentlewoman then it perhaps wasn't the best idea to go about with one of the most controversial books of the age.\nBefore she could dwell on this much more her attention was diverted by a small white shape that scuirred from an alleyway. \n\"Hello.\" She said, giving a small wave to the small white cat that now sat a few paces down the street in front of her. It reminded her of a scruffy old white cat that had lived on her street when she was a child. She and her sisters had been such terrors to it, always pulling on its tail, not realising they were hurting it. She felt a bit guilty about that now.\nThe cat cautiously crawled along the cobblestones, and approached her, seemingly curious. She kneeled down and gently patted its head. It seemed a bit too friendly to be a stray, a bit too well groomed as well, perhaps it was lost. \n\"Where'd you come from kiddo? You run away from home? Just between us, so did I.\" \nShe reached down to check if it had a collar. But her touch spooked it and it ran off into the shadows. \n\"Oh well. I guess we'll both keep wandering for a little while.\"\n…\nThe elephants thundered through the rocky landscape. They look incongruous, among the snow capped slopes, almost comical. They were driven through the mountains by heavily armed soldiers that rode on their backs and marched alongside them. It was truly a ridiculous plan, who ever would think to launch an invasion of war elephants through the Alps?\nHowever they weren't the only thing out of place in the landscape. Hidden high on a distant ledge was a woman watching their march. She wore a long grey cloke and the tips of her hair were dyed purple. She watched them through a pair of binoculars, following the precession of giant beasts. She smiled a little at the sight of them, still amazed at their sheer audacity.\n\"So the silly bugger really did it.\"\nBut as Lucy watched she noticed that elephants weren't the only beasts on the mountainside. She seemed to see a small white shape darting between the creatures, trying to avoid being trampled on. What was it? Some kind rat or shrew? Maybe even a small deer? It was difficult to tell even with the aid of the binoculars. Eventually, the, whatever it was, despaired from sight. She gave a slight sigh and got up, deciding that she too would leave the elephants to their journey.\n…\nIn the wilds of a Cretaceous era jungle, creatures of all kinds gathered in the relative safety of the watering hole. A crested but hornless protoceratops basked in the sunlight, seemingly unconcerned by the carnivorous velociraptors that had also come for drink. All the creatures seemed to subscribe to a kind of loose unwritten truce so that they could all enjoy the benefits of the watering hole.\nHowever there was a stranger at the watering hole today, a member of an unfamiliar species who had also come to enjoy the waters bounty. Perched on a rock overlooking the water sat a deck chair in the shade of a large beach umbrella. In this deck chair lay a young woman with purple highlights in her hair and wearing a pair of round sunglasses on her head. She took a fishing rod and cast a line into the water.\nShe'd already had some success today, her earlier catches in a basket beside the chair. However, they didn't seem to be biting anymore. She closed her eyes and waited for something to tug on the line. After a while she heard something in the water. It wasn't anything tugging on the line, she could feel that and it didn't quite sound like something drinking. She opened her eyes to see what it was.\nOver on the other side of the lake was a small white cat staring intently at the water. Every now and then it would dip its paw into the water. Evidently it too was trying to catch a fish. Lucy immediately recognized it as the cat she had seen in London and the blue she had seen in the Alps. She also recognised that there was only one way it could be here, somehow it had followed her in her journeys through time.\nThinking on her feet she pulled a fish from her basket and held it out to the creature.\n\"Here puss puss.\"\nThe cat gladly accepted her offer and very soon it was quite literally, eating out of her hand. She picked up the friendly cat and put it into her basket. Inside it was distracted by the rest of her day's catch. She took the opportunity to read what was printed on the feline's collar. It had a small metal pendant that read Daisy and a short address 324 Bailey street. Now that she had a destination in mind she could get going and try to sort this out. She flicked a switch on the deck chair and umbrella and they folded themselves up into a parcel about the size of a first, access to the 41st century sure made it easy to travel light. She scooped them up and put them in the basket then walked back into the forest.\nShe wandered through the trees, looking for the clearing where she'd first arrived. She found it and sure enough the spinning vortex of brilliant white light was still there, just hanging in mid air. Daisy must have followed her through the portal. But that didn't make any sense, the gateways were meant to shut almost as soon as you went through. Her portal projector must really be acting up if this still wasn't closing.\nShe pulled the slim black hi tech device from her basket, and quickly found the fault. One of the antennas was ever so slightly bent out of alignment. She carefully grabbed the antenna and bent it back into shape. Hoping that would do the trick, she stepped through the portal. A few seconds later the swirls of the vortex spiraled to its centre and eventually snapped shut. \n…\nLucy had arrived on the other side back in the rocky snow capped landscape of the Alps. Thankfully the machine seemed to be working properly again and she hadn't had any trouble closing the portal. But she still felt guilty for being so careless with this technology, things could easily have gotten a lot worse than just one lost cat. She sighed, well at least she was fixing it now.\nShe looked around the mountaintops and decided that it was unlikely that 324 Bailey street was anywhere around here so she decided to make straight for the next portal. She made a Beeline for it climbing straight over all the steep hills that got in her way. It was a struggle but she had to get this sorted out as quickly as possible. Unfortunately though some complications arose when she was spotted panting up one of these hills.\nA straggler of Hannibal's forces lagged behind the rest of the army due to an uncooperative elephant. He had been trying to lead the stubborn beast by the reins when he spotted the stranger. Maybe if he could capture a prisoner the general would forgive him for not being able to keep up. \nLucy saw the soldier running towards her his weapon drawn. He yelled something in Carthaginian as he charged at her and she figured this wasn't something she could solve by talking. She booked it out of there, all sense of tiredness forgotten. Only one thing mattered now, getting back to the portal.\nDespite his warrior's physique the soldier struggled to keep up with her. Whilst she may have had to carry a full basket he was wearing full armour and that put him at a serious disadvantage when it came to sprinting. She reached a light that glowed as bright as the sun and ran so fast that she practically jumped into it. Before he could follow her through the light vanished and he was left bewildered by her disappearing act. He fell to the ground, frustrated and exhausted. He sat there kicking himself for not being quick enough, then he remembered that he'd also left his elephant unattended and roared something in Carthaginian that's probably best left untranslated.\n…\nLucy turned out of the alleyway where she'd hidden her portal and out into the London streets. Without her gentlewoman getup was drawing quite a bit more attention. But a harsh look soon got them to mind their own business. She didn't have time for all this. Building up some speed, she raced along the cobbles to the try and find house she was looking for.\nEventually she found her way to Bailey street, it was down in the east end. She had to admit she felt a lot more at home down here, the working class people seemed to have better things to do than gawp at her. In fact on reflection \"at home\" might be quite an accurate description, she realised that she'd grown up quite close to this part of London, albeit centuries later. And if Daisy was from around here maybe that old cat she ran into as a kid was one of her descendants. She giggled a little and shook her at the thought, connecting two random cats across space and time was pretty far fetched, perhaps she was just feeling homesick.\nEmily had almost reached the end of the street by the time she found number 324. It was homely enough but very small and run down. She knocked on the door and was greeted by a young girl and an older woman, maybe her mother or an older sister. It was hard to tell, people in the past lived much harder lives and seemed to age differently.\n\"Hi, I'm Lucy. I think you might be looking for this.\" She pulled Daisy from her basket. The little girl thanked her enphausactically. It was good to see these people get at least some kind of comfort back in their lives. The older woman tried to invite her in but she said that she best be moving on.\nShe walked away from the owner's house. She was still thinking about how happy they'd all seemed, the girl, the woman, even the cat. While she was glad the poor thing had found its way home she still found herself dwelling far more memories of her own home. Perhaps she had been wandering too long. Maybe it was time to head back home.\nBut before she could dwell on this any longer her attention was once again diverted. Standing in front of her was the small brown shape of a very lost looking protoceratops trotting along the street. It seemed there was still at least one thing she had to deal with before she went home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Two mice please!\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1196\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a cat living in an ancient temple, like the Acropolis." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This story is based on mythology of Galinthias, some detailes are true, some are added.\nI was mortal once, they said I betrayed Gods but I was only trying to help my friend. They would let her suffer, ah, my dear Alkmene, continuous birth pangs put on her by Moirai and Eileithyia almost killed me watching it. I was her servant, but actually, we were best friends. When Heraklo was born, I felt like he was a nephew to me, I wanted to hold him, but I couldn't. Moirai was mad, he was furious that I stopped their spells and, together with Eilethyia, they turned me into a weasel. I thought my pain would stop, but soon I realized my curse. Three years ago I gave birth, 5 little weasels got out straight through my mouth, reminding me never to mess with Gods again.\nIt's been a few years since I was in the weasel body so I decided to mess with Gods again. I have been contemplating for a long time what should I transform myself into. My mind was stuck between alligator or some huge lion so I can more easily rip their heads of. However, I decided to be a bit more unexpected, but we will come to that. Since they also made me immortal, my kids will outgrow me soon. I was determined to be the weasel for the rest of my life with the most painful and disgusting births you can imagine. However, they don't know my powers, even as a weasel, I still hold the knowledge of the underground, from the times before, times when I was Gallinthias. I was thinking for a long time how to make them suffer since, unfortunately, no one still figured out a way how to kill Gods. And let me tell you something, Greek Gods are the worst, Ra from my fury friend in pyramids doesn't waste a time on some mountain, like some hedonistic garbage. So I ask myself: What is worse than death? I have to be original tho, no rock to push, liver to be eaten, even Artemis already did my idea of turning someone into deer and let dogs on them. But me, I have to be more creative, I have to make them suffer. I have to do this, for Alkmene, for Heraklo who built me this beautiful temple where I live, and for her, Hekate, goddess who protected me all this years. My thought process about transformation was intense, once I transform, my form will last for at least few years, also, potion that made me able to transform took a year to prepare. I always considered myself more God-like than mortal-like, therefore, there was only one logical solution:\nI transformed into a cat.\n***\nCats are amazing, if I didn't have my revenge, I would spend all day sunbathing on those big hot stones. I have been living like this for a week now and Alkmene doesn't know who I am and Heraklo doesn't know that I can finally live in this temple built by him in my honor. I love every part of this place as it is a symbol of love given to me by my dearest. The frieze above the columns is decorated with symbols of bravery, and pediment, the most beautiful of all, representing my protector Hekate. This temple is not ordinary, it has more details than the usual Greek style boring ones, also, it comes with the underground rooms. What more can I say than: My dearest Heraklo, you knew my plan before it even began.\nMoirai and Eileithyia will come anytime. They think they were invited here by Zeus so I expect confusion in them when they arive especially with the strict instructions to go downstairs. However, Zeus always does crazy stuff, he is pretty weird so maybe they won't suspect. I had to make sure Alkmene and Heraklo are gone by now and I that I have the perfect timing for my potion and plan to work. I can make all kinds of potions, but this one, is my best one yet. With my little black and fury body, infinite lives instead of nine, I go to the underground rooms. They are completely dark and I am almost invisible in here. My potion is ready. I take my paws and put them in a large copper pot full of bubbles and green slime. I let my paws rest as long as I can and I listen for the slightest sound of someone going down the stairs, just a little longer Moirai and Eileithyia, just a little longer. I prepare my body, put the claws out and wait in the complete dark.\nSteps are approaching. I always thought it was weird you could hear Gods, can't they just fly? Although I do forget Greek Gods are not as nearly as cool as the ones in the desert, and a bit stupid too. After all, I could trick them even as a mere mortal. Moirai and Eileithyia come to the rooms, I can feel their presence and I wonder if they can feel mine. They can't see me that's for sure, but the potion is hot and smelly, maybe they will come to the pot. They stand in the middle of the room and I can feel their confusion, stupid Greek Gods. I won't wait longer, my paws are ready. From the darkest corner, my little fury black body with paws full of potion comes on them, they start to scream and cover their faces. You can't kill Gods, but you can for sure injure them, and if you are a cat which knows potions, you make them suffer for the rest of their immortal life. I scratch their faces and whole bodies, enjoying their screams, and when I finish I step back. They are laying on the ground in pain, but pain is yet to come. Green slime from my paws penetrates their bodies. Their long hands start to disapear as well as their legs and turn into tiny pink ones. Oh, how adorable, meow! I can see their faces become covered in fur, I observe the formation of elongated snouts and tiny ears and I feel my saliva glands start to work. After screaming, it came silence, almost. I could hear the squeaking of my dinner. Two little mice are running around the dark room, but guess what you \"Gods\", cats can see in the dark! I start running and catching them througout the room untill I catch both, I feel them going down my throat, decomposing in my belly.\nDon't worry you guys, you are immortal remember? You will come out of me when my bowels start to move, reincarnate again from my feces, and make my lovely dinner tomorrow, and day after that, oh how much time will we spend!\nWith my belly full of delicious Moirai and Eileithyia, I lay on the stones in front of my temple, waiting for Alkmene and Heraklo to return. My body starts to purr as I turn to the stars above my kingdom. Who is the king now you Gods? Purrrr." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: \"Just look twice\" by Bombay Obi\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1249\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character looking for a sign." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Just look twice\"\n\nI had to put on dark shades, that way she won't see my eyes watching her. It was high school graduation day. We were all supposed to be happy, but I was afraid it might end up a sad one for me if Melissa never look at me. That was the sign I needed, a sign to know that she still felt something for me. A sign that will convince me to go over and beg for what I have lost: her love and friendship.\nI have broken her heart again. I have done it before; twice. This current malice, a product of my last promiscuity. Melissa: the first girl I ever crushed on, the first girl I ever loved. The most beautiful girl in the school. Tall, fair skinned, spoke a sweet-buttery english that humbled most of us who had grown speaking the native pidgin English. She was born in Lagos, where almost everyone spoke the colonial british English.\nIt was hard not to fall in love with her at first sight. But I didn't. I didn't see what the other boys saw when she was registered the first day, after her family moved to our town from Lagos due to her father's transfer at work. It had taken me a week to really see what the other boys saw. And when I finally saw it, it became the best thing that ever happened to me.\nI'd sworn to her that I will never cheat again, that I will never break her heart again. But I did. This time she caught me in the empty music class with my face buried in the unbuttoned shirt of her best friend, Victoria, sucking boobs. Someone in our class had seen us, maybe one of those gossipy girls, or any of the boys who must have been Jealous of my affair with Melissa. Half of the class had surreptitiously come to see the profligate boyfriend and betraying best friend of the most beautiful girl in school that day. That was how I lost the last chance I was given.\nThe first time I cheated was in 11th grade, with a sophomore girl, Vivian. I didn't know what it was with me and girls, it seemed like they all wanted me, even when they knew I was in a relationship with Melissa. Most of them I had something with had either secretly written me a note about how they like me so much, some had walked up to me, like Vivian did. It was all new to me, this liking, like I was the finest boy in the whole school, which I knew I wasn't. Maybe it was the desire in these girls to have a taste of the boy Melissa have given her heart to. Maybe I was as handsome as they believed after all.\nMelissa didn't ask me out. We had simply become friends within two weeks of her commencement. She said I always made her laugh, and that I was kind of cute; a baby face and beautiful red lips. Before we knew, we were in a section of the school library kissing. I never asked her out, she only accepted me. And it seemed my journey into receiving affection from girls and performing profligacy began after that kiss, because that kiss placed my mind on another level of human existence, because I'd won the highest heart there ever was to win.\nShe had caught me in the library with Vivian, in the philosophy books section, kissing. I begged for days, and she forgave. I promised it won't happen again. The second time was in the first term of final high school year. Timo had told me about a 10th grade girl who kept pestering him about wanting to talk to me. I had only gone with him to see her. Benedicta was her name, lean like a modelling prospect, had light chocolate skin, and the finest aquiline nose I ever saw. We had just talked about ourselves and exchanged emails. I had no plan of letting her go like that. I was going to be very careful this time, so Melissa wouldn't find out. But she did. Gossips. How Melissa found out was outrageous. Benedicta had boasted to one of her snitch female friends that I'd asked her out, and the snitch snitched.\nI decided I won't apologise. Afterall I didn't do anything. \nOur malice lasted for over three weeks. I almost died of it, but I held on to not apologising, to convince myself that I was innocent. Melissa later apologised, out of the blue she had come. I'd been preparing a graph assignment during break in a lonely part of the school's basketball court. I was faced down, then I saw her fair legs, catwalk and stop beside the desk. \n\"How did I ever offend you?\" She asked, standing akimbo.\nMy heart fluttered for joy. I knew it was all over; the malice. I was happy that she still loved me. I maintained an indifferent face and asked, \"what did I do?\"\nShe shook her head while looking me in the eyes, like I was a puppy that had destroyed something valuable but was in denial. She smiled. It was obvious from her feigned smile that the malice had tired her, that she regrets falling in love with someone whom she had thought was going to be only for her, but had ended up being the one for everyone. I regretted that smile, it was excruciating to see it on her face. She sat beside me and asked what I was doing. I explained. She placed her hand on my shoulder and told me that she was sorry for disbelieving me, that she misses me. I told her I was sorry for the whole drama, that it won't happen again. We kissed a long, wet, aggressive kiss, to make up for lost time. Then we went back to doing the things i had missed the most: my conversations with her, and the kisses. In her I saw everything I wanted in a lifetime partner.\nHow Victoria happened, still baffles me. I couldn't believe I was such a slut. The sight of my face buried in her best friends chest, I'm sure, had almost destroyed her. The betrayal of both her best friend and her boyfriend. I had to leave school that day before dismissal. Timo, my bestfriend in class, later told me that Melissa had returned to the class, put her head down on the desk and cried. I cried too. It was two weeks to graduation.\n\nThe graduation occasion had begun when I arrived with Timo. We dressed to kill, but I'd dressed only to impress Melissa. We took a seat among our mates, all of us wearing graduation gowns that concealed our efforts to show off our beautiful cloths. Melissa sat five seats to my right, in a row in front of me. She didn't look happy like she use to. Her eyes were cold. I hated myself. I wished that she will look at me again, not once, but twice. Once might be a stray of the eyes, twice could be the sign that she still wanted me, that she will forgive me if I apologized.\nI waited, my eyes only on her through my darkshades, waiting, hoping. But she didn't turn, she didn't even as much flinch.\nThen there was a stream of tears running down her left eye." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Help Wanted\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1462\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Richard pressed the intercom button. “Nick, let me have all the resumes we have for that sales position.” His office manager poked his head through the door.\n“I gave it to you, boss. On your desk… The folder…”\nHe glanced at the single sheet of paper it contained. “This? There’s only one.”\n“Yeah. That’s it.”\nRichard recognized the name at the top of the resume, Benjie Bantam. He couldn’t believe it.\n“Re-run the ad.”\n“We ran it three times and that’s all we got.”\n“Hard to believe.”\n“I know. It’s a good job for the right person. But the good news is, that guy looks perfect.”\n“I don’t think so.”\n“You didn’t look. Let me show you.”\n“I don’t have to look. He’d probably be good. But for one thing.”\n“What’s that?”\n“I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s a putz. I can’t work with him.”\n“Really? But…”\n“Really, no. Find someone else. Anyone else.”\n“You don’t want to talk to him...? We could…”\n“I said no. Re-write the ad. We’re expanding. Get someone from another town. Another state…”\n~~\nDriving home, Richard thought about his nemesis. There had to be another candidate.\n“Benjie, how do I hate you? Let me count the ways. Maybe if Benjie weren’t such an arrogant prick. Granted, that quality might be valuable in sales…”\nWhen choosing up teams in school, Richard always came last. He competed well enough. But sports were never his thing. Benjie was the star jock.\nBeing popular, Benjie won the Student Council presidency. That didn’t bother Richard much either. His winning made sense. Being a comically bad president spoke for itself.\nIt wasn’t even Benjie stealing Richard’s girlfriend, Penny, just before prom. Richard felt he actually owed him thanks for that. So she fell for a jock. ‘Nuff said. Better off. Without Penny, Richard met the love of his life, Claire.\nThough they contributed, Richard put these annoyances under the heading of HSC (high school crap). However, Richard’s animosity toward Benjie remained present and personal as his scarred hands. He would always remember that day.\nHe parked his car, looked at his hands and shook his head. Why couldn’t this town provide him with a better candidate for his sales job? Why only Benjie?\nHe’d finally escaped that small-town society nonsense, where everyone’s nose is in your life. He’d started and built a successful, growing business, on his own. But to grow, he needed staff.\nRichard entered and Claire sensed something wrong. He never could hide anything from her.\nShe took his coat and hugged him. She lingered in his embrace.\nHe asked, “Something wrong?”\n“Nope. Dinner’s about ready. How ‘bout you?”\n“The usual…” Her look told him she knew. He admired her ability to read him. “Let me clear my head.”\nWhile he poured a drink, his son, Dan, came in. They sparred playfully. Richard let it distract from Claire’s question. She called them to dinner.\nClaire watched him during the meal. They smiled at their cat and mouse game. He thought about how to frame his answer.\nDan entertained them with a story about getting chosen for the soccer team. The team captains argued over who got Dan. They wanted his penalty kicking skills.\n“Billy said Tommy got me last game. But Tommy said he didn’t care. He won the toss so he gets to pick first. It was hilarious.” Richard enjoyed Dan’s success. He wished he had such stories to share.\n“My team won, of course…”\nAfter dessert, Dan helped clear the table and did the dishes before returning to his homework.\nClaire leaned on the table and smiled. “Head clear yet?”\nHe leaned back. “Guess who applied for the sales job today.”\nShe had no idea. He raised his hands, palms out.\nClaire shut her eyes. “No. You have to be kidding.”\n“No joke.”\n“Richard… You can’t.” He nodded. “After what he did?”\n“No one else applied.”\nShe came and embraced him, murmuring sympathetic tones.\n“Think about it. He’d be working for me. I could finally make him pay. Give him…”\n“It’s your company. It’s our security. He could sabotage you. Make you liable for… I don’t know… It could get ugly.”\n“I can set up paper-work. Air tight and legal.” She shook her head. “We need someone, Claire. Without moving product, we’ll wither.”\n“But you can’t use your company to get personal revenge. That’s wrong on so many levels.” He shrugged. “You need to hire someone to be productive. Don’t waste time on a vendetta.”\n“I don’t know, Claire. Finding someone else would simplify it so much. You’re right about revenge. But I can’t see Benjie working out. How could we work together after this?” He held his hands up to her.\n“You can’t.”\nThey embraced. “I’ll figure something out.”\n~~\nThe next morning, Richard ran numbers, trying to see his way through this impasse. The company wouldn’t thrive if they couldn’t up their game.\nHe looked at his scarred hands and thought about that day, twenty years ago. He’d started his first summer job as dishwasher at the local steakhouse. The work included making salads and wrangling baked potatoes in and out of the oven.\nBenjie manned the grill.\nTo gain access to the oven, Richard squatted between the cooks. He pulled freshly baked potatoes into a pan. Always pranking, Benjie kneed Richard off balance into the oven. Richard caught himself on the hot rack. He screamed in pain. The cooks laughed at this ‘new guy’ hazing. Retaliating, Richard grabbed a two-pronged meat fork and jammed it into Benjie’s foot.\nThe commotion and violence got them both fired. Richard hadn’t spoken to Benjie since then.\nNick stuck his head in. “Have a moment?”\n“What’s up?”\n“I know what you told me, boss, but Mr. Bantam is out here. He wants to talk with you.”\nRichard sighed and shook his head. “Nick, I told you…”\n“I didn’t call him. He just came in.” Richard felt his blood pressure rising. Nick continued, “Don’t decide anything. Let him talk.”\n“I don’t have time, Nick.”\n“Hear him out, boss. We need him.”\n“I need someone. Not him.”\n“Sales are down and inventory is backed up… That contract fell through last month…”\nRichard checked his watch. “Five minutes.”\nNick disappeared. Moments later, Benjie knocked. Richard waved him in.\n“Thanks for seeing me, Richard. Especially without an appointment.”\n“What do you want?”\n“To be honest, I really need this job.” Richard didn’t respond. “I know I’m not your first choice. But if you hear me out…”\n“Four minutes.”\n“I’m sorry for any pain I caused you, ever… ” Richard looked at his watch. Benjie paused. “Look, I handled this badly. It’s been decades and I never apologized. I was stupid. We could have been friends. It’s my fault we’re not.”\nRichard watched a bird on the window sill.\nBenjie continued, “We’ve each lived and learned since then. Ego has slid way down on my list of priorities. You’ve built a great business here. I want to help you take it to the next level. You need a salesman. I’m the best… If you give me this chance, I’ll earn your respect and make up for the pain I’ve caused… And help the company thrive.”\nRichard leaned on his desk. “How do I know you won’t sabotage me? How can I trust you?”\nBenjie looked relieved at any response. “’Cause by hurting you, I’d hurt myself. My success depends on yours. You want to expand. I can help.”\n“You’re such an expert salesman. You selling now?”\n“You know repeat business is key. Lying to get one sale is a dead end. We both have families. I don’t have time for stupidity anymore. I want to join your team.”\nRichard let Benjie stew.\n“Lots of stupidity back then.” Benjie nodded. “Remember the ER? Sitting in opposite corners?”\n“Our mothers glaring at each other.”\n“Your mother glared. My mother glowered.” Benjie chuckled. “I thought we were going to have to break up a fist fight.”\n“Or make them take it outside.”\n“Like mothers, like sons…” They both laughed. Richard copped an attitude. “My mom could take your mom.”\nLaughing, Benjie countered, “Oh, yeah?”\n“My mom’s eyebrow is still undefeated. Give me odds...”\n“Twenty to one…”\nRichard smiled. “Have to sell a lot to pay that bet. You’d better get cracking.”\nBenjie paused. The implications of Richard’s statement, penetrated. He almost jumped.\n“You mean…?”\nRichard offered his hand to shake. “Have Nick give you the paperwork. When can you start?”\n“Today!”\n“Then, welcome aboard.”\nBenjie stood. He couldn’t stop grinning. “Thanks, Richard. I won’t let you down.”\n“I know you won’t. Wouldn’t dare. I’ll sic my mom on you.”\nSmiling as Benjie exited, Richard sat. He shook his head while looking at his hands. “HSC…”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sawbones\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1420\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character being led somewhere by a stray cat." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "REWARD FOR MISSING SHIP’S CAT\nBLACK AND WHITE - ANCHOR ON COLLAR\nRETURN HIM TO THE SUZANNA BY SUNDOWN ON ST DAVID'S DAY\nAND BE PAID IN GOLD!\n\nJimmy curled his fingers round the corner of the brewery wall and his smudged face followed, wide eyes peering into the uneven alleyway behind. Hops and barley overpowered the faint scent of herring this far from the water and Jimmy breathed a little easier.\n\nThere he was. Black and white, pewter anchor on his collar. The two-toned cat stood out against the red brick building as he stopped to lick his paw and run it over his ear. Jimmy positioned one tentative foot out into the alley and then slowly shifted his weight onto it, creeping out from behind the wall. His shadow fell just a few cobbles short of his feline adversary. He pulled a fishtail from a paper bag he’d stuffed into his pocket and held it out in front of him as he crouched down closer to cat-height.\n\nThe posters were everywhere round the seafront and Jimmy wanted that gold to care for his ailing mother. He skulked around the fish-stinking streets as the herring drifters emptied their catch at the docks every morning, looking for work. The Suzanna had made port three days ago. Much bigger than a fishing boat, she was preparing to set sail on the trading route, down the east coast, then south to France, carrying wool and leather. There were four more days to claim the prize.\n\nIt was no wonder the cat had run off. Surely the scent of fresh fish in such abundance on dry land was a much bigger draw than the scrawny mice he was employed to hunt on the ship.\n\n“Here Puss.” Jimmy waved the bit of fish towards the cat and then held still.\n\nThe cat stopped washing his face and turned to sniff the air in Jimmy’s direction, before standing up with a wave of his tail and padding further away down the alley. Jimmy, still crouching, shuffled along behind the feline, sucking air through his teeth every so often to make a petting noise he thought might attract it. As the cat stalked round the far corner of the brewery, Jimmy stood and ran to catch up.\n\nThis wall of the building faced a large, brick warehouse with an open door on the right hand side, through which the cat was slinking. Jimmy trotted after him, still waving the fishtail and whispering “Puss!” under his breath.\n\nHe was just through the door, looking round for the animal, when something heavy hit the back of his head and everything went dark.\n\n*\n\nJones had seen the posters between polishing pairs of boots for gentlemen. With three days to go before the Suzanna set sail, he laid eyes on a black and white cat dodging its way through the market. The cat had a collar but was facing the wrong way to see if the tell tale anchor was attached to it. Keeping one eye on the feline, Jones opened his satchel and arranged the hessian sack inside ready to welcome a captive. Then he left his post and darted between stalls to follow his quarry.\n\nThe cat ran down a snicket between two rows of houses and Jones feared him lost, but when he entered the alleyway himself, the animal was sitting, washing his whiskers with one paw, and facing towards the man. There was the anchor at its neck.\n\nJones opened his bag and made a gentle step towards the cat, calming his breath and steadying his stride. The cat observed, unfazed and continued to lick its paws. As Jones took a second step forward the cat bristled, turned and ran out of the end of the alley. Jones followed at great pace and exited the snicket just in time to see the cat cross in front of a large warehouse and disappear round the far corner of the brewery. Jones would need a drink after he claimed his reward and there was an inn at the front.\n\nApproaching with caution, Jones sidled up to the corner of the brewery, flattening himself against the wall and glanced around for signs of the cat.\n\n“Here kitty!” he took a step round the corner.\n\nThere was a sudden movement in the shadow and Jones fell to the ground unconscious.\n\n\n\nCaptain Barlow of the Suzanna rubbed his sweating brow and tore down another poster. The ones he couldn’t tear were brushed over with black paint and left to dry in the breeze. He’d sent the cabin boy out to get rid of them every day since they docked but more kept appearing and he had no idea where from. Rusty, the ship’s ginger cat, was not missing. And even if he was, it was easy to find another mouser. No one would be parting with any gold over a mangy feline on his ship! They would sail in two days and this folly would be over, but until then the posters had to be dealt with.\n\nIt was bad enough that he’d had to send his First Mate, Percy, to the sawbones that morning after his leg cracked under the weight of a falling barrel at a dance the night before. Stupid accident never should have happened, but there was as much rum in the port as there was on the ship and the men had to have their fun somehow.\n\n\n\nPercy had been half carried, half dragged by four crew mates to the nearest surgeon when the sun came up. Mr Stanmore was highly recommended by the port official. His office was located down an alleyway at the side of the brewery and he made good use of a deal with the innkeeper to see that the men taken to him were suitably inebriated before any major procedure.\n\nThe operating room was down some steep stone steps underneath Mr Stanmore's house. The sailors ducked to get through the door, struggling to maintain their grip on the unwilling patient.\n\nUpon entry, the surgeon pulled aside a dark red curtain which allowed access to the operating theatre. A little light entered through a dirty, street level window near the ceiling, but the room was mostly illuminated by a series of oil lamps hanging on hooks from the walls, which a blond, teenage girl lit as she welcomed the men in, passing rum in a metal mug to Mr Percy.\n\nMr Stanmore directed the small group to lay their companion down on a hard, wooden table, covered only with a thin, blood stained sheet. Percy moaned as the surgeon carried out a brief, but painful, examination and confirmed that both the left tibia and left fibula were broken beyond repair. The leg was coming off at the knee, one way or another.\n\nThe teenage girl watched the proceedings intently, hanging on every word the surgeon spoke and leaning in over Percy's legs to see the damage for herself.\n\n“No Mable, you cannot watch the operation.” He set a stern glare towards her and strode back behind the curtain which divided the room, beckoning her to follow. They spoke in hushed tones, out of earshot of the sailors.\n\n“But you said I could if I helped find three volunteers.\"\n\n\"Mr Percy over there is not a volunteer. He's a patient.\" The surgeon tapped his foot. \"Unless I can get the whole procedure down to under a minute I can hardly call myself an expert. I won't allow you to watch until I am of a certain standard. And anyway, it's beyond me why you would want to see something so unpleasant.\"\n\n\"Maybe I want to be like you one day, Dad.\"\n\nThe surgeon flushed red as he waved Mable out and slammed the door shut behind her. She stamped up the steps in annoyance.\n\n*\n\nMr Stanmore signalled to the sailors to hold their ship mate’s arms and legs in place against the blood-spattered table as he stuffed a rag between Percy’s teeth and opened a stiff leather bag.\n\nPercy’s drunken eyes sloshed around inside his head, taking in snatches of detail from his surroundings as he braced himself for the pain. The surgeon was bald… There was a stained, white coat hanging on the wall… Faint sunlight came in from a window above him… Mable was crouching at the window to watch the operation… Mable was holding a small, black and white cat, with an anchor on its collar…" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Lies\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2355\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone losing faith in an institution." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There was a knock on Mrs Winters’ office door and she sighed. She looked at the stack of paperwork in her ‘In’ tray on her desk, before putting the cap back on her fountain pen and sitting upright.\n“Enter,” she called. There was a chance, after all, that this was a quick query. It was a slim chance, and one look at the face of the teacher who leant round the door dashed that chance entirely. “What is it?”\n“Sorry to disturb you, Ma’am.” The teacher bit their lip as they met the stern glare.\n“What is it?”\n“We’ve got a student that’s playing up. She’s been given detention by pretty much all of her teachers, but she’s still answering back.”\nMrs Winters sighed again and pulled the keyboard out from under her computer. “Very well. Which one is it?” She had a feeling she knew, but it would be unprofessional to call the file up without confirmation.\n“That’s the other thing. It’s Elizabeth Evers.”\n“Evers? She’s not a regular. Evers, Evers… why do I know that name?”\n“She was at the last prize giving. She was nominated for the prize in, well, basically every subject. She’s one of our star pupils, in the top ten of the year sevens last year.”\nThe scowl on Mrs Winters' face was replaced with a curious frown. “And now she’s answering back to her teachers?”\n“Yes, Ma’am. We’ve tried to make enquiries about her home life, make sure everything’s okay there. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary though.”\n“Very well. I’ll see her now.” As much as Mrs Winters hated being interrupted when she was sorting paperwork, she couldn’t leave a puzzle like this. And she couldn’t let a good student ruin herself after a single year.\nThe door opened wider and Elizabeth Evers walked in. She glared as she came. They all glared as they were showed into the deputy headteacher’s office. During her ten years in the role, Mrs Winters had seen it all. The glares that said the students hated everything about the world, the glares that said they were hurting and lashing out was all they knew. Twice – just twice – she had seen the glares that spoke of a twisted soul. In the darkest nights, those were the looks that haunted her, and she hated opening newspapers the next days, fearing seeing those same eyes staring out as an ex-pupil was arrested for something heinous.\nThe glare from Elizabeth Evers was a new one on Mrs Winters however. She was angry, as they usually were, but there was nothing guarded about her look. She looked more fed up, or disappointed, as though she was the teacher about to lecture a naughty pupil.\nThe only acknowledgement Mrs Winters gave this peculiar thought was a raised eyebrow.\n“Sit, Miss Evers,” Mrs Winters barked as Elizabeth walked up to the desk. The deputy head kept staring until the girl was sat, although it didn’t seem to be intimidating her at all. “Now, would you care to explain just what you think you’re doing?”\n“Talking to you,” Elizabeth replied. She was picking at her sleeve and kicking her feet, but it didn’t feel like nerves. More boredom.\n“There’s no need to be cheeky, young girl. What’s with this attitude, hmm? You were a good student last year, so why are you playing up?”\n“Doesn’t matter.”\n“Yes it does, young lady. You’re not leaving this office until you’ve explained yourself, and you’re going to keep getting detentions until you buck your act up. Should we call your parents in as well, see if they can explain why you’ve become so rude?”\nWith the good students, the threat of calling the parents was usually enough to get them to break. It worked on a few of the bad students as well, although Mrs Winters gut told her it was for a very different reason. The good students feared letting down their parents; the bad students just feared their parents.\nBut Elizabeth Evers just shrugged. “You can call them. They already know I’ve gotten detentions though.”\n“And what did they say?”\n“Doesn’t matter.”\nMrs Winters chewed the inside of her lip. She had a vague memory of the Evers couple from the prize giving. Smily, bubbly, engaged… assuming she was thinking of the right parents. Over the years, they all blended into one horrific, grinning blob. Either way, Mrs Winters was sure that Elizabeth’s parents had been at the prize giving. If the parents had lost interest in their child, for whatever reason, that could explain her sudden personality change.\n“Very well.” Mrs Winters leant over to the computer and started digging through the student files to get a phone number for either of the Evers. It was still the middle of the day, so they might still be at work. Probably. The chances of having working parents was about fifty-fifty for the students at the school.\nAs she waited for the computer to crawl its way through the catalogue of names, Mrs Winters watched Elizabeth Evers. The girl was grinding her teeth and still picking at the edge of her sleeve. That could be the way in.\n“Elizabeth,” Mrs Winters said in her best impression of a sympathetic voice, “if you’re angry at your parents for ignoring you, then we can talk to them.”\nElizabeth looked up at last. “My parents aren’t ignoring me. You are.”\nAnother raised eyebrow. “I was trying to talk to you. You were the one shutting down the conversation and being rude.”\n“I don’t mean you you. I mean the school.”\nMrs Winters sighed and sat back in her chair. This was more familiar territory, although it usually came from the parents. ‘Our child is smart, but they’re just being left to colour in pictures while the teacher sees to everyone else.’ In the early days Mrs Winters had sympathised with them, but when it was a complaint every year she soon became bored of it. This was a mixed ability school, with very mixed abilities. Of course the teachers focused on the struggling students. Schools were marked off the average of their results. They needed to get as many people passing exams as they could. Sadly the parents never took it well when she pointed out that their dear little angel’s education was being sacrificed for the school rankings.\nIn ten years though, this was the first time she’d heard it from a student’s mouth.\n“How is the school ignoring you, Elizabeth? What can we do to fix this?” Within reason, otherwise the phone number is right there.\nElizabeth chewed her lip for a moment. Term had only been back three weeks, and somehow the staff had isolated this young lady so much already. Mrs Winters was worried, although her perfectly still stature didn’t show that.\n“Do you really want to know?” Elizabeth asked.\n“I do. We can’t help if we don’t know.”\n“Hmph. No one’s helped yet anyway.”\n“Then talk to me. I don’t have a class–” Of annoying interrupting little brats. “– to disturb me.”\nElizabeth watched Mrs Winters’ face for a moment, trying to work out how sincere she was being. Then the little girl started crying. Mrs Winters sat back and clutched the arms of the chair, before collecting herself and leaning forward again.\n“Go on, Elizabeth.”\n“No one ever answers me! They explain something, then I ask why its like that and they just go ‘because it is’. What kind of answer is that? Learning about the Black Death, and Miss Cooper wouldn’t tell me anything more about the disease. It’s just ‘the Black Death’ and causes lumps and all that. Nothing about how contagious it actually was, or how it was transmitted, or if there are any modern cures for it. She just said ‘you don’t need to know that’, and then carried on.\n“Or in science, all that stuff about the atomic model? How do we know that atoms are just circles? If its really that simple then why do people spend years at university learning about it? And what are all those diagrams on the lab walls, showing everything but circles?\n“And in English. Mr Matthews always says that the authors use a colour to imply something, but how do we know that? What if the author just liked that colour? And how can he say for certain what the author was thinking when they died hundreds of years ago?\n“And then there’s geography, when they talk about the tectonic plates. They say the plates destroy and create themselves at the fault lines, but what happens when there’s a huge stack of things on top of the plate? Does it get shoved off or does it go underneath?\n“And–”\nDear Lord, she won’t stop. “Okay, Elizabeth,” Mrs Winters said quickly. She cleared her throat and sat up, having been crushed under the weight of the girl’s curiosity. She couldn’t blame her colleagues for handing out detentions in the face of that. “All right. I think I can see the problem now.”\n“The problem is that no one wants to teach me. They’re all just giving me baby stuff, but everyone said that when I got to high school it would be different. I’d be allowed to learn. I sat through all of year seven listening to the silly things the teachers said, but I can’t go through that for the rest of the year. I want to know more. I want to know how things work, and why. I want to make sense of everything. I need to know.”\nSilence, blessed silence, fell over the office. Mrs Winters watched Elizabeth Evers. The tears had stopped, but the traces of them down her face screamed her anger. When the parents got angry about their child being left behind, it was because they thought that what they did or didn’t learn at age twelve would make a difference to how well they do at Oxford or Cambridge. But with Elizabeth, it wasn’t about the academic side. She asked the questions because she genuinely wanted the answers.\nOld memories stirred in Mrs Winters head, memories punctuated by the slap of a cane.\n“In short, Mrs Winters,” Elizabeth said, because clearly the deputy head had taken too long to reply. “I don’t believe this school is any good. It’s all lies and kiddie-versions of the truth. I want to be treated as an adult.”\n“Elizabeth.” Mrs Winters steepled her fingers and looked over them. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth. I understand what you’re saying. I really do.” The slap of a cane echoed across the years. “I’m sorry you feel let down by us. But I hope you can understand the position we’re in. We have thirty students in each class. There’s no way we can spare a teacher with enough time to give you all the information you want.”\n“But the special needs kids get personal help.”\nThis was an area Mrs Winters felt safer on. “High school grades can dictate a person’s life. It would be wrong of us to abandon those who struggle, and risk them being shut out of society all together.”\n“I suppose.” About the same reaction the adults had when Mrs Winters used that argument on them. “So I just have to keep learning lies? Until when? When does the actual education start?”\nWhen you learn some manners? For all that she sympathised, Mrs Winters still didn’t like Elizabeth Evers’ attitude. “Every year, each subject will go into more and more detail.” That made the girl’s shoulders sag, and Mrs Winters didn’t think they’d get off that easily. Her eyes caught the phone number on the screen next to her. Then she looked at the screen itself, and an idea struck her. “But I’ll tell you what.”\n“What?” Elizabeth finally perked up, and Mrs Winters recognised the over-achiever from the prize giving. Oh yes, those had been the right parents she’d imagined earlier.\n“I will make an arrangement with the other teachers. When you’ve finished all the work that they’ve set, you may borrow one of the school laptops for doing some additional reading. I’ll see if I can find you some coursework from older years as well.” Or perhaps the Open University. Trying degree level work might be enough to get her to shut up for five minutes. “Does that sound acceptable? That way you can go and find your own answers.”\nThe girl’s eyes lit up. “Seriously? Oh, wow, thank you, Mrs Winters!”\n“It’ll take a few days to get everything set up, and get everyone briefed on it. And this is all on the understanding that you go back to being an A-grade student. Perfect attendance, your best effort, and no back-chat.”\n“Yes, Mrs Winters. Of course, I’ll be as good as gold.”\nThe battle was won, and Mrs Winters sank back in her chair. “Very well. Go back to class for now, and behave. If I get any reports of you getting more detention by the end of the week than the deal’s off.”\n“No, Mrs Winters. No more detentions, I promise.” Elizabeth bounced to her feet, and almost bowed. “Thank you.” And, like a cheery hurricane, the girl was gone.\nMrs Winters ran a hand through her hair. “I’m not paid enough for this,” she muttered as she reached over and started typing the agreement they’d just made on Elizabeth Evers’ personal file.\nShe was halfway through when a chilling thought struck her. She squinted at the door, going over everything in her head again. This was a very generous, and completely out of the ordinary arrangement. She’d never allowed anything like this before, even when the students had burst into tears. Yet, for some reason, this time she had done it without a second thought.\nMrs Winters wasn’t sure if she’d been played or not. The worst part, though, was that Mrs Winters wasn’t sure if she cared.\nAfter all, Mrs Winters had to admire the girl’s performance, and she knew the girl was smart. Maybe, as Elizabeth herself had said, it was all lies." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dammit Tibbles\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1056\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a big cat — whether that’s a lion, cheetah, etc., or just a chunky pet." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I am the legendary Dammit Tibbles, the mightiest huntress who ever lived. Fear me, all ye lesser creatures.\n\nIn truth, “Tibbles” is just what I've let David call me. I don’t care a dropped whisker for his calls, so it doesn’t matter if he calls me Tibbles, or Chunky Dumpling, or Babaganoush. It isn’t like I’m going to answer to any of it… though, when he eventually expanded it to “Dammit Tibbles,” it amused and flattered me on a deep level which I cannot quite explain.\n\nI know it is the ultimate compliment, because I'm kind of a big deal in history. But we’ll get to that.\n\nDespite the nonsensical name imposed upon me, he is a kind man, and I have been his “little lady” since two winters ago. He first came across me, shivering and half-starving, in a dirty alley where I had been dumped. Still young, I was able to eke out a meager living despite the competition, but fleas and the sordidness of my situation impinged upon my natural majesty during those hard few months. \n\nI knew I was destined for better than a grueling life on the streets, so when this particular human began presenting me with treats on his way by from time to time, I knew that this was a path of upward mobility for me, and I grew to welcome his visits.\n\nNow, it wasn’t lick-at-first-sight. I continued my existence in that alley and in my surrounding territory, growing stronger, bigger, and healthier every week. I had even met another of my kind, a big, beautiful male with ebony locks and green eyes who mesmerized my young heart. We roamed together, and he showed me where to find the best mice.\n\nA giver at heart – as kind and benevolent as I am regal – I was certain to save some of these murine victims to give to David in appreciation for all of the treats he had shared. If he was to be my human connection in this world, I wanted him to know that I did not take the relationship lightly. One should always gift their loved ones and dear friends, as a sign of respect and honor.\n\nOddly, he grimaced and never took the treats home with him, so perhaps he didn’t understand. I resolved to follow him home and deposit them directly onto his turf so that he would know they were, indeed, intended for his consumption.\n\nAfter that, it was only a short time before I was allowed into his home (though, not with the gifts), and soon I found that the delights of a warm fireplace and tinned fish were too much to refuse. I saw less and less of my laddie love, until one day, I simply decided to stay and accept my regency. My dear tom had already found another, and so we had since said our formal goodbyes, though sometimes I would still sneak out at night and visit him for old times’ sake. These were the storied days of my youth – which I was soon to leave behind.\n\nThe months passed in pleasant repose. David was a quiet man of simple needs, who enjoyed petting me for hours as I rested against his leg in front of a cozy fire. He rarely entertained, so it was just the two of us, and though he was gone most days from our comfortable abode, I always greeted him in the evenings with mellow chirping and ankle weaves. He said more than once that I was getting a little too plump to fit between his ankles, and that he’d have to stop giving me so much tuna, but it was an idle threat, fortunately – for him.\n\nOne day, I unexpectedly found myself vaccinated and caged and stowed aboard a boat to cross the narrow sea, all in the span of a day. When we landed, David and I (and my soon-to-be-born kittens) were on a lush island where only the two of us mattered in all of the world.\n\nAs I surveyed my new domain, I remember thinking to myself that, truly, this must be what humans call heaven. \n\nOh, the treasures that abounded here! I was so delighted to have the roam of the place that I increased my gifts to David many fold. Something else, too, intuited in me the need to become more productive in this manner, should I expect to adequately provide for my coming brood. \n\nI never understood David’s objections to my generous gifts, but they remained on the stoop and were never integrated into our evening meals. Nevertheless, I was certain to present something daily. My particular delight was a little creature which seemed to be a cross between a ground rodent and a bird. It looked like a bird, lovely glowing gold and olive feathers enshrouding it, but it didn’t fly like one. It simply ran and ran... and ran... hah!\n\nIt was such great fun that my whiskers twitch even now, remembering the thrill of those hunts. And the strange little creatures were everywhere, ripe for the plucking, so to speak.\n\nIt was during this time that I grew from just “Tibbles” to become “Dammit Tibbles,” legendary huntress extraordinaire. \n\nIt was also during this time that I birthed my beautiful, healthy young kits. I got plenty of tuna while I was ensconced in caretaking my newborns, but never once did David think to reciprocate in bringing me my favorite bird. Humans just don’t “get it” sometimes, so I graciously overlooked the gaffe.\n\nIn short order, my little ones had grown enough to leave the nursery and join me in my hunts, the clowder of us wreaking absolute havoc on our new realm. \n\nSuch were the exploits of Dammit Tibbles and her brood that we were even credited with a legendary achievement focused on that bird that I mentioned: I (we) had single-handedly wiped it from the face of the planet… a feat never before managed in the history of the world, and one which, to this day, is enshrined in human history books. \n\nThey call it a “cautionary tale,” by which I can only assume they mean as a warning to all other species of our might: caution, Dammit Tibbles and her family are on the prowl here. Woe unto ye!" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Glass Beach\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1423\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story of fragments. Many options here: no verbs, sentence fragments, short sections, nothing but objects, etc. The fragments should relate to one another obliquely, hesitantly, subtly, ambiguously, preposterously, marvelously." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Glass Beach\n\nCome—walk with me this strand of glass\n Through mists of time\n To other days\n\nWhose memories, in this mingled mass\nOf splendid hues \nWith bright arrays, \n\nAre scattered here.\n\nCome—follow me the world around,\nTo places far\nAnd near. Anon,\n\nThe touch, the smell, the taste, the sound\nAnd sight of all\nThat is bygone \n\nWill gather here.\n\nThese motley particles enshroud\n The sheltered cove \nWith stories. Each\n\nThough now obscured by veil of cloud,\nWill be revealed\nOn pebbled beach\n\nIn lustrous sphere.\n\n <•>\n\nYour feet slide and crunch as we walk. Reach down. Scoop up a handful of pastel pebbles. Roll them with your thumb. Feel them slipping damply against each other, clacking softly. Drying in the salty breeze.\n\nThose are pieces of history in your palm. Shards of glass rounded and muted by the passage of time. Frosty whites, sugared-chestnut browns, misty greens. Here and there a tiny bead of cloudy cobalt or amethyst, the barest fleck of ruby, a slender ellipse of midnight-sky obsidian.\n\nExamine them, color by color, and let them tell their stories.\n\n <•>\n\nObsidian\n\nA suitable branch. A carefully crafted spear head. A length of rawhide thong. Bitaa carried these off to his peaceful place, where he could fashion them into a spear.\n\nThe boy’s small, coppery hands wrapped the leather strip tightly, as he had been taught—crisscrossing round and round the base of the sharp obsidian piece. Tongue clamped between his teeth, he bent in concentration as he bound the thong to the wood he had made smooth. Oh, the yowsha he would catch… the slippery, silvery salmon!\n\nHe knew a stream nearby, teeming with egg-laden fish struggling to reach their spawning site. His spear would help him get a meal for his family. His father would be proud; his mother grateful.\n\nDirecting the spear with a confident thrust into the milling throng of yowsha, Bitaa was startled by a sudden “Whuff!” from his namesake—a small brown bear who appeared just upstream. The boy yanked back, too quickly, and lost the fish. There was a moil of reddened water, and a pointless tool.\n\nThe strapping he had thought sufficient had come loose, and the fine, purplish-black obsidian was lost in the water.\n\n <•>\n\nCobalt \n\nVilho’s weeping bride kneels on the floor, wiping up a smear of something red.\n\n“Mussu, sweetie, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”\n\nUlla presses the back of her hand against her nose, sniffles, then points silently to the nearby dustpan. Within it are fragments of blue glass.\n\n“Oh, mussu...” Vilho lifts her up from the floor and wipes her face with the corner of her apron. Holds her in a tight embrace.\n“What happened?” His warm breath stirs the wisps of straw colored hair at her temple.\n“Ohhhh…” she wails, unable to articulate. And so he holds her while she sobs, mourning the loss of more than the blue vase.\n\nTenderly, the young husband picks a needle-sharp sliver of glass from his Ulla’s bare foot. A shard of blue, tinged with red. \n\nThe vase must be discarded. Ulla will heal, and together they will grow into their new lives in this new country—half a world away from Finland. \n\n<•>\n\nRuby\n\n“Son, we need to talk.”\n\n“Talk?”\n\n“ About the car.”\n\n“Car…?”\n\n“Oh, I have an echo. Yes, car. Sitting in the garage. With a half-empty tank.”\n\n“Oh…well, I—”\n\n“Nineteen cents a gallon, son. Use your math skills.”\n\n“I was going to—” \n\n“And a missing taillight.”\n\n“I…uh…”\n\n“What happened? No, let me guess. You took Doris for a spin while I was gone. Didn’t think I’d notice. Where’d you go? The overlook?”\n\n“Uh…How’d you know?”\n\n“Ha! I was young once, son. What happened? Sideswiped a tree, eh?…Taillight’s shattered, pieces gone over the cliff into the water…You’re looking at me like I’m psychic. A little more respect for your old man now? Eh?”\n\n“Dad, I—I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the gasoline and replace the taillight.”\n\n“They come clear across the country from Ohio, you know. The dealer may not have them in stock, so it could be a while. And I don’t know how much it’ll cost. Probably more than it should, so start saving your pennies.”\n\n“Yes, Dad.”\n\n“Well. Hrmph! I’ve heard that’s the weak point of Willys-Knights. Taillights break easily. Not that it excuses your actions, son!”\n\n“No, Dad. It doesn’t.”\n\n“I don’t think I should need to tell you this—but I will. Never, ever do something like that again. Understand?”\n\n“Yes, Dad. I’ve learned my lesson.”\n\n“One more thing.”\n\n“Yes, Dad?”\n\n“I’m glad no one was hurt.”\n\n<•>\n\nViolet\n\nIt was for the best, Violet told herself. Mr. Murphy had lost his will to live, since his wife’s unexpected death. \n\n“It’s a kindness, really, is what it is,” she murmured as she uncapped the bottle. “No one will know to thank me, so I’ve just got to thank myself.”\n\nHumming to herself, she tipped a generous amount of her special powder into the milk. Mr. Murphy always enjoyed a mug of cocoa at bedtime, to help him sleep. \n\nShe opened the door of the wood stove and stirred the embers to a bright flame before dropping in the makeshift paper funnel. \n\n“And these,” she said, pulling off her white cotton gloves so that they were turned inside out. “Pity. They were my nicest pair. But I’ll sacrifice them for poor Mr. Murphy’s sake.”\n\nIt was odd, remarked Mr. Whipple to Mrs. Whipple, that Violet MacPherson had left town just when Mr. Murphy took a turn for the worse. And she’d forgotten to put the milk bottles out for him to collect.\n\n<•>\n\nAmber \n\nPink bismuth. Paregoric. Fleet enema. Iodine. Syrup of ipecac. A big bottle of cod liver oil. \n\nEmpty the medicine cabinet. Pack the old bottles into a box and mark it “Discard”. Cross that out and write “Save”. The bottles are old enough to be collector’s items. \n\nThe cod liver oil one is especially interesting. It’s amber-colored, embossed all around with little scallopy scales. On one side is the likeness of a fish. There’s about an inch of oil remaining, surely rancid by now. \n\nThe thought makes me gag. But then I remember Grandma’s story, and I laugh instead!\n\nHer mother believed in cod liver oil. At any sign of illness, out came the bottle... Grandma was a feisty little girl, and she was determined to dispose of that nasty stuff. She sneaked the bottle out of the house and tossed it in the neighbor’s incinerator.\n\nBut, for as long as I could remember, this bottle has sat in the cabinet. She kept it because it belonged to her mother. So I keep it.\n\n<•>\n\nClear, Brown, Green\n\nWednesday, April 18, 1906, 5:12 a.m.:\nThe Great San Francisco Earthquake. \n\nHigh-intensity shaking was felt up and down the coast of Northern California. One hundred seventy miles from the epicenter, the people of Fort Bragg were rattled by what was reported “one of the most terrible earthquakes that ever visited the Pacific Coast. The earth seemed to swell and heave like the bosom of the ocean and people were tossed about and thrown from their beds amidst the crashing of falling walls and collapsing buildings, making a din that caused nearly everyone to think the end of the world had come.”\n\nEvery brick building crumbled to the ground. Stores were in ruins, residences lost.\n\nMirroring San Francisco on a smaller scale, a fire broke out in the tiny coastal town. Caused by an oil lamp being overturned in the violent quake, it destroyed an entire block of buildings before it was quenched.\n\nThe town was reduced to heaps of smoldering rubble. Broken bricks, charred wood, shattered windows. Every size from chunks to slivers. Shards and fragments.\n\nThere was nothing to do but start over. So the piles and heaps and mounds were pushed over the cliff. Into the sea. \n\nFor years, this place at the bottom of the cliff was known as “The Dumps”. The waves, tossing and tumbling, made discarded lumber into smooth driftwood. And pieces of glass into beautiful, frosted sea glass. \n\n<•>\n\nIt’s time to go. Open your hand and let the pieces fall—sliding from your grasp one by one. Listen as each drops to the ground; every one makes a different sound. Look at them; every one adding something of its own to the mosaic. \n\n<•>\n\nIn lustrous sphere these tales old\nOn pebbled beach\nHave been revealed.\n\nFar many more shall ne’er be told—\nTheir secrets kept\n Forever sealed\n\nIn lustrous sphere." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hey There, Delilah\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1838\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character looking for a sign." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She sat up in her chosen auditorium seat as the first notes of her best friend's chosen audition song rang across the stage. It was a song they sang together often, laughing at the fact that \"Delilah\" was the chosen name. Not in a mocking way, but one that based off of irony and admiration.\n\nBut this time, when Iseline sang, the words weren't muffled from elbowing her best friend over and over. They were clear, fitting perfectly with her guitar as she slowly picked at the strings, melodic, and... beautiful.\n\nDelilah felt eyes on her, whispers drifting from the scattered people around. Giggles from people in the back, making her face flush the smallest bit red. \n\nWhy had Iseline chosen this song of all songs? Why? \n\nHer own gaze drifted to a figure sitting on the far left, isolated and alone. But they had a smile on their face, tugging at the corners of their lips as they silently nodded along. Delilah's head turned back to the wooden-floored stage, silently urging her best friend to look at her, to offer some clue of why this song was the one she sang. But Iseline kept her eyes down, almost as if she didn't want to look at Delilah. Almost like she couldn't.\n\nHonestly, Delilah had never heard Iseline's voice like how she did sitting in the dark red auditorium seat. She didn't sound like she was conforming to the rules of music, adding vibrato because the teachers told her to. No extra ornamentation colored the song besides what Iseline chose to do on her own, veering off the melody every now and then to add in her own artistic flair.\n\nHer faint blush amplified when Iseline finally looked at her during the last two sentences of her song. \"Oh, it's what you do to me... what you do to me.\" But she turned away right when Delilah could start to see an emotion clear in her eyes.\n\nIseline dipped her head at the applause, biting her lip and quickly moving off stage. The figure Delilah had seen stood up, slipping out of the auditorium as soon as she vanished behind the side curtain. \nHow... strange. First that song- their song- and then that person leaving just as Iseline did.\n\n\"Shut up.\" she muttered to the boy offering a knowing glance as he passed by. He glanced back at her even after he sat down, adding a small nod to the exit off stage and a motion of playing guitar. Delilah could hear his faint chuckling as he whispered with his group of friends. \n\n\"I think she's in love with you.\" Delilah whipped around, silent and still as the figure slid into the seat behind her. They tossed a strand of short, dark blue hair out of their eyes, pulling the black beanie down over their ears. \"I'm Charlie. They/them. And Iseline is in love with you, period.\"\n\n\"She is not.\" Delilah muttered. \"I've known her since third grade and she's my best friend. I would have known if she was in love with me.\"\n\n\"Or... maybe she hides it.\" Charlie offered with a shrug. They tapped the back of Delilah's seat with a finger jeweled with many silver rings. \"Maybe this was a confession of love.\"\n\nShe rolled her eyes. \"It was an audition. Isel's practiced this song on her guitar and practically knows it by heart, and is therefore comfortable singing it. That's it.\"\n\n\"Knows it by heart...\" Charlie echoed. They offered a wide smile. \"You said it, Delilah, not me.\"\n\nShe moved so her legs faced the left aisle, turning her torso and resting her forearms on the back of her seat. She didn't dare to continue the conversation. \"How come I've never seen you anywhere?\"\n\n\"I'm good at blending in. Very good at it.\" They paused. \"I'm in your Health class, actually. The rightmost seat in the back row, next to the windows.\"\n\nDelilah nodded, looking to the side door to the stage as Iseline, along with the other people who had sung and danced, walked out to the applause of the scattered audience.\n\nShe gestured to her best friend. \"I... should go.\"\n\nCharlie nodded, standing up and offering a wave. They vanished in the time Delilah looked from Iseline back to their seat. \n\n**************************\n\n\"Hey there Delilah, what's it like in New York City?\" She laughed as Iseline jokingly sang out the lyric, smiling at her friend's raised eyebrow and satisfied expression. \"It is an actual question. How's New York?\"\n\n\"It's... fine, I guess.\" Delilah made a sour face. \"It's kinda boring.\"\n\"And...?\"\n\n\"I miss you very, very much.\" She said earnestly, pressing a hand to her heart. She exhaled a breath. \"And my uncle's doing better. He'll be out of the ICU tomorrow, and we're leaving the day after that.\" \nDelilah fiddled with her hands and bracelets. \"I'm sorry I'm missing the show.\" She said with a halfhearted smile.\n\nIseline waved her tan-skinned hand. \"Hey, it's fine. You being with family is way more important. And you can watch it after whoever handles the recording posts it up on the district website.\"\n\n\"But it won't be live...\"\n\n\"It'll be close enough.\" Iseline fell silent. Her brown eyes fell away from her phone's camera. \"Or... we could wait until you get back and... watch it together.\"\n\nDelilah waited a second before nodding. The way Iseline spoke brought a slight blush to her cheeks, a new, unknown feeling creeping through her body. It didn't sound like a friend said it- it sounded like someone who was more than just a friend. Or... hoped to be. \n\nIseline looked behind her, to the rush of people flooding the backstage area. \"I'm coming!\" She called to someone beckoning her. \"Anyway, they want me at makeup.\"\n\n\"Well, you better go, then.\" Delilah said with a wave. \"Waitwaitwait, show me your costume first.\"\n\n\"Cosette in the flesh.\" Iseline turned in a slow circle, laughing as the skirt billowed around her legs, the puffed sleeves cinching at her wrists. She adjusted the brown belt around her waist, turning again to show Delilah how it tied into a bow at the back. \"This pattern is so pretty...\" Iseline commented, gesturing to the small flowers, then to the white lace collar. \"And the lace, even though it's fake.\"\n\n\"Well, you look really pretty. I don't think I could pull that off in a million years.\"\n\nIseline shook her head. \"Oh, you could. Definitely. It even says it in your song-\" She looked back again. \"I'm coming!\"\n\n\"Sounds like you should go.\" Delilah said with a laugh, taking her fluffy blue pillow and hugging it tightly to her chest.\n\n\"Yeah.\" Iseline neared until only her shoulders and above were visible. She smiled her beautiful, stage-worthy smile. \"Bye, Del.\"\n\n\"Bye.\"\n\nIseline's next words were soft, barely audible when Delilah's finger reached to end the call. \"You don't control my mind, mon amour, you control my heart.\"\n\n************************\n\nIseline stuffed her phone in the inner pocket of her bag, smoothing down the wrinkles of her dress before hurrying to an open chair. \n\n\"Charlie!\" She waved them over. \"Charlie I did it. I think I just ruined my life but I did it.\"\n\nThey rolled their eyes, scanning the table and picking up the makeup kit Iseline had placed down, flipping the lid open and grabbing an assortment of brushes. \"I'm... almost a hundred percent sure Delilah's typing \"mon amour\" into Google Translate and blushing as red as this eyeshadow.\" Charlie gestured to the palette. \"Now close your eyes and don't move.\" \n\n\"And then our friendship's gonna be ruined once she does find out what I actually said.\"\n\nIseline's eyes twitched, and Charlie drew back, crossing their arms. \"No moving.\" She closed her eyes again and nodded. \"And about your friendship being ruined... maybe not.\" \n\n***************************\n\nMy love. \n\n\"Mon amour\" meant \"my love\" in French.\n\nA quick search brought up Cosette's lines and a quote similar to what Iseline had said. But not the same.\n\nDelilah placed her phone of her bedside table, burying her face in her pillow and collapsing backwards. The sentence whirled around and around her mind over and over again. Iseline's audition song from a few months ago, her final sentence, and her face. Her perfect, brown-eyed, wavy-hair framed face. And Delilah could feel herself blushing in the confines of the feathery soft, ocean blue pillow.\n\nThe one that Iseline had given her. \n\n*******************************\n\nDelilah stepped back after ringing the doorbell, waving to the round-faced boy who glanced through the side window before opening the door. He ushered her in, shutting it and offering a quick, tight hug. He stepped away as Iseline walked down the stairs and waved, crossing his arms and lifting his chin. \n\n\"Of course, the first thing you do is visit after you get back from a trip.\" He said with a small sigh. He looked up at his older sister. \"Is she your girlfriend yet?\"\n\n\"No!\" Iseline hissed, face red as she pushed him away into the next room. \n\n\"Well hurry up, then!\" He yelled. \"I'm getting bored with you, Is.\"\n\nSarcasm dripped from her voice. \"Thanks a lot!\"\n\nIseline took Delilah's hand, turning into the next hallway and leading her up two flights of stairs to the room that doubled as a lounge and movie theater. \n\n\"Sorry about Jax.\" She muttered, tying her hair back into a ponytail and sitting down next to Delilah. She reached forward to the glass table in front of the couch, taking the remote in one hand and a bag of pretzels from the wicker snack basket in the other. \n\nIseline fumbled for words, blushing. \"He... you know. Whatever.\"\n\n\"It's... fine.\" Delilah replied with a small smile. She didn't say anything else when Iseline looked at her, taking a pretzel from her bag and crunching it as Iseline turned the TV on.\n\n\"Um... do you know Charlie?\" \n\n\"Yeah, they're in makeup for the Drama Department.\" Her blush intensified. \"They... told me what to sing for my audition. Did they say anything?\"\n\nDelilah glanced over at Iseline. \"Your audition song. It was... really good.\" She fiddled with her hands. \"I... loved it. And yes, they said it was... like... a love confession.\" Delilah quieted, waiting a long moment before speaking again. \"Was it?\"\n\nIseline placed the bag down on the table, turning to face her. Her face freckled red, voice soft when she spoke. \"Do you want it to be?\"\n\nA thousand emotions rushed through Delilah's head. Her head, her entire body, and her heart. Every part of her seemed to melt at Iseline's words. It wasn't an \"I love you\" or anything, but... it almost felt like one. \n\nDid she want it to be a confession of love? Did she want Iseline to be more than just her best friend?\n\nShe reached her hand forward, watching as her fingers laced together with Iseline's. A warmth spread through her when Iseline smiled, lighting up her face as she returned the small gesture.\n\n\"Yes.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Riven\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1029\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Riven\n“Maggie! … What are you doing down here? You’ll not come to see me off then?”\n“I wanted to – but I couldn’t … I thought if I came down here and climbed the tall rocks, I’d be able to watch you all the way across, see you safe all the way to New York.”\n“Pfft, it’s unsinkable, you goose! It’s the absolute pinnacle of modern technology. All the papers say so. They say nothing short of an act of God himself could sink it.”\n“Well, even so, maybe – maybe I just needed to feel like I was doing something to keep you safe … Do you have time to walk with me a moment? Just to the edge of the rocks there? The very edge of Ireland.”\n“Just for a minute, they’ll be looking for me soon enough. It’s only here two hours and we have to get the boat across, there’ll be hell to pay if I’m late … Take my arm a moment. Look, d’ you remember the first time we met, just there, and you called me stuck up because I had fine leather boots like a lady and pushed me over in the surf and I soaked my bloomers?”\n“Don’t! Don’t tease me, Kate. Not today. I can’t bear it.”\n“It’s funny! I’m not teasing, just shoring up my memories, they need to last me after all. We had so many times here. D-you remember? Digging for treasure, swimming in the sea –”\n“– pure Baltic even in summer –”\n“– searching for clams … Mind that time your Owen caught a crab and put it up your skirt?”\n“He isn’t my Owen.”\n“Remember that time we tried to build a boat to sail across the sea and almost drowned?”\n“And when we tried to dig our way to Australia. Always trying to get away. And now you’re finally doing it.”\n“I wish I wasn’t.”\n“Don’t! Don’t say that. You know there’s nothing here. You’ll have a chance, over there.\n“Still. I wish –”\n“I know … Remember when we lay here and watched for shooting stars?”\n“And the time we camped out all night. Froze half to death and bitten to pieces by midges.”\n“Ay, and got our ears boxed for our troubles … I remember everything, Kate. All of it.”\n“You’ll keep remembering, Maggie? Promise me. You won’t forget me?”\n“Don’t be daft. Sooner you’ll forget me in the fancy parlours of New York city. Going to balls and dining out. You’ll be married to some merchant’s son within the month.”\n“Ugh I will not. Merchant’s son. Some limp fool with soft hands and a daft accent. And anyway, I swear to God the place is three quarters savage. You’ll visit me though?”\n“Ay sure, I’ll book my first class ticket the same day we finally find that crock of gold, don’t you worry about that.”\n“Please Maggie, there must be a way! We could – you could – I don’t have to marry, you could be my maid, or not maid, my companion – and I could be a writer or a lady explorer or – or – It’s a new world, Maggie!”\n“How, Kate? How? Have you been drinking seawater already? Owen means me to bear him a dozen children and all of us dig potatoes all the hours of our days. I don’t know that I’ll have time for social visits. I don’t think they let girls with bare feet and bog-coloured skirts onto their swanky ships.”\n“Oh. “Not your Owen”. You’ll marry him then?”\n“Well God knows I’ve had no other offers, have I, Kate?”\n“Please don’t – don’t be mad at me, I can’t bear it. Let’s not fight today. Come here, give me your arm again. Oh – look! Look at that stone. Such a brilliant blue, I never saw its like. Its edge is broken, look.”\n“Ay, nothing else but brown and grey and drear for miles around. It’s beautiful. And look – here’s its double. Its other half. Hold yours like that – see how the edges fit together?”\n“It’s perfect. Poor thing must have got dashed on the rocks and split in two. Here – give me your half – that’s it, and keep it here, close to your heart –”\n“– Oh! Your fingers are so cold! –”\n“– Your skin is so warm. And I’ll do the same with my half, see? And then when we see each other again, we can match the two halves. Like a locket, but better. A little piece of Queenstown, until we meet again.”\n“Kate, I can’t get on a boat. We don’t have the money, I can’t let Owen down, I’m just not brave like you –”\n“I’m not brave. I’m not brave at all. If I was brave I would stay here by myself, regardless of what Mother and Father say –”\n“No! You can’t stay here, Kate. God knows I don’t want you to leave but you have a future out there. Oh this is agony. This is why I didn’t want to come to the harbour –”\n“– If I was brave, I would have done this years ago –”\n“– Oh! –”\n“– Are you alright? I shouldn’t have –”\n“No, no, I wanted you to – it’s just that that wave broke over my feet and startled me –”\n“Kate! Kate, are you down there? Where are you?”\n“It’s Father!”\n“Does he see us? ”\n“No, he’s coming down the cliff path now. He’s round that corner, he can’t see us here. Take your hand away from your lips, Maggie, he’ll know –”\n“Kate! Where in the name of God have you been? The America has left already and if we miss the Ireland –”\n“I’m coming! I’m coming. Goodbye, Maggie. Keep that pebble – keep me – close to your heart. ”\n“I have it here. Goodbye, Kate. Dr Minahan. Slán leat. Stay well. Keep yourselves safe. ”\n“Slán go fóill – for now. Until we meet again. ”\n…\n“But I can’t keep my hand from my lips. They burn, Kate. They burn and burn.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: War\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1232\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which each paragraph begins or ends (or both!) with the same sentence." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I sighed. “Past noon now.” The sun burned my face, drove my skin into canyons of weather and erosion around my dark eyes. I had to squint to keep the bright grassy glare away. Hunger tore at the silence of the field surrounding me, growling and grunting angrily with the same vibrato as the bleating sheep that littered the hillside like dollops of cotton. Soil had crawled past the moss which suppressed it and migrated unfalteringly onto my bronzed likeness. \nClad in dirt and miserable, I drew my gaze to the stone wall separating the MacAllister farm from my own square of grass. Just before the stone crawled into a corner, there was a wooden table, with one wooden stool. From here I could see the dark oak, so wet that it had begun to splinter into velvet and was near the color of coal. My chest fell as an impatient breath spilled over my lips. I dug my hand into the depth of my trouser pocket, groping its emptiness before scooping a rectangular paper box into my palm. Before I could look at the cards, I felt the corners of the box breaking apart beneath my fingers. Small fibers that couldn’t withstand the perspiration. I sighed. \nMy head drew up when a sharp whistle cut through the air. Like a dog my attention was caught, happy to see my friend finally at the table by the wall that was wearing away like the cards in my hands. He threw his hand up to wave, pale fingertips cutting through the cold air, woolen gloves covering up to his knuckles. I started toward him with a jump in my knees and a sway to my chest as I jogged. “Tavish!” I sighed. \nHe threw his palm in my face, plaid jacket wrinkling around his slim shoulders. “My Dad kept me over cleaning out the stalls.” He whined. \n“Let’s get to it then, the sun’ll be down soon.” I gathered the fabric of my trousers and pulled them up my knee to sit on the stool. \nTavish brushed a red curl from his face. “I don’t like sitting on the wall. Dad has me in a saddle all day.”\n“Is a stool any better?” I argued. \n“The rain makes it soft.” His cheeks fell. \nI paused for a moment, my box of cards already square in the center of the table and my arm ready to pass them out. “Alright.” I mumbled. I got up and swung my leg over the stone wall, face contorting as my skin crawled under the shock of cold rain seeping into my pants. He sat happily on the stool and gave himself sixteen cards, and me the same. I sighed. \n“Will you ever learn how to play Go Fish?” He questioned loudly. I knew he’d say that. He said it every Wednesday. \n“Maybe if it means you’ll finally lose.” I huffed. \n“Hey,” He shuffled through his cards, holding them so close to his nose that hot steam bounced off their surface. “Don’t be a sore loser.” \nThere was a bottle on the double wall behind me. The dark ark amber reflected the sun just right, and just under Tavish’s eye was a bright glare of light. I thought he might not be able to see, but if he wasn’t going to say something, I wasn’t. Maybe I’d be able to win because of it. He put a card face down against the table, and I did too. Our fingers lay pinching the corner, ready to flip it over when either one of us nodded. His head bobbed and through competitively squinted eyes, we flipped the cards. My three to his six. I sighed. \nHe chuckled to himself, drawing the card aside to be the start of his accumulative pile. Again we drew cards face down, then flipped. My two to his nine. This time, he nodded and I drew early, my Jack! My eyes gleamed, cheeks burning now for his card to flip. A King. The festering anxiety in my chest brewed into raw discontent. Tavish laughed, his stack climbed higher, and mine began where the table’s flat top did. I sighed. \nI had two cards now, and as I switched them around, he too arranged his deck. He’d steal a glance past me, almost feverishly, then shuffle. I don’t remember any rule against it in War. But for an odds game I found it strange to be necessary at all. I slowly put my second to last card face down against the oak. He nodded nonchalantly and quickly flipped his card to reveal a Queen. I blinked slowly, heart pounding, yet discouraged. I flipped the card. My expression froze- eyes dry, muscles unresponsive. A two. My lip quivered through a small snarl. I sighed.\n“Here, just take it.” I tossed the only card I had across the table. It caught air and sliced through his stack. I swung my leg over the wall, starting down the hillside and back into the village. \n“Hey,” He called after me. “It’s a game! Your cards!”\nI spun around on my heels, twisting the grass from the ground and packing the rivets in my soles with soil. “I don’t wanna lose every week, Tavish! It’s ‘War Wednesday’, not ‘Lose Wednesday’! Not ‘Be a loser every Wednesday’! You’re the dumbest in the village, and I lose to you- every week,” I threw my hands up. After following the glint in his eye, my shoulders slumped. I sighed. \n“I’m sorry, Tavish,” My voice was soft. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”\nHe shook his head, “No, it’s true. I am dumb.” The blue of his eyes became glazed as I approached him. His bottom lip curled into a shivering wave of pity. \nI sighed. My chest was tightened by shame as I felt the damage my words had done. He finally looked up at me, a single tear escaped the border of his eye, carving a bright path through the dirt that was caked on his face. I smiled meekly, hesitating before dropping a firm hand on his shoulder, jostling him. “I’ll see you next Wednesday, Tav.”\nHis face lit up, beet red peeking through the patches of skin visible under the toil of shepherding. He nodded wildly, head unhinged. “Okay,” I laughed. “Why don’t you head to the village, I’ll catch up, let me get my cards.” I sighed. \nAs he began down the hill, I approached the table, feelings awry and shoulders low. I couldn’t believe that I’d allow myself to say those things to someone so vulnerable to judgement. Though he was known for his simple-mindedness, it was the vibrancy of him that made any offense toward him greater than if it were toward anyone else. I collected my cards under my fingers before the glare against that bottle stabbed the surface of my eye. I slammed my eyelid shut, hand rushing to my face. I sighed. \n“Stupid bottle.” As I glanced at it, the silhouette of my cards on the table's surface reflected perfectly within the dark amber. My jaw fell softly unhinged. Slowly, my head followed the direction of Tavish, skipping innocently down the hillside. The sun had begun to surrender to the tree-line and darkness crept in like a rolling cloud. The card flipped over my knuckles before falling in a flurry to the grass. I sighed." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 first muse\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2597\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a mysterious figure in one’s neighborhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Of the thirty-four summers of my life, that one was the most revealing and the one that comes back to me most often, because it was then that I realized that the subject is more important than the picture. \nI am a photographer. My job is to capture moments worth remembering. The older I get, the more I think about this Diane Arbus quote, \"Lately, I've been struck with how I really love what you can't see in a photograph.\" \nI have the pictures I took of Mr. Gorey that summer hidden in a folder within a folder within a folder on my desktop. I'm ashamed that I took them, embarrassed that they exist, but I can't throw them away.\nI was given my first camera, a Nikon D7100 DSLR, during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020. My dad found it when he was cleaning the garage to make room for his makeshift home office. My sister and I were on the couch watching TV, and he shouted, \"Emmett, Sally. Come here!\" \nI was fifteen, and she was twelve. We leaped from our lying position and raced to the garage like we were running away from lava. She would have won if I hadn't jammed my right elbow into her rib cage when we got to the hallway. My reward for playing dirty was that I got to hold the camera first. I often wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't cheated - would I have been so mesmerized by the instrument?\n The only camera I'd held up until then was part of another device, and I remember having to flex my shoulders to hold the 2lb magnesium alloy Nikon to my eye. When I looked through the viewfinder, I changed as a person. It was the first time I understood what it was to focus. \nWhen it was Sally's turn to hold the camera, I gave it to her, and she dropped it on the grey epoxy floor. I expected it to shatter like an iPhone screen, but it just made a loud slap, a little shake, and then remained still, refusing to break. Sally and I looked at my dad, fearful of how mad he might be, but he quickly turned his back to us and fished out a camera strap from this huge clear plastic tub. The strap had an all-black design and yellow accents. He still hadn't said a word to us.\nSally made this pouty face she always made and then started crying.\nMy dad looked at her and said, \"It's okay, Sal-pal, the thing's a tank. It won't break that easy.\"\nHe picked up the camera and gave it back to her. She held it from the bottom like a wet paper bag full of weights.\n\"I used to take pictures of you guys with that camera,\" He said, \"But I haven't used it in years. Why don't you see if you can make some use of it?\"\nHe gave me the camera's gadget bag and the strap too. \n\"What are we supposed to take pictures of?\" I asked. \n\"Anything you want,\" He said, \"Things around the house; things outside: trees, plants, bugs. Hell, some people take pictures of people.\"\n\"People,\" I thought to myself. Then I said to him, \"Okay.\"\n*\nI'd spent a decade and a half living in a neighborhood without seeing or caring who my next-door neighbors were. Then quarantine happened, I got the Nikon, and I started to pay more attention. I was fascinated with this question: how much do you really know your neighbors? \nI used photography as an excuse to leave the house. Sally would tag along, asking to use the camera or participate in some other way. At first, I was annoyed by this, but I soon realized that my parents were more willing to let me leave if I agreed to bring her along. Living our lives virtually was burning us out, and they needed the alone time just as much as we did.\nAt first, I'd take pictures of Sally doing dangerous things. Like I'd get up on the roof of the school, then tell her to climb up too. Inevitably, she'd become paralyzed from her fear of heights, and I'd take pictures of her clinging onto the top part of the fence, crying. \nOr I'd have her put on her rollerblades and convince her to jump down stairs or off ledges. She'd often fall, which was the point, and I'd get candid pictures of her crying, screaming, and sometimes yelling at me. I was drawn to capturing raw emotion.\nEventually, Sally grew tired of being my subject, and we tried to take pictures of other things. She acted as a sort of scout and found objects she thought were interesting that I should take photos of, like a leaf on a sidewalk grate, a mailbox that was about to fall over, a butterfly on a white forsythia, etc.\nBut taking pictures of objects didn't keep me interested. I was much more absorbed with finding people to put in my photographs. \n\nWhen I had my camera hanging from my neck, I possessed an eagerness to understand what other people's lives were like. I first noticed Mr. Gorey at Pleasant Hill Park. At the time, I didn't know his name; I'd never seen the man that was standing under the oak trees watching the children play. \nHe was in his early thirties and covered in tiny flash tattoos (a black widow, a scorpion, a skull, an anvil, an hourglass) that were scattered around his arms like a collage on his olive skin. I wanted to see who his kid was, so I tried to follow his eyes, but as I watched him, it became apparent that there was no one on the playground that he knew; no kids ran up to him for a sip of water, nor did he move from the tree and circle the park like the other parents. He just stayed under the oaks, which was odd to me. \nWhen he left, I told Sally that we were going to follow him. He crossed Gregory St, walked down Moiso Ln, and over the footbridge to enter the Middle School. It was a shortcut that only locals knew. Along the way, his head was tilted down towards the ground as if looking for something. I snapped multiple pictures from behind him, and in all of them, he appeared to be in a dream. \nOf course, I thought this all meant something. I asked Sally, \"Don't you think it's weird that he was at the park watching kids, but he doesn't have any?\"\n\"What do you mean?\" She asked.\n\"I don't know,\" I told her, \"I think he's up to no good.\" \nShe grabbed onto my hand, and from a distance, we continued to follow Mr. Gorey all the way back to the street we lived on. \nIt turned out Mr. Gorey lived across from us and two doors down in a newer-looking two-story house that was white with a blue door. He was my neighbor, and I became fixated on getting a better picture of him. \n\nOnce I'd spotted Mr. Gorey, everything I did during the pandemic revolved around trying to catch him doing something wrong. For example, I rearranged my room so that the desk I spent hours at for virtual schooling was facing the street. If I leaned close enough to the window, I could see the edge of his driveway and one of the windows on the second floor of his home.\nIn the first few months of watching his house, I noticed something strange that added fuel to the idea that Mr. Gorey was a bad man. Mr. Gorey was always coming back home with youth-sized baseball bats. I'd seen him unload these bats from the back seat of his Honda CRV just before his garage door closed, but Mr. Gorey didn't have any children, so why did he have kid's baseball bats? \nI didn't tell anyone that I was constantly watching Mr. Gorey's house. I might have told my friends, but we never saw each other because of the lockdown ordinance, and I had a fear that if I texted them about it, I might somehow get caught by Mr. Gorey, who occasionally haunted my dreams. The only one who knew what I was up to was Sally. She was always around. One time I as I lied on my stomach in our driveway with my elbows on the pavement trying to sturdy my camera, which was pointed at Mr. Gorey's house, she asked, \"Why do you keep taking pictures of that man? You're obsessed.\" \n\"He's up to something,\" I said, \"And I'm going to find out what it is.\" \nThe more I watched the house, the more I saw hints at inappropriate behavior. One night, I couldn't sleep, and so I went to my window and peered out at his house and its second-story window. His blinds were down, but I could see flashes of colorful lights from the window's borders like a party was happening in the room. I had to see what he was doing.\nI opened my bedroom door to begin my adventure, but Sally was in the hallway with a glass of water staring at me. \n\"What are you doing?\" She whispered. \n\"Nothing, go back to bed,\" I told her.\n\"Why do you have your camera.\" \n\"I always have my camera.\" \n\"You're going to take pictures of that man, aren't you?\" \n\"Go back to bed,\" I said. \n\"I'm coming with you.\" \n\"Sally,\" I pleaded, \"Go back to bed.\" \n\"Take me with you, or I'm telling mom and dad.\"\nAnd so, together, still in our pajamas, we snuck out of the house and crossed the street to get to Mr. Gorey's place. The rest of the house was dark, but when we reached his driveway, I got a better look at the lights shining through the borders of the window. There were was an image of something familiar. \n\"What is that?\" I said, putting the camera to my face and zooming in to take a few pictures. \nI pulled the camera back and navigated the LCD screen to look at the images I'd just taken. What I saw in one of them was unmistakable: a neon blue outline of a T-Rex head. I showed it to Sally, who said, \"But there are no kids that live there.\" \n\"Exactly,\" I said. \nI thought that Mr. Gorey was doing something terrible. I'd read a story about David and Louise Turpin, who imprisoned and tortured their thirteen kids for decades. The kids lived in total squalor and weren't allowed to leave the house. I wondered if Mr. Gorey was doing that or if he was just some type of pedophile. In my mind, there were no other possibilities.\nI projected these things onto him and imagined myself capturing a photo of his misdeeds. I thought that if I could get a photo of him doing something bad, I'd be a hero, and my picture would be used in a newspaper, or a magazine, or on the news. No one would have a better answer to the question, \"What did you do during quarantine?\"\n\nWe'd been in lockdown for fifteen months, and then Joe Biden's \"Summer of Freedom\" came. Even though we didn't hit the administration's goal of seventy percent of adults vaccinated, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Over dinners, my parents lamented about \"the idiots\" who weren't getting vaccinated but also expressed hope that the country was opening back up. The truth was, by June, things had already felt completely different. School was out, and I was able to see my friends again. I began taking pictures of the dangerous things they did and started my own blog, the same one I still have today. \nBut in the evenings, when I was alone in my room, I was still plagued by the thought that there was something to uncover about Mr. Gorey. \nIt was the weekend before the Fourth of July, and I was in the driveway washing my parent's cars when I heard Kidz Bop radio playing from Mr. Gorey's house. It gave me the chills because there was no reason why an adult would listen to a kid's remix of pop songs. I knew, without a doubt, that this was my chance to catch him. \nWhen I finished washing the cars, I told my parents I was going to see my friends. I took my camera and went to Mr. Gorey's house. The music was coming from the backyard, visible through the slats in the wooden fence that wrapped around it. I held my camera in my hand and walked towards the music; the closer I got, the louder it was. People could see me on his front lawn if they wanted to, but I didn't give a damn; I needed the shot.\nThe fence's gaps were large enough to peer through so you could see a portion of what was going on in the backyard. I put my eye up to the fence and saw a green hose with a yellow sprinkler attachment flinging water into the air. I shuffled a couple steps over and saw an inflatable kiddie pool with dinosaurs and baseball bat images on it. It was clear that the backyard was set up for children, but I didn't see any. Then I heard a sliding door open and knew it was my moment. \n I raised my camera to the fence and squinted through the viewfinder. I saw Mr. Gorey, with his head tilted down, walking to the pool. He was wearing women's clothing and carrying a children-sized water bottle, but the strangest thing of all was that he was weeping. I hit the shutter button, and the camera made its sound.\nMr. Gorey shouted, \"Hello?\" \nAnd I ran away.\n**\nOn the Fourth of July, my neighborhood had a cookout, and I saw my mom talking to Mr. Gorey for the first time. That night, as Sally and I sat in the backyard twirling sparklers, my mom asked my father if he'd ever talked to the man in the newer two-story house across the street that had the blue door. My dad said that he hadn't and that he'd only seen him a couple of times, then he asked, \"Did you learn something about him?\"\nMy heart skipped a beat. I was eager to hear what she'd found out. I wanted to put together the pieces of the puzzle. Why was this man doing all of the things I'd see him do? Why was he weeping and wearing women's clothing? What was he up to? I wanted to share the photographs that I took.\nMy mom told us that Mr. Gorey had lost his wife and his five-year-old son to a car accident at the beginning of 2020.\n\"They were on the way back from his son's baseball practice,\" She said, \"He's been grieving ever since.\"\n\"That's terrible.\" My dad said.\nSally looked at me with pity. She could sense I'd made a huge mistake. My face went flush, and then my sparkler went out.\nI've never told anyone what I saw through Mr. Gorey's fence, and I've never shown anyone those pictures either. What I captured that day was a man mourning the loss of his family. I keep the pictures as a reminder that I can never truly understand the world from my subject's 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: Your Station for the Nation\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2971\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Welcome Sports Fans! This is Marcus Titus Grippius welcoming you to the fourth day of the Lupercalia games. This is your Station For The Nation, Radio Rome! Sports Fans we have a full day of thrills ahead of us. The Emperor is rumoured to be attending and what a thrill that will be for those lucky enough to be here in person. For those out there in the city and the burbs, stay tuned and don't go away as we bring you blow by blow coverage of today's events. Now here's Antonius Priapius Diccus with a recap of yesterday's events for those who missed them. Over to you Antonius Priapius!\"\n\"Thank you Marcus Titus and welcome Sports Fans. Well what a day we had. I tell you Marcus Titus I haven't seen sea battles in this arena like those we witnessed yesterday.\"\n\"Too true Antonius Priapius, five battles in one day! Fan…tastic!\"\n\"I couldn't have put it better Marcus Titus. First off Sports Fans, the Kraken paired against the Leviathan. What a battle. Thirty minutes of pure mayhem and only twenty, yes just twenty spectators taken by the Kraken as appetizers before the Leviathan bit off its two long tentacles. It ended as a draw Sports Fans, with both fighters down but not out. We'll give you news of how they are recovering once we hear from Fabius Dinius Zolpan the head of events here at the Coliseum.\"\n\"Next up were three re-enactments, firstly Mylae, then Sulci and lastly Ecnomus. Boy what a spectacle. The mini triremes and quinqueremes manned by 'small people' from all over the Empire.\"\n\"Small people Marcus Titus?\"\n\"The Emperor has just decreed that calling them midgets or dwarves is no longer correct and from now on they are 'small people'.\"\n\"Well there you have it people of Rome! Thank you for that Marcus Titus, most informative. Whatever they are called they fought bravely and hard for both sides in the battles. The screams of the sailors aboard the sinking ships as the sharks swam amongst them drove the spectators to a frenzy of cheering and shouting. The victorious Roman fleets did a victory circuit of the arena and what a sight as they sunk the last of the 'Carthaginians'! The crowd went wild.\"\n\"How about the last battle Antonius Priapius? A truly spectacular end to the day!\"\n\"Marcus Titus you are so right! What a finale Fabius Dinius had for us. We've seen nothing like it. A single Liburnian against a fleet of two hundred, yes you heard right Sports Fans. Two hundred barbarian war canoes and round skin boats from the west of Britannica. What a fight! For an hour Sports Fans, a whole hour, the battle raged. In the end the judges called a draw. A real spectacle, an epic finale! It's sure to be a crowd favourite from now on. Now over to you Marcus Titus for a word from our sponsors.\"\n\"Thank you Antonius Priapius for that excellent summary of yesterday's events. Don't go away Sports Fans we'll continue after a short commercial break from one of today's sponsors.\"\n\"Are you in the market for a new or used chariot? Then come on down to eXeXeyeeyeeye, the Appian Way and honest Didius Scipio Marcellus's Chariot bargains! Low mileage chariots of all types from singles to family sizes are on the forecourt of the showroom. Come on down and grab yourself a bargain today! Easy terms available, slaves not accepted as a deposit.\"\n\"You're listening to the Station For The Nation, Radio Rome! You're back with Marcus Titus and Antonius Priapius at the Coliseum as we get ready for today's action. The arena has been drained and cleaned after yesterday's naval action and we're just waiting for… yes here they come! First out of the home team tunnel are the Scutarii, followed by the Cestii and yes, we have Retiarii in the mix. Just listen to those cheers from the crowd at the sight of these brave lads marching to the middle of the arena.\"\n\"What a sight they make Antonius Priapius.\"\n\"Yes indeed Marcus Titus, their armour and weapons sparkling in the sunshine and here come their opponents for today's first bouts. Is it? Yes it is! Sports Fans this should prove to be quite some bout. All the way from the Danube's northern bank…, it's the Marcomarnni! Let's hear it for these warriors from this fearsome tribe with their long lances. This should be an epic bout and wait…, Sports Fans the pennants have just gone up. This is going to be a no quarter, death match. Listen to the crowd Marcus Titus.\"\n\"They've gone wild Antonius Priapius as the Marcomarnni move out into the centre of the arena. They've formed a circle, two circles one inside the other with their lances pointing out. Our brave lads are forming triads, one from each discipline and are encircling the Marcomarnni. There's a pause in the action Sports Fans as the two groups take stock of each other. You can feel the tension up here in the booth, but first it's time for a word from a sponsor.\"\n\"Have you considered the afterlife Sports Fans? Have you sacrificed to the right gods? It’s a dilemma. Why wait until you're stood in front of Jupiter and judgement to find out you're destined for Hades? Take no chances with your soul, come to the Capitoline and sacrifice to the Triad. Have Juno and Minerva on your side as you stand before Jupiter. Come to the Capitoline shrine today! Goats, sheep chickens and doves not supplied.\"\n\"Welcome back Sports Fans. The Marcomarnni have drawn first blood but now the Retiarius are getting the measure of them and with those lances tangled, yes here go the Scutari and their shields are breaking up the Marcomarnni formation and the Cestus can get in close. One hit from those spiked gloves and it's curtains for Mama Marcomarnni's little boy!\"\n\"This is one sided, the crowd are not happy, its going to be over in minutes Antonius Priapius. Fabius Dinius has misjudged things this time, it's a good job the Emperor is not here.\"\n\"Yes indeed Marcus Titus, on this showing Fabius Dinius would be down in the arena himself before he could finish apologising. That's it! It's over, the Marcomarnni are down. The crowd are not happy they're stamping their feet and booing. There are three Retiarius, two Scutari and four Cestus down for let's see, yes I make it thirty six Marcomarnni. This could get ugly Marcus Titus.\"\n\"You're right Antonius Priapius, I haven't seen a crowd like this since the riot's of the Saturnalia. Fabius Dinius needs to act swiftly.\"\n\"You are so right Marcus Titus. Hold on… somethings happening down there. Would you look at this. Thirty six more Marcomarnni and the pennants are still up, its still a death match. They're using different tactics this time, they're advancing, stopping… they're throwing their lances and… we've got multiple hits, our boys weren't expecting that. There's ten… twelve… fifteen down, including all but one Retiarius and the Marcomarnni are rushing forward. It’s a melee now, short swords against Cestus and Scutari.\"\n\"Fabius Dinius has pulled it off, listen to that crowd Antonius Priapius, this is what they came to see. There's just the Retiarius left from our boys and twelve Marcomarnni I don't think the odds are favouring the Retiarius do you Antonius Priapius?\"\n\"No indeed Marcus Titus and… that's it. It's over! Ten Marcomarnni left standing. Somehow he managed to take two with him. The crowd are cheering and the Marcomarnni are looking around in surprise. Here come the guards to round them up, they don't look as if they want to go quietly Marcus Titus.\"\n \"I agree Antonius Priapius, they look like they're ready to take on everyone… hold on, there are the Coliseum's security archers. They're throwing down any weapons they'd got hold of and they're leaving the arena. The crowd are cheering them as they leave surrounded by the guard. We'll hope we see them another day here in the Coliseum. Now here's a message from a sponsor.\"\n\"Do you suffer from bilious attacks? Shortness of breath? Swollen joints? Headaches? Then you need Galen's Restorative, guaranteed to solve your ailments. Contains Gentiane, Ippomarathron and Ra. Ask your local apothecary for Galen's Restorative! Do not use with Aristolochia or Opos.\"\n\"You're listening to the Station For The Nation, Radio Rome! You're back with me Marcus Titus and Antonius Priapius at the Coliseum where the third battle of today is about to start. Well Antonius Priapius what a turn up for the books! The crowd is abuzz with wonder at what Fabius Dinius will serve up next and here we go!\"\n\"This looks like a classic animal-criminal scenario Marcus Titus, here come the cages. There's six cages listeners, all covered and there's no noises from inside to let us know what's in there. Here come the criminals, a sorrier looking bunch I don't think I've ever seen.\"\n\"You said it Antonius Priapius! Two dozen convicted criminals of all stripes here to make amends for their crimes. I have to say listeners whatever is in those cages, leos, tigris, panthera, or lupus they are exceptionally quiet. Get ready listeners, the cages are around the criminals… the covers are off! Listeners the cages contain Nigrum Ursi! Very large Ursi.\"\n\"Have you ever seen such large black bears Marcus Titus?\"\n\"No indeed Antonius Priapius. I can honestly say these are the largest I've ever seen. Where did Fabius Dinius get them I wonder. No matter listeners, a question for the interview following the final event tomorrow. Let me set the scene for you listeners. Six cages surround the criminals, with gigantic black bears sitting watching them, huddled together in the middle. The doors of one of the cages is being opened and the beastiari are prodding the bear forward…. There, it's out of the cage and most of the criminals are running around trying to keep out of its way. Three or four are just kneeling heads down, praying\"\n\"Two more bears have been released Marcus Titus and they're in amongst the criminals…. A kill! All the bears have made kills. The power of these animals is unbelievable listeners. A single swipe from a paw just killed three convicts and another bear has bitten the head clean off a woman. The crowd is going wild, the noise is unbelievable! Screams, roars, cheers, listeners I can't…. It's over! All the criminals are dead. The handlers are having a job getting the bears back in their cages, they obviously haven't been fed for a while. There's going to be a short intermission and we're going to another commercial break listeners, stay tuned!\"\n\"A villa in the country? An apartment overlooking Circus Maximus? A manse at the foot of the Palatine? Whatever your needs, come to Lucius Varus Crassus, praedium agens for your new home. Purchasing or renting we'll find the right home for you! Offices in Ostia Antica and Pompeii.\"\n\"Welcome back listeners, to the Station For The Nation, Radio Rome! Well folks, what can I say? That was as an efficient dispatch of criminals as I have ever seen. How about you Antonius Priapius?\"\n\"Fastest ever Marcus Titus but the crowds loved it. The arena's been cleared and new sand down to cover the stains and we're ready for event four, the finale for today. What do you think Marcus Titus? How can Fabius Dinius surpass the bears?\"\n\"I wish I knew Antonius Priapius, there's heavy betting going on as to what we're going to see next. The bookies are doing a brisk trade as are the vendors. Goat pies and Frascati wines seem to be favourites today. There's the fanfare to announce the last event. Two minuta to the start.\"\n\"The doors to the south tunnel is opening listeners and here come charioteers to great cheers from the crowd. What a spectacle listeners, there are four pair in hand chariots with driver and spearmen. Wait a minute Sports Fans! Not just chariots but Britannic war chariots driven and ridden by British slaves.\"\n\"Here come their opponents Marcus Titus, sixteen legionnaires of the… look at that signum! It's the 9th Hispania. Yes Sports Fans! The fable ninth Spanish Legion who suffered an ignominious defeat at the hands of Boudicca's Iceni.\"\n\"Will the same happen today Antonius Priapius? Has Fabius Dinius got a surprise in store for us? Those legionnaires don't look too sharp do they?\"\n\"No they don't Marcus Titus. Wait, I've just been given an official announcement. They are slaves from Hispania. All the slaves in this battle are runaways who have a chance of a reprieve if they win today. What a prize, surely worth fighting for Marcus Titus.\"\n\"Very much so Antonius Priapius. There go the start pennants! The legionnaires are moving into a phalanx. They've locked and grounded shields and have lances in position. Here come the chariots racing down both sides of the phalanx, their scythes flashing as the wheels spin. Someone has lifted their shield to block a javelin and the scythes have an opening. The legionnaires are going down on that side and the second chariot has turned into the gap and is creating mayhem….\"\n\"A horse is down Marcus Titus and the chariot has cartwheeled over the fallen horse and crashed down on the other side of the wedge just as the first chariot on that side tried the wedge. Now we have two chariots down and half of the legionnaires. They are scrambling to get back into some sort of formation. There's not enough for a wedge to work properly. They've backed up to the downed chariots. The odd man at the back is putting his sword into the downed charioteers.\"\n\"A sensible move Antonius Priapius, you wouldn't want even a down and injured enemy at your back. The two chariots are circling the wedge and there, they're using their javelins and there are two legionnaires down.\"\n\"Here they come again Marcus Titus and this time the legionnaires are breaking formation and using their lances. There's another legionnaire down and a charioteer, the javelin thrower is trying to get hold of the reins… too late, the horses have turned away too fast and the chariot has somersaulted.\"\n\"Well Antonius Priapius, we're down to one chariot and five legionnaires and it's anybody's guess as to what the outcome is going to be.\"\n\"Does the chariot have any javelins left Marcus Titus?\"\n\"Not that I can see Antonius Priapius. They have their scythes but getting close enough for them to be of use will get them skewered!\"\n\"The chariot is circling behind the bodies and chariots and the spearman is getting off! He's trying for some of the javelins in the wrecked chariots. The legionnaires are hurrying to stop them. They've broken formation and the charioteer is going after them. Oh my! Look at that Marcus Titus, two of them are down their legs cut off from under them.\"\n\"It's three to two now Antonius Priapius and the spearman is backing away with two javelins. He keeps backing away waiting for the chariot and here it comes. He needs to time this right Sports Fans. Get it wrong and he could get cut down by his own chariot or miss the chariot and….\"\n\"He missed Marcus Titus, oh that's not good news! He's turned back to face the legionnaires and he's down, a lance in his thigh. He's getting up and throwing a javelin and what a throw, that's another legionnaire down. It's two on two and one javelin each. The chariot is stopping anyone from picking up any more.\"\n\"Listen to that crowd Antonius Priapius, they're going wild, this just the sort of mayhem and killing they've come to see.\"\n\"The spearman has just thrown his last javelin and… it's been deflected by a shield. He's hobbling with that javelin sticking out of his thigh, wait he's pulled it out! That must hurt Marcus Titus.\"\n\"The two legionnaires are closing in on him Antonius Priapius and he's backing up slowly. It looks all over for him Sports Fans….\"\n \"They're down Marcus Titus, the charioteer has put a javelin into each of them. Listen to that crowd. The spearman's being helped back to the chariot and here they go on a lap of honour.\"\n\"Does that spearman look okay to you Antonius Priapius?\"\n\"I have to say Marcus Titus he looks like he's lost a lot of blood, he's looking really pale… He's fallen off the back of the chariot Marcus Titus, it looks all over for him.\"\n\"Well there we have it Sports Fans, a thrilling end to today's events and once more the 9th Hispania is beaten by the British barbarians, but it's gone down well with the crowds, the cheers and whistles are deafening Antonius Priapius.\"\n\"That was the last event of the day Marcus Titus, the crowd are starting to make their way down to the exits and the clean up crews are picking up the bodies in the arena. I think Fabius Dinius has pleased the crowds today.\"\n\"Yes indeed Antonius Priapius a real crowd pleaser. He'll have to go all out tomorrow, the last day of the games.\"\n\"Have you heard anything about what he's planned Marcus Titus?\"\n\"Well Antonius Priapius, it's rumoured he's been saving the Jewish rebels and the Christians for some special events and that might be what he's planning for tomorrow.\"\n\"Sounds like the beastiari could have a busy day ahead of them, I hope the lions are truly hungry.\"\n\"You heard it here Sports Fans, you'll have to tune in tomorrow to find out. This is Marcus Titus Grippius.\"\n\"And Antonius Priapius Diccus, for the Station For The Nation, Radio Rome!\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Rustlers?\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1202\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Rustlers?\n“You two gonna pag-nag back there all day? We got beeves to round-up. And I for one want to get back to the ranch house tonight for one decent meal for the week.”\n“Lighten up there, K-Keyes. Who d-died and left you in ch-charge anyway? We all got equal b-billing with the B-big B-boss.”\n“Then hustle up there, Stinky.”\n“W-wish ya didn't call me that no m-more. That encounter with th-that polecat was so long ago his stripes have f-faded away by now and he would just be a c-cuddly p-pussycat.”\n“Been calling you 'Stinky' for so long don't even know what your name was. What does it matter. We all go by some sort of nick-name. 'Slim' there because he is and 'Tiny' because he isn't. I don't even play the ivories much anymore yet you call me 'Keyes'. Just gotta keep with 'Stinky' 'cause it sticks. Quit ya belly-achin'.”\n“Well, don't ya'll ever ca-a-all me late for dinner.”\n“Don't worry so much, Tiny. You have enough saved up ya could miss a meal or two.”\n“Ha-ha. Ya'll too funny!”\n“Hey, Fellas, see what I sees?”\n“What is it, Slim?”\n“Couple riders atop that ridge yonder. Looks like they's a drivin' some beeves 'afore 'em. Think might be a rustlin' some of ours?”\n“If they are that's a hanging offense. Let's ride over closer so they see us. If they bolt we know they are up no good and we can shoot them down. Stinky, you hang back some and keep your rifle trained on them for back-up. Otherwise, we just need to get their story. Could be passing through is all. Big Boss owns so much land it is impossible to always go around.”\n“Sure is pretty land we're passing through, wouldn't you agree, Red Eagle? Grass so green stretching out far and wide. Trickle of a stream in that valley. Maybe we should steer these steers down there for a drink. Looks like they have that same idea anyway. Thirsty cattle can smell water and we have kept them on the move for a long spell already.”\n“Harrumph.”\n“Wonder whose land we are on? Haven't seen a homestead for over two days. Hope we aren't trespassing. Not all these landowners are the friendly type who don't mind you passing through.”\n“Riders.”\n“Yeah, I see them now. Don't have guns drawn. Maybe won't be a problem. Perhaps we can get their permission to carry on or they can point us to a way around if they don't want us here.”\n“HOLD UP THERE! State your business, Strangers.”\n“Howdy, Neighbors. We come on friendly terms. Name is Marcy, Ford Marcy. Just passing through on our way from Texas. Got about a hundred head of longhorns from my father's ranch down near Fort Worth that my friend, Red Eagle, and I are driving to his Osage tribe hold up in the Indian territory, northern part of Oklahoma. Sorry, we didn't know who this land belongs to in order to ask permission to pass. Would that be you?”\n“Well, now it just might be. A hundred head, you say. That don't sound like it would be very profitable for all the trouble.”\n“We aren't in it for the money. My father's cattle have been reproducing like crazy so now that the war is over he needs to move some of them. Red Eagles' people need the meat now they can't hunt buffalo. I am headed to Kansas to marry my sweetheart I met last spring on the wagon train I was leading westward. After some tragedies she bailed out and I promised I would be back. Oh, that's way too much information. The two of us couldn't wrangle any more than this herd. So here we are. Been eatin' dust 'bout two weeks already with about that much still to go. Do you need to see our ID papers? Guess that would stand in for a bill of sale. Pops is doing this out of the kindness of his heart. No money is exchanging hands.”\n“You are right. That is more information than we need. Let us just take a look at the brands and make sure none of ours are accidentally getting mixed in.”\n“Oh, by all means, but if that has happened it has been totally their own idea. Can't help it your fellas like the looks of our girls, you understand. You are welcome to cut them out. We have our hands full just keeping them together and headed in the right direction. Hard to keep count. We have been tracking in a general northeastern path following some of the rivers. Where exactly are we anyway?”\n“Hey, Keyes, remembers what some of those drovers in town warns us about Texan longhorns? Might have some tick diseases. Don't wants them mixing with ours.”\n“You are right, Slim. Marcy, you might have to buy any of ours that have attached themselves to your herd.”\n“Whoa, that wasn't in the plans. I have never heard of any problems with our herd. Would you know what to look for?”\n“Not me or the boys here but our Big Boss might. We were hoping to get back into the ranch tonight. Maybe we can check with him. It is going to take you at least a day to pass through his land anyway.”\n“Be much obliged.”\n“Come on, Fellas, let's have a look see.”\n“Mind if I tag along? Want to take a closer look at their health. Stay here, Red Eagle, make sure none are cutting back behind.”\n“Humph.”\n“He sure don't say much, does he. Isn't it kind of lonely out on the trail with someone who doesn't talk?”\n“Most of the time we are on opposite sides of the herd anyway but you have a point. All of your guys talkative?”\n“Sometimes way too much. That Stinky never wants to shut up does he, Tiny?”\n“Y'all right 'bout that, Keyes.”\n“So you are 'Keyes', 'Tiny' is the one not so tiny and 'Slim' is the tall thin guy. Got that but who is 'Stinky'?”\n“Oh, he is up on the ridge watching over things.”\n“I take it you try to keep him separate because of his name?”\n“Oh, no. That's just a hold over from childhood days when he got too close to a polecat.”\n“Hows ya manage with a native as ya companion? He looks mighty fierce and none too friendly.”\n“Don't worry, Slim. His best quality is loyalty. And that means a lot. Just like all of you seem very loyal to this Big Boss. Tell me about him.”\n“Well, he is big, very BIG. And he is the Boss, very Bossy. What more is there to say?”\n“Well, Slim. We could tell how generous he is.”\n“Y'all means like when he lets us share his ribs, Keyes?”\n“Yeah, there is that,Tiny, but he treats us well.”\n“He has ta if he wants our help. This too big a place to run alone. But I sure does likes his ribs. Da ya remember the one from down Laredo way? She was so-o luscious... “\n“Okay, Tiny, I don't think he needs to know everything. Let's look over these beeves.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 I Met Your Grandmother\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2952\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Dad, how did grandpa meet grandma?”\n“I imagine it kinda went\nlike this.”\n *\n “Hey! Are youse ok?”\n“No thanks to you!”\n“I’m sorry! It’s\nalmost dark and with this snow still coming down I couldn’t see youse walking\nthere.”\n“Pearl! Help get us\nout!”\n“We’re coming, Ruth!”\n“Miss, don’t struggle\nso much. Gimme a chance. You’re making it worse. Let me help ya. Youse must be\nfreezing.”\n“Okay! Don’t pull my\narm outta socket. Who do youse think you are, President Harding, hisself?”\n“No ma’am. My name is\nChauncey. I just work for the county. I was just clearing snow.”\n“Well, Mr. Chauncey,\nI’m Pearl and these are my little sisters Ethel, Edna, and that’s Ruth way over\nthere still crawling out.”\n“What are youse doing\nwalking out here? It’s almost dark.”\n“Not everyone is rich\nand can drive along all high and mighty. Some folks have to walk to work or the\nschool.”\n“Ha! If I was rich I\nwouldn’t have bothered to stop for ya.”\n “Okay now. I got ya\nout. Just brushin’ the snow off.”\n“Never mind me, go\nfish’em outta the ditch. We’re already soaked.”\n“Are you’uns in the\nhouse up on the corner?”\n“Lord no, we’re down\nthe road half a mile past that.”\n“It’s not safe ta be\nwalking out here. It’s gonna be a little crowded, but climb up in the cab and\nI’ll get ya home.”\n“Thank you much, Mr.\nChauncey. You just keep ya hands on the steering wheel.”\n“Watch yer fingers\nwhile I close this door.”\n “We’ll get ya home.\nWe already cleared ta middle. Now I gotta do the sides.”\n“Mr. Chauncey, youse\nknow how to run this thing? I’m scardt.”\n“Ruth, don’t be\nscardt. Course he knows how.”\n“Miss Pearl, is it?\nMy name is Mr. Taylor.”\n“I thought youse said\nyour name was Chauncey. So which is it?”\n“Chauncey is my first\nname.”\n“Don’t giggle, Edna.”\n“But Chauncey sounds\nfunny.”\n“Just ignore my\nsister Edna. She’s almost ten. That’s Ruth on her lap. She’s seven and a half\nand Ethel over here squeezing my arm is eleven. She don’t talk much, when she\ndoes youse probably won’t be able to make it out. We’s McCormicks.”\n“We’re gonna have to\nset here some and warm ‘er up. Ya know Ethel was my momma’s name, least the\nwoman who raised me. I can see she’s a little different than the rest of\nyou’uns. But, Miss Ethel, I can see you’ve got a pretty smile. Are you sure\nyou’uns are comfortable over there?”\n“Pearl, slide over\nsome. Ethel’s pushing me ‘ginsta door.”\n“Don’t push, Edna.\n“Mr. Chauncey, I\nmean, Mr. Taylor, needs room to steer.”\n“How old are you,\nPearl?”\n“I’ll be fourteen\nMarch eight. What about youse?”\n“I’ll be twenty-two\nnext Saturday, February ninth. I gots a little sister ‘bout your age named\nHannah, but we call by ‘er middle name Annetta”\n“I didn’t think youse\nthat young.”\n“Got my winter\nbeard.”\n“What brought you’uns\nout in the snow?”\n“When we can, we work\nat the coal sorter, but closed t’day ‘cause the snow. We went by the store for\nflour. Closed as well and not taking milk. Mr. Yoder might have to start\ndumping it if we can’t get it ta market.”\n“Looks like it’s\ncabbage and potato soup with cornbread again tonight.”\n“Soup and cornbread\nsounds great. Last I had was half a hoagie ‘bout noon.”\n “Think she’s warmed\nup. I’ve gotta back ‘er up ta get a running start up this hill. When I hit that\nsnow bank she’ll wanna buck to the left and I’ll have to fight ‘er. Brace\nyourself. Don’t hit the glass.”\n“Never been in a\ntruck this big.”\n“What? You’ll have to\nshout. I can’t hear you’uns.”\n “I’m scardt, Pearl.”\n“Wow, looky! He’s\nclearing the road!”\n“Pearl, I can’t see\n‘causa Ruth.”\n“Ain’t a big deal,\nEdna. Ethel, loosen up my arm.”\n “Let me know when we\nget to yur road, Miss Pearl.”\n“It’s coming up on\nthe right. Uh-oh. I think ya passed it.”\n“I’ll back ‘er up.\nLooks pretty far up there. I better drive you’uns, so ya don’t freeze t’death.”\n “You’uns own this\nland?”\n“Lord, no. “We’re in\nthe little house next ta the farmhouse. My mom helps the farmer and his wife.\nLaundry, cleaning, watching her children, and such. We also milk the cows.”\n“And what’s your pa\ndo?”\n“Stove installer, but\nhe left ta work in Ohio. We hope he’ll come home ta visit in the spring.”\n“Was that yur house?”\n“Yep. Overshot\nagain.”\n“I’ll clear it up to\nthe farmhouse and turn ‘er around there.”\n“That’s Mr. Yoder\nwaving the lantern on the porch.”\n“Best go say, hi ta\nhim. Don’t touch anything, okay?”\n “Pearl, I think he’s\nkinda cute. Youse ought a scooch-closer.”\n“Edna, hush up. Here\nhe comes.”\n “Mr. Yoder said the\nelectricity is down. He seemed more glad to have his road cleared than to have\nyou’uns back home safe.”\n“Sounds like him. And\nwe don’t have electricity at our house anyway. Now he knows how we feel. He\nuses horses to get the milk cans to town.”\n “I’m gonna stop it here\nand let the engine rest. You’uns need to get out from my side.”\n“Pearl, Ruth is\nasleep.”\n“Let me help Ethel\nout first, then ya can pass me little Ruth, I’ll carry her to ta house. That\nyour ma at the door?”\n“We’re coming, ma!”\n“I told ya not to go\nto town, it was too deep.”\n“Sorry, ma. The store\nwas closed.”\n“Who's this ya got?”\n“His name is Chauncey\nTaylor. He buried us in ta snow with his plow.”\n“Lord, are you’uns\nalright?”\n“Just wet ma’am. He\ndug us out and give us a ride.”\n“Shouldn’ta been out\nwalking. Foolishness.”\n“Yintz kick your\nboots off at the door, and get those wet clothes off. Edna, help Ruth get ta\nbed. Pearl help Ethel get her clothes off.”\n“Looks like ya got\nyer hands full here, Mrs. McCormick.”\n“Ya don’t know the\nhalf of it. These kids ‘bout worried me to death.”\n“Nice and cozy in\nhere. Ma’am.”\n“I just put the last\nof ta wood in the stove ta warm the soup.”\n“If there’s more wood\noutside I’ll fetch some while I’m here, ma’am.”\n“Don’t know if you\ncan even find the wood pile under that snow.”\n“Pearl, take the\nlantern and show him the woodpile and pump. Remember that stick by the door in\ncase that mountain lion comes back around.”\n“Mr. Taylor, I don’t\nsee any red eyes out there, do you?”\n“Na. I’d reckon it’s\ntoo cold, and you can call me Chauncey. So it’s just yer mom and the four\ngirls?”\n“Our sister Helen is\nasleep in the back room. She’s six and a half.\n“There’s the ax,\nstuck on the chopping block over there, so the wood pile outta be right ‘bout …\nhere.”\n “That’s one armload.\nLead me back ta the door. You can wait here and I’ll get a few more armloads to\nkeep outside by the door.”\n “Here’s some empty\nbuckets for water.”\n “This handle needs a\nshot of grease. Gotta be gentle too. I’ve seen a pump handle snap in two in\ncold weather.”\n“You’ve been around a\nlot.”\n“My dad’s an engineer\non the railroad and I used to go with him a lot.”\n“Are ya married, Mr.\nTaylor?”\n“Not yet. Pass me\nthat bucket while it’s flowing.”\n“Ya not dating\nanyone?”\n“Thank ya. I’m too\nbusy working. ‘Sides, my dad says, ‘Take it from me, don’t go kissing girls\nunless I’m ready to marry ‘em.’”\n“So yer almost\nfourteen, heh? Won’t be long ‘til you’re a woman.”\n“Beg yer pardon. I\nbeen a woman least two years. Shoot even Ethel became a woman just last month.\n“What’s so funny?”\n“That’s not what I\nmeant. I was thinking more about being married and raising a family.”\n“Oh, I thought you\nwere talking about … you know…”\n“Nah. That’s all the buckets,\nhold ya for a while.”\n “That didn’t take\nthat long, Mr. Taylor. Come in and warm up ‘n have some stew. I know yer in a\nhurry ta get on yer way.”\n“Yes, ma’am. I could\nuse something inside me. Ya never know when that old truck is gonna get stuck\nand I have to sleep in the cab.”\n“Pearl, dish Mr.\nTaylor out a bowl of stew, and dig deep. Hope you don’t mind if she gets the\npiece of venison that’s in there for flavoring.”\n“Ha. Nom’em, I\nwouldn’t argue with that ‘tol.”\n“I took two\nsix-pointers ta first week of the season, but then I might as wella stayed\nhome. When I get back this way, I’ll bring ya some to pay yer back.”\n“We wouldn’t argue\nwith that ‘tol either.”\n“Maw, Ruth laughed at\nChauncey’s name, but I think it’s kinda fancy.”\n“Yes, Pearl. It is.\nChauncey, my name is also unusual. It’s Viola. My maiden name is Spickler, but\nI guess I’ll stay a McCormick since that’s the girl’s last name.”\n“Yes ma’am. So how\nare you’uns getting by out here without Mr. McCormick?”\n“It ain’t been easy. He\nsaid he’ll keep sending money, but don’t know how long that’ll keep up. His\nbrother Harry and his wife Mary have, what, six kids now. He’s got a good farm\nand furniture shop not too far. They check in on us and help us out. And the\nYoders have been good to us.”\n“Umm. Hope you’ll\npardon my manners for drinking the last bit of that stew.”\n“Pearl, get Mr.\nTaylor another bowl. Dish one for yerself, Edna, and Ethel. Now that you’uns\nbrought in some water, we have plenty of stew, if ya know what I mean!”\n“Momma! That wasn’t\nnice.”\n“Relax, Pearl. I know\nwhat she means. We’ve all had some lean times, what with the war, that Spanish\nflu, prices going up through the roof last year, now these snow storms and\nwhatnot.”\n“Chauncey, why didn’t\nya go off ta Europe ta fight?”\n“I was born in 1900,\nso I was only eighteen when the draft started and ya had to be twenty-one. When\nI was almost ready ta go, the flu hit. Within a year my dad’s mom and dad , and\nmy step-mom all died. It was just me, dad, and Annetta who was only eleven.”\n“Don’t blame yer a\nbit for staying. My ex-husband Castor registered, but he was already thirty\nyears old, almost too old. Besides that, we had five girls, so that probably\nkept him from getting drafted.”\n“Maw. Chauncey’ll be\ntwenty-two next Saturday.”\n“Well don’t you just\nknow it all, Pearl?”\n“We should bake him a\ncake.”\n“Gotta get some flour\nand sugar first.”\n“My sister Ardelle is\nabout two years younger than you, Chauncey. She married Sam Bartlett and they\nlive down in Lewistown. She’s a sweetie and we named our Pearl after her middle\nname. Ardelle and Sam had a baby girl last July; named it Clara, but the poor\nthing caught a cold on the first snowfall and died. Just four months old. My\nlittle brother Earl George who would have been about your age. He worked in the\nsteel mill in Lewistown, but got sick and died last January.” \n“That’s so sad. Mrs.\nMcCormick, my little sister will be fifteen in April, just about Pearl’s age.”\n“Well, don’t go\ngetting any ideas about Pearl here. She’s still only thirteen. Chauncey, do you\nhave a place of yer own or do you still live with your folks?”\n“When I’m not out\nworking, I live with my dad, his new wife, Alberta, and my little sister\nAnnetta, well, my half-sister. Her mother Ethel raised me since I was six, but\nshe died ‘bout back in 1917 before the Spanish flu. Last year my dad married a\nlady named Alberta Branen. Since my dad travels with the railroad, I can help\nwhile he’s gone. It’s a nice house, but it always needs fixin-up.”\n“Do ya know your\nbirth mom?”\n“Her name was Nelly\nStelly. She lived next door, then after I was born she showed up with me. She\nwas nineteen and my dad was twenty-one. Said she wasn’t ready ta be a mother and\njust gave me to my dad and grandparents, Archie and Sarah Taylor.\n“They already had four\nsons and six daughters. They just threw me in with the other kids, kinda like I\nwas the eleventh child even though my dad was the second child.”\n“So where’s Nelly\nnow?”\n“She took up with a\nman named Campbell. They live up in this area and have a few half-brothers. I\nnever see ‘em.\n“This stew is really\ngood.”\n“Maw, do we have any\nhalves?”\n“No, Edna, none that\nI know of. You need to go get ready for bed now.”\n “Chauncey, truth is I\nexpect Castor’ll get married again. Probably already has someone picked out. My\ngirls’ll have some halves.”\n “This cornbread is\nthe best at soaking up the rest of the stew.”\n“Campbell, ya say, in\nMifflintown? I think I saw that name on the death list for the flu at the post\noffice.”\n“We don’t get many\nvisitors. Sometimes we go ta the Yoders and listen to the radio. You listen to\nradio?”\n“Some. There was a\nmemorial few days ago for the theater that collapsed last year. Remember that?”\n“Yea. Killt, what,\n‘bout a hundred folks in that theater in Washington. Couple of feet of snow on the\nroof.\n“It was the\nKnickerbocker Theater, so they’re calling it the Knickerbocker storm.”\n“I remember it because\nthat was when I got the divorce papers, someone saw me crying and I said it was\ncause the theater, but it was cause of Castor. I was thirty-one years old with\nfive little girls.”\n“I’m sorry Mrs.\nMcCormick.”\n“It’s alright\nChauncey. I’m kinda used to hardship. My daddy died when I was about sixteen. Earl\nwas seven and little Ardella Pearl was only five, so it was tougher on them. I\nhad to quit school, but I met Castor and we got married when I was seventeen. My\ngrandpa George’s wife Eliza died back in ’14 so he lived with us until he died.\nTough old civil war veteran. Lived to ninety-two years old.\n“I’m ramblin’. We’re\nkinda cut off out here. What’s that Mr. Harding doing in Washington to help\nus?”\n“Since it’s February\nfirst. He’s talking to congress tonight. Some places have twenty-foot drifts\nand they're calling out the Army to help clear the roads.”\n“It’s ‘bout time the\ngovernment did something good. Anything else?”\n“For the last few\nyears, some knuckleheads in Punxatany have been watching a groundhog.”\n“Where’s that?”\n“’Bout a hunert miles west. Anyway, they say if it sees its shadow it gets scared and we all get six more weeks of winter, otherwise it will be an early spring.”\n“Foolishness! If a\ngroundhog's crazy 'nuff ta come out around here that cougar’ll get it.” \n“Yes, Ma’am. Thank ye\nall for warming me up inside and out. After I start the truck, I’m gonna shoot\nsome grease on your well pump. I also could use a refill on my canteen out in truck.”\n“Our night pots need\nto be emptied down the outhouse.” \n“No problem, I need\nto use the privy anyway. Just set them outside.”\n “Thank you again, Mr.\nTaylor. You don’t be a stranger around here. Especially if you’re gonna bring\nsome venison.”\n“Hope to be back when\nwe get the road’s clear. Bye-bye Pearl.”\n \n “Chauncey, it stopped\nraining. Please open that window some more.\n“Yes Ma’am. It’s\ngonna be a hot one today, but that was a half-inch of rain. Lord knows the\ngardens needed it. Almost two weeks ta Independence Day. One-hundred\nforty-eight years, two more years ta what they're calling the\nSesquicentennial.”\n“Chauncey, enough\nsmall talk. It’s time you held your beautiful baby boy so Pearl can go to the\nbathroom.”\n“Yes, ma’am. Thank\nyou for doing the delivery.”\n“Thank you, momma. I\nthink I can walk now. It’s been a few hours. I’m sorry I screamed at you so\nmuch last night.”\n“What's the poem? ‘Wednesday's\nchild is full of woe.’ He doesn’t look full of woe to me. Youse should have\nbeen screaming at that Chauncey here. It’s his fault.”\n“Momma!”\n“You’re only fifteen by three months. I was eighteen when I had youse.”\n“And now, youse an\naunt and a grandma.”\n“Ardella’s little\nMargaret May is over a year old. That’s a comfort after their loss of Clara.\nNow they have another one due in a few months.” \n“Momma, I hope she\nhas a boy like we did. We’re gonna name him James after grandpa McCormick and\nClayton after Chauncey’s father’s middle name. Think Papa will make it out ta\nsee us?”\n“I wouldn’t hold my\nbreath. I heard your Papa's new wife Lucile is nine years younger than him.\nChauncey is only eight years older than ya. Don’t think she’s gonna let Castor leave\nhome. She knows the kind of man he is.”\n“Chauncey, what about\nyour dad and Alberta?”\n“I’ll get word to\nhim, but he stays busy.”\n“But it’s his first grandchild.”\n“Maybe after a few\nmonths, we can all go down there ta visit my dad, grandma Rhoda and all his\nSpickler and Taylor cousins. Glad you’re here ta help, Viola. I need ta get\nback down on the Penn Highway. I’ll sleep in the crew house tonight, so I can\nget full days tomorrow be back Friday late.”\n**\n “Your grandpa\nChauncey Taylor and grandma Pearl had nine boys and one girl. Most lived long\nlives and had a lot of children.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Days Well Spent\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1116\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\" Days Spent Well \"\nMemories of childhood were the dreams that stayed with you after you woke . When I cast back to an event from my past , what needs to be explained more than the prettiest pictures ? Little moments creates big memories. Time runs too fast the place where I was born has become an food stall right now. Though I don’t remember most of them , I will try my best .\nHappiness in school life was cleaning the table with friend’s bag .We were a gang of 6 during the school days and all the 6 were of different types . We didn’t realize we were making memories , we just knew we were having fun. Friends were the ones who fulfilled my childhood memories. Each and every year our class deserves an award for naughtiness and playfulness , which means we usually on regular basis hear the dialogue “ In all my years of teaching , this is the worst class I have seen “ . we all 40 were united even in doing mistakes . We stood together holding hands until the end of the school life. We don’t remember days , we remember moments. Years have passed but , I still miss those events when my bags were heavy with books and the tears which runs out of my eyes when I am punished.\nWhen I was younger I remember watching two drops of rain roll down window and pretending it was a race. Sitting on a stack of chairs and feeling like a Queen , lifting all the notebooks and keeping my book at the middle of all , waiting for the free period , Watching that cricket with a paper ball and exam board , Waking up early morning to revise for my exams , Polishing white shoes with chalk , Getting snacks for account in canteen , weaving a story about my unsubmitted assignments , feeling proud when I know nothing but my teacher says hide the exam paper , Eating snacks at the middle of the class , forgetting ID card and coming in a good hairstyles for group photo is what all I did in my school life. The best excuse of not doing my homework was telling the teacher that I have lost my notes and bunk the class with a friend in search of the notes. The longest wait was the wait for lunch bell . The best part of going to school was going in colour dress .\nWe eagerly wait an whole year for the announcement of tour from school . The tour to hydrabad and Mysore is unforgettable . Friends cannot be replaced by anyone.\nThe most treasured heirlooms are the sweet memory of the family .We live in a joint family filled with 10 relations . I have got the best parents and the most irritating brother in the world . I never slept without fighting with my brother. Brother is the best practice you can get to master the sport called life , be proud to have me as your sister .\nWhen you look into your mother’s eyes, you know that is the purest love you can find on this earth. Said Mitch Albom . Mummy and Daddy, you taught me to be strong , you lead an compassionate life setting an example for me to follow. Thank you for everything which you have done.\nI've apparently been the victim of growing up, which apparently happens to all of us at one point or another. It's been going on for quite some time now, without me knowing it. I've found that growing up can mean a lot of things. For me, it doesn't mean I should become somebody completely new and stop loving the things I used to love. It means I've just added more things to my list. Like for example, I'm still beyond obsessed with the winter season and I still start putting up strings of lights in September. I still love sparkles and grocery shopping and really old cats that are only nice to you half the time. I still love writing in my journal and wearing dresses all the time and staring at chandeliers. But some new things I've fallen in love with -- mismatched everything. Mismatched chairs, mismatched colors, mismatched personalities. I love spraying perfumes I used to wear when I was in high school. It brings me back to the days of trying to get a close parking spot at school, trying to get noticed by soccer players, and trying to figure out how to avoid doing or saying anything uncool, and wishing every minute of every day that one day maybe I'd get a chance to win a Grammy. Or something crazy and out of reach like that. ;) I love old buildings with the paint chipping off the walls and my dad's stories about college. I love the freedom of living alone, but I also love things that make me feel seven again. Back then naivety was the norm and skepticism was a foreign language, and I just think every once in a while you need fries and a chocolate milkshake and your mom. I love picking up a cookbook and closing my eyes and opening it to a random page, then attempting to make that recipe. I've loved my fans from the very first day, but they've said things and done things recently that make me feel like they're my friends -- more now than ever before. I'll never go a day without thinking about our memories together.”\nTime does not bring relief; you all have lied\nWho told me time would ease me of my pain!\nI miss him in the weeping of the rain;\nI want him at the shrinking of the tide;\nThe old snows melt from every mountain-side,\nAnd last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;\nBut last year’s bitter loving must remain\nHeaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.\nThere are a hundred places where I fear\nTo go,—so with his memory they brim.\nAnd entering with relief some quiet place\nWhere never fell his foot or shone his face\nI say, “There is no memory of him here!”\nAnd so stand stricken, so remembering him.”\nsaid Edna St. Vincent Millay . Every journey gave me the best memories in life . In all my childhood I wished to become older but Soon becoming older I realized how precious my childhood was and I literally wanted to go back to my childhood days again. \n“ He whispered all these the whole night “\n!! The End !!" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Siege of Montreuil\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1314\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THE SIEGE OF MONTREUIL\n “Hey! You! I see you down there! Wake up! Are you going to lay in the mud all day? Come and fight, you invading biscuit headed Englander!”\n “I am awake, you truffle snuffler! How can a man sleep when you caw like a raven from your perch on that wall? You woke me from a dream of your mum. She was stomping some grapes in a big tub with her bare feet. Want to hear more?”\n “I do not want to hear anything from you, you British bootlick. You are all alone? Will you breach our walls when all others have failed? Where are your men? Have they abandoned you and left you on your own down there?”\n “My men? They are taking their turn with your mother! They are right fond of creamy French pastry. Why don't you be reasonable, and surrender? I can smell your fear over the stench of your poopy pantaloons!\"\n “At least my mother does not taste like boiled cabbages. Surrender? Never! Here let me serve you some fresh French cannonball!”\n “Ha! Missed! By King Henry the VIII, I swear we’ll bring down your walls! With or without his help.” \n “Does your Duke of Norfolk cry himself to sleep each night knowing his dear King has abandoned him? Knowing he has taken the Duke's own son’s forces to aid him at Boulogne? Leaving your mighty Duke Norfolk to starve us out?\"\n “Your French castles will fall, one after the other, and we will march through Calais to Paris! Pope Charles marches from the north as we battle to help take the city, and the country, which is by right ours.”\n \" This country then, is yours, because you are not French? Go back to your island! Your king mourns his headless hussy, so he decides on a whim to take France, while our backs are exposed facing Italy? We have thwarted your petulant King twice before, and we will send him back into the sea from which he came. But of course, I can see it in your blank, piggish eyes. You do not know?\"\n \"What is it I do not know?\"\n \" Your trembling Charles is in Paris now as we speak. He is a guest in the most luxuriant sense of the word. You see, he has signed for peace with Francois. Your fat, flailing King stands alone.\"\n \"You lie of course, it is what you French do. You know that Francois had his ambitions to be Pope go…poof…when Charles rose to take that position himself. The \"Prisoner of Madrid\" is what we call your King. Charles and Francois have always been bitter rivals. The Pope would never betray my king and side with his enemy.”\n\" Nevertheless you nitwit, you are groveling in the mud like a muddy little hedgehog, as I loom over you safe behind our walls! All summer you islanders surround us, but where has it got you? Go home! First, you dig like rodents under our walls. We both know that that did not go well for you. You are living proof that you cannot go over them either. Now your Duke comes to our gate to negotiate? It is obvious you are about to fold like a bad hand of Karnofell.\"\n \"Safe it is, is it? How was breakfast this morning? Was it a cat, or filet of horse? At least our Irish regiment is scouring the fields and forests foraging for edibles. Best cattle thieves I know too.\"\n \"We both know the countryside has been picked clean weeks ago. While you're huddled wet as a rat in your puddle, each night the country folk sneak past you fools with the freshest of fresh for us.\"\n \"Not true, you French fabricator! As a matter of fact a feast awaits me even now.\"\n \"A feast! It is very well known that not only did you foolish English not ration your food, but you ran out of beer! You actually have to drink water now?\"\n \"Well, that's a choice we made. You have no idea, but water's all the rage in London now. For drinking, not bathing, of course.\"\n \"You know what else is popular in London these days I hear? Beheading your Queen! Touche` you toadstool. I hope all your water reeks of cat piss and is swimming with the plague.\"\n \" Yet what is all the rage in the streets of Paris? Turbans I'm told! Your King's sacrilegious union of the Crescent and the Lilly with Suleiman the Magnificent is blasphemy! Your king alone sides against the Christian church!\"\n \"Oh, why don't you wake up? Wake up! WAKE UP!\"\n \"Um, what…I mean who?\"\n \"You, young man, that's who! Are you in the habit of falling asleep in my classroom? Sit up straight now, and wipe that drool from your face! You look as if you haven’t slept all night.\"\n \"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was up late. I promise it won't happen again.\"\n \" It most certainly will not! Look at your dirty, dirty shoes! Did you drag them through every puddle you could find this morning?”\n \"I… ummm…I don't know. I don't think so.\"\n \" I have also been informed that you were late to school this morning. Were you late?\"\n “Well, no ma’am, I take the bus.”\n “So then, of course you're ready to give your presentation?”\n \"Presentation? Uh…sure…yeah, it must be here somewhere.\"\n \"Young man, are you ready to make your presentation or are you not?\"\n \"Sure, I guess. Do you want me to stand in front?\"\n \"Of course, you silly boy! Aren't all presentations given from the front of the room? Class?\"\n \" Yes Miss Howard.\"\n \"Well fine then, whenever you're ready.\"\n \" Okay, well, then, you see, King Henry the 8th was chilling in England in 1543. He was all bummed because his young wife was cheating on him, so he cut off her head. Then to lift his spirits he invaded France…\"\n \"Young man. Excuse me young man! What, exactly, do you think you are doing?\"\n \"I'm giving my report, Miss.\"\n \"What, exactly, is the theme of this report?\"\n \" The theme is Henry VIII and the invasion of France.\"\n \"Oh my boys and girls! Oh my, very much indeed!\"\n \"Hehehehehe\".\n \"What's so funny? Why is everyone laughing at me?\"\n \"Perhaps it is because you are being a muddy little hedgehog?\"\n \"A muddy what?\"\n “Hedgehog, hedgehog!”\n \"You seem to be a confused young boy. Wouldn’t you agree class?”\n “Sleepy, dirty, muddy, and late!”\n “ I worked hard on this report Miss Howard.”\n “Where, exactly, are you supposed to be right now young man?\"\n \"What do you mean? I’m supposed to be right here. I'm in History class and it`s 4th period.\"\n \" Oh my, my, no, no, no! Correction. You are in Math class, and it is 7th period. You must have missed your History class. Now you'll never catch up!\"\n \"Nooooo!\"\n \" Math class, Math class, now you'll never pass class!\"\n \"Don't run away now boy! You'll never find your way out if you leave! I’m warning you! If you don't hurry you're going to be late again! Don`t be late!\"\n \"Dude, wake up, you're going to be late! Wake up!\"\n \"What, um, where am I? What time is it?\"\n \"You are laying in a puddle of drool, on your desk, in your dorm room, where you were trying to pull an all-nighter to cram for your History exam. Obviously, that failed.\"\n \"Oh no, what time is it!\"\n \"It's 7:47…class at …8:00?\"\n \" Yes! Oh my God! I've got to go! I had the strangest dream while I slept. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. See you later, wish me luck!\"\n \"Fine, just leave the door open, I'd be glad to shut it for you. GOOD LUCK…you muddy little hedgehog.\"\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: The Postmaster\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1222\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Next customer.”\n“I have a parcel to ship.”\n“Where is the parcel?”\n“She’s right here.”\n“That’s a baby.”\n“Yes, her grandparents want to meet her and I can’t afford to take the train to see them. I can afford to send them a parcel through the mailing system.”\n“Where do you want to send her?”\n“Iowa City, Iowa.”\n“That’s a seventy mile journey!”\n“I brought food for her.”\n“I don’t think we can take your baby to Iowa City, ma’am.”\n“I was told you can send anything in the mail as long as it’s under fifty pounds. She’s around thirty pounds and she needs to meet her grandparents.”\n“Can’t they just come here to see her?”\n“Traveling the railway is costly. Sending a parcel is not.”\n“She’s going to need more than just food for a two day journey.”\n“I have one extra napkin, the postmaster will have to dry them by a fire when he stops for the night.”\n“What about when she cries, or when she’s scared?”\n“Betsy is a good baby. She doesn’t fuss much.”\n“I’ve never sent a baby through the mail before.”\n“A friend of mine sent her son to meet his grandparents last week. I know it can be done.”\n“The post doesn’t leave until morning.”\n“I told you I brought her some food and nappy’s. She doesn’t need much.”\n“Someone will have to watch her at all times.”\n“She sleeps through the night.”\n“It’s fifteen cents for the stamp.”\n“I’d like to insure my parcel for fifty dollars.”\n“Okay. Please put your parcel on the counter.”\n“Be good, sweet Betsy.”\n“Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma,”\n“Here is your record of your parcel shipment. It will be delivered in two days to Mr. and Mrs. Earl Lancaster in Iowa City, Iowa.”\n“Thank you.”\n“You’re welcome. Excuse me while I put the parcel in the back with the others.”\n“Who is going to Iowa City?”\n“That’s my route.”\n“You have a special parcel for this route, Postmaster Clemens.”\n“I’m supposed to deliver a baby?”\n“Her stamp is right here, on her coat. Her name is Betsy and you’re delivering her to the Lancaster’s.”\n“You can’t be serious!”\n“This delivery has been paid in full.”\n“Will she even fit in my carry bag?”\n“I don’t know, but she comes with some food and extra napkins.”\n“What if she —- in the bag? It’s a bag for letters and packages, not babies. Surely I can’t take her.”\n“Maybe take her as the only parcel on this route?”\n“But there are other customers with parcels to be delivered that have also been paid in full. Am I neglecting them because someone wants to send her baby through the mail?”\n“Well…no. However this one is…fragile and requires more attention during this route.”\n“Hmmm. Bring Betsy here and I’ll get her safely to the Lancaster’s.”\n“Ma ma ma ma.”\n“Hello there Betsy Boo, are you going to be good for me on our little adventure?”\n“Ma ma ma ma ma.”\n“I’m going to put you in my satchel, and keep you all nice and snug. I’m going to take a second satchel for the other packages I have to deliver. Does that sound like a good plan to you?”\n“Ma ma ma.”\n“I’ll take good care of you. I’ll get you safely to your grandparents.”\n“Hello. Special delivery.”\n“Just leave it on the porch.”\n“I can’t do that ma’am, I need to place this parcel in your arms before I finish my route. I refuse to leave her on the porch.”\n“Her? Oh bless your heart, you brought me our little Elizabeth!”\n“Oh yes, me and little Betsy Boo have had quite the adventure. She’s met so many kind people. Some of the other ladies wanted to snatch this cute button up, but I said, \"No way, I gotta get her to the Lancaster's home.” She has been such a good parcel. One of my favorite to deliver, actually.”\n“Come here, Elizabeth, oh, you sweet thing, I’m so happy you are here.”\n“Ma ma ma ma.”\n“Say goodbye to Postmaster Clemens.”\n“Ma ma ma ma.”\n“I guess you’ll get to see Betsy again soon when I mail her back to my daughter.”\n“I’ll be looking forward to our next adventure together. Goodbye Betsy Boo, and good day to you, Mrs. Lancaster.”\n“Next in line.”\n“I need to mail my granddaughter back to her mother.”\n“Excuse me?”\n“My daughter mailed me this baby last week, and now it’s time for her to go back home.”\n“I can’t let you mail her back.”\n“Postmaster Clemens is expecting to bring her back. This is his route, and he brought me Betsy last week.”\n“That was last week. Things have changed since then. Read the sign over there.”\n“No mailing babies.”\n“Looks like you and Betsy are going on the train. Next customer, please.”\n“Welcome to Burlington, please safely exit the train and wait patiently for your luggage to be unloaded.”\n“We made it! Are you ready to see your mommy?”\n“Ma ma ma ma.”\n“I’m ready to see her too. Oh, there she is!”\n“Hello! It’s so good to see you. Come here, Betsy.”\n“Ma ma! Ma ma ma ma!”\n“How was the train ride, mother?”\n“It was quite lovely. This was a much shorter journey to get here compared to Postmaster Clemens. They wouldn’t let me mail her back to you.”\n“Can you believe that? They changed the rules so you can no longer send children through the mail. I don’t know why, it was a successful delivery.”\n“Postmaster Clemens was so good with her. I think he enjoyed having Betsy on his route. He called her Betsy Boo, isn’t that precious?”\n“I think maybe we should stop by and see him, maybe let him say hello.”\n“I think he’d like that.”\n“Ma ma ma ma.”\n“I think Betsy Boo would like that too.”\n“Ma ma ma.”\n“Next in line.”\n“Oh no, not you again! You can’t mail your baby again.”\n“Yes, I heard. My mother brought her back on the train. Actually, I was hoping to find Postmaster Clemens and thank him for taking such good care of Betsy.”\n“I see. I’ll look and see if he’s in the back. He may not be back from his route yet.”\n“Thank you.”\n“Ma ma ma ma.”\n“There’s my Betsy Boo!”\n“Ma ma ma ma!”\n“How’d my sweet girl like her time in Iowa City?”\n“Ma ma ma ma!”\n“I thought about you every time I did my route. You were the first baby and last baby I delivered through the mail, and you brought me such joy on that route.”\n“Ma ma ma ma!”\n“Thank you for taking good care of her.”\n“It was my pleasure, and my job! She was a good girl.”\n“I was wondering if you wanted to join us for dinner tonight? Betsy seems to like you very much”\n“I would like that.”\n“May I call you by your first name?”\n“Yes, my name is Clyde.”\n“Betsy, what do you think about Clyde coming to dinner? Oh, don’t cry.”\n“Here, let me take her. She just needs to get reacquainted with her Uncle Clyde.”\n“Uncle Clyde?”\n“Di di ma ma.”\n“I think Betsy loves her Uncle Clyde. Look at her smiling and clapping!”\n“You’re my Betsy Boo.”\n“Ma ma ma!”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When I met Courage\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2992\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character with an unassailable moral compass." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I remember the day I met Jefferson. It was only a month or two into my senior year. The bell echoed through the empty hallways; each student and faculty member were already in their respective places in the classrooms or hiding out in a restroom somewhere. My class was rather empty with 5 Juniors taking their seats in Ms. Wheatley’s math class and 4 seniors back for another round of her endless formulas and conversions to kill our overall GPAs. After the screeching of the beginning bell Ms. Wheatley took the usual attendance with an all too common “PRESENT” in response and an occasional “YO” for the ones itching to break from formality even just the tiniest bit. \nThe day seemed normal until one absence was noticed by the attendance sheet. “Jefferson,” She called out. We all looked blankly, silently waiting for any response so she could continue. “Jefferson Davis?” Her eyes darted around the room, a bit troubled by the missing student. I hadn't noticed anyone was missing but in her confusion I got a little curious and looked around the room as well, noticing the empty seat in the middle of the classroom. I had never noticed anyone sitting there before. Must have been a Junior, I knew the seniors in class, and they were hard to miss, just look for the ones always spreading gossip.\nA few seconds later the door to the classroom opens from behind us, we turn to see a short kid who could be no more than 5’5” and that’s being charitable. \n His whole outfit looked like a kid trying on his dad's clothes, baggy sweats, oversized shirt and hoodie. As he passed on the way to the front of the class, I noticed the sweat dripping from his forehead. He walked up to Ms. Wheatley as we looked on in silence waiting to hear his excuse and whatever punishment he will inevitably get for throwing the two things she hated most in her face, being late for her class and excuses. \n“I'm sorry for being late, I have no excuse Ms. Wheatley.”\nHis words came out unfettered by guilt, fear, or even a hint of exhaustion from clearly hauling ass up 3 flights of stairs. His face was stone, not a flinch from him as he spoke; simply standing there, waiting for her to say something. She looked at him, wiping the confusion and frustration off her face before telling him to go sit in his seat. \nCalvin, a Junior in the class stood up in a huff, “Ms. Wheatley, with all due respect that's bullshit! I was late last week. You gave me detention for two days.”\n“Sit down Calvin!” she replied in a stern and irritated tone, “you weren't only late to class, you also gave a half assed excuse about leaving your phone at home, after I had caught you in the Hallway texting.” The two locked eyes for a moment before Calvin slumped back down into his seat, mumbling to himself. Ms. Wheatley went behind her desk and began sorting the assignments we handed in. While looking through the papers she said, “we all make mistakes, I'm even late for my class sometimes, but what I punish you for is lying to me when you can simply try to do better.” She looks up at Jefferson, “Don't be late again. And if you know you're going to be late, text a friend to let me know.” Jefferson nodded quietly as he took his books and pencils out of his bag. \nThe class continued as normal for the next hour until the bell signaled the end of class and a 10-minute warning to get to the next. The seniors picked up their bags and hurried out at the first sound of freedom. I lagged behind a bit, keeping an eye on the Jefferson kid, he was interesting to me. I couldn’t recall anyone who ever just sat ready for a punishment without trying to talk their way out of it. He was definitely a strange kid. I waited until he left the classroom and followed him from behind. I had time to observe for five minutes before the bell rings. I'll just book it for my next class. I followed him down to the second floor, into Mr. Malins’ English class, which was my next class. I followed suit and sat down early. The teacher was nowhere in sight, so I just pulled out the books for class. The seats fill over the next couple of minutes before Mr. Malin walks in at the bell, he waits a few seconds to pass before he begins.\nThe class went undisturbed for the first thirty minutes or so, then the usual pass around started as Mr. Malin started reading a passage from “Of Mice and Men.” Jacob Begins walking around passing out business cards for “When you need performance enhancement or relaxing VITAMINS!” it read. Jacob fancied himself as the school’s local hard ass. He used to be a running back for the school’s football team before he was held back for grades. At 6’5” and 240 lbs he was one of the biggest kids in school. Jacob had no direction or outlet and became a small-time drug dealer who does not like being rejected, especially in front of others. It’s “bad for business,” he says. Mr. Malin closes his book and sorts us into groups for a discussion. It was just my luck to get the Blockhead druggy, Jefferson, and Jamie, a senior who skipped his junior year and one of the smartest of the seniors this year. The class is immersed in quiet discussion until the teacher steps out to take a phone call: the moment the door closes Jacob scoots his chair closer to Jamie’s and holds up his card with a quick flip of the hand. “Must be pretty hard for you kid, skipping grades, separated from your friends, all those expectations to excel,” Jacob took the card and scratched under his chin a bit and flipped it back to Jamie, giving a sleazy car dealer smile. \"I got a few things to help relieve some of that stress and get you back to focus when you need it” he whispers slightly, giving Jamie a quick wink and half smile. \nJamie puts his hand up between the card and his face, “Thank you but I do fine on my own, it's not really that stressful, some of this stuff is pretty easy for me!” he carelessly replies while gently pushing away the card.\nI slump over in embarrassment for the kid and Jacob shoots me a look of pure anger as if I had something to do with it! His eyes darted around the classroom as most of the seniors' eyes were on him, He crumpled up the card and stared into Jamie's eyes with that same look of rage and embarrassment he just gave me. “Are you saying that it's not easy for me? You calling me stupid?! You think you're better than me just because you skipped a grade huh?” he was getting more agitated and his voice deeper and more distressed with each phrase.\nJamie was startled by the sudden accusations and couldn't find the words in time to refute anything Jacob had said before Mr. Malin walked back in, placing everyone back to their original seats to go over what we forgot to discuss. For the rest of the period Jacob did not take his eyes off Jamie. I couldn't do anything but feel for the kid. He was either unlucky enough to not hear about Jacobs unreasonable temper or stupid enough to still go and shatter such a fragile and volatile ego. When dismissed for the next class Jamie stuffed his books and notes into his bag and scurried off into the hallway, Jacob eyed and nodded to two other seniors then followed Jamie out. I'm not too sure what ‘nihilistic’ part of human nature drives us to watch a train wreck, but everyone moved in unison to watch what came next. \nI was pushed, shoved and damn near man-handled by the others around me to try and get the best view possible for the inevitable confrontation! We knew to some degree that the crowd gathered would just make Jacob want to act out even more to prove a point to everyone watching. Even if the kid just apologized and took the offer, it wouldn't end there and wouldn't stop them from circling like vultures. Jamie stood with his back against some lockers speechless and confused… all of this from what seemed to be a polite refusal. I could see his thoughts racing, his brain working overtime to figure a way out of it, but he just stuttered endlessly as his knees shook. “So, you think because I flunked you're better than me?” Jacob began as he paced the ground like a wild animal waiting to let loose. “Too good to accept a helping hand? You might not know it, but I don't tolerate disrespect…” clenching his fists so tight, I swear I heard his knuckles cracking! “especially no punk ass mama’s boy!” And with a swift right hook, Jamie hit the ground, blood and tears rolling down his face. \nWe could all see the fear in his eyes ever present, we all knew that he didn't deserve this, but nobody moved to stop it. Some people just screamed for Jacob to leave him alone, some even cheered for the kid to get up and fight back even though it was clear he would only make it worse on himself. I wanted to move, to at least shout! But standing in that crowd a few feet away froze me in fear of what would happen to me if that unreasonable anger was pointed towards me…I would be just as helpless. I survived High School for 3 years now and I planned to finish it without putting a target on my back, not for someone I barely know, deserving or not. As Jamie lay on the floor sobbing and the crowed shouted encouragement and insults, Jacob leaned over the crumbled boy and began kicking him. A twisted smile spread over his face as we all fell silent…with only the thud of Jamie's back against the lockers being heard. One hard kick after another, with each one my heart wrenched as I was slowly building up the sympathy to intervene. Before I opened my mouth to say anything, a short kid in baggy clothes pushed through to the center of the crowd. He stood expressionless. He dropped his bag with a loud thud, as to get someone’s attention, and stood up straight. Jacob looked up; a tilted smile pierced across his face as he laid his eyes on another victim. “…da fuck you want?” He said with all the base he could muster up in his 6’7” frame.\nJefferson stepped forward, looked up and said with a face devoid of fear, “Just because you can pick on someone doesn't mean you should. It makes you look small!” \nI could hear his voice crack and straighten out, hands shaking, he didn't look like he could come close to handling the senior but scared and all his face never showed it.\nJacob’s face twisted in pure rage! From being the star on the football team, to being an aggressive drug dealer, I had never witnessed anyone intentionally insult him to his face, his overreactions to the smallest slights made sure of it! “You calling me small?” Jacob’s fists tightened again to get ready to pounce on the next doe in the wilderness. \nJefferson instinctively flinched and took a step back from Jacob, but with the same instinct stepped forward again; his next words echoed through the halls for what seemed like forever. “WHY ELSE WOULD YOU NOT HARASS ANYONE YOUR OWN SIZE????.” Immediately, there were several quick gasps.\nI blinked for only a second before Jacob and his gang were on top of Jefferson stomping and punching him! Each impact and cough from Jefferson rang in my ears, it was the only sound that could be heard for a while as everyone just stood in fear of what would happen if they intervened. People started to leave quietly and shamefully as the three continued to beat on the kid. Nobody tried to stop him! Nobody offered help! Nobody went to tell a teacher! \nBy the time the bell rang we had all left the scene. I felt too ashamed to just go to class so I waited down another hallway until I could no longer hear Jacob and his friends grunting. I waited for them to pass before heading back into the hallway. Jefferson laid on the ground, bruised, nose bleeding, one of his eyes swollen shut. His beating was obviously worse than Jamie’s. He took a deep breath before getting off the ground and going to help Jamie. No tears, just that same straight face he’s worn all day as he lifted a mess of Jamie off the ground.\nI slowly walked up, embarrassed to look either of them in the eyes as I was one of the people who simply watched as they were assaulted. I picked up Jefferson's bag and handed it to him. I locked eyes with him and instead of the disgust I was expecting to see, he simply said, “thank you” and wrapped Jamie’s arm over his shoulder and made his way down the hallway. I stood there racking my brain for a few seconds as to what would lead someone to what would essentially be social suicide, and maybe some broken bones? I couldn’t come up with a good answer myself. I finally mustered up the nerve and said, “Jefferson, dude…why would you do that? You just got yourself fucked up more than Jamie did.” \nJefferson stopped to look back at me and calmly replied “I've taken beatings from much worse people than him; I knew I could handle it and Jamie couldn't.” He turned back around, adjusting his bag and Jamie over his shoulder before continuing. I couldn't help but feel pathetic after hearing such an answer. I ran up from behind and grabbed both of the bags, “So where to?” giving a guilty half smile.\nJefferson gave a small chuckle and looked as if my question was unnecessary, the first bit of emotion I’ve seen out of him today. “The nurses office, duh!”\nJefferson carried Jamie and I carried their bags to the nurse’s office, watching as he slightly struggled with Jamie. We had a flight of stairs and about 200 feet to go. “I still don't quite get it,” I said, “you could have at least gone to get a teacher instead of getting beat down like that…” \nJefferson gave a sigh of exasperation. “I tried that, they were all on lunch and if I kept looking, he would have kept getting hurt. My father used to tell me that ‘if you could do something better than someone else, you should help them.’”\n“SOOO…you just jumped in, not afraid of him hurting you?”\n“Of course I was afraid, who wouldn't be? But I've let fear keep me from doing what I felt was right too many times already; When you make the decision to help someone, it doesn't always go as planned, for better or worse, you have to be ok with the consequences.”\nI ran out of excuses for not wanting to help Jamie, it just all seemed to boil down to me being too damn scared to do anything.\nAs we arrived at the nurse’s office I ran in front of them to open the door. I could hear the nurse hop out of her chair before she came out from the back office. “Oh, my goodness what happened!?” She yelled as she anxiously looked over the two of them a bit more closely. After a deep breath, a look of pained understanding fell over her face as she locked eyes with me. We both knew that things like this keep happening because people fear the retaliation from Jacob and his friends for telling.It wasn’t unreasonable to fear the wannabe drug dealer after his public beatdowns instilled the fear he hoped it would. Neither of us expected Jefferson or Jamie to say what actually happened, I know I never have, and I didn't plan to.\nJefferson laid Jamie down on one of the beds, lifted his head looking at the nurse, “We were assaulted by a senior who deals drugs! Me and Jamie would like to call our parents; I don't think either of us should go back to class.” Jefferson’s tone and expression mirrored the same confident air he had back in Ms. Wheatley’s class. \nThe nurse turned towards me, maybe a bit relieved at what she heard? “Is that true?”\nJust thinking about what would happen made my throat dry up. My palms began to sweat. All I could imagine was Jacob and his friends cornering to give a worse beating than Jefferson or Jamie; being left in a crying heap or worse! I looked around the room, not even sure for what, I guess I could have been having a mini panic attack with my imagination running wild at the thought of impending death? I looked at Jefferson sitting down next to Jamie who was laying still holding the side he was kicked in. He didn't say anything, his gaze didn't seem to hold any expectations. If I could describe it, it felt like a look of determination, that he would continue on even if I was too scared to.\nI finally was able to take a deep breath, and wet my mouth…even though I felt my heart beating through my chest, I stood up straight, held my head up high, and managed to form at least one word through it all, “Yes!”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 To Enola\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1358\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story of fragments. Many options here: no verbs, sentence fragments, short sections, nothing but objects, etc. The fragments should relate to one another obliquely, hesitantly, subtly, ambiguously, preposterously, marvelously." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW: in comment section\nHe’d always hated the judder. Always hated it. It felt like being in a tin can, like he was a sardine packed in oil and jelly. He knew he’d see nothing but clouds if he looked out the window. You’re cloud watching from the wrong side, Georgie would’ve said. Hey, that one looks like a dog, Dad. Dad? Do you see it? It looks like a dog, see! Woof, woof, woof. But he didn’t look out the window, couldn’t, was too busy with eyes on the blinking panel. Somewhere behind him, he heard a click.\nand it was terribly funny in that entirely infuriating way that the flowers were the wrong colour. They were pink, and she was sure she’d told Hisako that she wanted the yellow flowers, yellow like butter, yellow like egg, yellow, Hisako, yellow, how hard is it to get yellow flowers? Did she think the pink would look good? Did she think Seiko wanted to see pink? He hated pink, pink was garish and she knew he hated it and how was she supposed to concentrate on the day when she was surrounded by pink? Pink like salmon, pink like blisters, pink, Hisako, why did you pick pink when I said yellow? You’ve ruined the day, Hisako, my day, Seiko’s last day and all he’ll remember about it is fucking pink when he should be thinking about yellow and me and home and not pink and\nhe caught his reflection in the shop window and wondered when he’d started to look so old. Old and thin and gaunt and not the thirty-odd years that he was. There was nothing to do but straighten the khaki hat on his head and be glad there was no captain around to scold him for it being crooked in the first place. He patted his pocket. The tin was still there, rattling with soon-to-be devoured fruit drops in every colour of the rainbow, and he could see it already, that smile on her face when he handed them over. She’d count them out and name the colours she’d learnt when he was away, and he’d look at her and wonder when she’d gotten so tall, when she’d gained so many words, when she’d started to look so much like\nhe could see it, a squirrel, there was a squirrel, fat and bushy and scampering down the bark and he needed to get it, needed to get it, getitgetitgetitgetit, but he tugged and the leather bit his neck and nonononononono he needed the squirrel, needed the squirrel, needed fur between his teeth as he tore down to bone, needed the red on his tongue, the sweet red, the red that tasted like the bottom of the water bowl, the good red, the sticky red red red red red red red, get the fur, get the red, get it, get it, get it, get\nhis hands would smell of metal all day now, just because someone had the audacity to go on a drunken rage at eight o’clock in the morning. He could feel the man’s spine as he pressed him against the wall, sharp enough to cut through the man’s shirt and into his own uniform and Christ, he didn’t have the energy for this. He still had sleep in his eyes, porridge on his tongue, the weight of last night’s late shift pressing on his neck. He could just let the kid go, that would be easier, but this wasn’t about energy, this was about duty and authority and all the other words Father had said when he’d pushed the application over the table to him all those years before. He should’ve been a carpenter. Linseed oil under his nails, splinters digging joyfully into his skin. Time for porridge in the morning, time for Kiyo in the evening, time, he wanted time. Just time, was that so much to\npuffy white, he could see it from the rolly chair, like the clouds Mama let him eat, the sweet ones that stuck to his face so that he could lick down and taste it for the rest of the day. And that one looked like a dog, wan wan wan, and that one looked like Papa and that one looked like\nit was a buzz that made her cough, the first breath of grey from the cigarette Yuki handed over to her. She pinched it between her fingers and Yuki laughed and so she laughed back and then she was coughing and Yuki was laughing even more and she wanted to kiss her through the smoke, through the grey, through the taste of tobacco on their teeth. But Yuki had stopped laughing and was telling her how to get the smell out of dress before she got home, before Ma could smell it and give her a walloping and turn her rants into something about grades and homework and why she didn’t have a gentlemen friend, even though she knew that if she did, Ma would give her the same walloping, the same rant, the same endless vitriol that choked her like smoky grey and Yuki’s eyes and left her wondering whether it was even worth it to be alive at \nthey were kicking that ball again, the little bastards, along the road and right to the patch of stone by his feet. They wanted him to kick it back but he caught it under his cane and gave them a look to rival the Devil. He leant back in his chair, creased hand still on the cane. Their teary eyes made him smile, toothy and satisfied. Children these days just didn’t know what\nshe was picking trimmed-off stalks from her skirt and itching the pollen from her nose when he walked in. Two dozen pink roses, he’d said. Her heart dropped silently. She tucked her hair behind her ears and hoped to tuck the disappointment away with it. Like a stray handkerchief, a worn one covered in holes from its constant use, just the same as her fondness for the man before her. Every day he’d walk past. Look in the window and admire the buds, then look to her on the other side. She’d smile, hoping he’d admire her just as he did the colourful blooms. He always walked away. Today, he walked in. We’ve just sold the last of those, I’m afraid, Sir, she finally said. Who were they for? He smiled back. A gentle thing that left not a line on his face. A rare thing, she realised. Well, he looked bashful, every inch of him blushed, if you could tell me what your favourite flower is, then I was hoping they would be for you. She felt her hair fall over her eyes. And then he reached forward and tucked it back, back but not away. Oh, she softened her grin. My favourite flowers are\nit was Papa’s day today. Big hand on the four. Small hand just past the eight. She sat by the window and waited. He’d appear at the end of the street soon. He’d be wearing his Fighting Hat. She huffed a cloud onto the glass and drew a picture into the patch it made. Papa in his Fighting Hat, her in her Big Girl Dress, the one Obaachan laid out for her last night, with the big bow and the flowers. And Papa would take her to get sweets and they’d eat them at the park and maybe he’d tell her about Mama and maybe he’d let her come with him to\nand what was he to do but fall to the ground. The air whistling around him, the little boy that he was, falling, falling, falling, until he wondered if he would ever reach the ground. But that was the point, wasn’t it? Fall, fall, fall, right to the ground. But he was still high up, high, high, high, and the world looked so tiny below him, stacks of boxes that weren’t boxes, filled with ants that weren’t ants, so far below. Far, far, far. Fall, fall, fall\nMy God, what have we done?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dinner with Attica\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2013\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dinner with Attica.\n“My dear, dear friends, I delight to welcome you to my home once again. How wonderful that you all had the time and agreed to travel south to celebrate our mid-winter doldrums, in joyful reunion and stories that I expect shall unfold as our time together progresses. It has been much too long since we have all spent time under one roof. You have welcomed one newly arrived, with Cicero. For the moment we shall call him ‘the Seeker.’ He has a story to tell, I am sure, for he has a quest to find his son, whom I have met. This is all that I know. But his is an adventure that one or more of us may contribute a leading clue or a known word, who can tell! We shall hear from him in due course, but first, of events to unfold before you depart, to my sorrow. Tonight’s theme was included on the Invitation. I know that you will have come prepared to participate, either verbally, or in gestures of understanding, to express the love and risks of living, expressed by one woman and everywoman, by one man and everyman, by friend with friends.”\nThe guest to my right spoke forth as the first course was served. I had been introduced to her as Linda.\n“Attica, if you will indulge me, I would like to be first to express my thoughts, for I have pondered your theme for the evening, and prepared these notes as my beginning contribution. Though, before I do, to the Seeker, though we have not yet spoken together, welcome, I am Linda.”\n “I call this: ‘Two Wishes from the Genie.’ And Genie said to God, ‘behold the lamp. Brazen its shape with heat from a fire and caste thy breath within its midst. You will see a world, void of shape and life. It awaits your decisions. Linger with thine arms and hands and mold life as you deem it. But remember, once conjured, your creations cannot be returned. You may influence them no longer. They must find their way or perish. The question will be if you, as their creator, taught them well.\nAnd God said to Genie, ‘I fear for my beloved. The trees retreat and the birds of the forests fly in codes of confusion, the waters shift and the fishes lie without hope, the animals of the earth hear warnings and seek higher ground, but my creation of a higher being does not hear nor heed the wisdom. I despair of their time, cut short, their reasoning cut short and their consciousness diverted.\nGenie stayed silent and God continued.\n“Recuse me time again with them in order that I may reshape my creation. This I ask of you.\nGenie responded on all that God had said and answered forthright.\n‘This was not our agreement. But fear not, for I shall give you other planets in the universe to populate in hopes of lightening your sadness.’\nAnd God accepted the inevitable, promising to learn from his mistakes and to do better with his creations the next time. He would recreate the birds and the animals of the forests and the plains with the brilliance of color and plumage and with more variety that had driven his earlier expressions. He was inspired to recreate the fishes of the seas in the abundance of his love. But he would have to give his Beloved more thought before moving forward with expression.”\n“Linda, darling, as arbiter for the evening, may I say you have set us on the path of discussion. As usual, your wit sets a high bar for us to follow.”\n“Yes, Linda, my Love, tis a high bar for us to follow. As you all know, I am not a religious man, but to you comment that we wait for God’s next coming, we wait for his appearance, without warning or precursor to his expectations or future plans, what if he has already come-and-gone, and we did not see his passing?”\n“Oh, Claud, must you be so negative? As your other half, I would say, if I were God, I would gather all of the hopes and dreams of the world and tuck them as if under my wings like a mother duck with her ducklings. You know, like a nursery rhyme Mother tucking all of her children under and between the hoops of her skirt.”\n“But to hide, dear wife, is not to see. To protect is not to challenge. Soon, love and nurturing would turn to disappointment and despair as the future unfolds without interest or expression of self. What started from love would become a drama of curiosity to know and a longing to explore, alone.”\n“Claud, you are hasty with your response, let me finish. Like a Mother Goose, the knowing is in when to open her wings and fly away, and in doing so releases her goslings to their singular endeavors. Don’t wait for God.”\n“Seeker, did you know that Claude tried to commit suicide once because he could not support Camille and their first son? He jumped into the Seine. That’s why we all love you, isn’t it Claude! The romance of the sheer and utter final gesture of desperation of the artist.”\n“Oh, Linda, don’t be so dramatic. It wasn’t romantic at the time, I only remember how bloody cold the water was and the realization that I could probably have chosen a less physically battering and protracted exit, but who had the money for it. Camille has since forgiven me and I have promised not to repeat the folly.”\n“What say you, Seeker, to Claude’s words, will you venture a thought?”\n“Well, Attica, I am still thinking of Camille’s’ comments. I am in agreement with her views. I would add that: ‘To walk in front of another, as a parent to a child, allows the follower to observe the thoughtful, the thoughtless. It allows the follower the space to seek another path and to embark upon it with a flourish. When the time comes, and we become the follower, we must be clear not to call in warning or when we lose sight of that child. I say, be patient, for it is not our journey. If love is present, it will draw us back together again.”\n“And to Claude’s views?”\n“Well, a Priest who has not loved another human being cannot console you. A Politician has not experienced the madness of war should not morally ask a new generation to repeat the folly. A man who has not been humbled by loss or circumstance should not consider himself a leader of men. A man, such as Claude, who has visited death and postponed his rendezvous is to be applauded, for he has experienced life at its extreme.”\n“Your thoughts have clarity to them, Seeker, but if we think beyond the experience, to what might have been my death, it would have become a measurement of time, the beginning of a new clock for those who remained. My life started over following that misadventure, but it became a fixed reminder of other milestones of a life lived, a reminder of lessor memories remembered of a lesser life lived. Neither are richer or poorer, neither are nurtured or valued more or less by my soul, they just ‘are.”\n“Seeker, I am Artimus, could I interrupt your response to Claude by asking him: ‘is there no free will? Must we all learn to die, or does it just happen to us? It seems to me that most delay the preparation until the end can be seen to be close. Some embrace it with the strength and determination of a time and place chosen by them. Others are taken by surprise and forfeit any protest or expression of choice. Death is not the measurement of time; time is the measure of death. The earlier in life or the later in the cycle it joins us, the more comforted we appear to accept it. I believe that the acceptance belongs to those who remain, not with us, the departed. It is they who keep us close to their hearts.”\n“Artimus, your words ring true of my experience, but, for the moment, I shall remain silent.”\n“Yes, Artimus, hold silent for a moment, and introduce my to your new friend, I am Louis, and I would say that love and recorded notice must survive the death of both the artist and the scientist, for how else can it be real, and the love measured! Look how Claude is still loved, look at how his paintings survive in prominence.”\n“Attica, Louis speaks rarely, but when he does, he speaks volumes. I salute my dear friend, and I hope that tomorrow you will continue to try and explain to me what you does with all of those moving life forms that we cannot see without your microscope, but that make us ill. And after that, I shall ask Marie to interpret what he has told me. But now, if I must sing for my supper, I must do it before the wine befuddles my brain and my brain befuddles the words.”\n“Ah, Cicero, my oldest friend, stand and be recognized at my table.”\n“Thank you, gracious hostess. You all know me as an Advocate of the Law, and this is what I have learned. Words must be judged as words of the mind or of the heart. From the mind they are expressed with all of their confusion in the telling. Words of the heart are known to all human beings as trustworthy, although few listen or heed their learnings. The heart cannot claim falsehoods. Man can extinguish written words that are cast as law, but he cannot expunge truths from his heart. Sad is the man who ignores these truths beyond his earthly deathbed, for it can never be said, even in a final confession, ‘he was a good man at heart, a man of conscience.’ The mind can be distracted by the richness of the earth, it can be drugged by insatiable want, but the heart cannot be distracted from its quest for love. With that, I ask you all to raise your glasses to our hostess, and to the thought: ‘be not timid in thy quest to reject the allure of excess from the earth for it demands obedience of routine for lesser comforts. This is what I would tell the living. Celebrate love my friends and, with luck, all will fall into place before the end.”\n“Seeker, another thought for my table, something more hopeful for it seems that we are falling upon melancholy in the lateness of the night.”\n“Thank you, Attica. Little of inspiration or uplift comes to mind, but I would say, when I was young I would dream of what I could become. In mid years I did not dream. In my twilight years I dreamt again, this time of what might have been.”\n“Tell us of your quest, Seeker. The journey I alluded too when we gathered.”\n“I seek a Son, Attica. Lost to me at his birth. I have carried his absence and my unanswered question heavily for almost forty years. I want to celebrate the instant when the hurt will be liberated, held so long in a darkness of sadness. It will free the congestion that has limited the relationship from an opportunity to grow from understanding to love.\n“Your question, Seeker?”\n“A single word, Attica, why?”\n“How heartfelt that you claim this quest to find your Son. I shall do all that I can to help. I heard words attributed to Publis Strus, once: ‘How unhappy are those who cannot forgive themselves.’ I hope that you can forgive yourself for something that was not yours to forgive in the first place. You should pass that to God, or Linda’s Genie.\n“And with that my friends, your journey’s here were long, thus I bid you good night and the gentlest of dreams. We shall meet again tomorrow.”\nend" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Solving for X\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2548\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story of fragments. Many options here: no verbs, sentence fragments, short sections, nothing but objects, etc. The fragments should relate to one another obliquely, hesitantly, subtly, ambiguously, preposterously, marvelously." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Electroshock. \nFeels like my brains are on fire. Smell smoke. \nFlames everywhere, not a drop to drink. The mattress is not soft. There is no soft place to land. This is a journey inside my broken mind. Strap yourself in good, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. \nLike Alice down the rabbit hole. The Mad Hatter is waiting for his tea. \nNurse Carlin puts the rubber in my mouth. So I won’t bite my tongue off. Words swirl. Phrases sound like alarms. Soon there will be nothingness. A void. Black hole that sucks everything in, including the light. Close my eyes. Can’t stomach the take off coming soon. \nWhirling. Stand back. Ready for launch. Here comes the wave. Lost. Waves wash and lick the shore. \nDisjointed thoughts flutter like ghosts. The smell of camphor. Metallic. \nLiselol and disinfectant. Clean, germ-free. Sterile. Sterile like they made me. Operation to safeguard society. A cut here. A cut there. And just like that I was neutralized, so I would not pass on my stain, my forbidden illness.\nDifferent. Buddy, you are different. Dad left. My defect was too much for him. Blamed mom. Her fault. Her fault that I am the way I am.\nMusic. Classical. Bach. Beethoven perhaps. A steady buzz above the ringing in my ears. Soothing. That's what Dr. Waldthorp wants. Soothing the savage beast. Savage beast. I am that beast.\nBit the nurse's aide. When she put the medication on my tongue. Screaming in pain. Blood in my mouth. Panic. Disorder. Shot in my ass. Lights were swirling. White coat eased me to the gurney. \n\"It'll be alright, Mr. Albright. It'll be alright.\"\nIt's never alright.\nThis room where they solve for X. Solve for the variable. In the equation with the radical. I am the radical.\nDr. Waldthorp must solve for X.\nThere is a puzzle.\nMy file is thick. \nOn the table over there.\nMy radical file.\nIt says I loved my mother. Hated my father. Tried to kill my baby brother. Accident as most things are. Left to my own devices when mom slipped away. Just for a minute. A break. A break from me.\nJason was in his crib.\n\"What are you doing, Buddy?\"\nA scream. Sirens. Rushing Jason to the emergency room. Sew up the gash. I put it there. Didn't mean to. I was solving for X. Why won't anyone believe me? \n\"Buddy, how are you today?\" \n\"Fine, Dr. Waldthorp.\"\nBut I'm not.\nMom told me lying is a sin.\nSin is bad. I'm bad.\nColors are swirling now. Colors swirl just before I land. Clouds. I see clouds. My body is in my room. But I am floating. Floating free. I like my voyages after the electroshock.\n\"Please buckle your seatbelts. Return all trays...\" \n\"Why, Buddy, why?\"\nI have no answers.\n\"I cannot take this anymore!\"\nThe last words before dad left for good.\nDepression. Clinical depression.\nHandful of Xanax.\nSirens.\nNo, mom, no.\n\"Son, let us get her in the ambulance.\"\nMore colors.\nDistant voices. Disembodied voices. One angelic voice calling my name.\n\"Buddy, are you okay?\" \nI'm fine. Leave me alone. Swirling colors. Is something burning. Smelling smoke. Hand contacts my shoulder. Gentle touch just before landing. My seatbelt is fastened. I'm ready.\nSwirling stops. Nurse Carlin smiles down at me.\nI have landed.\nCold compress on my forehead. Just like every time before. And apple juice. Tastes good. Sipping through A straw. Nurse Carlin holds the cup.\nThey tried saving my mom. Too late. Aunt Velma, her older sister, took Jason. No one took me. But I'll be here for A while. \nHowdy Doody on television. He's funny. I don't laugh. Laughing brings the white coats. And the nurses with medication.\nThey have rules. Some rules are not posted. You have to know them, too.\nYou can't tell the staff that they smell like cigarettes. Or anything else unpleasant.\nRules.\nNo more opening windows and standing on the ledge.\nRule.\nI did not know.\nThe alarm sounded and four white coats grabbed me.\nI wasn't hurting anybody. Not like before.\nIf they left me alone, I would not have had to go to the shock room, again.\nIt was the view. I can see the playground where Mr. Wright takes us for recess. He wears A whistle around his neck. Monkey in the middle. Why am I always the monkey? He just smiles. He blows the whistle when time is up or there is lightning.\nAunt Velma is here.\n\"So, you like to go on the ledge?\" She smells like Kool cigarettes and her voice is raspy when she talks. \"Keep it up kid and you'll end up like Kenny.\"\nKenny was her and mom's brother. His brain was broken. So they took out the broken part. Hemorrhage. He died. He was my age when it happened. Never met him. Mom took me to his grave at the cemetery where she's now buried. She put flowers on his headstone. \nKenny James Brannigan (1945-1958).\nMy brains are not broken. Aunt Velma disagrees. Hope she is wrong. I don't want to be like Kenny.. \nBad thoughts. I have them. More than I should.\nI could take lighter fluid she has in her purse and squirt her when she lights another cigarette.\nI smell something burning.\nBad thoughts.\nBuddy, you got to quit having bad thoughts.\nSitting in group. Seven of us are present from Ward 10. Three are half asleep. Medications. It’s medication time. \nClinician Monroe with bags under his sleepy blue eyes. \nPart of the treatment plan. Rules. Schedules. Compliance. Routine. All enemies of the sick mind. The broken brains. \nWhen you float through time. Cut free from responsibility. Chances are someone will shoot you down. You are the radical. We have been taught that radicals are not allowed. You can’t allow radicals to exist. You have to solve for X. What if there is no solution? What if the guy sitting next to me can’t be fixed? What if I can’t be fixed?\n“Does anyone have something for the group?” He asks.\nI raise my hand. \n“Buddy.” \nElectroshock. \nHe looks at me. Weird expression, “Tell me what happened?” \nFlight. My perspective.\n“I heard you wanted to jump.” He says as if he is the pundit.\nJump?\nFly! I wanted to fly.\n“Gravity will kill you.” He smirks.\n“Only if you allow it.” \n“There is no choice.” He folds his arm across his chest. \nTell me, Chuck, what if I’m right? \nOne of the members wakes up and laughs. \n“Please call me Mr. Monroe, not Chuck.” He shakes his head.\nOnly friends are allowed to call you Chuck, right Chuck? \nTreatment plan. Routine. Medication. Radical. X. Formula. Solution. \nYou never know what someone will perceive looking out the window of this institution.\nStarry Night? Swirling colors? Flowing together into distortion? \nThin is the line between genius and madness I’ve been told. \nWhat is madness? \nWhat is the definition of lunatic? \nIs my picture there next to the dictionary entry? \nThat thick book that sits on your desk, Chuck?\nHave you ever opened that daunting tome? \nOr do you keep it there to impress patients and staff? Backs up your words…your diagnosis…your labeling…so no one will question your authority…your knowledge…your summary judgment…as they do mine? \n“Buddy, Mr. Monroe reported that you…” He puts his finger on the note in my file. “Belligerent and argumentative.” \nGood old Dr. Waldthorp. Always trying to solve for X. He wears that unsolvable expression. I’ve seen him wear it a million times. \nQuestion authority. I am no neophyte. I have been baptized in the waters of wellness. Eaten from the Tree of Good and Evil until the fruit juices flowed down my chin. Do not bedazzle me with therapeutic words that mean absolutely nothing. Contain no value in definition or connotation. I am a resident on the dark side of the moon.\n“Shall we take another trip to the shock room?” He suggests. Cutting through the therapeutic crap, “Or something more permanent perhaps?”\nLobotomy? Frontal cortex? Remove my internal controls so I will no longer be a danger to self and others? \nI stare at the small papers in the carpeting. Someone really needs to vacuum. Books on the shelves are shoved into the open spaces with no regard to any semblance of order. \nChaos. The world rests in utter chaos. \n“What should we do, Buddy?” He rests his chin in his hands. \nYou already know the answer. You have removed my parts of procreation. What’s next? Diagnosed as a threat of rape? If I can’t think, I can’t question authority. I can’t cause a disruption in this sterile environment. Gentle as a lamb.\n“Buddy, be careful.” Gene warns me as we eat lunch in the cafeteria, “They do a shoddy job on the operation like they did Max and you become a vegetable.” \nCarrots or broccoli?\n“Funny guy.” He smiles revealing gaps and missing teeth from the dentist in the infirmary. “I’m just saying on account of what happened to Max.”\nWhen you poke around in someone's skull, bad things will happen. \n“You ain’t kidding.” He laughs as he runs a spoon through his soup. “I know that you will have to stay here until you die.” \nThere are plenty of ghosts who drift through the halls. I know some of them by name.\n“As do I.” He showed me his toothless smile again, adding, “I don’t want to mess anything up. Dr. Waldthorp is making arrangements for my discharge. I’m going to a residential treatment home. It’s a very nice place. They took me there last week.” \nSounds wonderful.\n“I did my time in the Pacific against the Japs.” He stirs his cold coffee, “Got my head scrambled by a shell. Told me it was shell shock. All I know is that I wasn't the same when I come home.” Gene Mullberry was a head case from the war and would wear his tattered marine uniform around the ward. Most left him be. Patients knew he was crazy, yelling, “Banzai!” in the middle of the night.\nHe was harmless for the most part. Just another head case from the war. He was like the rest of the patients on the ward. Even if you do your part, they take the best parts of you when it’s all said and done. \nHuman nature is funny. In an effort to protect the vital parts, we are capable of great things and not so great things. Depends. Depends on the circumstances. Depends on the deep seeded morals we keep close to our heart. \nSome of the patients think they are hearing Jesus mixed in with the voices in their head. \nI ain’t never heard Him. He doesn’t speak to me much. \nBradley wears a cross on his chest. Speaks verses from the Bible he carries around with him. He says Jesus is preparing him for something special. His medications keep him calm. So I’m told. He waves to Gene and Gene waves back. \n“Bradley used to be married.” Gene sips his coffee, “Lost it all. Killed his wife and kids because Jesus told him to do so.” \nI shake my head. This place can be very depressing. \nJanitor Reggie is cleaning some excrement off the tiled walls near the cafeteria entrance. It’s just lunch and already he has cleaned up about a dozen hit zones. \nAt one o’clock we have movie time in the Rec Room. Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin. It’s pretty boring, but mundane and keeps everyone calm and compliant until it’s medication time. \nNurse Carlin is clocking in on her shift at the nurse’s station. \nRoger Rooster begins to crow, flapping his arms around like his name sake. According to the staff, he has an identity displacement. Whatever that is. All I know is he thinks he’s a rooster and so he acts like one. \n“Good afternoon, Buddy.” Nurse Carlin greets me with a smile. \nI nod. \n“Dr. Waldthorp has a new medication he wants you to take.” She looks at my chart. There is a note paper clipped to it.\nI shake my head. \n“He insists, Buddy.” She nods. \nDon’t want to.\n“Have to.” \nI see the pill. It’s one of those sleeping medicines. \n“Here you go.” She puts the pill on the counter. \nIf I refuse…\nIt will be a violation. \nA violation will be put in my chart.\nAfter so many, it will be impossible for me to leave this awful place.\nThis prison. \nWhere I depend on them to provide me with daily subsistence.\nI depend on them for just about everything\nWhen you get right down to it. \nNurse Carlin is just solving for X. Afterall. \nThere will be no radicals on the ward.\nBy order of Dr. Walthrop.\nPeriod. \nThe Goon Patrol will be called.\nWearing white coats.\nAnd brandishing clubs when they come. \nOne will have a fire hose. \nThey don’t mess around\nThat goon squad. \nIt’s all business. \nWith no other option\nI put the large pill under my tongue.\nI’ll spit it out like all the others,\nIn that potted plant next to the water fountain. \nThat plant has absorbed every one of my medications. \n“Hey Buddy.” Dr. Walthrop greets me walking out of the elevator. \nThe elevator patients are not allowed to ride in.\nI have pushed all the buttons sometimes when no one is looking.\nIt’s a game. \nBut Dr. Waldthorp’s sudden appearance \nHas startled me. \nSo much so, I swallow the pill. \nThere will be no spitting this one out into the plants. \nThis time. \nSomeone is playing their transistor radio loud.\nIt’s Elvis singing about his jailhouse blues. \nNext they play a Beatles song.\nI don’t really care for long haired boys from England.\nHell, Elvis is bad enough, \nSinging his Negro-Hillbilly songs\nWhy play those songs?\nSounds like a cat yowling \nColors appear.\nSwirling around.\nNurse Carlin guides me to my room.\nGuides me to my bed. \nDr. Waldthrop looks pleased that I am in my bed.\n“You won’t feel a thing, Buddy.” He assures me, “And when it’s over, you will feel a whole bunch better, I guarantee you.” \nNot sure what he means.\nDeeper I go\nInto the darkness.\nLobotomy\nTaking out the central controls.\nSolving for X.\nSwirling colors fade to black. \nVoices.\nVoices of staff.\nVoices of friends.\nVoices of patients.\nI feel hands on my head.\nSomeone draws something across my forehead. \nDeeper.\nDeeper.\nDeeper still. \nShadows\nI am no longer in this world.\nThere is something burning.\nI smell smoke.\nI hear the electric saw.\nI’ve heard it before.\nDeeper and deeper still. \nJesus is that you?\nWhy are they doing this to me? \nMy sixth grade math teacher, Mr. Davis\nTold me how to solve for X.\nHe was a good teacher, because I never forgot. \nMove the numbers around until you isolate X.\nCombine like terms until X = that unknown number.\nSimple. Easy-peesy. \nThere is nothing magic to it.\nJust simple execution. \nI smell smoke. \nVoices.\nI hear voices.\nI will hide where they can’t see me.\nI was always good at hide ‘n’ seek.\nI will stay quiet so they won’t find me. \nI won’t let them find me.\nInvisible.\nI’ll be invisible. \nYou can’t see 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: Ultimatum\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2958\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "'It must be satisfying.'\n\n\n'Hm?'\n\n\n'Knowing that your work creates... this kind of thing you can see out the window down there. What do you newspapermen call it? ‘Mobilisation,’ isn’t it? Almost like you are building an army. It’s quite effective, you’d agree.'\n\n\n'Quite.'\n\n\n'From your perspective, anyway.'\n\n\n'I don’t quite understand what you’re driving at, mate.'\n\n\n'Well. They can gather and walk and chant and make a mess all they like. It isn’t going to change anything. All it is doing is selling papers.'\n\n\n'But that doesn’t make sense. If this... mess... is all I was after, because I wanted to sell papers, it’s a very easy, cheap shot. It would be far more satisfying to create this kind of reaction out of something very mundane. Like garbage bins. Wouldn’t you agree?'\n\n\n'Satisfying or not, you can’t deny that you have been behind these people, cracking your whip, ever since the jury’s decision was handed down. Haven’t you.'\n\n\n'Ha! Haha! Yes. Hahaha. Yes, absolutely. Ohhh this couch is so comfortable. Anyway, you miss the critical point in this, Bolte. The critical point is that I didn’t even have to do anything. An article here, an editorial there. It’s not exactly what you’d call ‘cracking a whip’. It’s more like breathing gently on the embers that were already there. It grew into a flame, and then into a campfire, and it has become a raging inferno that has captured the attention of people around the world. And in the middle of this fiery apocalypse is you. The very fact that you haven’t understood this mechanism is why your government is on its last legs. You can’t see the Man on the Street, Bolte! You might only be this far away from them, but you are in an ivory tower and you think you know best. It’s all going to backfire on you and you can’t even see it.'\n\n\n'Oh for Christ’s sake Perkin! This is all bullshit: The flowery words of an intellectual wanker having a good old pull in front of a bloody mirror.'\n\n\n'Is that what you’d call more than 100,000 people in protest against this case?'\n\n\n'They wouldn’t do it if the newspapers in this town did their bloody jobs properly!'\n\n\n'Is wanking off in public what you’d call the hundreds of letters we get every day? Is it papers like the Canberra Times speaking out against barbaric practices that, as a society, we are past now? Is it ignoring the very people that elect you into office? Is that wanking, Bolte? For a man who plays the media so well, you seem to have forgotten just how important is our relationship to the vitality of your political party in this state. We have the greatest circulation, the biggest reach. More people take us seriously than those other rubbish papers, which wouldn’t know good journalism if it jumped up and bit them on the arse!'\n\n\n'Get to the point, Perkin. Do you need a light for that smoke?'\n\n\n'Ah, thank you. Look, I came here today because I wanted to offer you a deal, Bolte.'\n\n\n'A deal, you say. What kind of deal?'\n\n\n'If you exercise mercy and let Ronald Ryan live, then the Age will support you throughout this year’s, and all future, elections.'\n\n\n'Hm. I have to think about this. Do you want an answer today, Perkin?'\n\n\n'My word I do. You don’t seriously think I would leave without one?'\n\n\n* * * \n\n\n'You’re a smart man, Perkin. I imagine you have considered every possible outcome of what you just offered.'\n\n\n'I’ve taken a considerable risk, you know, chap. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the right reasons. Look, while you think, ponder this: Your party has had a good run, but it’s failing the very people who need good leadership through the changes going on in the world. You can’t read the people in the street. You don’t know what they’re thinking any more. The voter of 1967 isn’t the voter of 1955. It’s different now, chap! The culture is changing. By hanging Ryan you are just walking into your own noose and you can’t even bloody well see it. Your own bullshit argument about beating up public dissent proves that.'\n\n\n'Are you talking about these time wasters who don’t have jobs and would rather rant and rave in public to get attention? Is that the voter you are talking about here, Perkin? The very fact that they have nothing better to do except feel sorry for themselves and try to get some reflected glory by being out in public with a few signs isn’t an indication that the party is failing. It’s an indication that there is a whole lot of people without meaningful work to do.'\n\n\n'Haha! Did your father say things like that to you? In any case, I extend to you my thanks because you proved your blindness by making a completely ignorant comment. The change isn’t just what you see under your nose. It’s social shift. It’s not just happening in Melbourne; it’s worldwide. If it wasn’t, why would the international papers be watching our little city so damned closely? The change is everywhere. It’s in the support for the Little Desert and the increasing value of our environmental heritage. I would bet my favourite boots that if Australia ends up in Vietnam it will cause an absolute bloody shitfight - much bigger than what’s out there for Ryan. \nYou can’t stand there and tell me that hanging a man for killing a man makes any sense in this day and age, surely!'\n\n\n'Perkin, they are students, mostly. And unionists. Don’t let your own passion distract you from what’s going on here. This kind of student thing is new here but Australia’s still a young country. Student unions have been around since the 1930s; it’s their job to start thinking differently. That’s why they’re studying!'\n\n\n'Are you really such an old man?'\n\n\n'I don’t know what you mean.'\n\n\n'You sound like you have no idea about life as a 20-year-old. I bet you remember it though. Eh? Eh? Ha! Anyway this change can’t be explained away as students finding themselves in a brave new world, Bolte. If that was just the case, nobody else would care. But they do. Everyone is out on the street making this fact known. It’s men and women, students and employees, manufacturers and priests. Mums and kids. It is a snapshot of Victoria’s population, and from that perspective I urge you to consider what you’re doing - or not doing, as the case may be. It’s this population that I have in my palm, Bolte. I have proved, over and over again that a paper like The Age can make meaningful change in society. I can ‘crack the whip’ as you so eloquently put it, and suddenly we have the entire population turning out in support of a petty burglar that none of them actually knows. It isn’t because they don’t think he’s guilty, man, it’s because they don’t think that he deserves to be killed!'\n\n\n'It would take so much more than what I could possibly achieve to change the legislation, Perkin!'\n\n\n'You’re such a politician, Henry. My point is that you are facing an election. The whole world knows that you are the man who will take the credit, or be vilified, for killing this man. That’s what I was trying to say to you earlier. That’s the only thing that the world will remember if you continue on this way. Besides, these death threats you're getting: It makes you just like the folk out there. Just like Ryan. Just like anyone else. Mortal. Kill-able. You'll do whatever you can to protect your life, right?'\n\n'Bahahahahahaha! Aaaahhhhhh hahahahahahaha! Haha! Ha! Oh, I can't breathe, it's too funny! The hypocrisy, Perkin! It’s all a load of bullshit hypocrisy! Ahhh hahaha, give me a moment will you? Ahh, you believe your own tripe. What kind of bullshit idiot protests against the death penalty, while also threatening to kill someone? I’m not in any danger. Nobody is going to kill me. This is all a gigantic pain in the arse that is going to take me away from my job. That’s all it is. It’s going to stop Edith from gardening and volunteering; it’s going to interfere with how we live on the farm; it’s going to stop my daily press conferences. That’s what it’s going to do. Blah blah you’re just like them, Bolte. I know what you mean. I think it’s stupid. If someone is pro-life but is sending death threats to anyone then that person clearly doesn’t know what they stand for. They are in a moment of hatred or intense dislike. They are so goddamned reactive that they would commit the very crime they are protesting against. Your winds of change, Perkin, are nothing but people caught up in a whirlwind that’s taken over the city, and this is the kind of ridiculous thing that comes out of it. These little slugs prove to me that we need tough sentencing for people found guilty of felonies like Ronald Ryan. If we made a mockery, they would think twice about threatening to kill someone else just because something isn’t going their way. They make a blasted mockery of what is a serious case. Come to that, So does all of your blasted, bleeding heart journalism.'\n\n\n* * * \n\n\n'Come here. Look out this window. Tell me what you see.'\n\n\n'Eh? I see some beautiful gardens and a lovely city.'\n\n\n'Right. Who is responsible for it?'\n\n\n'I’m not sure what you mean, Bolte.'\n\n\n'When it comes down to it, who of all people in this state is responsible for it? That's right - I am! All of it, I am responsible for at some point. All of it. The gardens, the roads, education, the jobs. Like a mini Prime Minister. Like every other mini Prime Minister in this country. Yes? Do you agree?'\n\n\n'I guess so.'\n\n\n'Then look at me when I am speaking! I’m going to tell you something about your offer. You told me that if I exercise mercy and let Ronald Ryan live, that your paper will support me and my government into the future. Correct?'\n\n\n'Oof, chap, you didn't have to turn me! Yes, that’s correct.'\n\n\n'In doing so, you are arguing that you have the ability to change the hearts and minds of the people, to turn them to your will no matter what. Correct?'\n\n\n'Er. I guess so? Gosh. Yes.'\n\n\n'Ok. Then this changes the question.'\n\n\n'I don’t follow.'\n\n\n'The question, Perkin! The question is not Do I, or do I not, allow Ronald Ryan to live. The question is, do you run the state, or does the government run the state?'\n\n\n'Heh heh. Uhh - '\n\n\n'Your arguments, man are trivial. You’ve come in here today to argue the flimsy argument that I’m out of touch with idiots who will pick up whatever is in the press. They were terrified when Ryan was out on the run. That was mere weeks ago. They want Ryan to live, that’s today. What will they want tomorrow? Notoriety because their photographs were in the paper while they were marching for a criminal they don’t even know? You say it’s an election issue; I say that in three months’ time, nobody will give a flying fuck about this when they’re wondering who’s going to keep their jobs steady - me or the other bloke. They’re not going to shift their votes because someone was hanged; they’re going to shift their votes because their kids can’t get an education. And you say that the Liberal Party is failing, when we are the most dynamic, forward-thinking party this state has ever seen - and that will be proved by the leaders who come up after me. In short, Perkin, you just want your way. You want to be able to stand on a pedestal at the top of your career and say, I am the man who allowed a man to live. And you have the balls to come in here with an ego the size of Jupiter and suggest that you’d be doing me a favour! What you’re doing, Perkin, is sowing the seeds of corruption. Those poor bastards out there trust that everything you write is the gospel bloody truth, and yet here you are offering to cut a deal just so you can tell the story that suits you. Well I won’t have it! I’m not the corruptible type like you newspaper fellows. I uphold the rule of the law, because that is my job. Laws are in place for good bloody reason, and if we make up the rules as we go, we may as well not have any bloody rules. Which means: You can shove your deal up your egotistical arsehole!'\n\n\n* * * \n\n\n'In all of this there is one thing that you haven’t seen, Perkin.'\n\n\n'Sigh - Oh yes? What’s that then, chap?'\n\n\n'You and I aren’t so different.'\n\n\n'Hahaha! Oh, come now. Don't be ridiculous.'\n\n\n'You have forgotten, sir, that Ronald Ryan is scheduled to hang tomorrow morning.'\n\n\n'No, I hadn’t forgotten.'\n\n\n'Well, then. Maybe you misunderstand. There’s nothing that you or I can do right now.'\n\n\n'Of course there is! Don’t be absurd!'\n\n\n'No, Perkin, there isn’t. Let go of your bully-boy journalist bullshit a moment will you? Try and see this clearly. You are the man who has changed journalism - and The Age - forever. You tell incredible stories, you make people care about bullshit things like dogs getting heart transplants. You are a prodigy of the Australian media, there’s no denying. In the role that you have created for yourself, you absolutely must make me a deal - and/or write about ‘oh the humanity‘ of the hanging. That's the role that you've established for yourself. And I am the man that people know will uphold the law no matter what. That’s the role that I have. That’s the image that the public has. And them? Those time-wasters out there? They understand us like a devil and an angel. But the truth is that you and I are the same man. Nobody knows why you’re here. You’re at the top of your chain. I’m at the top of mine. We have some public personas that we have created. If I wanted to change my role in this, then I have much more at stake than my pride, Perkin. It’s the position in the Party as a floppy leader without a spine; it’s a husband without a moral; it’s a Premier who thinks the law is his plaything...'\n\n\n'Bolte, philosophy doesn’t suit you. Oh look, your cigar ash -'\n\n\n'The point is, my good man, that no matter what we agree today, nothing can possibly change. Even if we both agree that killing a man is abhorrent - which we do. Even if we both agree that it’s ridiculous to kill a man for killing a man - which we do. Even if we agree that Ronald Ryan’s case has some misgivings that are unfortunate for absolutely everybody concerned - which we do - it does not change what I have to do and it does not change what you have to do. And that means that you are going to walk out of that door today without a deal, and Ronald Ryan is still going to hang at 8 am tomorrow. I’ve been in this role for a long time, Perkin. I know what works. I know what are my strengths and weaknesses. I know that there is one young chap coming up behind me who will be a better leader of the Party than me, and in not very long. But he’s not ready yet. People trust me to do the right thing, Perkin. I can’t shift that even if I wanted to. And I will not call my own integrity into question by making a change just because a sharp chap like you makes a nice argument that I ought to, not even when a man’s life is on the line. The truth is neither of us have any control over the matter. The judicial process gave us an outcome, one without any leeway. All the appeals fell flat, so the law says that Ryan will hang. The poor bastard would’ve been better off being called insane like that Tait prick. But probably he has integrity, too. Even looking at his behaviours during the case you can see that, Perkin!'\n\n\n'Ah, can't deny that. It’s true. He tried to save a complete dickhead because he couldn’t stand to see him beaten.'\n\n\n'My point exactly. He’s not going to stand in a court and plead insanity when he’s not. They’d take his family away, and then he would be better off dead anyway. He’s a boomerang, the only place he ever runs off to is his family.'\n\n\n'For all that, Bolte, we’re not the same. You can still exercise mercy.'\n\n\n'Oh I could exercise mercy, can I? Or I could trust the system that you and I both live in, and support it the way it is. Are you going to introduce a bill to have hanging abolished?'\n\n\n'Er - '\n\n\n'I didn’t think so! If I did, would it change tomorrow’s outcome?'\n\n\n'No.'\n\n\n'No. Of course it wouldn’t. You don’t have control over this. I don’t have control over this. It is what it is. And even if it wasn’t, giving a newspaper the power to say what goes on in society is the fastest road to social hell that either of us would 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: 'A journey to cherish'\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1819\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Growing up in a middle class family my life was full of ups and downs, but more ups than downs. Though we were financially comfortable anything else apart from basic requirements was considered as luxury.\n\n\nI remember except for people living on streets ,all the people I knew were middle class people. Maybe those days people were not so class conscious as they are today. All were very friendly and supportive of each other.\nFortunate to to be educated in a Convent school thanks to my maternal grandmother an intrepid ,visionary lady who was far ahead of her times.\n\nLife in a Convent school was akin to a jail to me. The nuns behaved like jailers and the teachers like wardens..who never thought once before using the rod or hurling a duster at a student, punishments like standing on the bench, kneeling on the floor, writing 100 times in the diary \"I will not trouble my teacher\" etc were 'daily affairs ,\"and dare any parent came and 'questioned the teacher or complained against them on the contrary the parents would reprimand us stating that because we were at fault the teacher had to take such action\n\nThe memory of a teacher flinging a duster at a girl, and the girl bleeding profusely from the head is still vivid in my mind .The parent when informed came quickly and took the child away, and even apologised to the teacher for her child's behaviour.If a similar incident took place now, the teacher would have definitely been behind bars.\n\nWe had a school dairy for daily lesson and timetable , which also had one page for 'teacher's remarks ' where the teachers entered any remarks regarding homework conduct etc .If we got any remark we had to get it signed by our parents or face further punishments .\n\nMost of the parents never signed those remarks saying that \"you have committed a mistake,you deserved to be punished\"\nThe following day half of the students would be outside the class for not getting the remarks signed. As the academic year came to an end many of us would have to buy an extra calendar just for' teachers remarks '.\n\nMy parents never indulged us and everything was rationed. I remember my pencil box had only 2 pencils ,an eraser and a sharpener which we were warned not to use aimlessly. Our rough book was made by binding the unused pages of our old notebooks. We had one pair of uniform shoes and socks each which we had to manage till the end of the year unless a mishap occurs and sometimes carried forward too.\n\nCakes' and chocolates' were reserved only for birthdays .Eating from road side stall was' blasphemous' and we never even dreamt to break those rules. New clothes would be purchased for festivals and birthdays and not according to our whims and fancies .\n\nThe distance from my school and home was 4Km which was covered by bus, the fare to and fro was 10 paise. ( an amount many may not even be aware of as coins of that denominator are not available now). Always an extra 10 paise coin was kept in the pencil box in case the bus fare is lost and strict warnings were given to us not to use that money for anything else. I remember guarding that spare 10 paise coin more than my life.. always fearing how would I get home if I misplaced my bus fare.?\n\nOur outing consisted of either to a relative's house, or parks or an occasional movie always accompanied by my parents. Once in a blue moon, we would go to a restaurant for snacks or dinner and that would be like a small celebration. '\n\nDinner time would be a' family affair' where we all sat on the floor to eat dinner, in a circle, it was like a round table conference only the table was missing here. My father would ask us about our school and studies and general topics, whether we were hungry or no we had to sit down for dinner and take part in the conversation.\n\nGoing on annual vacations were mandatory and I still have memories of those wonderful years where we visited some amazing places.\n\nThere were no malls or fancy stores around, most of the shopping would be down from local Stores which would be a grocery cum stationery all rolled into one. There was a 'Bata ' store from where all are our shoes were purchased and a sprinkling of garments stores for clothes. Ready-made clothes were unheard of and clothes would always be 'stitched'.All the tailors were in big demand and did good business those days, sadly the situation is just the opposite now.\n\nAfter 10 pm the lights would be switched off and we would be on our beds ready to retire for the day as there was no television mobile phones or internet we would be off to sleep in no time, so that we wake up early with a refreshed mind to face the challenges of a new day.\n\nI grew up without WhatsApp, Facebook, Google, Snapchat etc. I don't think that has made me less smart or unsocial. I have learnt to value things, time and people and I am as balanced and confident as the current generation, ready to take on the world.\n\n'Life was not perfect but I wouldn't have it any other way'\n\n\n\nGrowing up in a middle class family my life was full of ups and downs, but more ups than downs. Though we were financially comfortable anything else apart from basic requirements was considered as luxury .\n\n\nI remember except for people living on streets ,all the people I knew were middle class people .Maybe those days people were not so class conscious as they are today. All were very friendly and supportive of each other.\nFortunate to to be educated in a Convent school thanks to my maternal grandmother an intrepid ,visionary lady who was far ahead of her times.\n\nLife in a Convent school was akin to a jail to me. The nuns behaved like jailers and the teachers like wardens..who never thought once before using the rod or hurling a duster at a student, punishments like standing on the bench, kneeling on the floor, writing 100 times in the diary \"I will not trouble my teacher\" etc were 'daily affairs ,\"and dare any parent came and 'questioned the teacher or complained against them on the contrary the parents would reprimand us stating that because we were at fault the teacher had to take such action\n\nThe memory of a teacher flinging a duster at a girl and the girl bleeding profusely from the head is still vivid in my mind .The parent when informed came quickly and took the child away, and even apologised to the teacher for her child's behaviour.If a similar incident took place now the teacher would have been definitely behind bars.\n\nWe had a school dairy for daily lessons and timetables, which also had one page for 'teacher's remarks ' where the teachers entered any remarks regarding homework, conduct etc. If we got any remark we had to get it signed by our parents or face further punishments.\n\nMost of the parents never signed those remarks saying that \"you have committed a mistake, you deserved to be punished.\"\nThe following day half of the students would be outside the class for not getting the remarks signed. As the academic year came to an end many of us would have to buy an extra calendar just for' teachers remarks '.\n\nMy parents never indulged us and everything was rationed. I remember my pencil box had only 2 pencils, an eraser and a sharpener which we were warned not to use aimlessly. Our rough book was made by binding the unused pages of our old notebooks. We had one pair of uniform shoes and socks each which we had to manage till the end of the year unless a mishap occurs and sometimes carried forward too.\n\nCakes' and chocolates' were reserved only for birthdays. Eating from roadside stalls was' blasphemous' and we never even dreamt to break those rules. New clothes would be purchased for festivals and birthdays and not according to our whims and fancies.\n\nThe distance from my school and home were 4Km which was covered by a bus, the fare to and fro was 10 paise. ( an amount many may not even be aware of, as coins of that denominator are not available now). Always an extra 10 paise coin was kept in the pencil box in case the bus fare is lost and strict warnings were given to us not to use that money for anything else. I remember guarding that spare 10 paise coin more than my life.. always fearing how would I get home if I misplaced my bus fare.?\n\nOur outing consisted of either to a relative's house or parks or an occasional movie always accompanied by my parents. Once in a blue moon, we would go to a restaurant for snacks or dinner and that would be like a small celebration. '\n\nDinner time would be a' family affair' where we all sat on the floor to eat dinner, in a circle, it was like a round table conference only the table was missing here. My father would ask us about our school and studies and general topics, whether we were hungry or no we had to sit down for dinner and take part in the conversation.\n\nGoing on annual vacations were mandatory and I still have memories of those wonderful years where we visited some amazing places.\n\nThere were no malls or fancy stores around most of the shopping would be down from local Stores which would be a grocery cum stationery all rolled into one. There was a 'Bata ' store from where all are our shoes were purchased, and a sprinkling of garments stores for clothes. Ready-made clothes were unheard of, and clothes would always be 'stitched'.All the tailors were in big demand and did good business those days, sadly the situation is just the opposite now.\n\nAfter 10 pm the lights would be switched off and we would be on our beds ready to retire for the day as there was no television mobile phones or internet we would be off to sleep in no time, o that we wake up early with a refreshed mind to face the challenges of a new day.\n\nI grew up without WhatsApp, Facebook, Google, Snapchat etc. I don't think that has made me less smart or unsocial. I have learnt to value things, time and people and I am as balanced and confident as the current generation, ready to take on the world.\n\n'Life was not perfect but I wouldn't have it any other way'" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Four Worlds\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1339\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Who’s next?”\n\n\n\n“Me, sir.”\n\n\n\n“Good. You have all the forms?”\n\n\n\n“Yes. All complete.”\n\n\n\n“Okay. Let me see… Right, so it is not a machine or…?”\n\n\n\n“No, no. Just some written work to protect.”\n\n\n\n“Okay, I see. May I ask about the application of your work?”\n\n\n\n“I am not sure I understand.”\n\n\n\n“I mean, how would the layman use the ideas in your papers?”\n\n\n\n“This is for science…”\n\n\n\n“I see. To benefit mankind.”\n\n\n\n“I think that may be too much to say at the moment.”\n\n\n\n“But it is for science?”\n\n\n\n“Yes. My own theory.”\n\n\n\n“A theory?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, for now, it is my own idea. But if my ideas are correct, it may change the way we look at the world.”\n\n\n\n“Interesting… Could you explain yourself a little more?”\n\n\n\n“Imagine yourself travelling on a beam of light…”\n\n\n\n“Travelling…on light.”\n\n\n\n“A beam, yes. Now, if you are travelling on such a beam, what would you see?”\n\n\n\n“Just light?”\n\n\n\n“Ah, but nothing can travel faster than the speed of light.”\n\n\n\n“You know the speed of light?”\n\n\n\n“Scientists have discovered that the exact speed is…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, I see, I see. Interesting. So, the beam of light…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, now, what would you see?”\n\n\n\n“I…cannot even imagine.”\n\n\n\n“My work tries to explain how light behaves in relation to speed, time and observation.”\n\n\n\n“The relationship of light to all those things…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, that’s it.”\n\n\n\n“Do they relate?”\n\n\n\n“If there is light, there has to be time for it to travel and…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, yes. I think I see. A very complicated idea, but I can understand you somewhat. So, light and time…”\n\n\n\n“And also energy.”\n\n\n\n“Energy?”\n\n\n\n“The speed of light can tell us about energy.”\n\n\n\n“Another relationship?”\n\n\n\n“Yes. Energy comes from the speed of light multiplied by mass…”\n\n\n\n“I see. Interesting… Well, we will process your work and wish you the best with it.”\n\n\n\n“Thank you. I expect there will be some comment on this one day.”\n\n\n\n“Well, I think you know your work. It should be saved and perhaps used. By the way, don’t you already work here?”\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n“Mom?”\n\n\n\n“Yes?”\n\n\n\n“Why was that man outside?”\n\n\n\n“What man?”\n\n\n\n“You know, that man who was outside and he had his hat out like this and kept shaking it.”\n\n\n\n“Oh… that man. That man was homeless.”\n\n\n\n“Oh, he has no place for him?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, that’s right.”\n\n\n\n“So…he can’t go anywhere?”\n\n\n\n“That’s right.”\n\n\n\n“Ah…but, mom, why?\n\n\n\n“Well, some people don’t always have the money for a nice place.”\n\n\n\n“But, he had some money.”\n\n\n\n“In his hat, yes. But not enough for his own place, right?”\n\n\n\n“I guess not.”\n\n\n\n“Okay.”\n\n\n\n“But, he must have friends, like I do?”\n\n\n\n“Some have friends…but he was alone, remember?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, he was just there. No one else.”\n\n\n\n“Well, there may be some other people with him. There were other people there who were homeless.”\n\n\n\n“There were?”\n\n\n\n“Yeah… I saw some on the other side of the street.”\n\n\n\n“I didn’t see them.”\n\n\n\n“Yes. A woman had a plastic thing for change she was shaking and she kept pointing at it.”\n\n\n\n“Another person.”\n\n\n\n“Yup. There were two of them.”\n\n\n\n“They wanted it for food?”\n\n\n\n“Maybe, but I smelled him. It was like alcohol.”\n\n\n\n“So she wanted money like him, too.”\n\n\n\n“Yes. Now, where’s my purse?”\n\n\n\n“You put it in the car.”\n\n\n\n“And I took it out.”\n\n\n\n“No, remember? You said I should get the groceries out and opened the back for me.”\n\n\n\n“Oh, damn. That’s right. I’ll just get it.”\n\n\n\n“Yeah, but…”\n\n\n\n“But…?”\n\n\n\n“They were there before, right?”\n\n\n\n“I think so. I saw him before.”\n\n\n\n“Maybe they’re friends.”\n\n\n\n“Yes…now, let me get to the car.”\n\n\n\n“Okay, yeah…”\n\n\n\n“You sure it’s in there?”\n\n\n\n“I saw you put it on the other seat.”\n\n\n\n“Right.”\n\n\n\n“And you didn’t give them any.”\n\n\n\n“Money?”\n\n\n\n“Yes. None.”\n\n\n\n“Well, what would they do with it?”\n\n\n\n“I dunno. Food?”\n\n\n\n“Well, they smelled.”\n\n\n\n“He smelled.”\n\n\n\n“Yes. And I couldn’t cross the street then.”\n\n\n\n“Why, mom?”\n\n\n\n“Because we had to go.”\n\n\n\n“Yeah…”\n\n\n\n“And that money wouldn’t really help. I saw them before.”\n\n\n\n“Him, you said.”\n\n\n\n“Yes, him…I have to get the purse.”\n\n\n\n“It’s in the car.”\n\n\n\n“I know. Thanks.”\n\n\n\n“Thanks, mom.”\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n“Do you still love me?”\n\n\n\n“Oh, do you have to ask?”\n\n\n\n“Please…”\n\n\n\n“Well, no more than I have to.”\n\n\n\n“What?”\n\n\n\n“Well, you see, this marriage has gone on for a long time, right?”\n\n\n\n“And, what?”\n\n\n\n“And, well, it is now something much more comfortable than just love and romance.”\n\n\n\n“Comfortable?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, like an old blanket, you see.”\n\n\n\n“So, you don’t love me?”\n\n\n\n“No more than…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, yes, yes… I heard.”\n\n\n\n“Good.”\n\n\n\n“And there is no one else?”\n\n\n\n“No one else what?”\n\n\n\n“No one else that you are interested in?”\n\n\n\n“Dear… As I just explained, this is what is now comfortable for me.”\n\n\n\n“But why is it…?”\n\n\n\n“And why would I make myself uncomfortable?”\n\n\n\n“A new blanket, yes?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, I don’t want that. Oh, dear. The time.”\n\n\n\n“And I am the one who you think you will come back to if you decide to get uncomfortable?”\n\n\n\n“Too late for a stop… What are you talking about?”\n\n\n\n“If you did cheat, you would still be back here…?”\n\n\n\n“Did I not say that there is nothing going on?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, you did.”\n\n\n\n“And that this is what I want?”\n\n\n\n“Comfortable…”\n\n\n\n“Very silly… Oh, and I better get going with things…”\n\n\n\n“Another late night?”\n\n\n\n“Another office night. You know that.”\n\n\n\n“Of course. Just the cliché of it that bothers me.”\n\n\n\n“What cliché is that?”\n\n\n\n“Oh, the one about the office and the husband working late when he actually has someone else on the side.”\n\n\n\n“Ah… That I did not think about.”\n\n\n\n“So, back later than usual.”\n\n\n\n“Perhaps… Call me on my cell to check on me.”\n\n\n\n“Oh, I will. So much that we should still be talking about.”\n\n\n\n“Ah… Another cliché.”\n\n\n\n“And take care.”\n\n\n\n“Always do. Will you?”\n\n\n\n“What else can I do?”\n\n\n\n“I will be back soon.”\n\n\n\n“You have to be now.”\n\n\n\n“Dear…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, yes, I know… So much on my mind tonight.”\n\n\n\n“A difficult thing that you are making harder…”\n\n\n\n“Okay, go.”\n\n\n\n“I shall. In two hours.”\n\n\n\n“Or more.”\n\n\n\n“Good night.”\n\n\n\n“Good...to you, too.”\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n**\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”\n\n\n\n“Oh, dear…”\n\n\n\n“ Well, you are the infamous doctor, right?”\n\n\n\n“Look, old chap… Can't we just keep quiet about this?”\n\n\n\n“Keep quiet?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, please. I just feel silly about all this and want to keep my name out of the papers.”\n\n\n\n“But, Dr. Livingstone, you are in all the newspapers. Everyone talks about you.”\n\n\n\n“Really? Good Lord…”\n\n\n\n“ Of course. Why do you think I’m here? Every reader who cares to follow your story wants to know about your predicament, your whereabouts?”\n\n\n\n“Ah, that would include people who know me, I suspect?”\n\n\n\n“Well, yes. If those people can read, hear and understand the stories.”\n\n\n\n“A pity, then.”\n\n\n\n“But, how could that be so?”\n\n\n\n“Well, the situation I am in at the moment makes it rather awkward for me to have this kind of attention.”\n\n\n\n“Well, you don’t have to leave, you know. As long as we know where you are…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, yes, I understand. But you traveled all this way for a reason. You must have done so for more than just a brief ‘Hello’.”\n\n\n\n“Ah, yes. May I be honest? The newspapers have offered significant rewards for your discovery. I was simply the first to obtain such contact with you…”\n\n\n\n“Yes, the first… Well, I should introduce you the tribesmen…”\n\n\n\n“Right. Let’s do that. This is Lake Tanganyika, is it not?”\n\n\n\n“ Yes, the Nile does not run from here, though. Ah, they are ready. Would you like to meet them now?”\n\n\n\n“Oh, of course. Let me just make some notes…”\n\n\n\n“In just one moment. You should really see this ceremony. You will be treated with special accommodations.”\n\n\n\n“Interesting. This will interest readers… Oh, is that a pith helmet?”\n\n\n\n“Yes, we have quite a collection now. Let’s see the ceremony.”\n\n\n\n“An awful lot of them. Where are the owners?”\n\n\n\n“I see that the fire’s ready.”\n\n\n\n“A lot of them unattended to... Dr Livingstone?”\n\n\n\n“You will really enjoy this.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Look Up\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1223\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a mysterious figure in one’s neighborhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Yuki came around a bend and descended the steps.\nA gust of the evening wind blew over her— the summer tepid, here still, the season only reaching its peak.\nThe fireworks festival is coming; maybe that’s its peak.\nArriving at the thought, she shook it away as she reached the final step, readying herself: there he was, waiting.\n“Ah,” she halted in her steps, not knowing what to say; she simply stood there.\nThe sun was setting…\nJust then, he turned around, seeming to notice her.\n“Why’d you call me?”\nTheir eyes met, and a breeze played at her hair: her heart skipped a beat.\nWarm…\n“Oh,” he spoke, at last. “You’re here.”\nThe tips of his hair seemed to glint in the sunset, glowing a warm orange, gold.\nShe could see it in his eyes— that gentle look; careful, comforting.\nShe came closer and stood beside him— beyond their spot, they could see the whole town from here.\nIn this moment, everything seemed magical.\nIn this moment between night and day, as the sun starts to set, giving way to the coming of night, everything seemed glow under some magic, some spell— and it mesmerized her, binding her.\nIt pulled her in every time…\nWatching the houses and the buildings in town, the streetlamps and the cars along the road, as each of them light up, one after another— it was beautiful.\nShe remembered the first time Kakeru brought her here that night, where they met coincidentally on her way back from work.\nShe was tired then, both physically and mentally, from both actually working and thinking a lot all the while; the only thing in her head at that moment was to get back home and hide away in her room, but of course the thought of having to do breakfast and her homework came up as well.\nAnd it was at that point in her thoughts that Kakeru greeted her, snapping her out of her thoughts as he simply stood there by the streetlight, smiling; waving at her before slowing walking up to her and asking, ever so casually,\n“Just finished work?”\nThen he brought her here.\nAnd it was then that she realized that, even in this little town, she wasn’t alone.\nIt may seem obvious— in fact, it really is— but in the clutter of daily life, she couldn’t help but feel like she were alone even in such a large crowd. Even if she were talking to someone like Kakeru, the world around them would simply seem empty, as if they were all alone, lost, in the middle of nowhere.\nDetached.\nBut, looking out, from this place, this little resting spot looking over everything, the whole town…\nShe saw it; she saw it all.\nIn this place, distanced from the noise of everyday life, from the world she lived in, from everyone— in this silence, she found the world.\nConnection.\nIt was Kakeru’s favorite spot in the whole of town. He said so when he first brought her here.\nEvery time he went out at night or in the evening when the sun’s about the set, to buy something, some groceries maybe, he would come here and stay.\nWaiting, standing here, watching the world turn, like an observer, ever empathetic…\nEventually, it became her favorite spot too.\n“Sorry for calling you,” he finally said, snapping her from her thoughts, “so suddenly.”\n“No, it’s fine!” Yuki said, quick. “But, why did you call me?”\nHe turned to her, his eyes gentle, then turned away, looking off, distant.\nJust then, he turned his gaze up to the sky above, at the gentle blanket black that deepened every slight, like colors or paints…\nThe stars peeking out, twinkling softly, discreetly, fading in and dotting the twilit sky…\n“Do you ever feel like our fate is tied to the stars?”\n“Eh,” she looked at him, his eyes were off in the stars, “what do you mean?”\n“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”\nA beat; she felt the breeze brush her cheek.\n“Why are you thinking about this stuff?”\nA second, a sigh.\n“I can’t help but wonder,” he shook his head, only slightly.\nShe stood there, not moving, the wind blowing at her and playing with her hair; she was thinking, at the same time trying to read the air, to feel something, trying to understand.\nWhat did he mean?\n“Really,” he started again, “my dad died.”\n“Eh!? Really??”\n“No, I’m joking.”\n“Mm!”\nShe hit him, he laughed.\n“Sorry! Sorry! Hah!”\nHer lip was pursed, tight.\nSo unnecessary.\nKakeru brushed his hair, stroking his bangs to the side, fighting the wind a bit, smirking,\n“Still, I can’t help but wondering,” he went, “like, if he did go, if he did die. I wonder what it is, and I wonder how I’ll go; how I’ll go on, I mean.”\nShe didn’t say a word. She just waited for him to continue.\nHe noticed and went on, saying,\n“I wonder how my life would go on afterwards, how my world would change, how everything would. And I can’t help but wonder what determines that, what it is…”\n“Like, if the fault is in our stars?”\nHe looked up, “I don’t know.”\nHe said it so casually…\nJust then…\n“Hey, you’re looking down again.”\n“Eh?”\nShe was.\nBrushing her hair aside, she grasped for words in her mind but everything slipped away.\nRight then, someone touched her chin, raising her gaze.\nIt was Kakeru.\n“Look up,” he said, a twilit smile on his lips. “Look up.”\nShe felt her cheeks warm…\nShe hit his hand aside, trying not to let him see her face as she turned away,\n“Don’t touch me.”\n“Sorry,” he replied; not sorry.\n“Idiot.”\n“Hah.”\nThe both of them turned forward and watched as the sun disappeared behind the hills, his warm orange coloring the edges of the sky, painting the hills and the clouds.\n“Anyway, you going?”\n“Eh? Where?”\n“The fireworks,” he said, a sparkle in his eye.\n“I don’t know, why you asking me?”\n“I don’t know, maybe because you turned down poor Nobunaga.”\n“Oh, don’t remind me!”\n“He was so bummed out!”\n“Eh!? Really?”\n“He wouldn’t talk to us the whole day!”\n“Haha!!”\n“And we were just teasing him the whole time— it was amazing! Hahaha!!”\n“So mean! Haha!!”\nBefore they know it, it had turned dark and the clock had ticked to seven.\n“Hah,” he checked his phone. “Well, anyway, I guess we better get going.”\nShe looked around.\n“Yeah. Guess so.”\n“Haa,” sighing, he turned away from the rails, “I should get home, my brother will be visiting for a bit, my dad has probably gone out to fetch him.”\n“Oh, really? How long is he staying?”\n“A day or two. He would have to return to college soon.”\n“I see. See you, then.”\n“Yeah. What’s your mom cooking?”\n“Curry, I think.”\n“Cool. See you.”\n“Yeah…”\nWith that, he went off, walking back up the road home. She should be going, and yet she stood there, watching him go, wondering why he called her here in the first place.\nDid he just want to hang out?\nBut eventually, she headed home too, walking out of the light, taking only a single glance at the town below before walking away, returning to her daily life, again." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Great Bra Incident of 1988\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1429\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Great Bra Incident of 1988\n\nMy face still flushes with heat, and bubbles of \"not good enough\" pop in my belly when I think back to the time my eagerness to grow up was so much larger than my boobs. In 1988, bullies came at you head-on rather than hiding behind a computer screen. I'm sure other incidents molded me into a teen. Still, after the Great Bra Incident, I was always careful to never be the \"first\" to do something. The only laughter I encouraged happened when I set the rules and made fun of myself. That was easier than letting others beat me to it.\n\nI was around 12 when I decided that I was a woman, and, as such woman, it was high time I wear a brassiere. My best friend, Nora, despite being two years younger than me, was a C cup when her mom made her wear one. Nora insisted she hated wearing a bra, yet she always bragged about how much attention the boys gave her. \n\nI, on the other hand, never got attention from the boys or anybody for that matter. I was a mousy little bookworm with oversized navy blue glasses and metal braces that obviously weren't working. At least not to the boy who nicknamed me \"squirrel.\" \n\nNora and I came up with the great idea that I wear a training bra she'd outgrown. That morning I layered at least 3 tank tops over the bra before putting on a baggy pink t-shirt. I was a woman, but I didn't need to flaunt it. I walked a little taller that morning as I went out to catch the school bus. I looked around at the kids on the bus and gave my best womanly smile. A small boy who looked around eight popped his head over the back of the seat. \n\n\"Why are you smiling so weeeiirrdd?\" \n\nHe sat back down quickly as the bus driver barked out a command for him to turn around and sit. My confidence started to wane as I gave myself an inner pep talk. It was too late though, as I was beginning to spiral into a bad case of the what-ifs. What if someone notices? What if someone laughs at me? \n\nI braced myself as I walked into school. I considered leaving my jacket on, but I figured that would attract more unwanted attention. I was the kid who preferred not to be noticed, and as I went to my classroom, I realized that no one noticed. I breathed a sigh of relief, and my confidence swelled up again. I wondered if that was how the cool kids felt all the time. Rather than going straight to my desk and opening a book as I usually did, I visited with my classmates. I didn't tell anyone about my secret over-the shoulder-boulder(pebble?)-holder. I was on cloud nine. Was this why it was so easy for outgoing Nora?\n\nDuring a class bathroom break, I stood in line, waiting my turn, when I felt a finger slide roughly down my back, snapping the back strap of my dumplin'-holder. My stomach dropped to the ground. I froze, afraid to turn around when I heard it. I'd recognize that sound anywhere: mean girl giggles. I turned slowly to see my assailant, popular Tawny Brown, smirking at me as her adoring friends surrounded her. Did you ever notice how mean girls travel in high-pitched, giggling packs of hyenas?\n\n\"Oh my gosh,\" Tawny said, looking me up and down. \"Like you need a bra. Don't you know you need boobs for a bra?\" She flipped her long blond hair back, and her friends (hyenas) seemed to take her hair flip as the cue to laugh even harder. \n\nMy shoulders hunched forward as I crossed my arms to hide the area everyone was currently staring at. I looked down at the ground, frantically searching my frozen brain for some witty response. Unfortunately, the heat I felt on my face meant it was tomato red, and I wasn't likely to escape her torment.\n\n\"I…it's not….\" My tongue swelled and my mouth was dry as a desert. I looked up at her and then at the boys and girls staring and laughing at me. Even those not belonging to Tawny's pack whispered and pointed, glad it was me and not them caught in Tawny's booby trap. \n\n\"What? It's not what? Spit it out, or should I say tit it out?\" she asked as the laughter erupted again. \n\nI focused my gaze back on the floor, silently begging the tile to swallow me up and drag me to hell. Hell could not be worse than this. \n\n\"Ok, students, back to class. Break is over,\" said our teacher. She looked around at the laughing students. \"Did I miss a funny joke? Anyone care to fill me in? Tawny? What's so funny?\"\n\nThe laughing died down to snorts and snickers. \n\n\"No, Mrs. Roberts. We were just goofin'. Right, Jessica?\" said Tawny, elbowing the girl next to her. \n\n“Ummm…yea, like, we were just kidding around, Mrs. Roberts. Tawny is so funny,” said Jessica.\n\n\"Is that so? Mallory, do you agree? Is everything alright?\" I wasn't sure why Mrs. Roberts directed her attention at me. I bet she noticed I was the only kid not laughing.\n\n\"No, Mrs. Roberts. I mean…yes…I mean…everything is fine,\" I mumbled. I glanced up at her and attempted a smile. If I told our teacher, it would only mean more punishment from Tawny later. Everybody knew that. \n\nMrs. Roberts bent forward as she tried to catch my eye as if she wanted me to say more. I resumed looking for the portal to hell on the floor. \n\n\"Ok, then,\" she said slowly, looking around as if to give another student the chance to speak up. No one did. \"Line up, then. I hope everyone is ready for the vocabulary test!\"\n\nMost of the students grumbled about the test coming up. For a short moment, I let myself believe they'd already forgotten about me until Tawny bumped against me, scratched her nail down my back again as she stage whispered, \"Itty bitty titties thinks she needs a bra.\" \n\nI hung back to hide at the back of the line. One girl walked past me and squeezed my shoulder. I looked up at her but quickly focused on the floor again. The pity in her face made the tears that I successfully kept at bay threaten to spill over. Tawny would not see me cry. I forced a smile on my face and tried to think of anything else. \n\nI survived the day by doing what still, to this day, I am a pro at: hiding. I hid in the bathroom on our breaks. I hid in a book in the library at lunch. At the end of the day, I welcomed the smell of old puke and vinyl seats of the school bus, relieved that no one from my class was on my bus. \n\nMy dog, Weasel, waited as I got off the bus, his whole body shaking with excitement to see me. I knelt on one knee and buried my face in his fur, taking in the smell of sunshine and dirt. I cried out all my embarrassment, shame, and anger into my faithful friend as he patiently wagged his tail. \n\nI let myself into our empty house and made a beeline to my room. I took off the layers of shirts and ripped off that bra. I threw another t-shirt on and buried the breast bags under the coffee grounds and egg cartons in the garbage, along with every crap feeling I had. I made sure my parents wouldn't find it; I didn't want to think about that thing ever again. \n\nI couldn't tell you how school went the next day. Maybe I pretended to be sick and stayed home. I couldn’t stay home until graduation though. Most likely, someone else grabbed the mean girl's attention, and my bra was no longer front and center in their minds. \n\nI bet you're wondering when I finally caved in and strapped on another double-barreled booby holster. No clue. In high school, I'm sure, most likely around the time Tawny and I became friends. We never talked about the Great Bra Incident, and I am sure I'm the only person who remembers that day. I wish I'd known how to stand up to the bullies back then. Still, I survived to become the strong independent woman I am today. Isn't that what matters most?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Back to 1989\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2627\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As I walk along the pathway that lay beside the rusting playground where I grew up, a million memories swarm in my head… But what catches my attention isn’t the new statue they’d built, nor the rose beds but instead, a man who looked all too familiar. \n…\nIt’s wintertime 1989, I’m fourteen years old sitting on the swing next to Marco, the best-looking guy from my grade nine class. I wore the red and white checked dress stained with coke with a denim jacket despite my mother’s warning about the weather. It was freezing and the river that flowed nearby was almost frozen over. We sat side by side on our swings occasionally talking, sometimes looking at each other, and rarely laughing.\n…\nIt was the biggest dare yet this year. My grade had come up with some stupid dare system where if you did something that the whole class voted you do, then somehow, you’d become more popular. And that was my dream – popularity. I was just Santana, the brown-haired, brown skin, brown eyed girl that no one ever bothered to talk to. So the day I finally spoke up and said I wanted to take part in the immature dare game they called The Devils Dare, was the day most kids actually noticed me for the first time. \nI did have one friend, Angie, but she had just moved schools before The Devils Dare began… lucky her. So that left me alone and I was sick of living like that. At fourteen years old, I’d never even held hands with a guy!\nVivian, my class’s most beautiful, most popular girl had done everything. She’d held hands with not only one, but many boys, even kissed a few too and who knows what else, and one day she came to school ‘drunk’ claiming she’d stolen alcohol from her parent’s liquor cabinet. But the day Vivian came to school and announced she had a boyfriend, three years older than her was the day I was sick of being lonely. So, I spoke up.\n“I’ll play,” everyone turned to look at me. I could feel my cheeks beginning to turn the colour of a tomato. \nNo one spoke. They were all either completely in shock or didn’t know what to say. “What?” said Vivian. \n“I said, I want to play.”\n“You want to play The Devils Dare?”\n“You heard me,” I replied, joining the circle.\nVivian began to shake her head. She turned to look at the rest of the people in the group which was essentially my whole grade. But none of them argued against me and my offer to play. \nFlicking her perfect blonde locks back over her shoulder, she turned her attention back to me. “Fine, it’s Elliot’s turn to pick the dare so let’s hear what he has up his sleeve shall we?”\nElliot, being Marco’s sidekick and even more irritating follower smirked and cleared his throat. “Santana, Santana, Santana…”\nI raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to give me my dare. For some reason, the silence in the air didn’t even make me anxious, somehow, I felt… ready.\n“I’m waiting Elliot,” I said getting a little bit impatient.\n“And I’m thinking, Santana.”\n“I have a dare,” snickered Vivian. “Mind if I steal this one from you Elliot?”\nHe rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, go ahead.” Everyone gave into Vivian, it was like the boys were under some type of trance anytime she asked for a favour. To retrieving her a pencil or carrying her to the sickbay when she fell over in sport one time, the boys were willing to go miles and miles for her. Maybe one day they’d realise.\n“I dare Santana to go out with Marco. This weekend. At Pablo’s Diner, 6 pm sharp.”\nI instantly look up at Vivian, slowly my eyes are drawn to the other side of the circle where Marco sits glaring at me. “Vivian, are you kidding me? Santana?” He rolled his eyes. “No way!”\n“I’m down,” I say. Murmurs start to arise and chatter replaces the silence. “I’ll be there, Saturday night at Pablo’s, 6 pm.”\nThat was that so I got up and walked away, leaving my classmates behind.\n…\n5:55 pm, Saturday night I walk into Pablo’s Diner to find Marco. As I walk through the door, the bell rings and instantly I’m hit with the sounds and smell of Italian food. Marco’s nowhere to been seen so I take a seat on the empty booth right at the back of the diner by the window. The bell chimes and a boy with blond hair, hazel eyes, and adorable dimples walks in – it’s Marco. He sees me and begins to walk my way. He’s not smiling nor frowning so that’s a start I gather.\n“Hey,” I say as he sits across from me. \n“Hey,” he replies. \nNeither of us says anything for a while, I had a mental list of things to talk about in my mind but with a guy like him sitting across from me, all my brain cells had left well before I had a chance to use them.\n“F-food,” I stammer. He cocks his head to one side in confusion. “Do you want to order,” I rephrase myself.\n“Sure.” Marco clicks his fingers to get the attention of the closest waitress. The blonde-haired girl turns and starts towards our table. Out of all the waitresses in this town, the one to serve Marco and I is Vivian’s older and even more popular sister and not to mention the girl Marco claims to of kissed on multiple occasions. I immediately look down, busying myself with what’s on the menu.\n“April,” says Marco, I didn’t know you still worked here. \nShe nodded, her bosoms bouncing up and down a bit too unnaturally. “I see you’re on a date with Santana here. How adorable!” her voice sounded just as fake as her personality. I looked up, trying my best to give her my most realistic smile. \n“We’re not… o-on a date exactly,” clarified Marco almost immediately. The smile that I had tried my best to plaster on rapidly faded. \nApril looked at me just in time to see my smile fade. “Well, I think Santana here had a different idea. Is that right San?”\n“Santana,” I corrected her, emphasis the rest of my name. “And frankly, no, this is not a date, instead, a dare set by your sister.”\nThere was a pregnant pause before anyone spoke again. “Well, what can I fetch for you two?”\n“I’ll take a loaded cheese pizza and coke,” said Marco.\n“And I’ll take a creamy carbonara please, with a lemonade.”\nApril wrote down our orders and walked off. Marco pulled a bottle from his jacket, it was only small but it had a golden-brown colour to it. Taking a swig of it, he winced when the liquid trickled down his throat.\n“Want some?” he pushed the bottle towards me.\nI shook my head. “No thanks. What is that stuff?”\n“Rum from my father’s office. He won’t even notice it’s gone.”\n“Marco!” I whispered although it came out louder than intended. “You shouldn’t be drinking. You’re only fifteen!”\n“Sixteen actually,” he said. There was a two-year age gap between us. Once I graduated grade three, the teachers were that impressed with my numeracy and literacy skills, fourth grade wasn’t even an option, it was straight to grade five for Santana.\nOur drinks came and Marco proceeded to top up his coke with his father’s rum while I listened to him talk. His speech was beginning to sound like spaces never existed between words. The alcohol was kicking into his system and fast.\nOnce our food came, Marco dug into his pizza and I began with my pasta. I really thought that I was having a good night. I was beginning to actually enjoy myself when Marco tipped his glass over. It could’ve gone three ways… onto him, onto the sides of the table or, onto me. Just my luck, it tipped straight onto my lap, staining my red and white dress. I didn’t overact as most other girls would screaming hysterically, instead, I just looked up at his guilty face. \nNo words escaped his lips so I stood, leaving a twenty on the table and walked out. I didn’t know where my legs were taking me. This was the first time I’d been out on the town at night. Most young girls my age would run home or run to their nearest friend’s house, but I didn’t. \nBefore I knew it, my feet were crunching under the bark chips at the local park. Rain had fallen recently and I could hear the river gushing nearby but that wasn’t the only sound my ears picked up. I heard footsteps approaching me from behind. I was never one to think of the worst so I confidently spun around to face whatever or whoever was coming from behind. \n“Santana, I am so sorry, really I-I’m…”\n“Forget it, Marco,” I replied in a firm tone. “You’re drunk and you just need to go home. Really this is all my fault. I was the one who wanted to play this stupid game to start with. If I’d just kept quiet, we wouldn’t be here.”\n“Exactly.”\n“Exactly what?” I asked.\n“We wouldn’t be here,” he said taking three steps closer. \nNow an arm’s length away from each other’s body, I noticed Marco’s tear-stained face. \n“Marco, were you crying?” I asked although I knew the answer. \nIt happened within two seconds. No words said just Marco wrapping his arms around my shoulders and releasing the build-up of tears. He stood in my arms sobbing. What was I to do? Push him away? Comfort him like he’d treated me like gold my whole life? I settled on just lightly wrapping my arms around his back.\n“Hey, it’s okay,” I whispered after he’d let go. His cheeks were shiny with the tears that dried on his skin. \nThen he did it. He kissed me. It wasn’t just a peck on the cheek or lips it was something more. Something that felt like it had meaning. \n“Marco…”\n“Santana, I don’t care anymore.”\n“About what?” \n“About who. About who sees this. About who hears about this.”\n“Oh please,” I replied earnestly rolling my eyes. “As if you mean that. You’re drunk and you are going to have no comprehension of this tomorrow morning so don’t say anything you’re going to regr-”\n“I love you.”\nI licked my lips and nodded, raising my eyebrows in doubt. “You do?”\n“Yes, I have for a while now.”\n“Okay buddy,” I said carefully selecting the tone and pitch of my voice. Let’s go to the swings, shall we? Just sit? Maybe talk?”\nMarco nodded. The only light in the park came from the twenty-year-old streetlamps which gave off just enough light to make out someone’s features if they were within two feet of your face. \nThe swings creaked as we sat on them. “What time are your parents expecting you home?” I ask.\n“9:30 pm.”\n“You live on the corner of Rowling Street, right?”\nHe nodded vaguely. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a hike from here.”\n“I’ll call for a taxi then.” I walk slowly toward the payphone on the corner of the playground block. Once I get to the phone, I glance back at the swing set to see nobody on the swing next to where I was. Instead, it swung back and forth as though someone had just gotten off it.\n“Marco?” I asked. “Marco!” This time raising my voice. No response. He was gone.\n…\nI spent that weekend worried sick about Marco’s whereabouts. Although he’d acted like such a jerk and treated me as if I were a ghost majority of the time we’d known each other, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had meant what he’d said. He’d kissed me and told me he loved me. No one had ever said such things about me. I couldn’t even remember the last time my mother had told me she loved me. \nMonday morning rolled around and I walk through the school gates, peering around for Marco or at least his best friend, Elliot. Then, I see him. He has his back to me but I know it’s him. No one could miss Marco.\nI wander over to where he sat on the ground. Elliot must have said something about me coming because Marco turned his head and immediately jumped up. I stop walking and let him approach me.\nWithout even saying hello I burst out with, “where the heck did you disappear to?”\n“I’m sorry,”\n“You’re sorry? God Marco, I was-” I stopped myself in my verbal tracks. No, I shouldn’t let him get the satisfaction of him knowing I was worried sick about him. “I was just about to call the taxi and then you were gone!”\n“So he got you, yeah?” Elliot had joined the conversation at some point although I couldn’t recall inviting him. \n“You knew about this?” I asked. \nElliot nodded, obviously very satisfied with himself. “So how was his acting?”\n“Acting!?” I repeated. “But he was… Oh my God, you weren’t even drunk, were you?” I now faced Marco. “You pretended to act drunk just so you could see me make a fool of myself. I can’t believe I was even going to let myself hate you just a little less than before. Now I hate myself for even thinking about that.”\nI turn the other way, my long hair flicking over my shoulder as I storm off. “He’ll take that as a compliment,” yelled out Elliot on Marco’s behalf. \nThe next thing I heard although I tried my best to zone out their irritating voices was, “this has gone too far.” It was Marco’s voice. I slowed my steps but didn’t stop.\nThe next thing I knew, Marco had grabbed my arm and spun me around. I didn’t have time to think before he kissed me. Again. This time in front of the entire school. As our lips parted and our eyes opened there was just silence with the occasional mutter or murmur but then, someone yelled out. “Marco did it! He finally kissed Santana! The girl he’s wanted to kiss since grade five!”\nIt wasn’t just anyone who yelled out those words, it was Marco’s older brother. Gradually cheering and clapping became the sound I heard. Marco stood in front of me, smiling. Unconsciously, a massive grin had made its way onto my face and I stood there looking as taken aback and happy as ever. \n“It’s true, what my brother said.”\n“Really?”\n“Sure is.”\n…\nMy heels crunch under the bark chips, this time, twenty-five years later. I no longer have the long dark hair trailing down my back no do I have the innocence I had twenty-five years earlier. I have life experience. I’m a mother to a ten-year-old boy back at my new home by the beach. \n“Is that Santana I see?” said the familiar voice. Nothing had changed about him, not even the blond hair or dimples in his cheeks. \n“Sure is,” I reply. I embrace Marco into a hug and take in his strong scent. “It’s been too long.”\n“But here we are. Our very own high school sweetheart reunion. Just for the two of us.”\nI shake my head and smile. I realised instantly that I’ve missed his presence in my life. “What do you say, want to go sit on the swing set? Maybe talk? Make sure this time you don’t disappear on me, okay?”\n“Never again,” said Marco. “I don’t know why I ever let you go…”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Assassination\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1836\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story of fragments. Many options here: no verbs, sentence fragments, short sections, nothing but objects, etc. The fragments should relate to one another obliquely, hesitantly, subtly, ambiguously, preposterously, marvelously." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "ASSASSINATION\n\n\n\n23 May, 1964\nJúcaro, Cuba\n\n\nThe abandoned blockhouse was 200 yards offshore and perfect. Leftover from the Trocha, a line of fortifications built between 1869 and 1872, from Júcaro to Morón during the first war of Independence, it provided the ideal homebase for communication during the operation. Twenty feet high, twenty feet across, shaped like a square, and made of solid brick, it had stood the test of time. A narrow staircase on the outside wall led from the ground to a doorless entry at the top and into an open floor. It had an opening 4 feet wide around the entire perimeter to admit the air, and a tin roof covered the top of the entire structure. Jutting from the center was a look-out tower and eagle’s nest. It was here where the antenna was set up. \nThe operations officer ran a cable down from the ladder that led from the eagle’s nest and onto the main landing where the rest of the equipment was in the process of being assembled.\n“Here’s the cable.”\nHanding the cable to the second officer, then climbing back up into the lookout tower and picking up a heavy set of binoculars, Officer One checked the view of the marina, looking for their contact. It was a bright, sunny afternoon. The sky was dotted with only a few white clouds and gave the officer a clear view. The slight breeze was warm, but not hot. In the shade of the shelter, it even felt cool. Now and then, salty ocean scents were carried along with it.\nSounds of static came from below just for a moment, then nothing, as Officer Two plugged in a pair of headphones.\n“Ok. We’re ready. Time?” \nOfficer One took the binoculars down to check. “Thirteen hundred, two seven. We’ve got three minutes,” then brought the binoculars back up and continued to scan the marina, at first seeing only dock workers, then…\n“There he is! I see Diego…and…El Commondante himself! Send the message.”\nThe RS-70 Modular Radio Set was state-of-the-art and had a transmitter, receiver, keyer, teletype tape, burst encoder, 24 hour battery pack, plus additional interfaces and accessories. Officer Two quickly attached the tape cartridge to the magnetic head of the encoder. The message, pre-recorded onto the tape, was then connected to the RT-70 transmitter via the small AA-70 interface on the unit. Officer Two pressed the brightly lit, yellow button which sent the message as a burst transmission.\n\nCondor, Condor, this is Sherlock. All is ready. Contact and target are in play. We are good to go. Gatekeeper and Hollywood are clear. Wetsuit is a go. Repeat, Operation Wetsuit is a go. Out.\n\n********\n\nThree men sat in a small motel room in Miami Beach, waiting and watching the machine sitting on the desk that faced a wide open window where they had positioned a long antenna that went from the sill to the open air right outside. The Seaside Terrace Motel boasted of air conditioned rooms and an ocean view, the reason for their choice, and the availability of a top floor room. The need for air conditioning made no difference. The room had one double sized bed, a night stand and a small television. But no one would be sleeping, much less watching TV.\nThe plan was simple. When Fidel Castro was out on one of his scuba diving trips, a spear from a speargun would be shot right through his heart while he was deep beneath the surface. Period. End his marxist, socialist regime and threat so close to the U.S. But as with anything so dangerous and risky. Simple is never easy. The Bay of Pigs was an embarrassing disaster. Several assassination attempts had failed before starting. Now the CIA was sending in a black ops team known to only a select few in the agency, and success was their only option. It all depended on their Cuban contact who was paid to bring Castro to a specific spot among the reef. To rely so heavily on one person was extremely dangerous. But there was no other way. They had to have an inside person, and as long as there was money enough, there would always be someone willing enough. \nThe machine suddenly came to life…teletype tape began to spill from the side of the machine with a repetitive staccato sound. One of the men quickly grabbed the tape and read the message out loud.\n“Well. Here we go,” he said. “Now all we do is wait.”\n\n******\n\nA figure dressed in a black wetsuit set the handheld transceiver down onto the floorboard. The message from Sherlock had given the go ahead for the mission. The small, wood hull power boat gently bobbed in the crystal blue waters of the Jardines de la Reina, the beautiful archipelago in the southern part of Cuba. Named by Christopher Columbus to honor the Queen of Spain, it was a favorite scuba diving spot of Fidel Castro. \nSitting on the side of the boat that had been rented from the Júcaro marina two days earlier, Gatekeeper double checked the air tank, regulator, J-valve, and all parts of the scuba gear. Then lastly, strapped a small speargun just under the weight belt like a sidearm then placed the regulator and mask in place. Looking up at the driver, Gatekeeper gave a small nod, then dropped over the side. Once the diver was clear, the driver put the boat in gear and drove towards shore. Mooring in a small inlet among the thick mangrove trees along the shoreline, the driver got up and went to the back, picked up the handheld transceiver and switched it on.\n“Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Hollywood, over?”\n“We read you Hollywood. Go ahead”\n“Gatekeeper is in position. Will inform when target is neutralized. Over.”\n“Roger Hollywood. Out.”\nHollywood switched off the transceiver and set it aside. Pulling out a set of high powered binoculars from a duffle that was stored under the bench, began scanning the horizon for vessels, tension creeping into each shoulder. \n“Ok Diego, do what you were paid to do…bring him in…just, bring…him…in…”\n\n******\n\nBack at the motel room, the first man was getting nervous at the silence in the room. “Are you sure this is going to work? Can we trust them? I mean…they are after all..…” the man trailed off and didn’t finish his sentence. \nThe other two ignored him and continued to wait by the machine.\n\n******\n\nIt had been too long. Hollywood’s shoulders began to ache from holding the binoculars. Picking up the transceiver then setting it down again, indecision began to creep in. This was not going as planned. Gatekeeper would have run out of air by now and there was still no sign.\n\n******\n\nSherlock looked up into the eagle’s nest. “Little Bear, do you see anything?” The officer had been peering for what seemed like hours through the high powered binoculars, searching the waters, searching the marina…searching for anything. Desperation could be heard in the voice that drifted down…\n“No. I don’t see anyth…”\n“Wait!! They’re back!” The binoculars gripped in a white knuckled grasp.\n“What do you mean? Who’s back??” said Sherlock from below.\n“ALL of them! Diego, Castro, the whole crew! They’re all getting off the dive boat!!”\nShock filled Sherlock’s eyes. Little Bear, in one swift move, slid down the ladder and grabbed the handheld transceiver, realization and outrage showing in every movement.\n“Hollywood acknowledge! Hollywood acknowledge!!”\n“This is Hollywood, go ahead.”\n“This is Little Bear. Something’s wrong! Go get Gatekeeper!! Diego was a doublecross!!! GO NOW!!!”\n\n******\n\nThe man in the motel room was pacing now. Walking from the door to the window and back again. The two men at the desk sat and continued to wait, looking out the window, half empty cups of coffee getting cold in front of them. All of them had worried looks on their faces.\n“We should have heard something by now,” the first man said. The other two looked at each other.\n“We should have heard something by now!!” the first man said again, angrier, looking back and forth at the other two men. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted them!” The vein in his neck was sticking out as he gritted his teeth. “I knew we should never have used women!!” He spat out the word like it was vitriol.\nThe man sitting on his right stood straight up and punched him right in the nose. The first man staggered back, not so much from the punch as from the shock. A line of blood began to run out of his nose and down his lip. He quickly brought his hand up to catch it.\n“Whaa…?! How dare…!!”\n“Don’t you ever speak about our operations officers in such a way ever again! Do you hear me? They are professionals! They know what they’re doing! I knew we shouldn’t have brought you in on this operation! The only reason we did was because…”\nThe repetitive staccato sound of the machine startled them into silence. They stared at it frozen, as the teletype tape began to spill from its side.\n\n******\n\nHollywood, trying to keep calm, put the boat into motion and headed back toward the spot she had left Gatekeeper, the power boat bouncing up and down on the water, making waves that crashed against its sides. When she arrived, there was no sign of her partner. Checking the coordinates again, she drove around the area searching for any sign of life. Her heart was beating rapidly. She knew the air in Gatekeeper's tank would have been used up by now. Anger boiled inside her at the thought of Diego. Diego Santana…when I get my hands on you! Murderous images came to mind of what she would do to him if she should ever see him again. \nDriving the boat around in what seemed like circles, she suddenly spotted something bright and yellow. It was Gatekeeper’s emergency diver’s buoy! She steered the boat over towards it and as she got closer, saw a figure floating between the waves. The water surrounding the body was dark red. Hollywood struggled to keep the panic down as she threw the ladder over the side of the boat, then jumped into the water. Gatekeeper groaned semi-consciously as Hollywood pulled her towards the ladder.\n“I’ve got you friend. Don't worry, I've got you!”\n\n********\n\nThe three men in the motel room were in a flurry of activity. Two of them were packing up the machine and their belongings, one was on the telephone.\n“Havana. The safehouse in Havana in eight hours! And make sure a medical team is ready at the airport!”\nThe man hung up and joined the other two as they were heading out the door. He paused as he came face to face with the first man, bloody tissue sticking out of his left nostril.\n“It wasn’t their fault,” he said flatly. Then pushed past him and headed towards the elevator." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1003\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone losing faith in an institution." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Hera is a normal high school student. She's known but not popular because she's been part of the student council.\nAt that time, she had her close friends named Xara, Tulip, and Prime.\nThey've been in the same class for 2 years until Prime had transferred to another school.\nTo be honest, the first two years they've been joking about one of them would be leaving. One actually got injured because of this.\nHera, Xara, and Tulip are quite disappointed for what happened. But they can't do anything about it because it was the decision of Prime's parents.\nBut the school where she transferred is not that far. They still meet her and they still have the connections. But she promised that she would never have any friends other than them.\nSo it did actually happened because of her anti social personality and her introvertness. Besides most of the students on her new school were not much of a good students.\nThe school itself has a bad reputation. From students who are troublesome to students who aren't aware how to avoid teenage pregnancy.\nBut because of problems they are facing, she had to go.\n------\nSo the 3rd High School Year had started. Hera, Xara, and Tulip goes to the same school and is still on the same class for which that class is the Class Section A, Highest section on that year.\nOn their 2nd year, they've experienced many terrible things. Some are just normal student cases such as grades dissatisfaction.\nBut one of this cases was when their own homeroom teacher started to bully them.\nBeing the Homeroom teacher of a Class A section, you should be proud that they are Confident and Smart. But no.\nMs. Coreen had despised them and humiliated them. Because of what? Jealousy.\nShe's jealous because the Class A students are still attached to their former Homeroom Advicer which she thinks is not supposed to happen.\nSo what happens is, when new teachers have a arrived for the 3rd year or the next coming year, she had foretold those clueless teachers bad stuff about this Class.\nBad stuff like she told them that they are rotten tomatoes, they've been very unreliable, they are ignorant and stubborn.\nWhen the teachers had finally thought that what they heard from Ms. Coreen was true, they decided to downgrade these 3rd years and made them feel unwanted.\nBut the students are afraid to report. If they told anyone about this, for sure, they'll believe Ms. Coreen. Because she had ruined the students reputation already.\n------\nOn their first day, things are still going well. The students from that class are close to each other since they've been on the same class and section for the past 2 years.\nLuckily, their 1st year advicer Mrs. Fleur was the one who will become their Homeroom Advicer that year.\nThis was secretly decided by the their principal.\n------\nQuickly time passed by. But the Hera and the others had a hard time because of the new teachers.\nBecause of Ms. Coreen, the students were bullied and never taught well. The teachers made them study on their own.\nWhat happened was the whole class had an immediate remedial session for some of their subjects.\nThey became a laughingstock of the school.\nFrom a reputation of being the class who's always at the top to the class who are acting unruly and unjust.\nBut that's not who they are.\nAnd this news came to Prime who in the other school had a lot of opportunities grabbed. She became part of of the School's Journalist and was a participant as their class representative in many school activities.\nPrime found out when she saw one of the students in the Class and they talked for a while.\n“You know what? Why don't you try to report it? I'll help you. I'm not a student there anymore so it won't be a problem for me. Besides I'm close with the staffs.”Prime suggested.\n“I'm not so sure about that. It's not that east since Ms. Coreen had already stained our reputation.”Ives said.\n“I'll make a way.”Prime then said.\nSo Prime's parents know the Headmaster of the school. They directly called onto him for help.\nThe headmaster then observed. He knows how well behaved the students are based on what he had seen.\nThey've done their best and he saw that everything Ms. Coreen had said wasn't true.\nIn the end, he talked to Ms. Coreen.\n“I only have questions for you. But first, Why?”He asked her. “What do you mean Sir?”She said.\n“Why did you humiliated those students? Is this the job of a teacher?”He asked again.\n“No Sir, let me explain.”She started.\n“Go on.”He said.\n“The students are too attached to their former advicer when I was there teaching them, I was already there focusing on them treating them like my own child.”She dramatically said.\n“You know Ms. Coreen Simons? You should sort your emotions out. Know how to separate your private life to your work. Your jealousy and emotions is what you prioritized and you didn't care about the what the students will feel or will go through. Their High school life had been traumatic because of how the teachers had treated them. I can't blame the other teachers, you started it. It's your work.”Mr. Hensler said.\nThe tone of disappointment was observed.\n“I'm Sorry Sir...”She looked down.\n“No Ms. Simons, you should apologize to the students and the teachers.”He said.\nThen she followed it with a nod.\nLittle did she know, the students were on the other room watching and listening to their discussion.\nHe revealed that the students were at the other room. She was shocked.\nAnd so, he guided her to the other room.\nWhen she entered, the students gave her a warn hug. Then Ms. Coreen started crying.\n“I'm so so Sorry... I hope you can forgive me.”She cried.\nThe class representative then said “Apology accepted.”\n> > > END < < <" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Uncle George\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2857\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "October 1999\n Here comes someone. Wonder who it is? Probably wants something. No one ever comes by unless they want something.\n I don’t know that car. Who is that? Oh, okay. That’s Steven, my sister’s grandson. Who’s that with him? Don’t know that guy.\n Hello, Steven. What brings you way up here? Who’s your friend?\n Hello, Barry. Nice to meet you too. What’s that? You’re a journalist? You mean a reporter, right? That’s what I thought.\n Have a seat right here on the porch. This is the kind of day porches were made for. Can I get you fellas something to drink? No? Let me know if you want something.\n So let me see. I’m about to turn one hundred years old, Steven, and you show up with a reporter. An interview? Want to know how it feels to be a hundred?\n That, and you want to interview me as I am one of the very few World War One veterans still alive. How many did you say? That sounds about right. Five of us American doughboys left.\n And then there were five.\n I met Frank Buckles and Harry Patch at a Legion convention a couple years ago. And a Canadian too, John Babcock was his name. A couple from England are still with us, including a lady vet, and two in France, I think. And a couple guys from the other side, from Germany and Austria. That sure isn’t very many, now is it?\n No, I don’t really know any of our guys. They weren’t in my outfit. One guy is in bad shape, last I heard, won’t make it much longer. I think the American Legion is keeping track of us, how many are left. We started the Legion. Veterans of the Great War. That’s what they called it, the Great War. Nothing great about it that I remember, except when it was all over. The Armistice. November 11, 1918.\n I heard that we’re losing over a thousand World War Two vets each day. Dying off quick, aren’t they? And us, just a few left. We’re all bumping a hundred years old too. How much longer can we last?\n So you want to know what World War One was like. Lord sakes, son, how do I even start? It was terrible, I can tell you that. The most God-awful thing I ever saw in my life. People who didn’t know each other, from different parts of the world, all trying to kill each other.\n All I knew was that men were needed to go over to France and stop who they called the Kaiser and his Evil Huns. Inhuman monsters from Germany. That’s what they told us. The recruitment posters all showed them to look like gorillas, like monsters. Big and hairy and terrible. They said they ate children. That they tortured women. The devil’s own army, so they told us.\n Well sir, they had to be stopped. So we joined up. July of 1917 it was, me and my older brother Charlie and a bunch of other fellas from town joined the Army. American Expedition Forces was the fancy name, but it was the Army.\n They sent us off to Camp Something-or-other to learn how to march and shoot and dressed us all up in uniforms. Then they marched us off to the train that took us to a ship in New York. I\n never saw New York before. I saw a little of it as we sailed away, to France. The ship was full of us doughboys, and we all wondered if we’d ever see those tall New York City buildings again. Charlie said we would. He was always like that, looking at the bright side.\n Guys got seasick. The trip over wasn’t so great. Bad weather and rough seas.\n But they got us there. To France. We all wanted to see the sights. Gay Paree, those pretty girls we all heard about, try some of that fancy champagne, the Eiffel Tower.\n No dice. They sent us right out to fight at the front. The Hun was out there and needed to be stopped no matter what.\n They hauled us in trains, and then trucks. Then they marched us in. March-march-march. I thought we’d never get there. But we did. And what I saw sent shivers right up my spine.\n Bare land. No trees, no grass, no nothing. Barb wire on poles. Trenches. Our guys, all in trenches and holes. Peeking over the top at more trenches, way on the other side. That’s where the Germans were, in those trenches over there. That’s who we had to stop.\n Some captain was there, and told us we had to make a run for it to get to our trenches. When he blew his whistle, we were to run as fast as we could to get there, and jump right in, because the Germans would be shooting at us.\n I thought this guy must be out of his mind. Run out into the open and let them shoot at us? Like some crazy game of hide and seek. Tag, you’re it, with a bullet in you.\n So he blew that whistle and we ran and jumped into the closest trench, not knowing how deep it was or anything.\n I didn’t jump in. I stopped at the edge and looked first, then slid down the side. Good thing, as there were three guys there I would’ve landed on if I just jumped right in. And I slid right into a\nfoot of mud. It must’ve rained and the water had no place to go. It was a mess.\n Other guys did jump right in. One poor guy already there wound up with a broken arm from someone jumping in and landing on him.\n There were twenty-one of us who ran first for the trench. Reinforcements, they called us. Nineteen made it, two were shot. One died right away, the other one was dragged off somewhere. I don’t know how he made out.\n We were there but a few minutes and already one guy was killed. Lucky shot, right in the chest. Maybe lucky isn’t the right word.\n Another whistle sounded and the guys there climbed up on blocks and shelves and shot back at the Germans. They kept shooting until the whistle sounded again. Then they all stepped down and found a place to sit, safely out of sight from the other side.\n My God, is this what we had to do? Wait till the enemy is in sight and then shoot them?\n Yes sir, that was it. Wait for one to stick his head up and pick him off. And that’s what they were doing on their side too, waiting for one of us to stick his head up.\n Then it became a game of hurry up and wait. Long boring hours went by, and then all hell broke loose and we’d all start shooting at the same time. I don’t know if we hit anybody. The officers had binoculars. We just had rifles.\n Later that day it started to rain. Before we knew it, another foot of water was in the trench. What a mess. And then the officers told us that we were going to charge the Germans. Over the top and across no man’s land and ambush them while they were hunkering down from the storm.\n Did you know the term “over the top” came from that? Over the top of the trench. And then on to glory and victory. Or some such damn fool nonsense.\n We got ready to charge, and when the whistle blew, over the top we went. If it was up to me, with the storm and all, I’d have gone across there nice and quiet and surprise them. But no, the whole company was whooping and hollering like some wild Indian attack.\nRight away the Germans returned fire. And the second man I saw shot and killed in France that day was my brother Charlie. Right next to me, he went down with a bullet in his neck.\n I was scared out of my mind and screaming mad at the same time. I wanted to kill the man who killed my brother. With bullets flying all around me, I jumped the barb wire and ran right up to their trench and jumped in. I didn’t care who I landed on. I shot two men right away and used my bayonet on another. The other guys were right behind me and we cleaned out that trench, and good. Except for a few who ran away, we killed them all.\n We killed them all.\n Our guys were all laughing and singing and slapping each other on the back.\n Me, I looked at the dead bodies of those Germans. Not one of them looked like a gorilla. They were men, and boys, just like we were.\n I know Mother would be devastated when she heard about Charlie getting killed. Would the mothers of these Germans feel the same way when they found out about their sons dying? I’m sure they would.\n I started to cry. What have I done? I killed a man. Several men. The Bible says Thou Shalt Not Kill. I broke a Commandment. What will happen to me now? Will God strike me dead next because of what I had done?\n The guys were celebrating. We won that battle! They congratulated me on my first kill. They told me there would be plenty more, if we planned on winning this thing.\n I walked away from them and when I got far enough away, I threw up.\n Then I heard a different whistle signal, the one they made sure we knew when they taught us about poison gas. I quickly put on my gas mask and watched as a yellow cloud of poison fog swept over us. We didn’t win completely, the Germans were still fighting back.\n One of our men didn’t get his gas mask on fast enough. He was lying in the mud gasping for air and spitting out some awful things from his mouth. He choked to death, right there in front of us.\n I never got to know his name.\n The wet muddy trench we were standing in also served as a latrine. There was nowhere else to do your business except right there. That muddy water was a sewer. That was the final insult to those Germans, lying dead in that filthy water.\n So that was my first day fighting in France. Do you want to hear more?\n\n I figured you fellas would need a drink after that. I always keep a good supply of fire water for just such a time.\n So, Steven, that was what happened to your Uncle Charles. We called him Charlie. Everybody did. He was two years older than me, born in 1898. Seems that Father left Mother with something to remember him by before he went off to fight in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. I was born not quite two years later, something that Father gave Mother as a welcome home gift. They would never describe it in that way, people were such prudes back then, but that’s how it happened. My sisters Helen and Lillian, your grandmother, came along later, in 1905 and 1909.\n Our family was a scrappy bunch. We fought every time, from the Civil War on. My grandfather lost his brother, Philip, at Second Bull Run. My father lost his brother, my Uncle Albert, somewhere in the Philippines. His body was never brought home. I lost my brother in\nFrance.\n Your Aunt Belle and I had two sons. They both fought in World War Two, just a generation after my war. Your Uncle Claude made it home, minus his right arm. His brother, your Uncle\nmmy, also made it home, but died a few years later from the malaria he caught somewhere in the Pacific. My nephew Freddie, from my wife’s side, was all of a month away from graduating high school. He quit school to enlist in the Navy. He was killed when his ammunition ship blew up somewhere near New Guinea. So many boys right from town were lost.\n Your Aunt Helen, my sister, lost her son, your Uncle Raymond, at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. His brother, your Uncle Douglas, was a prisoner of war for three years in Korea. He came home, but has never been right since.\n And it hit your generation too, Steven. You served in Vietnam. You came home, but your cousins Tommy and Bruce didn’t.\n And it goes on, doesn’t it? Your nephew Allen was almost blown to bits in Desert Storm. He’ll never walk again, will he? Stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Your cousin Eddie, who was killed in Lebanon. You’re what, forty-nine? Fifty now? What about your kids? Your grandkids? Your son is old enough to join the Army. Will he be next?\n Even that terrible Spanish flu epidemic in 1919 was caused by the war. Men returning from France brought the bug home with them and it spread everywhere. I guess we won the war, but not by much.\n So who is next, Steven? Haven’t we had enough of this? When does it end? Barry, do you have an answer for that? When does it end?\n Okay, I’m sorry. I went on a tear there. Let me have a drink.\n\n There. Much better. Those folks in Scotland sure do know how to make some fine whisky.\n Okay, Barry. More questions for me?\n Do I believe in God? Interesting question. Do I? After what I’ve seen, and what has happened to our family over the years, I don’t think so. Would a loving God allow all of this? No, I’d say that God means nothing to me.\n They took my uncles, my brother, my son, my nephews away from me. My loving wife, Belle, incredible woman that she was, was taken away from me too. Cancer. She was only fifty years old. That was half a century ago that I buried her! I’ve been alone for fifty years without her. We were married for thirty years, and she’s been gone for fifty.\n And you want to know if I believe in God.\n All I know is that, right now, I’m still healthy and still have my wits about me, but how long will that last? I won’t pray for a longer life. I haven’t prayed since that first terrible day in France in 1917.\n I think I’m done talking for now, fellas. I have to lie down. My head is pounding from this.\n Sorry.\n Steven, don’t be a stranger, you hear? Come on up and make sure I’m still kicking. Always great to see you. Bring Barry along and we can do some more damage to my stash of fire water.\nSay hi to everyone, tell them I’m still here.\n*\n There they go. Nice to have a little company. It gets lonely up here sometimes. Oh, they call me an old hermit. I’m not, I go to town once a week or more for groceries and supplies, have a\ndrink at the Legion. I like it here. Not much traffic, no noise. They’d like it too if they came by once in a while.\n Maybe it’s too late for that. I think my time is over. I still have these terrible memories after eighty years. I can’t shake them. Shell shock, battle fatigue, post-traumatic stress disorder, whatever the hell they call it these days.\n Well, I told my story about what it was like over there. I never much talked about it. None of us did. War stories? Not from us. Too many bad memories.\n I saw the fields of poppies and crosses in the cemeteries over there. Nothing grows on that poisoned land except poppies.\n No man’s land.\n So many buried there. So many poppies.\n Okay, George, you old coot, let’s pour yourself this last bit of Scotch. There we go. Let’s make a toast. To those who went before us, and to us five American doughboys who are still left. We won’t be around for much longer. Let’s just hope that someone remembers us.\n This Scotch is so good. Only the best fire water, right? But now it’s gone, just like everything else.\n My trusty old .45 caliber Colt, model 1911A. Military issue. Great old weapon, still works well. Shot a few critters over the years with this. They sure knew how to build them back then. Just like the guys I served with over in France. My guys.\n One last check. Everything is paid off. Taxes, insurance, everything. Only things due are the electric and telephone bills. They can chase somebody else for them. Haven’t they got enough\nout of me over the years?\n One last swallow. Here’s to you, the five Americans who are still left, including me. May they remember us for our service to our country. In the Great War. The war to end all wars.\nYeah. Right.\n Hand salute. Two.\n Bang.\n And then there were four." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Henkin’s Mellified Honey\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2071\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet all or part of your story in a jam-packed storage unit." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "According to Wikipedia, for at least 2,700 years honey has been used by humans to treat a variety of ailments through topical application. The contents of the mellification process however would turn the honey into ‘sort of a confection reputedly capable of healing broken limbs and other ailments. This confection would then be sold in street markets as a hard to find item with a hefty price’. \n\n“Do you think he’s ready?” The only care remaining in Ann Henkins was for her son, John Jr., who everyone called Little John. She wanted to protect him but the fear in her was so great of her husband she was locked down, frozen. And this day especially, if she had any strength left, was the day she needed to step in. This was the day Little John turned fourteen and would lose his childhood, his innocence, and possibly his soul.\n\nJohn Henkins, Sr. couldn’t care less about what his wife thought, but he did think his son was of a different temperament than himself, more gentle, like his mother. “I was fourteen the day my daddy took me in,” John Sr. declared to Ann, like it was final, and anything he said was final as far as he was concerned.\n\nAnn sat at their farm table, which they’d bought together the first year they were married fifteen years before. She sipped her morning orange juice, but her husband knew it was mostly Grey Goose vodka, the bottle nearly gone from what he’d seen the day before. She’s ungovernable again, he thought, also noting her cracked hands, fingers bleeding around the cuticles. I need to straighten her up. But not today. Today is Little John’s fourteenth birthday.\n\nSeeing her husband’s disgust Ann moved her hands under the table. “You’re leading him into hell,” she mumbled.\n\nJohn Sr. gave her a sharp look and she glanced downcast to the side. He then left for work without a thought, leaving Ann to her orange juice and empty day.\n\n#\nThere is nothing like the farmers market at Henkinston. Any thinking person knows it’s not true, but every Wednesday morning, three seasons a year, it seems impossible to rain or even reach any less or more than comfortable sunny temperatures. More than a hundred family owned stands have long lines filled with knowing locals and smart tourists. The early morning air holds fresh produce of all sort—the butterhead lettuce being famous accorded by the Henkinston Times. Farmers sell everything from apples to zucchini, pork to fresh pies, (strawberry, rhubarb, and blueberry being the most sought after). Trout with clear eyes, caught that morning from the Neponset River, almost jump in the ice on display. Pure red tomatoes the size of a fist and just plucked from the vine grace baskets that weep with love. \n\nBut the most popular stand in the market, having the longest lines, the most talked about and steeped in history, the most sought after product of renown in three counties, the most cherished corner at the Butler County Farmers market—sells honey. But not just any honey, a honey harvested from Henkin’s New England Family Farm for centuries, ever since the very first John Henkins set foot in the New World, the patriarch of the Henkins family name. He brought the honey process over on the St. George, a vessel which landed in the Bay of Boston in sixteen thirty-four with eighty-four souls on board, mostly escaping persecution from the old world, in this instance Ipswich north west of London. The backbone of the economy of the thirteen colonies held firm and straight in the agrarian new world but things have changed of course in nearly four-hundred years. Boston is now multifaceted, a tech center of the US, the Boston miracle; but things have not changed for the Henkins with respect to honey. \n\n#\nLittle John Henkins, at fourteen, works the stand today, as his daddy did, and his daddy, and on up the ladder of daddies with as much pride in the honey process, the purity of it, the sanctity even, then ever. To violate the careful process and recipes of John Henkins, Sr., his ninth ascendant great grandfather, would be sacrilegious. And why would Little John’s father, John Sr., the current living patriarch, vary even one line of the process? The honey business had brought the Henkins family a veritable fortune by any measure with the extended family, cousins, nephews, and what not, all owning no less than the local pharmacy, Ford dealership, mortuary, and largest lumber mill in the state—all bought with honey.\n\n“Morning Little John. I’ll take two pint-jars,” Martha Wilkins would no more miss a Wednesday farmer’s market than her own funeral. And in forty-two years she never had, or at least no citizen dared make claim she had.\n\n“Certainly, Miss Wilkins,” Little John calls out. “These are jarred just yesterday.”\n\nAbe Cloister is next in line. “What is it about your bees?” he asks. It was suspected he and Martha had a thing.\n\n“A spoon a day, you’ll live forever!” Little John liked to jest with the regulars.\n\n“It mended my broken leg,” chips in Sally Rose across the way in her pink dress riding her blue electric bike, although today her corgi, Oscar, wasn’t in the basket.\n\n“You know what Dad says?” Little John calls out to Sally, but everyone knows exactly what he’s going to say. Little John puffs up, grabs his suspenders with his thumbs, and hollers out. “I won’t say it will, and I won’t say it won’t, but I will say if I had a broken leg, wild horses or witches couldn’t keep me away from Henkin’s Mellified Honey.”\n\nEveryone laughs and gives each other side glances with wide winking eyes; they’ve heard it all before, but it’s never old it seems.\n\nJust for fun, county clerk Abe Connors, next in line, adds, “It cured my diabetes!” His eyes light up in his doughy face.\n\n“I won’t say it will, and I won’t say it won’t, but I will say if I had diabetes, wild horses or witches couldn’t keep me away from Henkin’s Mellified Honey.” And that starts the howling all over again.\n\n#\n“Little John, you’re here because it’s time you were brought in to the fold so to speak.” And with that statement from his dad, Little John’s face turns red with pride knowing he would finally get to help in the back room of the warehouse, a place he had never been and only heard about in rumors and whispers.\n\nThey both step from the black Chevy four by four in front of the massive warehouse with the words Henkin’s Mellified Honey in ten foot golden letters across the front with a smiling bright yellow neon bee gracing the sign. John Sr. touches the remote in his hand and an eighteen foot high garage door in front of them moans with the weight. John and his dad enter the warehouse doors. Inside are fork lifts and cranes parked neatly against one wall underneath the thirty-foot ceiling, black steel chains hanging down ceiling to floor. On the other wall are at least fifty wooden pallets with cases of shrink-wrapped plastic honey jars of all sizes: pints and quarts and gallons; ready for shipping. Henkin’s Mellified Honey is on a yellow label on each jar. Little John has seen all this many times. He has stacked countless pallets as his dad felt he should. His dad had always said, ‘learn the business and the work ethic to go along with it’. \n\nBut today Little John’s dad pushes another button on a smaller remote and the rear wall of the warehouse creaks and squeals, opening up like a barn door to a deeper bright lit interior that Little John had known was there but was never allowed into or permitted to talk about. John, Sr. leads his son through the archway and inside are more than a hundred gray shiny containers jammed into a storage room, stacked from ground to ceiling, row after row, one on one. All of them look like the size of a casket Little John is ashamed to think, but he feels better right away noticing they aren’t caskets but simply shaped that way, made from some kind of metal, each sealed.\n\nJohn Sr puts his hand on a container. “These are honey containers son. You need to know we could never, ever, produce enough honey to fill the demand so we bring in honey from all over, even the world.”\n\n“You mean it’s not our honey?” Now Little John is confused as he had been to the fields where the boxes kept the bees acre on acre. He had seen the honey harvesters bringing in the honey and he had learned how to do just that. He knew his deep boxes and he knew his brood boxes from his medium boxes. He had been trained with the hats and veils and smoke and beekeeper suits his whole short life.\n\n“The recipe is ours.” John Sr. then opens a double door into the bee honey processing plant. On the floor are a dozen workers dressed in white smocks and hair nets. Ten containers like Little John had seen in the front storage warehouse are open. The workers are busy draining off the honey in each container from a spigot protruding from the front of each, much like draining off wine from a barrel. Golden honey flows out the spigot and into the jars, a slow process.\n\n“These containers are one-hundred years old,” says John Sr., his voice louder than it needs to be. “This is an age-old recipe going back to fifteenth century old England and who knows how far before that.”\n\nJohn Sr. looks close at his son’s face as he motions to Little John to take a look in an open container. Now is the moment John Sr. remembers so well when his father had motioned to him also on that fateful day thirty-one years before when he was a boy of fourteen himself.\n\nLittle John looks in the open container full of honey. Within the honey he sees an image of a shriveled skull-like head with black eyes, the mouth open with rotten teeth. An entire dissolved gray-white human being, a full-on corpse can be made out, barely but enough, through the copper yellow honey.\n\n“Something about the preservation process,” John Sr. says. And just like his daddy, he needs to see if his son understands the legacy he is bringing him. Later he would explain why cremation was important at the mortuary and how one box of rocks was as good as another for the town-folks who mourned their loved ones—and how they never needed to know the box was light, or who was in it. “Once the honey is drained off we break the honey brine into confectionery and mix it with the honey. It’s a delicacy John. A delicacy. A cure for what ails you.”\n\nLittle John retches onto the concrete floor and falls to his knees. \n\nMaybe he’s not ready, thinks John Sr. He’s weak, like his mother. “Get off your knees son. Don’t let these people see you like that. You’re a Henkins! Stand up boy!”\n\nBrown bile pools on the floor in front of Little John’s face. A sour acrid smell makes him gag. He crawls back on his knees, then stands unsteady next to John Sr., his eyes down in disgrace. But from somewhere, deep within him, he can sense the history of the Henkins family and it feels like long dead ghosts hold him up. He reaches into the honey with one hand, pushes down to his wrist, and then deeper to his elbow. He scoops and digs with his fingers from the black eyes in the muck, draws out the clump that he finds, and holds his dripping hand above his head getting ready to slurp it into his mouth. “I’m a Henkins,” he says proud or maybe spiteful.\n\nHe’s my boy, thinks John Sr. Blood is thicker than water and but for the dilution from my wife’s line the Henkins’ family name lives on. And with that final thought, John Sr’s mind turns hot white and gone as his head explodes clean off his shoulders.\n\nAnn Henkins stands in the double doorway; a Browning twenty-eight gauge shotgun with a thirty-inch barrel smoking in her hands." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Gog, Magog, and Little Ada\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2339\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There once was an old man named Gog. That wasn’t his real name, of course. Perhaps at one time, many years ago, there lived people in the little town who knew the old man’s name. Yet, for as long as anyone could remember, the old man lived in his three-story house alone. All those years, he never bothered to speak to anybody unless he had something to complain about.\n\nNow, a three-story house might sound like a very grand place to live, but in fact each level was a single room. You see, Gog (we will call him Gog for now, since that is what everybody else calls him in town) was born to a young couple who immigrated from Romania by boat. They had no money for a house, but they did have enough for some land, a hammer, a box of nails, and an axe. So the husband, along with a Hungarian neighbor they came upon, set to building a house just large enough for a young couple. It was a fine little house, and they paid the Hungarian neighbor with stuffed cabbage rolls and cakes with swirls of jam and walnuts.\n\nAs Gog came along, the house started to feel a little small. Once Gog was three years old, his mother grew rather fed up of having a toddler running about between her legs as she was cooking. So she demanded a larger house. Her husband obliged but, having no saws to cut down the walls, he instead decided to build upwards. When Gog’s little sister came along, they build upwards once more. That was how the house came to stand at three stories tall, despite being only three rooms large.\n\nSome years passed, and Gog’s sister grew to be very beautiful. She was thought to be a princess, for all her beauty, and she soon caught the attention of a kind-hearted young doctor who took her to New York.\n\nGog, meanwhile, might have been a handsome young man, but few people knew of him, for he spent all his days at his desk. He had been a very sweet child, and he had many friends. Yet, one day, he was sitting in the meadow with two of his pals when a sparrow landed in a nearby oak tree and began to sing a sweet little song. At once, a poem came into Gog’s mind. It was a strange thing, for Gog had never much liked poems himself. The only poem he knew was one he had been made to recite in school, and even that one gave him trouble, as he always forgot how line six went.\n\nGog stood up at once and said, “I must go home and fetch a pen and some paper.” And that was what he did. The bird’s song had run in his chest, and a piece of the tune must have gotten stuck in his heart, for he spent the rest of his life writing poetry.\n\nAll this sounds very romantic, and it might have been so for Gog, had the story been of a different kind. The trouble was that the tune which had become lodged within his heart began to grow with each poem he wrote until, one day, it filled his whole heart. And so Gog had no room left for love.\n\nBy the time Gog had grey hair and wrinkles on his face, he had become a recluse. He wrote only for himself. Gog did not wish to share the song with anyone else out of fear that someone else might take his muse away from him, leaving him with nothing. For this reason, Gog grew into a very wicked and selfish old man. If there were five apples left in the market, and a young mother was behind him with her child, he would take all five, for he liked apples very much and would have, in fact, liked seven of them—one for every day of the week.\n\nThat, and the fact that he wore an old green Macintosh coat whose waterproof rubber was wearing away, made him appear very beastly. The children of the town believed him to be a terrible creature who had been transformed by a witch to look like a man. That was where the name Gog came from, after the wicked pair Gog and Magog, of which the children learned in their readings. Magog was the tabby cat who often sat on the stone fence by the road outside Gog’s house, hissing and batting her paw at anyone who dared pass by.\n\nSometimes, Gog would be out in his garden as some children were passing by, and he would scold them for talking over the birdsong. As such, between Gog and Magog, most children did not dare pass by the three-story house of Gog.\n\nOne day, a little girl called Ada was walking along the lane. She had just moved to town with her mother, father, and little brother from Chicago, where her father had been working in the factories. Her mother had been born to a Transylvanian shepherd, and her father was a Prussian merchant. Little Ada spoke broken English, for there had been a large community of immigrants in her neighborhood in Chicago, and she had not been old enough to go to school to learn English. As such, she often walked alone and played by herself, for she knew not how to speak to the other children. Besides, her brother was only a babe and was not very fun to play with.\n\nPerhaps, if Ada spoke English, she might have been the most well-liked child in the schoolyard. After all, she made friends with all the strays about the town, and there were at least three different crows who came to her window in the mornings to leave her little gifts such as buttons and lost earrings. Even Magog didn’t dislike her quite as much as other children.\n\nOn that particular day, Ada had tears in her eyes, for the grammar lesson of the day had been about the rules of commas, and Ada had been the unlucky child chosen to recite the rules aloud. Seeing as Ada didn’t know much English at all—let alone such rules of grammar—she had done rather a poor job with her recitation, and she had been given the cruel punishment of standing in front of the blackboard for the rest of the day, writing out all the many ways in which one may use punctuation.\n\nAlthough Ada was a kindhearted child, she was still a child, and so as she was walking home that day, she was stormily crafting a terrible poem in her head. She composed it first in German, then in Romanian. Those were the languages her parents had grown up speaking in Prussia and Transylvania, but here I will recount it for you in plain English:\n\nAh, how wicked is Miss Fisher,\n\nWho is as smelly as her name.\n\nWell, she must be a witch;\n\nPerhaps I would know this\n\nIf I might only hear her cackling laugh,\n\nFor which witches are famed.\n\nAlas, Miss Fisher will not laugh\n\nNor even give a smile.\n\nSo instead I pity her,\n\nAs the Lord would have me do.\n\nNow, be sure to know that this is only a translation. The original poems rhymed well, and Ada changed it a little between the two languages, so this is the best that could be done to keep the poems’ meaning.\n\nAda had just finished composing this poem when she came upon Magog, who sat on the wooden fence outside Gog’s house. Magog hissed, though she did not bat her paws at Ada. This was how she showed her toleration of the girl.\n\n“Good day,” said Ada to Magog as she wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. Ada spoke first in English, then she spoke again in German and finally Romanian, for she knew that not all the animals understood English. The dog who belonged to the Dutch family, for instance, responded most often to German. At last, on the third “good day,” Magog looked at her and meowed.\n\nAda’s first thought, since she was only a little girl, was that the cat might also be Transylvanian. Then a second, more sensible thought came to her, and she realized that the cat’s owner must have migrated instead.\n\nSo Ada said to the cat in their shared tongue, “Does your friend speak Romanian? The one who lives in that funny house?”\n\nMagog meowed again. This was a very miraculous thing, as Magog hardly ever spoke to anyone. It was almost magical, and Ada must have felt it was so, for she spoke on to the cat, as though Magog was a lady of polite company.\n\n“Madam,” said Ada, “is your friend a man, or the Devil? The children do not like to come this way, for they are frightened of this house, and of you, its great guardian. If he is the Devil, then I would not be frightened, for he must be very lonely. Even so, I hope he isn’t the Devil, so that I might be able to speak to him without the Lord being upset with me for it.”\n\nIn reply, Magog leapt down from the fence and went over to the door of Gog’s three-story house. She opened her mouth and began to yowl. Soon after, the door swung open, and a red-faced Gog appeared at the door. He glanced down on the steps, looked at the cat, and waited for her to step inside. When she only blinked back at him, his face grew redder still and he demanded, “What do you want?”\n\n“Good day, sir,” called out Ada, in Romanian.\n\nGog glanced up and stared at Ada in surprise. “Who are you?”\n\n“Your neighbor,” said Ada, unfrightened by the old man.\n\nGog grumbled. “Alright. Good day to you too, then.” He was about to shut the door, but, all this time, Magog had dashed inside, and now she dashed back out, this time with something in her mouth. Gog’s eyes widened, and he stumbled towards the cat, reaching out for her. He said a few things which children ought not to hear, and then he cried out, “You! Thief! Come back with my work, you wicked cat.”\n\nBut Magog did not stop until she leapt up to the fence once more. She blinked at Ada, bidding her to take the paper. Ada did so, and she smiled when she saw what was written on it. for it was a sweet little poem about a fairy tale which tells the story of a princess called Marioara and a shepherd boy. It was said that Marioara let free a nightingale, in the hopes that her shepherd might come to her.\n\nAll this time, Gog limped along through his garden, coming towards Ada so that he could snatch the poem from her hands. But he stopped short when Ada began to sing. He stood and looked on, and he listened, for in her song he heard the words of the tale of Marioara and the shepherd boy. Ada sang in a sweet and pretty voice, for she had sung in the children’s choir in her little neighborhood of Chicago. She might have sang badly, and it would have had the very same magic to it. This was because the magic of this little moment came from the words, which were the very same that all Romanian children, even Gog, once heard.\n\nIn that moment, a little piece of the song flew against the hardened heart of old Gog, and a little crack struck through to the very center. Gog clutched at his chest, and he took in a great breath. As all this happened, the sparrow's song began to fall out through the crack. It fell and fell until it all came out through Gog’s toes, where it disappeared into the earth.\n\nAt once, the old man who the town knew as Gog was gone, and the man who remained stood with a twinkle in his eye.\n\n“What are you called?” he asked Ada.\n\n“Ada.”\n\nHe smiled. “They call me Petru. But I have not heard that name in many years.”\n\nAda nodded. “You had a piece of wickedness inside you, I think. It was a little like how a bitter current will ruin the whole bite of cake. But you seem a rather sweet man now.”\n\n“That is very wise,” praised Petru. “I was like a bitter cake indeed, but I hope I can be as sweet as you say now. Did you like that little poem you read?”\n\n“Oh yes, very much. It reminded me of home. I had to start singing, you see, the way my cousin used to sing of fairy tales as he played the piano.”\n\nPetru thought this over for a moment. Then he said, “Pardon me, Miss Ada, for I think I will go inside to my house. I have at least a thousand poems in my house. They fill the second and third level to the brim, so that I can hardly walk about there without stepping on a verse. It is time to take them out of that little house. Perhaps they will like it better in a book of verses, or in a newspaper.”\n\nAda smiled. “I think your poems would like that very much. Farewell for now, Mister Petru.”\n\nWith that, Petru and his cat, who in fact was called simply Cat, went inside and Ada went on her way. From that day on the town was a little better, for the beasts Gog and Magog had gone and in their place were a poet and his pet. It even came to be that Petru’s sister saw her brother's name below a poem in New York's finest newspaper, and she came to visit that same winter. That Christmas, she, Petru, and Ada’s family all had a very fine dinner of stuffed cabbage rolls and walnut cake." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: With Time and Effort\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2504\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It is out of love that I find myself in St. Catherine’s Cemetery on a cloudy night, with an oil lamp in one hand and a shovel in the other. I will not lie; my stomach roils just as the sea churns nearby, and I search every howl of the wind for the constable’s whistle, and every looming shadow for a mob.\nMaster Hartley’s eyes are wild and his hair, normally kempt, tears madly at the sky. He is an apparition, and had I courage, I would have stopped him ere we set out this eve. But there is colour in his pallid skin again, and he grins. The first smile I’d seen in months.\n“Nearly there!” he sings, and he gambols with the excited energy of a truant schoolboy enjoying a long spring day.\nI pledged my loyalty to this man, who had once rescued me from a vile life of poverty and violence. And when I swore I would do anything to pull him out of his depths – those fathomless murky waters I feared would extinguish his bright flame – I meant it. But I never imagined this.\nWhat a cruel world, to pit my oath against my deeds, and damn me both ways.\n“We’re here,” he speaks, and the wind dies. I hold my breath. “And now, help me dig.”\nOh Lord, forgive me. My shovel strikes earth.\n*\nI was born an orphan. My father was the drunken flick of a knife at night, and my mother was the wend of the streets. My brother was called Cold, and my sister was Hunger, and she never left my side.\nI fought for every penny and food scrap with the other alley beasts, though there was one beautiful autumn where I found uncommon kinship with a mangy cur I named King. We watched out for each other, and for the first time in my life I felt something more than base need. The frozen coal within my chest was struck by a spark, and smoldered.\nOne early winter morning, King ran into the street and under the wheels of a rich man’s carriage. I carry his final yelp with me to this day.\nI hardened my heart and turned to theft, and when I’d scrimped enough coin and foes, I left the wretched city of my birth. Years later Master Hartley caught me in his stables trying to make off with his horse, and he was greatly moved by my piteous life. Instead of calling for the bailiff, he offered me a meal and a job.\n“For all men are entitled to forgiveness, if they should so ask.” His belief in goodness was unwavering, an absolute certainty that with time and effort even the worst of the world’s ills could be repaired – and in his charitable view that included even me.\nIt was then I swore my life to him. More than a warm meal and a kind word, he showed me how I could pull myself out of the muck. He showed me purpose.\nI worked in his stables and on his grounds tirelessly, ever looking for the next thing to repair, or the next worry that weighed on Master’s mind. I threw myself at these with all I was worth so that he might have peace, and I would have lived and died happily if this was all I did in life.\nBut no, Master had a heart of gold. He never condescended, had a mountain’s patience, and was immeasurably kind. He frequently showed me his study and his collection of artifacts from all around the globe, and I learned just how brutish my world had been.\nWhen he travelled, I accompanied him. When he hunted, I carried his kit. We attended church together, and on holy days dined together. And when one evening over a pipe he said he considered me a friend, well, my heart nearly burst. The ember King first had lit was fanned anew into a bright flame.\nAnd then it melted altogether, when I met Emily.\n\nThe sky opens up as our grisly wagon rolls down the hill to Master’s estate. Thick sheets of coastal rain soak our bones and our lamps sputter. Are these the tears of the Lord, for we have gone so far astray? Or does the Devil weep with joy at our black deeds?\n“Ha ha!” Master shouts, laughing into the wild night as lightning cracks along the sky. How I longed to once more hear him laugh, and now that living rictus fills me with foreboding. “Yah, horses, yah! We’re almost there!”\nThe horses scream and our wagon slides through the mud. That we remain on four wheels instead of tumbling head over heels is a miracle. I grip my seat so hard I fear my fingers will snap. Only when a wheel hits a ditch and we heave nearly to the side do I exclaim. And Master laughs all the louder.\n“Ring the bells!” he bellows into the roiling abyss. “It is time! It is time!” But no honest men are out on such a night to hear him.\nI spare a glance over my shoulder, at our dread cargo. Rain lashes a heavy canvas, bound to the wagon with rope. And beneath it, the proof of our villainry. I turn away, unable to face it. We roll into Master’s barn and the rain stops, hammering instead on the roof above. Thunder roars ceaselessly, as does Master.\n“Ha ha!” he laughs, and slaps me on the shoulder. “It is time!” He leaps to the ground and shudders with such horrid joy. Then he stops, places his hands reverently on the wagon’s siding, and looks at the canvas. And he whispers with such loud ecstasy it’s enough to drown out even the storm, “The lady of the house has returned!”\n\nWhen I first saw Emily I was immediately smitten. I thought my life complete until that moment, and I didn’t even know what it was I was missing – what it was a man could miss. Our paths crossed most curiously.\nOne fine evening, with Master away on business, I walked the backroads around town alone with my thoughts, and I heard a whinny in a nearby copse. I found a sleek silver mare; saddled, bridled, but riderless. She must have sensed I was a kind stablehand, for she let me walk right up to her and take her reins, but I saw no sign of her owner. I decided to take her to Master’s estate, and spread the word in town tomorrow.\nAs I walked down the roads I spotted a lone woman trudging along the hedges. She wore a fine hat and dress, and had a strange wooden contraption on her shoulder, in addition to a large wooden box in her other arm. It was clear they were heavy and she was flagging.\nShe turned and rejoiced for the horse was hers. She chastised the mare good-naturedly and thanked me profusely, but I’m afraid I was only able to stammer in return. To my great fortune, Emily – for she told me her name – found this endearing. And when I begged to carry her burden she permitted it.\nWe walked to her father’s estate – an hour gone in a blink. I learned the box was a daguerreotype, a magnificent device she captured portraits with. The mechanics were beyond me, but I could listen to her talk about it without end. When she offered to show me her work, it was astounding! She captured images of men, women, beasts and vistas, all as a painter would – and with immaculate skill. She asked me if there were interesting sights around town and I told her yes, and on an impulse offered to help her with her kit. And I’ll never know how I was so blessed, but she accepted my offer.\nFor the next several weeks I was her guide and assistant. She had a particular interest in the sea, and we had no shortage of breathtaking cliffs and bluffs. We grew close, closer than I ever dared hope. One day, she insisted on taking my portrait. I couldn’t deny her anything, and I admit her magic hands turned this mongrel into art.\nWe remained on the cliffs late that day, until the stars came out, and a cold wind brought us close together. And we kissed.\nIt was the happiest day of my life – but. Not a moment after, she turned away, terribly upset. I feared it was my doing, but she confessed she had a horrible secret. Her father had brought her here to meet her betrothed!\nYes, she was promised to another; chattel to be passed between men of business. I felt fury rise in my chest. I professed my love for her, and vowed – foolishly! – that I would let none other come between us. And oh, my poor dear Emily, she did the same.\nWhen she told me the name of her betrothed I felt my heart shatter anew, for it was none other than Master Hartley.\nA man cannot serve two masters, and neither two opposed vows. When Master returned, I greeted him warmly and betrayed him every time he closed his eyes. Even as I prepared a great reception for Emily and her family did I drive a knife into his back. And when he confided in me that he was utterly smitten with her, and that all of his misgivings about this arrangement had evaporated, I agreed and encouraged him, like the wretched Judas goat I was.\nBut I could not get enough of Emily, and neither she of me. She begged us to stop and yet could not pull away. The night that the wedding date was set, we broke the most sacred of the Lord’s laws. And each day hence, our rising dread grew ever greater. The only relief we had was in each other’s arms.\nI knew it couldn’t last forever. Each moment without her was torture, and each moment with a visceral reminder of our sins. My heart tore in two, between the man I swore to serve and the woman I loved more than life itself.\nI knew I had to choose, but I couldn’t.\nAnd then Emily chose for us.\nWith three months until the wedding, she threw herself from the cliffs.\n*\nI had been blinded by greed, I know that now. Master Hartley had loved her as dearly as I did, and he had shattered with the news of her fall. And now, not a day goes by I don’t regret it – all of it. Better we had never met and I spent the rest of my life admiring her from afar, than the fate she chose. The fate I forced her into.\nAnd so I could not deny Master his mad wish. Not now, not ever again. I am bound to him, and should he drag my sorry soul through Hell itself, I’ll go.\nEmily was to be his in life. I can understand him wanting to inter her in the family tomb. I shake the water from my coat and shiver from a bone-deep chill. I spare but a glance at our wagon – at… her. And shiver again.\n“Please,” Master gestures to her. “It is time.”\nI swallow hard. I am sworn to serve. This is my penance. I unbind the ropes and carefully pick up the canvas. I dare not unwrap it. I dare not think about what rests precariously in my hands. I start towards the family crypts.\n“No,” says Master. “Not that way. To my lab.”\nTo the lab? Whatever for? Master sets off at a brisk pace and I hurry behind him. Perhaps… well, what do I know of funerals? Perhaps it’s embalming.\nI have not been in the lab since her fall, and Master has all but lived within, even taking his meals there. The room has changed. It is filled with strange glass vessels, copper tubes, and inconceivable machines. And all of them surround a table.\n“Please, place her there,” he says. I obey, and he brings the machines to life through means I do not understand. In the cold light of the oil lamps, I see things spinning and whirring and pumping. And he stands over the table, over Emily, with a book in his hands.\n“What is this, Master?”\nHe sets the book on the table and pulls back the canvas. Underneath is the burial shroud, and I turn away. I cannot possibly see her like this. Cannot even conceive of it!\n“With time and effort even the worst of the world’s ills can be repaired,” he says. “And what greater illness is there?”\nI hear a wet crunch and a metallic jangling, as he does something at the table. I dare not look, and what I see of his shadow gives me nightmares.\n“Illness, Master?” I say.\n“I have found great writings on the subject, by a brilliant scholar named Abdul Alhazred. Tonight, I reproduce his work.”\nThe machines begin groaning and whirring faster, and I see terrible flashes of galvanic energy arcing throughout the room, mirroring the lightning storm above. “Sir?”\n“I intend to cure Emily of her death.”\nThe machines roar and unnatural light strobes in the room. Something starts hissing and smoke fills the air. I scream – I think – and cower, and something near me vents a foul steam.\nAnd then as suddenly as it began, all is still.\n“Arise, my love,” Master says.\nI dare not open more than one eye, and spy his shadow over the table with his arms raised high. And then I see something stir. And rise.\nMaster chuckles. It’s a low, throaty thing at first, and then rises and grows, a lifetime of laughter dammed up by misery and finally freed. He weeps with joy as Emily – Emily! – stands. She lurches unsteadily on her feet – each footfall a sopping, meaty crunch – and when she reaches out for him he embraces her, blubbering. He weeps with sorrow and relief, a man who refuses to be bereaved.\nHe pulls her close and she embraces him tighter. “Time and effort!” he cries, his words shredded by bliss and misery and all things in-between.\nAnd then, I hear a raspy, slick breath – a death rattle – as Emily’s lungs draw air. And then, she brings her face to his – and I hear the wet rip of meat tearing and sinews snapping and bone breaking.\nMaster screams, and though we are indoors the room is filled with red sea spray.\n“Help–!” is the last thing I ever hear him say. The last thing I hear in that horrid room, in that accursed estate. I turn and flee, and run as fast as my legs take me. I run into the night and into the storm, and never look 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: The Widow Betrayed\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1716\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Widow\nBetrayed\nI didn’t ask for any of this\nto happen in this order.\n-- Stephen Falk\n“I think,” said Judy, amid the clopping of horse hooves and crunch of the wagon wheels on the road, “that my Dad loved my Mom more than she loved him.”\nWe were making good time on the new section of McKinley Highway, approaching the Portuguese Quarter,\nJudy was driving us home in the buckboard wagon after the Mira Flores dam incident. Sam was riding shotgun and I was half-dozing in the wagon’s bed. It had been a long day.\n“You knew them both, Sam,” she continued, “what do you -- ”\n“Twelve Gauge,” I interrupted. “He wants to be called Twelve Gauge from now on.”\n“Oh,” said Judy. “Okay, Twelve Gauge. What do you think?”\n“You may be right,” answered Sam carefully. I didn’t blame him: it sounded like some sort of trap question.\n“I don’t know. With our parents,” theorized Twelve Gauge, “it was the other way around.”\n“Marriages are always slanted,” theorized Judy. “That’s what I think. It’s never exactly even.”\nCopyright @ 2023 Tom Durwood. All rights reserved.\nShe sweet-talked the horses, those hard workers who expected and deserved her warm voice and constant attention. She jostled the reins, just to let them know she was with them. \n “Love,” Judy concluded. “It’s all so sad. Makes you think.”\n“It makes you think,” said Twelve Gauge. “Everything makes you think -- ”\nJust then, Johnny Hayes, one the head Inspectors, emerged onto the road and flagged us down, weaving frantically. \n“Gunny! Thank God it’s you!”\nJohnny was wearing his fogger gear, hood back. He waved us over.\n“Got ourselves a hoarder,” was what he said. “Cain’t let go.”\nHe climbed in and we rode through a little grove and into the center of Vizinhanca, the Portagee village. At Johnny’s direction, we turned down one of the side streets, to where the road opened to a three-story farmhouse, in the French style, with gabled roofs and a circular drive. \n“This is one you may regret, Gunny,” said big Folly Mockerson, the Quartermaster, who had been roped into the drama. \n“She’s hoarding all kinds of garbage in there.” Folly showed me the paperwork. \n“ICC violations!” added Johnny, gesturing towards a dozen waiting foggers. “All kinds!”\n“The boys cain’t use force to remove her,” Folly explained. “It’s in the charter.” \n“But you can,” added Johnny.\n“Let us do our job!” shouted one of the foggers.\nI smoothed back my hair, straightened the collar of my khaki uniform shirt, and put on my hat.\nI moved towards the porch of the house, where I saw a group of women gathered, sitting on hammocks and wicker chairs.\n“That’s a shot-gun on her lap,” warned Johnny. He spat on the ground for emphasis. “Looks like one of those old Sharps ...” \n“Besides, she’s Joao Martim’s sister,” Folly added. “He swears by her.”\n“That don’t cut no ice with me,” says I.\n“Maybe it should -- ” warned Folly.\nMartim was the Portagee Borough chief. He called the shots for all the village’s domestic matters, as well as the work crews.\n“Where’s Martim now?” I asked.\n“The whole Lisbon crew is down in the Gatun,” said Folly. “They’ll be back Friday.”\n“We can’t wait!” insisted Johnny. “Her hoarding has attracted all kinds of vermin in there. Bad things festering.”\nI took off my hat and stepped onto the porch.\nSimao, one of the Portuguese elders, stepped out of the crowd and walked with me, so he could translate. I knew him from the Borough councils.\n“Her name is Ines,” he said, in a low voice. “Perhaps not the most popular woman in our ward …”\nWe climbed the stairs to the porch.\n“Howdy, Miss Ines.” I bowed. “I’m Gunny Sergeant Gray Stott.”\n“I know who you are,” she replied, in thickly accented English. “I knew your Father.”\nShe was seated on the edge of a hammock. I could see the bulky form of a sawed-off Sharps on her lap, one of those old-time, heavy squirrel guns, half-covered by a shawl. Four neighbor-women sat around her on white wicker seats. I couldn’t tell what they thought of the proceedings. \n“Boa noite,” Miss Ines said politely.\nShe nodded for me to come ahead. \nAs I approached, I could see through the windows into a living room crammed with junk. Newspapers and magazines were stacked in leaning box- towers. I caught a glimpse of the hallway, and the kitchen beyond, and saw empty tin cans and bags of garbage. I could smell rotted fish, and coffee, and a whiff of tobacco. All the lights were on: Johnny and his fumigation team must have been in the middle of executing a sweep of the borough when they came across this treasure.\n“What is it, ma’am” I asked her, as Simao translated. “How can I help us all get through this?”\nShe listened gravely to Simao. She sat upright and cleared her throat and spoke, with feeling, and at length.\n“My late husband loved to read the newspaper,” Simao said (speaking for her). “These, these objects I am saving, they are for him. His favorite things. They cannot be touched.”\nThe widow rocked slightly in her porch seat. Her hand moved, so as to grip the gun more effectively. I pretended not to notice.\n“What, like a tribute?” asked Twelve Gauge, who had ignored my order to stay back. “That’s a hell of a thing -- ”\n“Gustavo,” explained Simao, “was a handsome man. Well-liked. Their love was … was of the highest order, she says. She keeps all his favorite things, his foods, his papers, close by. To honor him.”\nOne of her friends sniffled, another began to cry.\n“I am truly sorry for your loss, ma’am,” said I. “My Daddy passed some time ago.” Simao translated my words.\n“Yes,” she replied. “I know that.” \n“Today, this house is a hazard to the families of Aldeia,” I told her, using the second, more local name for her village.\n“Your neighbors’ children will die of fever. From this.”\nThe widow pulled a bonnet from under the shotgun. She spoke slowly, the bonnet turning in her hands. Simao seemed upset by what she said, and he interrupted her twice. She calmly continued speaking, nodding for him to translate. \nThe widow Gustavo turned to face me.\nI recognized that look: Nothing left to lose.\n“She says that Gustavo brought her to life,” said Simao. “He was all she had in this world. A girl like her, she says – plain-looking – she had no dowry, no mystery about herself. No suitors came to call. He saved her from a life of loneliness.”\nThe widow interjected, adding more, setting up a stir among the neighbor women. \n“Don’t matter,” I announced.\nI held up my hand.\nI had made up my mind.\n“The past is dead and gone, ma’am,” I told Miss Ines.\n“Leave it be.”\nShe remained unmoved.\nI opened one of the windows to the living room and reached through. I grabbed a newspaper.\nI rolled it into a torch.\nI took out a matchbook and held it up.\nMurmurs and shouts of protest rose along the porch seats and out among the onlookers, who now filled the lawn.\n“I’m going to count to three.” I told the widow Ines. “Then I’m gonna burn this house down. You’d best use that gun now, lady, or step out.”\nAn outburst of rapidly-talking voices cascaded into the evening air –\n“Back off!” said Folly. \n“Do it, Gray!” cried Johnny.\nBoth Judy and Sam stepped up onto the porch, Sam at my 3 o’clock, ready to back me, howsoever the cat jumped.\n“They’ll hate you for it -- ” Simao shouted.\n“They can get in line,” I replied.\n“One ...” I counted.\n“Gunny knows what he’s doing,” said Sam calmly.\n“Two.” I yanked out a match --\nThe widow Ines pulled the heavy gun up --\n“Esperar!” cried one of the neighbor-women. \nShe leapt between me and the Widow. \n“Por favor, Ines!”\n“Esperar,” said the neighbor-woman. “Momentito.”\nShe handed something to Simao, accompanied by a rapid-fire narrative. \nSimao held it up for all to see. He lowered it.\nIt was a packet of letters, colored letters, some with envelopes. He untied the ribbon and gingerly removed the top letter. Lavender.\nHe gave the rest of the packet to the widow.\nQuiet settled over the scene. Letters were passed among the neighbor women.\n“E hora de ela saber,” the neighbor stated.\nFor a long interval, there was only the sound of shuffling papers.\n“These are … letters of a most intimate sort,” explained Simao. “Between Gustavo and another woman. This lady’s daughter, Leonor.”\nSeveral of the women clucked with disapproval.\nThe widow’s features had gone pale, and fallen apart. Her lips were pursed thin. Faced with this proof of Gustavo’s betrayal … \nThe women passed letters back and forth. Sharp disapproval mixed with warm expressions of sympathy for Ines. Simao did not need to translate.\nThe widow Ines looked at me and nodded. The look in her eyes was so wild, so sad.\nJohnny Hayes and a trio of foggers began to climb the porch.\nShe lay the shotgun on the floor. \nThe full force of the ICC’s Legion of Hygiene swarmed into the home. \n“Where is the girl Leonor now?” I asked Simao, to the side.\n“Apparently Martim paid for her to return to Portugal,” he told me. “Martim didn’t want to see his sister hurt. There may have been … the birth of a child involved …” Simao’s voice trailed off.\nWe could hear the loud sounds of the stamping of feet on floorboards within, as the foggers moved furniture, shouting instructions to one another, clouds issuing from their hoses.\nThe widow’s friends ushered her off the porch, so the plenithium would not burn her lungs.\nWe stepped down the porch’s near side, winding our way through the onlookers and foggers.\nI wrote notes in my pad, for the report. Murph would want to know as much I wanted to tell him.\nWe crossed the gravel drive towards the wagon. \nTwelve Gauge clapped his hand on my shoulder. Judy’s hand followed. \n“Love,” said Judy. “It’s a helluva thing …”\n# # #" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Talking Cars\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1839\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a reflection in a mirror." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On the final occasion we visited Dad in hospital our last conversation was about cars. Jimmy predicted a future with speaking navigation aids and the possibility of driverless vehicles. As he spouted forth, Dad’s face assumed a ruddy glow and his gnarly fingers curled into fists. Our father loved talking cars but talking about talking cars? Never. He’d married a forthright woman who could handle a map and gave adequate travel directions; a machine to replace her talents was inconceivable.\n“Just think, Dad,” I said. “A talking map could’ve ended all those arguments on the road.”\n“Granted,” he said, “your mother’s guidance was mediocre, God bless her, however---”\n“It’s the future, Dad,” said Jimmy.\n“The future be damned!” \n“They’ve got the know-how and—-”\n“Forget the future, son---”\n“But, Dad---”\n“It ain’t going to happen!” His face flushed with a rich burgundy hue, and the veins in his temples throbbed as if they’d explode. Dad couldn’t bear Jimmy’s lip. I’m not saying our last hospital visit killed him, but it didn’t help. Thank goodness we didn’t mention the night of the Hudson. That was the one episode from our youth we knew never to recall in his company. Looking back at the incident, it was looking back in the rear-view mirror that saved us from another merciless thrashing, or worse.\n#\nMy father had a thing about scratched paintwork and smeary windscreens. He struggled to care for cars that hadn’t been cared for. Rusty coachwork was his pet peeve, but rotten wheel arches provoked him to incandescent rage. As proprietor of Cassady Car Care, he made his money from rejuvenating cars and valeting vehicles.\nIf he was curt with clients he didn’t mean to be mean, if you know what I mean. He’d bite his lip rather than lose a customer. Moaning in the car-care industry is a big ‘no-no’ and grumbling looks ungracious whilst charging top dollar to fix up a dishevelled jalopy.\n“The customer is always right,” he’d say, planting his tongue in his cheek, “even if their car is a dilapidated wreck, right?”\n“Sure thing,” I’d say, nudging Jimmy.\n”What? Yeah, of course, Dad.”\nMy father went to great lengths to attract customers by creating appealing local adverts and snappy strap lines. His latest business cards had an embossed typeface, glinting foil facia and assured new clients; “Cassady Car Care cares for all your car’s car cares.”\n#\nJimmy, and I learned about the family valeting business from an early age. Dad trusted me to drive the clients’ vehicles around the compound. For fear of a beating, I became an expert at car manoeuvres and with the help of side and rear-view mirrors, my high speed reversing was a sight to behold.\n“Jack!” he’d say, “get Jimmy started on the dashboard and buff those hubs.”\n“Right, Dad, and after I—-”\n”I want them gleaming before you consider helping the kid inside, right?”\nAt junior high school, Dad insisted we help wash and polish on Saturday mornings. Our summer holidays comprised soapsuds, turtle-wax and chrome cleaner. It was all meant to be good character deforming - I mean, character forming experience. Whatever. We learned about the car business from the ground up and in retrospect we discovered a great deal about our father, too. He was a perfectionist, period. We could never attain his benchmark; no matter how hard we tried. In his eyes we’d never cut it, even when we cut corners and cut the time per vehicle and cut a good deal. There’d be no word of appreciation. He expected no less. \n#\nDad allowed us to relax on Sundays, after attending morning mass. The afternoons were ours and we’d scamper off across the fields to the sanctuary of our secret hideout; the long forgotten garage and our faithful old Hudson. Behind the wheel of our luxurious sedan we imagined we were escaping from the farm; racing across prairies and flying over mountain tops; being anywhere else was so appealing at that age.\n#\nMy brother and I discovered the beautiful old ‘49 Hudson Commodore Eight in one of the many rickety barns on the outskirts of Grandma Carolyn’s land. It was way off the main road and out of sight from passing traffic and snooping repo men.\nWhen we first removed the tarpaulin, our eyes popped out of their sockets. We believed we’d found an alien spaceship; its sleek lines and aerodynamic construction were out of this world. We were used to boxy-looking gas guzzlers with late 70s lines and acres of overblown aluminium painted either bright red, sky blue or tropical orange. This gorgeous old car was a shade of deep maroon with large hubcaps, white wall tires, a chrome grille guard and the distinctive rear fender skirts that gave it the streamlined appearance.\nJimmy and I were in automobile heaven. The Hudson appeared to be intact, although it was ill-kempt and tired, but not unsalvageable. The local rodents must have spotted the open window, and without invitation made their new home under the brown Bedford cord upholstery. We inspected the interior and found desiccated mouse remains and what amounted to an abandoned bird’s nest.\nBut would the Hudson start?\nJimmy poked around behind the driver’s sun visor. Out dropped a tarnished key. We looked at each other and tried the ignition. Not much chance of a spark. Maybe with a little perseverance? We had ourselves a summer project.\nI pushed the barn doors wide open and Jimmy shuffled along the brown cord upholstered bench. His grubby paws wiped the cobwebs from the leather-bound steering wheel and side-by-side we imagined speeding on a westbound highway under endless skies, passing through small towns and impressive landscapes in a whirl of grit and dust. From inside that sleek and spacious static vehicle we discovered a sense of the freedom of the open road. Old Route 66 beckoned us to explore a world beyond the interstate.\n#\nThe Hudson Motor Company built the Commodore to run on smooth asphalt at high speeds and legend says it was reliable over long distances. Grandma recalled how Grandpa Neal had driven her at 90 mph from coast to coast and everywhere in between until the day the money ran out. When the car loan company came looking for their vehicle, he hid it on blocks in the old barn and abandoned his responsibilities. The car wasn’t the only thing he left behind; Grandma didn’t see him again and my father never forgave him.\n#\nWhen I enquired about his father, Dad changed the subject and then ignored me when I probed him about refurbishing old wrecks. Grandma Carolyn was more responsive to questions. She told me all about her life after the war and how they made things last by ‘mending and making do’.\nAs a young woman she listened to jazz and blues music in an era before teenagers existed. She recalled witnessing her contemporaries reading poetry in smoky basement bars and attending all-night esoteric happenings. They were exciting times. There was life and rebellion and the genesis of a counter culture. At the time, nobody imagined their involvement would transform the way future generations viewed the world.\n#\nJimmy and I visited the sleek old vehicle often; fuelled by the accounts of Grandma’s adventures on the road. There was a stand pipe close by and we set about restoring our pride and joy to reveal its former splendour; courtesy of materials from Cassady Car Care. Towards the end of our summer holidays, we managed to refurbish the entire vehicle and lubricate all its moving parts. We removed the wooden blocks and jacked the vehicle down onto the dirt floor.\nTogether we acquired some gas and dragged the two gallon can across the fields to our barn. Siphoning the noxious liquid into the car’s tank was difficult to master, but we did it.\nI remember the breathless moment behind the wheel as I crossed my fingers for luck and turned the ignition key.\nOnce gave us nothing.\nTwice was just a judder.\nA third time and it turned over.\nJack’s face was radiant and his eyes twinkled with mischief as the vehicle shuddered to life and belched out exhaust fumes.\nI lowered the clutch, levered the stick into first gear, pumped the gas, released the hand brake, and gently raised my left foot. The engine stalled. I grimaced.\nJimmy ground his teeth, “Jeez, Jack.” \nNext time I got it right, and we rolled forward. “Yes…”\nBefore long we were chugging around the deserted back lot; our front beams carving golden arcs through the twilight murk. We took turns spinning it round in circles and crashing through the surrounding wheat fields with abandon; but not for long.\n“Jack! Behind, look!”\nIn the dark rear-view mirror Jimmy had seen a burst of light. I pulled up short, to get our bearings. The light was moving from the road and heading in our direction. The source was maybe six hundred yards away and closing in.\n”Be off with you!” A distant figure was approaching and waving a rifle in the air. “I see you now!”\nJimmy killed the main beams.\nA sharp crack of gunfire broke the stillness.\nI floored the gas and charged blindly across the undulating ground. Once we got close to the barn, I swung the car around to reverse inside. The skulking moon’s pale glow was little help and I failed. The building’s door frame buckled and splintered from the impact of the car’s solid iron unibody.\n“Vermin! I’ll make you pay!”\nThe car jerked forward away from the damaged upright.\nA second sharp crack echoed across the back lot as a bullet whipped-by overhead and ricocheted off the barn‘s sloping roof.\nI engaged the reverse gear and retreated back inside the wooden shelter.\nA third warning shot wasn’t necessary. We ran for our lives using the tall meadow grass as cover, and circled past the prowling figure at ground level. His flashlight’s piercing beam raked over the swaying crops inches above our trembling bodies. How he didn’t catch us, I’ll never know.\n#\nWhen we reached home, we tiptoed up the staircase and hid in our separate bedrooms. I was never inclined to ask God for help, but boy did I mutter a prayer under my breath that night.\n#\nWe heard the front door slam shut an hour later. The security bolt and chain crashed into place. The commotion disturbed my mother, and we heard our parents muttering downstairs.\nMy father said nothing the next day or the day after. A week later, we visited the barn after our first day back at school. The damage to the building had been repaired. And the Hudson? It was as if it had never existed.\n#\nBefore we left Dad’s hospital bed for the last time, I asked him why my mother had never got a driving licence.\n“Well,“ he said, “I guess some people are born to drive and others are born to be driven.”\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: The Ivy Castle In The Weeds.\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2123\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart a story with someone saying, “It’s mine, and you can’t have it!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"It's mine and you can't have it!\" yelled the orc warlock from his balcony perch. Baron William and the five young adventurers stood in the castle bailey's centre. The orc lord’s keep towered high above them, creeping ivy had climbed the gray stone walls all the way to the top. \n\n“Your army is defeated. We have survived the labyrinth. We are here to return the world’s heart before its power destroys the everything!” yelled Percival.\n\n“I will never give away my riches. It's all mine! The heart of the earth is mine! All mine” he laughed maniacally from high above. \n“Your wealth belongs to the people of Wedsborough. It was stolen. What will you do with your gold? Eat it? Sit on it like a gold coveting dragon? The people are starving. Weeds choke our streets and pollen fills our lungs.”\n\nLucille the beautiful elven healer was blotting calamine lotion on Eustace's irritated poison rashes. \n“Enough of this! It is time to write the final chapter in the magic book!” said Eustace.\nHe clenched his fist, “Ignis et flamma i tuam potestatem!” a roaring flame burst to life from his wizard staff. \n\nThe evil warlock raised his hideous staff and chanted, “Nubibus et aquis tonitrua et pluvia!”\n\nThe clouds above the castle in the weeds turned grey and twisted. Lighting bolts sparked the earth around them. First the clouds started with a sprinkle. Then a series of thunder claps shook the earth. \n\nPetunia wrapped herself around Percival, trembling in fear. he held her slim waist tightly. Eustace threw a flame ball at the wizard, he motioned it away effortlessly, hitting the keep’s wall and catching the ivy on fire. The clouds started pouring water in a downpour. \n\nThe warlock yelled, “Soldiers close the gates!” “Enjoy your watery deaths heroes.” he laughed mockingly. \nWilliam yelled, “Petunia they're locking us in the castle courtyard! Quickly shoot them with your pistols.”\n\nPetunia pulled two silver flintlock pistols from her leather baldric holster and aimed. When the flint snapped down the powder fizzled and died from the rains, “It's no use! My powder is all wet!”\n\nThe courtyard was now full with about two feet of grimy water topped by a layer of dead weeds and leaves. Digby had already sloshed his way to the stairs leading into the keep’s only entrance. Despite being a mighty barbarian his giant axe only sparked when he struck the metal door. \n\n“Come on! Digby has the right idea. Let's get out of this water before we drown!” ordered William.\nThe party sloshed their way through the now waste high water towards the stone staircase leading to the bowels of the keep. \n\n“Eustace! My foot is stuck! Help me please, the water is almost over my head!” Lucille coughed and gasped for air.\n\nEustace, seeing his yellow haired maiden in distress, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her feet out of the Grabgrass’ leafy grip. She hung onto his back, waterlogged but alive. Eustace was the last to make his way up the high steps, huffing as he carried his love to safety. However, there was no way to open this solid metal door. \n\nPetunia yelled, “Percival there are weed soldiers coming up the stairs! “ she pointed. \n\nPercival turned around with shield and spear at the ready, like the ancient hoplites he studied in history class. He stabbed one clean through with a solid thrust, chlorophyll oozed out of its wound . It collapsed into the rising water.\n\nRapid strikes started pelting his raised shield. The soldiers hit metal with their thorny clubs. \n“Digby, lend me your axe hand, barbarian of the frozen wastes!”\n\n“I'm so hungry!” he raged. His battle axe cut a large swath of weedmen in its wake. \n“Eustace! Can you pick this lock?” yelled Petunia in the storm. \n\n“I don't know! It's very loud and scary and I'm nervous.” he examined the lock. “I don't think I can open this lock. I need to level up my lockpicking skills but I'll try” his wizard cloak was soaked. He frantically searched for his lock picking set in his pockets. \n“Hurry, Eustace. We're running out of time! The water is almost here.” yelled Petunia\n\n“Will you please stop yelling at me? I can’t concentrate!” the thunder and lightning clapped. \"I can't unlock it! Ive failed my quest...”he ssad defeated.\n\n“Yes you can! I believe in you brave wizard.” his beautiful elven goddess planted a loving smooch on his lips.”she smiled lovingly. open the lock my cutie boy!” \n\nEustace smiled wide. Finally he got a kiss from his fair maiden, boosting his courage. He took off his thick black glasses and poked his tools into the complex lock. Tongue between lips; a satisfying click sounded and the heavy door swung open. \n\nBaron William motioned with his hand “Come on, children get inside now!” he ordered. Percival stepped cautiously backwards as the group entered the doorway. His spear was stained green from plant juice. His spear stabbed one final foe and William slammed the door behind Percival deftly. \n\nThey took a few well deserved minutes to collect themselves after that frightening ordeal. The entryway floor was soaked as everyone wrenched their clothing free of rainwater. \n\n“Ignis virgam lux iter nostrum,\" whispered Eustace. His staff gently became a match. He lit the wall scones in the crowded entryway. Their light and warmth were comforting. \n\n Keeps are notorious for their difficulty to assault. The circular staircase winded all the way up to the top floor; where William's deformed brother waited for them with devious magical surprises. \n\nPercival led the way with his shield and spear raised, weedmen fell by the dozens as they ascended the long circular stairwell to the lair of Lord Malsham. Dreaded warlock of two worlds.\n\nThe group poured into his lair one by one from the tight doorway. The most prominent item in the throne room was the heart of the world entrapped in a glass case behind the warlock.\n\nThe green diamond floated in the air , emanating similar coloured vapours around its beautiful sparkling exterior. A priceless stained glass window blocked out the outside world with radiant splendour. \n\n“My sweet brother Malsham, I forgive you for what you've done to our town of Wedsborough and for sending me to this world. Give me the heart of the earth and redeem yourself in their eyes.” he pleaded with arm outstretched. \n\n“It's mine, you can never have it!” he hissed. \n“You leave me no choice dear brother. I must do what I must for our beloved town and Britain. This must end before both worlds are consumed by your greed and the weeds!”\n\n“Hah. you must think me balmy in the crumpet to help those worthless rabble. They exist to work in the fertiliser factory and make me richer. You got in my way, nothing personal. It's what our father wanted, big brother.” he scowled. “Now you will all die here. Behold the power of the earth’s heart!”\n\nHe raised his arms high and chanted a spell, “Cor terrae da mihi donum tuum!”\nThe green vapours grew and swirled around him. He winced and cackled as his form began to change. He was completely surrounded by a green cloud for several moments until his metamorphosis was complete. His arms were now long leafy vines and his body was a large bulbous plant. His former hideous face is now the shape of a snapping venus fly trap. The massive plant roared and snapped its leafy jaw menacingly.\n\n“Gor blimey! Crickey. blooming bonkers.” the young adventures said in unison. \nPetunia fired both her pistols but the lead balls sunk harmlessly into plant flesh, burnt gunpowder filled the air with a sulphur smell. \n\nMalsham’s leafy vine hit Petunia and launched her across the room, knocking her unconscious.\nPercival stabbed the plant's flesh, causing large gashes to ooze green blood from its wounds. \n\n“Eustace you must light Malsham on fire. It's his only weakness!\" yelled William.\nEustace held his magic staff with both hands at his centre, “Igne et sulphure ego praecipio tibi!” his staff head was surrounded by fire now. \n\nDigby grabbed his staff to Eustace's shock, “Digby? What are you doing? Unhand my staff so we can end this madman’s reign!” he begged. \n\n“I'm so hungry! Don't you smell that? I can smell roasted urkey leg, baked potatoes and banana creampie coming from its mouth. Just let me see what's inside before you kill him.” he said in an intoxicated trance. \n\nPercival was a stout lad and had tackled Digby before he was digested in the plant monster's trap mouth. \n“\nDo it now, Eustace! Burn lord Malsham for good!” Lucille yelled. \nEustace pointed his staff at the monstrosity and shot a red hot flame.\n\nThe plant monster hissed and popped as plant flesh burned. His vines were flailing about causing everyone to warily dodge their menacing thorns. \n\n“Fairest maiden! I beseech thee! Smash the diamond and release the heart back into the earth!” yelled Eustace. She was the only one left.\n\nLucille nodded determined and ran around the flaming plant monster to the glass case, smashing it open and holding the glowing green diamond high up. \n\nMalsham sensing his doom whipped his thorny vines and stabbed Lucille in the stomach, causing her to drop the heart and fall down injured.\n“My dearest lucille! Are you alright my sweet?” She didn't answer his plea. \n\nThe only one left standing was Baron William Gloucester. It seemed fitting that he would finally send his brother to his prison deep in the earth. He grabbed the crystal.\n\nEustace's staff had stopped its flame spell. The plant monster was burning red hot now but couldn't die while the heart was still trapped. \n“I'm sorry sweet brother. Mother would be ashamed to know what you have become!’\n\nThe plant roared at this grievous and wounding insult. William smashed the crystal on the wood floor. Green vapours filled the entire room swirling at a blinding speed. The plant monster exploded covering everyone in plant goop.\n\nSeconds later the adventures were being sucked into the swirling vortex. The wind in the room had tossed books from their shelves and dust in the air.\n\n“What is happening?” asked Percival in the confusion. \n“The heart… it's changing the world back. Hold on!\" yelled William.\nWithin seconds the fateful party had been sucked into the green glow and were transported away from this doomed alternate world. \n\n“Oh nooo! Ahhhhh! were falling!” they yelled in unison. Their bodies had been transported back to Britain in a flash of green, directly above a large lake outside of Wedsborough.\n\nThe six heroes plunked into the water. After they regained their senses they once again were soaked to the bone. They coughed and sputtered as they reached the edgeeach in their own time and fashion.\n\nLucille had checked herself for wounds but they were healed. They were back in reality. Their weapons and armour had returned to the way they were at the start, useless and cheap.\n\n“My book! Eustace, give me my magic book. I need to read how the story ends!” Eustace rubbed the wondrous book covetously, “ It's mine. You can't have it.”\n\nWilliam looked at him in shock.\n“I'm just joking . here you are Baron.”\nHe laughed, relieved. Baron Gloucester opened the book to the final chapter and read aloud.\n\n“The brave heroes returned to their town and were celebrated. The fertiliser factory was closed down and converted into a safe and clean furniture factory by the newly appointed Baron William.\n\n“What about me?” Asked percival\nThe mighty and brave Percival married Petunia and became the best police chief the town ever had. Eventually moving to London becoming a very successful police commissioner.\n\n\"Digby, you become a very wealthy and well fed famous chef. Everyone comes to your restaurant from all over the country to taste your food.\" he traced his finger as the words scribbled across the pages.\n\n\"Eustace eventually marries his one true maiden and succeeds the Baron after he passes away many years from now.”\nPercival spoke to his best friend elated, “Did you hear that old chap? You become the Baron of Wedsborough! Eustace?” \n\nIt was no use. Eustace and Lucille were smooching and hugging with a new love for one another.\n“ Now that is very lore friendly!” said Petunia with delight. \"Lucille.. You kissed a frog and turned him into a Baron!”\n\nThey all laughed as they started walking the long road back to a pristine and beautiful town. Wedsborough once again won the best British town for many years to come. \nThe weeds were gone and the air was clean again. Life was good again for the brave adventurers.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\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: By Any Other Name\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1033\n\nPrompt:\n\nSomeone’s beloved collection is destroyed. How do they react?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“So why did you ask me to come to Sawaki,” Rose asked, knowing he had tried to discourage her from coming. But she also knew he was too much of a coward to admit it out loud. \n\n“You were warned when you married me, Rose, that this is a man’s world,” he said, making a sweeping gesture that took in their luxurious hut and steaming windows, choked with vines and the impenetrable dark jungle beyond. \n\nJames Lobb moved his considerable nose back to his work and the pile of charts and ledgers. He was twenty-three years her senior and finally understood that marrying a much younger woman only made him feel older than he already was. He smiled benignly as if to dismiss her, then spoke Sakili in a low voice to the young man who always seemed to be underfoot. \n\nThe youth looked straight into Rose’s face as if curious: “bold as brass” is how Rose put it to James that night. “He acts like he’s my equal,” she said.\n\nRose leaned over the hand-carved mahogany desk to view detailed botanical drawings of the prized orchid he had discovered in the rainforest. Beside the image, James had penned “Oncidium James Lobbii,” in elaborate cursive script. His dream was to have an entire species named after him.\n\nWithout warning Rose felt a heavy slap on her bum. Outraged, she turned in fury to see the boy jump back. She slapped him in the face, hard and he let out a cry of hurt and surprise, dropping a large dead mosquito to the floor.\n\n“For God’s sake Rose! Things are not always what they appear to be.” James moved toward the door, yelling the youth’s name. “Muktar, Muktar come back.…..” \n\nJames had learned Sakili as a sign of respect to King Blahenunukomafep who allowed him into the nether regions of the rainforest in exchange for protection from the warlike tribe threatening to take over Sarawaki.\n\nJames got the better of the bargain directing the locals to fell enormous tracts of rainforest land in order to collect the tiny orchids, a miniature splotched and frilled specimen. “Best be good looking if you’re that hard to see,” was Rose’s only comment.\n\nThe boy was staring at her again, his nose, James’ nose in shadow.\n\n“Shouldn’t he be with his own family?” Rose said, annoyed at how familiar he acted toward James. \n\nShe could've sworn she had heard the two of them speaking English. \n\nThat evening she quarrelled with James. \n\n“I know, what I’ll do,” she said, undressing. \n“I’ll wear my stays outside of my dress like those horrid aerial roots you are so enamoured of. Maybe you’ll mistake me for an orchid and throw yourself upon me, mad with passion and love.”\n\nThat night James woke in tears from a recurring nightmare about his prize orchids being tossed overboard the great ship. This time Muktar promised to accompany the shipment, guard the barrels, and air the plants out in the evening, while most of the crew slept.\n\nThe morning buzzed with the entire small village tucking dozens of tiny orchids into hollow coconut shells cushioned with coco mesh, before placing them inside airtight keg barrels.\n\nFearing theft from rival collectors, Lobb had sent out a series of articles to The Times of London announcing the arrival of various Odontoglossoms sometime late October when in actuality they should reach the West Indies dock September 8. To further guarantee his success, he mislabeled the crates. \n\nRose understood that his dream of an “Oncidium James Lobbii” was slipping away, the world was learning how to hybridize and soon his quest for glory would be lost. \n\nHis last shipment had met a terrible fate. Packed like herring in ale barrels, they were subjected to stifling conditions and the few that survived developed fungal conditions impossible to treat. Still, he said, a fever in his eye, “not even the crew knew,” so the barrel trick could be used again. \n\nBut Rose was no longer listening. She had begun to pine for England. For home. \n\nTwo evenings before the ship set sail, Rose walked out in the dark, miffed and unsatisfied with James' attitude. She stumbled over a felled section of palm trunk and saw a tiny polka dotted plant clinging to the stalk. Rose wondered how many species this brutal clearing had killed and imagined the tiny dotted leaves shuddering in the moonlight. When she returned to bed, the hut seemed choked and small and impossible.\n\nNext evening Rose came upon a sailor’s outfit in the mending pile and stashed it under her cot. She thought she made out James’s shadow but it was only Muktar. They shared a remarkably similar profile, which confused Rose at first. \n\nFinally, Rose made up her mind. She mounded hacked palm fronds in the bedclothes that approximated her form and silently boarded the ship. \n\nOut at sea,Rose quickly discovered that Muktar shared her realist view of the world and kept her hidden. She was a natural sailor and the smells and confinement seemed to have a settling effect on her. Muktar was very knowledgable about orchids and by day four, Rose was peeking into the barrels, concerned for their welfare. Being the same age, Rose and Muktar communicated with gestures, smiles and touch and then something deeper developed.\n\nA day from shore a terrible wave pushed past them and the boat began to creak and take on water. One by one the sailors jumped ship, many of them lost to the sea as the lifeboats were ill maintained and sprang leaks. Amongst the only survivors of the ill-fated voyage were a youth of unknown parentage and a young woman brought to shore on tightly sealed keg barrels that acted as life buoys. The ship and contents were never heard from again, all passengers marked for dead.\n\nYears later James Lobb tossed out his copy of The London Times after reading the political news. It would have been beneath him to read the society pages with photos of a handsome figure “of exotic foreign demeanor escorted a woman dressed to the hilt in frills and splotches, looking much like the Oncidium Roseii, that bore her name.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Holding on to Thin Air\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2995\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trent Obertson was a private pilot who flew among the towering Chugach Mountains in Alaska. He loved bobbing in and around the fluffy white clouds that hung like overripe melons among the snow covered peaks. There was an expression for pilots who flew the Monomee Pass through the Nelchina into Talkeetna called, “Hanging on to thin air.” \nWhen flying this route, Trent noticed how much the cold and warm air would struggle for control that resulted in his plane being buffet during the flight. His Cessna 206 was versatile, able to land in terrain that other planes could not. Equipped with Tundra tires, he was able to land his plane on a rocky river bank to rescue a pair of stranded fishermen. \nBeing a bush pilot takes a special kind of person. Trent was proud to be one of the Brotherhood.\nToday, however, he would be keeping his heels on the ground. Debbie, his wife, was still in bed when he made his coffee to wash down a stale bagel before heading out to St. Agnes Hospice in Anchorage. These visits to see his father Lloyd were getting harder and harder now that he was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's. Visiting him, it was doubtful he would even know Trent and the times he did, he would admonish him for the reckless antics of his youth. Trent did these dangerous exploits, because he was rebellious of his father's tyrannical control. \nWhen his father had his logbook out, Trent knew they were in for a row. His father became so agitated, Trent would often leave on the verge of tears.\nFive years ago, his mother, Nora, had passed away peacefully after a long painful bout with cancer. Calling him over to her bedside in her final hour, in her frail airy voice, requested, \"Please Trent, look after your father. He will be so lost when I'm gone.\"\n\"I promise mom.\" He held her hand and kissed her on the forehead. It would be the last time he would do that.\n\"Dr. Grotan is a quack.\" Lloyd fumed when Trent emerged from the bedroom.\n\"Dad, there is nothing he can do. There's nothing anyone can do. Let's go for a walk. What do you say?\" Trent draped his arm over his father's shoulder. \n\"I don't want to take a walk. I want the doctor to give your mother some pills so she can get better.\" He waved his hands wildly around his head. Lloyd had just been diagnosed as being in the early stages of Alzheimer's when she passed away that morning. The nurse called him in so he could spend her last moments with him. Married for almost fifty years, Lloyd exited her room with tears streaming down his tired wrinkled face announcing in a brusque tone, “She’s gone now.” \n“I’d better call the coroner.” Trent got out his cellphone.\n“No. I want to spend a few moments with her before they come to hack her up.” He sniffed. Trent had rarely seen his father cry, but his mother’s last words to him were still ringing in his ears. \n“Alright dad, as you wish.” He nodded as his own grief overcame him. It was after dark when Trent made the call to the coroner. Lloyd spent a few hours with her, holding her cold hand as he recited every memory they had shared. When he came out this time, the color of his face had drained. He sat in his chair and was silent as Trent made the call.\n“I’m going to miss her.” He finally spoke, but there was no emotion in his voice or any hint in his facial expression. \nThat evening, Trent wound up spending the night in his old room with posters of Axl Rose the lead singer of Guns ‘n’ Roses and Joe Montana dressed in his 49ers uniform looking for Jerry Rice downfield. Despite his heavy mood, he slept as soundly as he had in weeks. \nNora Kallihan-Obertson’s funeral was an uncomplicated and simple service where Reverend Shalter spoke of the seven-five years of her life. He spoke of how she had been volunteering at the USO dance when he walked in wearing his pilot uniform. She could not take her eyes off of him. They were married a month after his discharge came through from the Korean War. He would take Trent with him as he flew supplies into the villages around the Kuskokwim and Yukon Rivers even when the sun would not rise during the long dark winters above the Arctic Circle. With a twinkle in his eye, he would tell his son that Santa Claus lived in North Pole, Alaska south of Fairbanks. Trent vividly remembered flying into Lower Kagslag where the people all wore mukluks and seal skin parkas. Their skin was dark and when they smiled, their eyes would disappear. They spoke a language he did not understand at the time, but his father did.\n“Remember coming through these mountain passes, you have to be careful of the updraft pushing the downdraft. Let your instincts guide you.” He instructed Trent who was learning how to be a bush pilot like him. There was a lot of things you had to know, because flying in the Last Frontier was tricky even for experienced fliers. Some of Lloyd’s contemporaries had met with unfortunate ends in the hostile landscape along some of the routes. When he turned sixteen, before getting his driver’s license, Trent had earned his pilot’s license. Hired by Dwyer's Transportation Services, Trent began his career following in his father’s footsteps. \n“Dad.” Trent greeted his father as he walked into his room. Dressed in his slippers and bathrobe, he sat there staring into his breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal. \n“Hello.” He did not even look up.\n“How are you?” He asked knowing that the conversation would most likely not really go anywhere.\n“Hmpt.” He grunted.\nNurse Rollins came in and wiped his chin where some of his breakfast had congealed. He made a face of resistance like a toddler sitting in his high chair when his mother would wipe his dirty face. \n“Are we in a foul mood again?” She asked, tossing the soiled paper towel into the wastebasket. “You son, Trent is here to visit you.” \n“Who?” He growled.\n“It’s me, dad, Trent.” He knew there would be no recognition. He had learned not to be alarmed at his lack of response. It still hurt. That was just part of the painful process of this ailment. \n“Trent?” His voice seemed distant and fuzzy. Trent had gotten used to it. He still did not like it.\n“Tell Nora, I’ll be coming downstairs shortly.” He stated. He knew better than to correct him. The last time his father coldcocked him that brought stars to Trent’s eyes. Dr. Wagner told him that it didn’t do anyone any good arguing with a patient in the late stages. It was a lesson that was difficult for Trent to learn. While his memory was slowly fading away, he still resembled the father he had grown to love and admire. It was difficult to let that go.\n“Sure dad, I’ll tell her.” There was a slight catch in his throat. Even after all this time, Trent could not help feeling emotional when his father spoke of his late wife. \n“We have to get you ready for your shower.” Nurse Rollins put a blood pressure cuff on his thin frail arm. Sometimes Trent could not bear to look at his father’s sinewy arms when she did this. “Good job. Blood pressure looking mighty fine this morning.” \n“C’mon dad, let’s get ready for the shower.” Trent nodded. \n“Shower? Shower?” He was confused, but Nurse Rollins had him on his feet as she removed his bathrobe.\n“Come along Mr. Obertson, we need to go to the bathroom.” She led him along. He offered no resistance as he had in the past when she had to call Roberto to assist her. \n“Look at those clouds, would you?” He smiled as Trent pulled on the stick letting the plane climb as the engine fought with gravity. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it son?”\n“Sure is dad.” His voice nearly sang as the plane gained altitude. From this vantage point, he could see the jagged horizon along the peaks of the Chugiak Mountains. Leveling off, the mighty engine began to purr. Everything was right with the world. It was clear sailing from here. \nHis father screamed through most of his shower, but did not fight with Nurse Rollins as she scrubbed his leathery skin. Dressing him in a flannel shirt and jeans, she sent him back into the room where he would sit and stare at the muted television bolted to the wall on the beige colored walls opposite his bed. In the late stages, patients were moved to private rooms due to their erratic behavior. \nTrent sat in the only other vacant chair in the room. Later he would head to the house and start the long process of cleaning it out for eventual resale. There was no possible way Lloyd would return to his home despite his excessive pleading and begging. \nTo keep him quiet and content, Nurse Rollins put his logbook on the table next to his chair. He would sometimes flip though the rusted, wrinkled pages of the ancient book to read some of the entries he had made over his time as a pilot. He did not even notice it. When he finally did, he peered at it as if it was some foreign object he had no connection to. \n“Trent, I’m afraid it won’t be long now.” Dr. Wagner entered the room. He picked up Lloyd’s chart and had a cursory look at it, “We have noted some loss of fine and gross motor skills. He can’t pick up a pen and write his name. He has trouble holding a book. His gait has become slower and more labored.”\n“I’ve noticed his deterioration since my last visit, too.” Trent sighed.\n“I am so sorry.” He patted Trent on the back.\n“It’s all for the best, as cruel as it is for me to say.” Trent cocked his head, “There is nothing more for him here. He does not even know who I am and every day he struggles to do the things he used to take for granted.”\n“As a doctor, I hate the progression this thing takes.” He shook his head, “We will make sure he is well taken care of.” \n“The staff has done a remarkable job.” Trent sighed, “I appreciate what you have done for him, even if he doesn’t.” \n“I will talk to you later.” Dr. Wagner waved as he left the room.\n“Who the hell was that?” Lloyd said as if he had woken from a dream. \n“Dr. Wagner.” Trent answered dutifully.\n“Dr. who?”\nTrent went to the house overlooking the inlet near Palmer where he once called home. Opening the front door, Trent walked inside the two story home of his childhood. The first thing he did was text his wife so Debbie knew where he was in case she needed to get a hold of him. She responded with a heart emoji. He smiled for the first time in a while before proceeding to the upstairs rooms where he would begin to remove items he wanted to donate. There wasn’t much of value as most of the furniture was dilapidated and worn beyond further use. \nThe things in his room were from a long time ago that only he would understand anymore. Slowly he put the things in the middle of the room so the crew that would come tomorrow morning would be able to move out without any hindrance. So long Axl. Goodbye Joe. You will join each other in the black trash bag on the bed. \nAs a boy, entering his parents room was forbidden territory, but he was no longer a boy. The canopy bed would most likely be the first to leave the Goodwill Donation Center. Some of the other antique furnishings might be taken as well. \nTears were constantly trying to invade his eyes as he continued to put the things in the center of the room. \n“This plane will always be there to serve you if you keep her maintained.” He said over Trent’s shoulder as he began his descent into a village that wasn’t even on the map his father was holding, “I remember this place. The villagers dug a runway out of the snow and ice. Now remember when you put her down, ease up on the throttle. Nice and gentle or you will go into a skid and you don’t want that.” \n“Sure thing, dad.” Trent saw the runway, but it blended into the snow and ice surrounding it.\n“You’re doing just fine.” His father assured him as he felt the nose point down the runway. There was a bump as the tires made contact with the runway followed by a slight pull to the right, but he had eased up the throttle. The large Arctic tires bounced along the uneven runway, but holding tight to the stick, Trent was able to control the Cessna until it came to a stop. He saw some of the villagers walking toward the plane.\n“Great job, son. You handled it like a true pro.” He beamed.\nLike a true pro. The words echoed in his head. There were some memories he knew he’d never be able to let go of even as his father slipped deeper and deeper into his ailment. Dr. Wagner once said that Alzheimer's was genetic which worried Trent. Would his day come when he could not even recognize his own children, Dane and Rose? Life was made up of memories, but once the memories started to disappear into a foggy cloud, what then?\nHe stood at the attic door. His trepidation to enter this unexplored cavern made him hesitate before opening the door. He climbed the steep stairs and stood in the gabled room staring at a few dozen boxes and crates. If it was useful, his father felt throwing something away was wasteful, so he had accumulated all sorts of meaningless junk over the years. Now it was Trent’s job to go through this odd collection and decide what stayed and what was discarded. \nAfter going through the contents of about six boxes, Trent seemed to be making a dent. But when he opened the box near the attic window, everything came to a sudden stop. In a shoebox tied in simple twine was crammed full of hand-written letters. At first glance, the letters seemed like love letters, but Lloyd did not meet Nora until he returned from Korea. Lloyd had indeed written the letters, but the salutation was to his father Ralph who had served in World War I. Lloyd had never mentioned his father except to say he was the reason Lloyd had decided to come to Alaska, ending each memory by saying, “I came to Alaska to get as far away from that scoundrel as I could.” \nAs he read the letters, not a single one mentioned this sentiment about the rift that had developed between them. Instead, Lloyd had written about how much he missed being at home and doing chores around the family farm. If Lloyd had a grudge to bear against his father, these letters did not state it anywhere. Each of them bore “With Love, Lloyd.” \nHe was through about half of them when his cellphone rang. Trent pushed the button, “Hello.” \n“Trent?” A familiar voice sounded.\n“Yeah, Dr. Wagner.” He sighed.\n“I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but your father passed away at four this evening.” His voice was heavy as he spoke.\n“I’ll be right down.” Trent nodded.\n“No hurry. We just have a few forms to fill out before we can release his body. Do you have a place in mind for final services?” Dr. Wagner asked.\n“Yes, I will contact them after I hang up. I’ll be down after that.” He felt as if someone or something was pressing against his chest. \n“Trent, I am so sorry.” Dr. Wagner said.\n“Me too.” He pressed the red button and then dialed Mumford Mortuary where he would have his father’s remains cremated.\nThere was nothing more soothing than to be cruising at ten thousand feet above the crystal blue ocean where the winds would not push you until you felt as if you were holding on to thin air. All you could hear was the buzz of the engine as it sang happily along with the blue sky hovering overhead. He was on his way to Nome to deliver some needed medical supplies. Below he could see the fishing boat bob like toy boats in the Bering Sea. One of his friends had taken him on one of those boats. After that awful experience, Trent preferred dancing with the fluffy clouds where he could almost hear his father’s voice giving him guidance through some of the turbulence he encountered as moved along. He loved being a bush pilot where most of the vastness of Alaska could only be reached by air. \nThe day after his father’s service, Trent burned the letters in a metal trash can he used to burn waste paper. He did it after sunset so he could watch the sparks float toward Heaven where he was sure his father would be holding on to thin air. \nAunt Stella, his father’s younger sister, told him there was an argument between them because Lloyd became restless after a year on the farm. \n“A lot of the boys returning from war in Europe got itchy feet when they got home.” She told him on the phone when he called to let her know about her brother. “He done what his heart told him to do.” \nTruer words have never been spoken." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Broken Hearts and Baronets\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 3001\n\nPrompt:\n\nSomeone’s beloved collection is destroyed. How do they react?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Henry Davenport was broke. He’d frittered away most of the fortune his father had left him – wine, women and cards were expensive hobbies – and was down to his last few hundreds.\n“You need a rich wife, Harry,” Josiah remarked as they cantered through the forest one fine autumn afternoon. “A girl with enough money to keep you in the manner to which you’re accustomed.”\nHenry nudged Lady’s reins gently. The mare was spirited, but he managed to let her know who was in charge. Women were a lot like horses: once you’d broken them in, you could easily steer them in the direction you wanted.\n“There’s a ball at Grantleigh Manor this Saturday,” Josiah continued. “Bound to be a few fine fillies there, what?”\nHenry considered his friend’s words gravely. At twenty-three, he felt he was far too young to be shackling himself to a wife; still, needs must where the devil drives and all that rot. He’d put on his best frock coat and the breeches from France and he’d jolly well bag himself the prettiest little thing he saw – provided she had enough cash, of course.\nAs Lady trotted over the bracken, he began planning how he would spend his new wife’s money.\n\nLady Lavinia Grantleigh was one of the richest women in the county. She was also one of the most foolish. Slightly too tall and well built to look entirely feminine, her eyes were just a little too pale and her nose just a trifle too long for her to be regarded a beauty, but Henry would say anything necessary to convince this prize specimen that he was marriage material.\n“Have I mentioned how musical your laugh is?” he murmured, bending low over her hand – ostensibly to kiss it but in actual fact counting how many rings she wore. Why, just one of those sparklers would cover his losses at the card table for a week!\nLavinia let out a self-conscious peal of laughter. It reminded Henry of a corncrake, but he pressed on, determined to clinch this transaction.\n“I wonder if I might beg a keepsake of the woman I love,” he tried next, gazing soulfully into her anaemic eyes with a look that hinted at barely bridled passion. (He’d been practising in front of the mirror all week.)\nLavinia blushed, staining her cheeks an unbecoming red somewhat at odds with her rather carroty hair. Some women could carry off auburn locks; unfortunately, Lavinia was not one of them.\n“Lord Henry,” she simpered, fluttering her fan in what she hoped was a suitably flirtatious manner, “you should not say such things! We have known each other only an evening.”\n“Is that all?” Henry replied gallantly. “It seems much longer.”\nIt really did seem much longer. Lavinia had to be one of the most boring women he had ever met. She knew nothing about horses and less about dogs. Still, by the time he managed to extricate himself from her presence, he had acquired a rather ugly looking ring containing a large garnet. No formal promises had been made – at least on his part – but she had been so desperate for a suitor that she had pressed the ring on him fervently as soon as he admired it.\n\nIt was as he was riding home that an idea struck him – why get married at all? If it had been as easy as this to persuade that frightful-looking girl to part with some of her jewellery, why shouldn’t he court as many women as he could and amass the funds he needed by sweet-talking them into parting with rings and lockets?\nImpressed with his own brilliance, he withdrew to the wood panelled library as soon as he reached the modest eight-bedroomed pile left to him by his father. Fetching the copy of Debrett’s Peerage from its place on one of the bookshelves, he began turning the pages. He would limit himself to girls who had no brothers, he decided – after all, he didn’t want to be challenged to a duel by some angry chap who decided Henry had besmirched his sister’s honour.\n\nAnd so it was that Henry found his true vocation. Like any other modern man of the early 1800s, he applied himself seriously to idle pleasure. Always impeccably dressed, he was the quintessential dandy; conversationally, he was a rattle par excellence; and above all, he was a fastidious flaneur. What Henry didn’t know about the well connected simply wasn’t worth knowing. He kept a small, leather-bound notebook in which he recorded every conversation he had with a woman – along with details about her likes and dislikes and how easy it was to part her from her jewellery. One typical month’s entry included no fewer than six different women, each one accompanied by a description of the ‘gift’ she had given him. So far, he had amassed an emerald necklace, two strings of pearls, six diamond rings, three pairs of earrings, several tie pins and sets of cufflinks, and an incredibly vulgar ruby pendant. His modus operandi was simple yet effective: no matter what the girl looked like, you just told her she was pretty then gazed at her for while with what she construed as desperate longing while you let your mind wander into more interesting realms.\nHe had perfected the art of making it seem as if he were proposing marriage without ever actually using the words – that way, he could not be sued for breach of promise. He was careful, too, to choose impressionable girls who would believe his claims that their reputation would be ruined were they to tell anyone what had transpired between them. His objets d’amour were too inexperienced to know that every woman indulged in a little dalliance now and then, finding excitement in the secrecy.\n\nIt was on a beautiful spring afternoon that he thought up his finest plan yet. A gentleman by the name of Mountebank had recently begun renting Rugely Hall, a well-appointed establishment on the other side of the park. The man was a widower with five daughters – all of them of marriageable age. There was some sort of unmarried sister who acted as chaperone to the girls, but Henry decided she wasn’t important. He had learned from experience that most young women possess a devious streak when it comes to matters of the heart and he was convinced that these newcomers would be like all the others and would endeavour to find ways of being able to talk to him alone. What a triumph it would be for him to court all five simultaneously without any of the girls knowing what her sisters were up to!\nAn initial visit to leave his card was a great success. Henry had never been more charming; his conversation never wittier; his attire more flamboyant. Colonel Mountebank himself was confined to his chamber with gout, but every one of the five daughters turned out to meet him and pretty things they were too – each one of them as different as if they had not been related. Under the pretext of wanting to see the garden, he managed to persuade the eldest, dark haired Maria, to step outside with him for a few moments and then declared his undying love for her in the rose garden. The location was a nice touch: he was able to present her with a rose, deliberately pricking his finger on a thorn as he did so and telling her piteously, “My heart bleeds for your love – far more than that finger.”\nThe following day, he called again and somehow contrived to find himself alone with green-eyed Louisa – how convenient that she had twisted her ankle and could not join her sisters on their walk! He knew she would not tell anyone he had declared his feelings for her: it was not done for a younger sister to have found a potential husband before the eldest.\nThe third day saw him begin his campaign to capture Sophia’s heart. Her brown hair and blue eyes were pleasing to look at, and she had a rosebud mouth that seemed to demand kisses. She did not complain at any rate when he demonstrated his ardour for her by letting one of two land on her lips rather than her hand. “Of course, you can’t tell your sisters about this,” he murmured in her ear. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any jealousy.”\nHer large, innocent eyes widened in surprise before she dimpled prettily and agreed that some things were best kept secret.\nBy some stroke of luck, he was able to begin his charm offensive with Eleanor, the fourth sister, only a day later. Eleanor offered to play for them and Henry gallantly said he would stand by the piano and turn the music for her. That gave him ample opportunity to murmur endearments to her whilst out of earshot of the others. The sunlight catching her red gold curls was not as bright as the dazzling smile she gave him in return.\nRosamund was the last to fall under his spell. Only just eighteen, she had large, blue eyes and golden ringlets and had not yet lost her childhood plumpness. She reminded him of a puppy: quite adorable and with no sense at all. When he told her he loved horses and would like to see the stables, she was more than happy to offer to take him there – and she didn’t complain when he kissed her in the tack-room. No doubt she was over-excited at the thought of being the first of them to have a beau, but he made her swear solemnly not to tell anyone else that she was as good as engaged.\n\nHe’d been a frequent visitor to Rugely for three weeks when he began to wonder if it were a mistake to court five women simultaneously. So far, they had all seemed receptive to his advances, but not one of them had offered him a present and he was used to being able to wheedle wealthy young women out of their jewellery in half as much time. However, things took a surprising turn when the girls’ aunt approached him one afternoon as they were embarking on a walk en masse and asked if she might converse with him.\nStrolling through Rugely’s ample grounds, they let the girls wander ahead of them, smiling to see them enjoy the morning sunshine. “You have been very kind to my nieces,” Miss Mountebank remarked.\n“They are delightful young ladies,” Henry said carefully. Attempting to change the subject, he added, “You seem an excellent chaperone to them, although I confess you do not look much older than they do.”\nIt was true. Colonel Mountebank must have been approaching fifty whereas his sister seemed not to have reached thirty.\n“He is my half-brother,” Miss Mountebank said. “Edwin’s mother died when he was a boy and his father re-married some fifteen years later. He has always been very good to me and offered me a home with himself and his wife when my father passed away. It was fortunate that he did so, for poor, dear Allegra died soon after Rosamund’s birth. I have cared for all five of them ever since.” She paused. “They are as dear to me as daughters, Mr Davenport. I would not see any of them hurt.”\n“Nor I,” Henry protested. “Why, I have been the soul of propriety…”\n“Not so.” She cut him off. “I rather fancy that you have let each and every one of my nieces believe that you intend to marry her.”\nHenry’s heart stood still.\n“You have not been entirely honest with them, have you?” she continued. Then, as he started to protest, she laughed. “Did you really think I would not notice? You and I are cut from the same cloth, Mr Davenport. I too have mastered the subtle art of dalliance in order to gain men’s confidence and inspire them to shower me with gifts.” She smiled roguishly. “An unmarried woman must resort to whatever tools she has at her disposal.”\nHenry began to relax. She was just like him! He could not help feeling admiration for her.\n“Please, call me Harry,” he said.\n“Very well, Harry – and you can call me Letitia. Now, let us discuss how we can use this situation to our mutual advantage.”\n\nA week later, Henry invited the Mountebank sisters and their aunt to visit his home. Although not on the same grand scale as Rugely, it had a fine library and Letitia had expressed an interest to see some of the first editions his father had collected.\n“Besides,” she said, dimpling prettily, “it will further the pretence if the girls think you intend for one of them to live there with you as your wife.”\nAnd so it was that Henry found his house filled with women. Leaving the girls to exclaim over the wallpaper in the parlour, he led Letitia to the library. However, once inside, she closed the door and motioned to him to sit down on one of the dark green Chesterfields.\n“Have you noticed that each of the girls is decked out in her finest jewellery?” she muttered. “I know it is not usual for an afternoon occasion such as this, but I persuaded them, thinking this would be an ideal opportunity for you to relieve them of their gems. I take it you have a safe?”\nStriding to the fireplace, Henry reached up and removed the oil painting that hung there, revealing a small door built into the wall. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked it and showed her the items he had collected so far. It really was a most impressive haul.\n“You’ve done well,” she said approvingly. “Oh, Harry, just think of the life we could have together if we teamed up. I’m tired of playing nursemaid to my nieces – once you’ve filled your safe with their jewels, we should elope together. We could live in luxury for years on what you have here.”\n“I’m not really the marrying kind,” he protested.\n“Nor I. But there are certain… benefits… to a man and woman working together.”\nShe was suddenly very close to him. He became aware that the dress she was wearing was exceptionally low-cut – almost scandalously so – and that her diamond necklace only accentuated her decolletage.\n“I see you are admiring my own jewels,” she murmured. “The stones were a present from an admirer – they are worth hundreds.” Again, she paused. “With what you have here already and my nieces’ jewellery, we have a small fortune.”\nHer eyes held his. Mesmerised by her diamonds as much as her beauty, he found his mouth reaching for hers. He did not really want a partner in crime – she would be old one day, and women only appealed to him if they were attractive to look at. But there was no harm in making her think that they could work together. After all, she could not expose him without compromising herself.\n“You may have my diamonds as a sign of good faith,” she said, slipping them off and presenting them to him. “Now, shall we return to those girls? I think we both need a little refreshment.”\n\nDespite the fact that it was only mid-afternoon, someone had laid out glasses and a decanter of sherry. He should have really offered some to his guests first, but Henry needed a drink to steady his racing heart. Damn the woman! She was incredibly bewitching – but then she wouldn’t always look like that. He grabbed the glass from the table and downed its contents hurriedly. And then he knew no more.\n\nWhen Henry came to, he was back in his study, sitting on one of the hardbacked dining room chairs, his hands bound behind his back and his feet tied to the chair rungs with what looked like a silk scarf. What was happening?\n“Letitia?” he croaked. His throat felt dry and parched.\nHer lovely face loomed above him. He noticed she was wearing her diamonds once more, and that the door to the safe stood open. The cupboard was completely empty.\n“I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, Harry,” Letitia said, watching his gaze travel from the empty safe back to her. “Only, you made it far too easy. Did you really think no one would realise what you’ve been up to these past six months?”\nSurprise and shock numbed him.\n“Not one of these young women is my relative,” she continued. “They have merely been bait used to inveigle an invitation to your home. I knew you must have stowed your ill-gotten gains somewhere – and I was not wrong.”\nNot her nieces? Henry struggled to understand.\n“Colonel Mountebank is not my brother,” she went on, “and nor are these girls his daughters. We are friends who work together to relieve scoundrels like you of the wealth they have stolen from others. We don’t return the money and jewels, of course – if the victims are stupid enough to let themselves be gulled, they deserve to lose everything.”\n“You won’t get away with this.” Henry’s voice came out in a croak.\n“I rather think we will,” she replied smoothly. “How can you complain that you have been robbed when what has been taken from you was not really yours in the first place?” She bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “It couldn’t have happened to a more worthy opponent, Harry. And perhaps, in future, you will think twice before you try to swindle innocent women out of their jewellery.”\n*\nAs she and her five accomplices quit the room, Henry was left staring at his empty safe. Six months’ hard work for nothing. He would have to marry 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: Dear to My Heart\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2050\n\nPrompt:\n\nSomeone’s beloved collection is destroyed. How do they react?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Some references to war and its atrocities.\n Papa was a university professor before the war— before we were forced to build a bomb shelter in the woods behind our home— before that dark day, when we were forced to use it to hide from those who said they were there to protect us.\n ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ \nThe relentless tramping of boots on the other side of the door had been with us for weeks, as troops had been stationed just a few miles outside of town, yet Papa continued to read quietly by the lamplight, seemingly undisturbed.\n Mama brought him a cup of coffee, but unlike Papa, her face was strained, an anxious tone in her voice as she sat across from us, picking up her knitting.\n “The wireless says there may be bombings in the area tonight.” she spoke softly.\n “Yes,” Papa replied without looking up from his book, “wherever the troops go, we can expect the bombings to follow.”\n I understood this to mean that after it was dark we would move from our comfortable home to the woods where we would sleep in the bunker Papa and his brother had built last summer.\n The shelter consisted of one good sized room, dug out under a hill amongst the trees. Being only partially underground, it would not be strong enough to withstand a direct hit, but it was further away from town, making it less likely to be targeted, and safer than going to the cellar, which was what most people did when the air raid sirens went off in the night.\n As the evening wore on I played quietly in the corner with my set of wooden animals and a big boat, pretending it was Noah’s Ark. As young as I was, I could feel the tension in the room, and knew this was no time to be running about making loud noises.\n As the clock struck the hour, Papa put down his book and called me to him. Hoisting me up, he took me over to the big bookshelf on the western wall and told me to pick out a bedtime story.\n The colorful bindings of the children’s books contrasted with the more serious and stately spines of my parent’s choices of reading material, but Papa never treated them as if they were less important than theirs.\n We sat down with a book of German fairy tales, the pages filled with colorful illustrations of dwarves, princesses, and other magical beings. Papa read for half an hour and then closing the book sent me upstairs to put on my bed clothes.\n When I was ready, I came down to find them waiting for me. Mama had her shopping bag, filled with a variety of items, and Papa had his satchel, stuffed with books, and a rucksack on his back. I knew from previous forays into the bunker that the rucksack had two days’ worth of clothing in it, and Mama’s bag was filled with food and medical items just in case the worst should happen.\n Arriving at the shelter we settled in for the night, and shortly after, Onkel Kurt and his family came also.\n It was not a large space for so many people, but it was big enough. Two sets of extra wide bunk beds had been built on either side of the shelter. Mama and Papa, and Onkel Kurt and Tante Minna slept on the bottom, while my two cousins and I slept above.\n There was a table between the beds and support beams with a hanging lamp betwixt them. Not an electric one, but rather the kind that required some kind of oil to burn. Papa would light the lamp first thing, and Mama would put their bags on the table.\n The adults would talk, or play card games. My cousins, Willi and Berta would play with me on the floor with whatever small toys we had been allowed to bring with us, but soon it would be time for bed, and I would drift off to the sounds of Mama singing softly from her place at the table.\n At some point in the night, I was awoken by the bed rocking, amidst the loud booming sounds from outside. Crying out in the dark room, I felt my mother’s comforting hands reach for me, her soothing voice softly shushing me, telling me not to be frightened as she held me close.\n Whimpering, I asked her to turn on the light, but she quieted me gently saying we couldn’t have anything that might cause a fire, but she was there, and I would be alright.\n Across the room, Tante Minna was comforting Berta in a similar fashion. Willi was older, but whether he wasn’t scared, or was trying to pretend that he wasn’t, I was never sure.\nPapa and his brother were talking quietly near the door.\n The rumblings went on for several hours, sometimes close, but more often at a distance. Eventually, they ceased and we all went back to bed. There was nothing else we could do. We would see in the morning if they had been close enough to damage our home, or the homes of our neighbors.\n This pattern repeated itself frequently throughout that month, then for a time it ceased.\n One day Papa came home from town. Unlike his usual steady self, he hurried past me calling for Mama. Finding her in the kitchen he told her to gather some food, quickly, and take me to the shelter.\n She began to protest, but he silenced her with a look, and told her there was no time. Mutely nodding, she quickly filled a basket and taking my hand hurried out the back door.\n Standing for a moment in the shadow of the porch she closed her eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath, then slowly releasing it, smiling at me, and saying that we were going to go to the woods to pick wildflowers.\n Walking through the field, we heard the tramp of boots in the distance, and I thought of my father at the house. Why hadn’t he come with us?\nShe held my hand, gently swinging her basket as though she hadn’t a care in the world, and we continued to walk, away from the sounds of the street, away from Papa, who stood waiting.\nWhen we reached the shelter of the trees Mama stopped smiling and, scooping me up, ran for the dugout.\nOur hideout was well concealed, only someone who knew what to look for would have spotted it. As Mama reached between the branches of what appeared to be a cluster of shrubs, we heard shouts and gun fire. I felt her cringe momentarily, but with determination she pulled open the secret door and quickly we scuttled to safety.\n ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ \nMama sat down on the bed and held me tightly, her shaky breathing the only indication of the terror she must have been feeling. Once she had composed herself she brought out some bread and cheese and gave me my lunch.\nBeing a child, I ate hungrily, unaware of the true gravity of our situation, only wondering now and then when Papa would be coming.\n I played quietly as the day wore on, until Mama laid me on the bed for my nap. I woke with the sound of the door opening and Onkel Kurt slipping in to tell Mama in a whispered conversation that it was safe to go home.\nTo me this was wonderful news, I was tired of staying inside with only a few small toys to keep me occupied, and I couldn’t understand why he looked so sober, or why there were tears in Mama’s eyes.\nApproaching the house, we saw a thin stream of smoke curling up from the street and, grabbing my hand, Mama dragged me faster through the field. Bursting into the house she began calling for Papa, finding him standing alone by the parlor window, shoulders slumped in defeat, hands in his pockets—— simply staring.\nMama gasped, and ran to him where they kissed in a desperate sort of way. I was happy to be home again, but there was something strange about it all. Chairs had been pushed back or overturned, and muddy footprints soiled the carpet. Gazing about openmouthed, I realized the books were gone. Something was terribly wrong, as row upon row of empty shelves met my eyes.\n“Papa,” I stammered uncertainly.\nCrouching down, he reached out his arms to me, and I ran to him crying. We were all crying, but it was Mama who found her voice first.\n“It is heartbreaking to be sure,” she said soothingly, “but we can replace them in time.”\nShaking his head sadly, Papa walked to the window. I followed him, and that’s when I saw it, the smoldering pile that had once been my father’s prized possession, his library.\n“I was watching from the upstairs window,” he began, “they were going house to house, tossing books into the street, and I knew what was coming.”\n“Darling don’t,” Mama began, walking over to him, but he waved her off.\n“I couldn’t think,” his voice began to tremble.\n“Where could I hide even a fraction of them? Where wouldn’t they think to look? Before I could act they were here, walking in as if they owned the place, taking whatever they wanted— and I did nothing.”\n“There was nothing you could do,” she spoke in a whisper.\nPapa began to walk about the room slowly putting furniture back in place.\nSitting down with a sigh, his face sinking into his outstretched hands. He looked beaten.\n“I saved the family albums,” he managed to tell us, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth. I had just enough time to put them under our mattress.\n“We are safe,” Mama reminded him, taking both of his hands in hers.\n“Yes, we are safe, for now,” he murmured. “but for how long? Today it was our books, what will it be next time?”\n“Papa,” I asked, shyly coming up to him, “Why do the soldiers hate books?”\n “Well bübchen,” he said thoughtfully, “they are afraid.”\nAfraid— I found that concept confusing. They had guns, and could take whatever they wanted.\n“What are they afraid of?”\nThinking for a minute, Papa replied, “Ideas. People who are educated, who can think for themselves, are not easily led. They fear this, so they must take away people’s ideas, telling them what to think instead. Anyone who has a problem with that, must be silenced.”\nGetting up he walked to the door, stepping out onto the porch. Following along behind him I picked up a stick and began poking into the ground, as he went closer to the pile to see if anything could be salvaged.\n“Nothing,” he said sadly as he returned.\n“But Papa,” I said looking under the stairs, “here is a book!”\nComing down to my child’s level Papa gasped as he beheld the small volume. One book which must have fallen, and bounced under the stairs, out of the sight of those who would have destroyed it.\nReaching for it with a trembling hand, Papa tucked it quickly out of sight, and taking my arm walked back into the house.\nDrawing the curtains shut, he pulled it out and displayed it to Mama’s disbelieving eyes.\n“Utopia,” was all he said as they embraced.\nIt was many years later, after we had made our escape from Nazi Germany, that I realized the significance of that book being spared.\nSo many great books had been destroyed, and too many voices had been silenced.\nFor my Papa, Utopia by Sir Thomas Moore, represented hope at a time when there seemed to be little of it left in the world. That little glimmer of hope gave him the strength he needed to be bold, and taking only what we could carry, we escaped before it was too late." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Visitor\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2343\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who is experiencing glitches in their reality." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THE VISITOR\n\nMother is nowhere to be found, so I take my place in front of our guest and smile as graciously as I can. After the last few weeks of violence, fear and upheaval, this moment of social formality is strangely comforting. I pull absentmindedly at one of my two long braids, which hang over each shoulder. I can’t wait to turn sixteen next week and I can finally wear my hair in a low bun like a lady, like my older sisters who have married and moved away. I think about them often, I do hope they are safe. Sister Brunhilde just had a baby.\nOur visitor is a kind looking lady about Mother’s age, we exchange niceties, and she hands me a bowl of strawberries. I frown as she introduces herself with her first name, Christine, it signifies that she sees me as a child. I, on the other hand, state my name as “Fraulein von Horcke.”\n“Strawberries!” I exclaim and catch my childlike enthusiasm. I shake my head and sit up straighter, assuming the same tone Mother uses in polite conversation. “What a rare delight. You must have brought them with you. I am afraid the Russians have been eating all our strawberries before they are even ripe. Can you believe that? What pleasure they get from eating green and white strawberries, I do not know.” I am borrowing Mother’s words. “They are so idle; they cannot be bothered to prepare firewood - they have been plundering and burning all the furniture from the manor. When they are done eating unripe strawberries and cherries, they trample on the vegetable garden! Mother says it’s the same everywhere, it seems you have been more fortunate - these are exquisite.”\nThe lady clears her voice and taps a strawberry with the tip of her teaspoon. “I suppose I am very fortunate; I have had no contact with the Russians. I hear it was awful,” she says finally.\n“You are lucky, indeed.”\nI close my eyes as I eat the strawberries one piece at a time, relishing the slithery texture on my tongue. It takes me back to carefree late spring afternoons before the war, before brother Axel and brother Siegfried went to fight. Before Franz went with the Hitlerjugend to defend the town of Demmin and didn’t return. He told me when it was all over, he would ask Father for my hand in marriage. Father would never accept of course; it wouldn’t be proper for me to marry the son of an estate manager.\nThe strawberries are so sweet, I could almost believe they had been sugared - had sugar not been impossible to come by for months, if not years. We even have to give the scarce honey we have managed to produce to the Russian commandant living in our manor (the soldiers and village children keep destroying the hives, making the bees aggressive and difficult to work with). Mother once managed to hide a tiny jar in fruit cellar, but alas, they stole that, too.\nThe commandant is the only decent Russian, the first wave of soldiers at the end of April were the worst. Now, the commandant stops the most obvious stealing and looting, and the soldiers leave the women mostly alone. Mostly.\n“The weather has been nice,\" the lady comments. I wish she had told me her last name so I may address her in the proper manner. Like father, I do insist on protocol.\n“Indeed,” I say, looking out the window at the daisy speckled grass, inhaling the scent of warm grass from the opened window. “We should like a little rain though, it has been dry for six weeks.”\nSix weeks. Since they took father on May Day. The local ranger arrived at the manor, wiping his forehead with a dirty handkerchief, summoning Mother and Father to the Russian major. The major, a stony-faced man with sculpted cheekbones, accused father of hiding weapons, then dragged my parents through the woodland behind the manor and threatened to shoot them like dogs if they didn't show them where the guns were buried. Father assured him there were none, but an hour later they found a rifle buried by the summer house near the pond.\nThey herded Father into a lightweight van, Mother didn’t even have the time to bring him some soap, clean underwear, and a towel, they drove off so fast. We have not seen him since.\n(…the pond, he never got further than the pond…)\nMother has tirelessly tried to find news about his whereabouts, even traveling - accompanied by our old farm vet Herr Gollwitzer - to Neubrandenburg to an internment camp where the Russians have apparently been holding landowning families. All to no avail. I don’t like to dwell on it, I prefer to hide behind the quiet stoicism of my mother.\n“I heard the Russians do terrible things,” I told my father the evening that he loudly declared that we would not leave. Other families began fleeing the advancing Russians on bikes, trains, and even on foot, and when Mother asked what we should do, he banged his fist on the beautiful, large wooden dining table - which, incidentally, was carried off by the Russian soldiers along with most of the chairs in the house when the first regiments moved out - Waldstran is our home, he said, and we would stay put.\n“Don’t you worry, mein Schatz.” He patted me on the cheek. “They will have to go through me to get to you. I will hang a white sheet from the tower. They will need the farm to work if they want to feed their soldiers. I refuse to believe the Russians are so unreasonable.”\nIt was that beastly Moeller boy who had told me what the Russians did to girls and women. He had spoken with a gleeful leer, adding that he planned to watch them arrive and witness the action. I doubt he had the time with all the looting and vandalizing he did in the weeks after their descendent onto our little village.\nOur manor has been looted more times than I can count, by the refugees who having been pouring through for weeks, the Poles, and now the soldiers. Mother told me to pretend like we have been bombed so as not to cry over every broken plate, ever burnt portrait or stolen jewellery. It helps.\n“I do wonder what is keeping Mother,” I say, realizing I have been neglecting our guest, lost in my recollections, my eyes mostly closed. I try to recall where Mother said she was going. I grapple at my memory, but my mind is slippery, like when I tried to catch the goldfish in the pond with my bare hands as a child. I reach for my braid on my right shoulder but find nothing.\nSomething like a dark shadow seems to rise in my chest. An ominous feeling. Like that night in mid-May, when heavy footsteps marked the arrival of inebriated Russians towards the dark fruit cellar - which mother had cleared out to offer shelter to neighbouring families - they burst through door with their rifles high.\n“Quick, in the hamper!” Fraulein Weber - the eldest daughter of Pastor Weber - had whispered, pushing me into the wicker picnic hamper before the soldiers’ eyes could acclimatize to the dark. They demanded wine and when there was none to provide, they rounded up the girls and left. I never saw Fraulein Weber again. I can still smell the dank, sweetly sour smell of the cellar. Mother used to send me down to get new jars of preserve when I was little, I love that smell, yet…\n(Mother!)\n…the memory makes me uneasy. The dark shadow continues to rise, and something is fragmenting in my mind.\n“I..” I look at our guest, I cannot recall her name now. Caroline, I think. “I think we have met before,” I say now, frowning at her. There is something familiar in her features, something unnerving in her expression. I cannot put my finger on it. I feel an exasperating sort of confusion, I know this feeling is not new to me, it fits like an old shoe. An old shoe I do not recognize.\n“Yes,” she says, laying a hand on mine. “Yes, we have. Many times, do you know who I am?”\nI frown at her. I want to tell her that I do not, but the words come out wrong. A panicky realization that I should know seems to close in around my throat. “Father hid the Titian painting in the hen house. The Russians never found it.”\n“No one ever found it, I believe,” the lady says with a gentle smile. Her expression confuses me still. It is a mixture of pity, affection, and something else…\nDread.\nShe knows something I do not - I am not safe. Mother told me not to trust anyone, only her and our trusty farmhand, Peter, who has been such a help over the last few weeks.\n“Where is Mother?” I ask, aware of the panic raising the pitch of my voice. I look around me and suddenly the familiar is unfamiliar. I withdraw my hand from the lady, I don’t like how she is looking at me. “Who are you?” I shriek. “I must find Mother! Have they taken Mother?”\nThe smell of the cellar again. Mother - I can see her. I know something bad is going to happen, like in a bad dream, as though my mind is controlling the actions, but I am powerless to stop it.\n“Mother!” I scream, and it dawns on me that I have heard that scream before - my scream. Many times. I have seen her eyes locked onto mine in desperate sorrow as the life drained away. I can still smell pungent reek of alcohol from the soldier, the cold cellar floor on my cheek…\n“Mother!” I am screaming, scratching. I remember the red button around my neck, “for emergencies”, they had said.\nThe lady is crying and has retreated to the corner.\nI reach for my braid again, this time moving my hands to my head and finding only short, coarse tufts of hair. The unwelcome memory releases and blackens my mind gradually, like dark ink seeping into absorbent paper; I had pulled out my braids afterwards, facing the mirror with lifeless eyes, even though my birthday was not for two days. Protocol could no longer comfort me, Mother was gone, Father was gone. I got on a train with the Langhammer family and stayed with their kin until sister Frieda sneaked into the occupied zone to rescue me.\nI cannot stop the screaming.\nThe door flies open. People rush in. Restraining hands, loud overbearing voices, a prick in my thigh and the world goes still. I float, grasping for reality, grasping for images but losing them before I can touch them. Reality now feels perennially just out of reach.\n\n(…It’s like she is stuck there. When she is at her most coherent, she always goes back to that time. It’s agonizing to watch because I know how it ends. She lived in Munich for almost seventy years, was happily married to my father for fifty years before he passed, she had a good life. Yet that’s all gone. Disappeared...)\n\nI am still floating through the blackness. Faceless memories and liquid shadows of nameless objects swirl around me. Nothing is tangible, everything escapes the grasp of my mind. I do not know where I am, I don’t know when I am. Am I, even?\nAn immeasurable amount of time passed when I open my eyes again. I am in a room with furniture I don’t recognize, I must have been moved. Someone comes in holding a tray, a black woman in pink shirt and identically pink trousers. It is a bizarre outfit. She is wearing strange white clogs, and I suddenly remember old Peter endlessly carving wooden clogs in Waldstran, he must have made at least fifty pairs lest the Russians or locals stole all the wood.\n“Hello, Frau Schwarz,” said the pink lady cheerfully, “It me, Ola. I’ve brought you your breakfast, tea, and toast. Your favourite.”\n“I do like that.” I say, unsure whether I need to do something, unsure why this lady is bringing me breakfast. “You must be very far from home.” I say, admiring her smooth dark skin and long fingers.\nShe laughs. “I was born in Augsburg, Frau Schwarz. Germans come in all colours now, remember?”\n“Oh, yes, how lovely.”\n“Your son is coming today, Frau Schwarz.” She leads me to a small armchair in front of a round coffee table.\n“My son?” I pause. “Helmut?”\nShe looks at me with a wide grin. “Yes, Helmut. Your daughter, Christine, was here just yesterday.”\nI feel bad that I do not recognize this lady who clearly knows so much about me. I take the teacup with shaking hands and thick, knobbly fingers that aren't mine. She finishes setting up my breakfast and stands up straight, wiping her hands on her shirt. I follow her gaze to a painting above the bed - a lake with lily pads and specks of fiery red poppies.\n“Do you know where that is?” I ask her, setting the cup back down.\n“No, Frau Schwarz, do you?” She speaks with a benevolent, clear voice, like a kindergarten teacher.\n“Why, that’s Lake Herta.”\nPink lady puts on music, Moonlight Sonata, my favourite. I play along with my fingers; they know what they are doing.\n“It’s just a few miles south from here,” I say.\n“From here?” she asks. “I’ve never heard of it.”\n“Of course,” I say, taking a bite of toast and honey.\nShe tilts her head back and looks at me incredulously. “Where do you mean by ‘here’, Frau Schwarz?”\n“Why, Waldstran, of course.” I wonder if I should tell her my name is Fraulein Erika von Horcke. “Have you seen my mother?”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ebenezer's Dilemma\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2166\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character has to decide whether to press the button or not." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“If I had the power to remove all London’s wretched low lives and scum, I would. Either one at a time or all at once, it wouldn’t matter to me!” So says Ebenezer Crocket from an overstuffed chair at the gentlemen’s club. His voice echoes off the mahogany paneling and marble floors.\n“Oh, come now, Ebenezer,” pipes in Sir Wilfred Williams, III, a well-known assessor at one of London’s best clearing houses. “I believe you make a good deal of money from those poor, underprivileged souls.” IN 1837, and the division between the rich and poor is vast.\n“Underprivileged,” Ebenezer spats. “And yes, I make my living by renting them rooms to help them escape the cold. I also offer to reduce their rent if they want to improve the apartment. But no! They think it’s the landlord’s duty to make repairs. I tell you, Sir Williams, that rabble would rather beg, cheat, deceive, and rob than do an honest day’s work. And that’s the truth!”\nAs the waiter walks by, Ebenezer stops him. “Tell me, boy, has Mr. Hall gone home for the evening?”\n“Yes, Sir. I believe he has.”\nEbenezer waves him off, reaches over, and takes what is left of Mr. Hall’s sherry and half-smoked cigar. Sir Williams barely shakes his head.\n“What! Do you disapprove, Sir Williams? Don’t you believe the teaching of Christ, waste not want not?”\n“I see. So you read the Bible, Ebenezer.”\n“Yes. And I attend Saint Paul’s Lutheran church every Sunday. I’m a most charitable man, too, for I place a half-penny in the poor box each week.”\n“Ahh,” sighs Sir Williams. Then, in a soft voice, “Most charitable.” Sir Williams rises, “Sorry to leave you, Ebenezer, but I have some last-minute paperwork to attend to before I retire for the evening.” He lifts his brandy glass, drains it, nods at Ebenezer, then leaves. \nEbenezer watches him depart and curls his lips into a sneer. He is well aware that the other members look down on him for the type of tenant houses he keeps. It is not fair that they should think so unkindly of him. Someone must do it. A cynical smile creeps across Ebenezar’s face because he knows that no matter what they believe, he can not be removed from the club’s roster, for he always pays his dues in full. He crushes his cigar and tosses it into Sir Williams’ empty glass.\nEbenezer stares into the crackling fire taking in the ambiance of the club. It has high bookshelves stacked with volumes of nature and science works, most written by other members. Several mounted animal heads from safaris to Africa and India are on the surrounding walls. Collections of butterflies and stamps are placed on glass-topped tables. It is a most exceptional club indeed.\nEbenezer tosses back the last of the sherry and rises to leave when he hears a rich baritone voice.\n“Are we leaving so soon, Mr. Crocket?” Ebenezer narrows his eyes and scans for the speaker. He finds no one, “I beg your pardon, Sir, for I am at a loss. I don’t recognize your voice. Are you a member here?” From a winged back chair behind Ebenezer, an impeccably dressed man in a black waistcoat, cummerbund, and tie stands up.\n“Forgive my rudeness, Mr. Crocket, as I am not only a member but also the founder of this gentleman’s club. May I introduce myself? I am Lord Develin.” He bows slightly.\nEbenezer pales and bows awkwardly in return.\nHe stammers. “I-I- It’s a great honor to make your acquaintance, my Lord. Is there anything I might do to be of service?”\n“No, not at all,” Develin dismisses the idea with a casual wave of his hand. “I merely thought we might chat by the fire for a moment if you don’t mind?” Develin calls over a man that Ebenezer has noticed standing in the open archway all evening. “Pierce, my good man, would you be so kind as to bring some fine sipping bourbon for Mr. Crocket and I to drink while we talk? Thank you.”\nEbenezer tries not to appear slackjawed as he follows Lord Develin to the settee. As Lord Develin sits, he crosses his legs and flicks away some imaginary piece of fluff from his trousers. “Please, Mr. Crocket, sit,” he says, patting the cushion. Ebenezer gingerly sits on the edge of the settee, dabbing his brow with a linen handkerchief.\n“I can’t help but gather from your conversation with Sir Williams that you have a deep resentment for your tenants or the entire group of impoverished people who occupy the docks. Am I correct, Mr. Crocket?” \nEbenezer stiffens, “ Well, I’ll admit I’m far from fond of them, yes.”\n“And am I also correct in assuming that if you had the permission of the law or the blessings of God, you would personally banish every one of them from the face of the earth?”\nEbenezer thinks that perhaps he was being rather harsh when he told this to Sir Williams, but the truth is—“Yes! That is exactly what I would do. I can’t stand the sight of them. They’re filthy and they smell. They have children they can’t care for, but still, they breed like dogs. And if one of them falls down dead in the street, the rest simply walk around him. They are barely human, sub-human at best! I have no use for them and wish to see them gone!”\nThe servant Pierce returns and sets the two cutglass crystal tumblers of bourbon on the table. The glow of the fire shines amber through the liquor.\nLord Develin leans forward to retrieve his drink while watching Ebenezer from the corner of his eye.\n“Are you aware that I collect all manner of things from around the world? Most of the items in this room are from my collections. In addition, I have ceremonial items from Africa, China, and Tibet. Strange and curious things gathered in back alley establishments of exotic, faraway places. I collect magical and mysterious objects like this box I purchased from a man in the jungles of Cambodia.” Leaning back in the settee, Lord Develin extracts a small lacquered box from his cummerbund and places it on the table. Ebenezer‘s eyes widen as he stares at the 2”x 2”x 2” black box.\n“This, my friend, is the answer to all your problems,” Lord Develin announces as he slips lose the small hook that holds the lid shut. Lifting the top, he reveals a black onyx button and pushes the box closer for Ebenezer to examine.\n“What is it?” Ebenezer whispers.\nLord Develin smiles. “This is simply known as a wishing box. Allow me to demonstrate. You place it in the palm of your hand like so. Then you make a wish for something or someone you truly desire. It is imperative that it be desired. Once you’ve made your wish, you push the little button here, and whoosh, your wish becomes a reality. Watch.” Lord Develin leans back and closes his eyes. He clears his throat and speaks, “I desire the perfect martini, extra dry.” He then pushes the onyx button, which makes a clicking sound. The air above the table starts to shimmer like the hot air of the desert, followed by a spark of light. Ebenezer cannot hide his amazement. His mouth hangs open. There on the table sits an excellent martini, olive, and all.\nWhen Ebenezer regains his senses, he stammers, “W-What kind of-of-sorcery is this?”\n“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. All I know is I bought it from a man deep in the Cambodian jungle, and it does just as he said it would. So I’m showing it to you, Mr. Crocket, because I feel it can benefit you greatly.”\nKnitting his eyebrows together, Ebenezer ponders, “How?”\nLord Develin turns to face Ebenezer. “I should think it is quite apparent. All you need to do is make a desired wish, and your run-down tenements will be restored to the condition when they were first built! Just imagine all the new tenement houses lining the streets with rich eager people wanting to rent them at a premium price. You will be a landlord extraordinaire! All the other members here will no longer look down on you but see you as their equal!” \nLord Develin places the gadget back on the table. “Of course, all the people currently living in them will disappear along with the apartments, but what does that matter to you? However, the ones that are living on the streets will remain. Perhaps you can get the authorities to relocate them to some other place. But if you are insistent in, as you say, removing the scum of London in its entirety, you can do that instead. The tenements will remain run down until you can make another wish, but that won’t be for another year, as you can only make one wish a year. However, I’m unsure if your funds would last that long.” Lord Develin pauses to take a sip of his drink as he studies Ebenezer’s reactions. \n“At this point, I would like to bring one Miss Lillian Plant into the discussion.”\nEbenezer leans forward and bristles, “What has she to do with it?”\nLord Develin raises one hand. “It’s just that I know you seem to show a fondness toward her. I believe it is because she reminds you of your own sweet mother. Her plight is the same; her abusive boyfriend beats her and spends all the money on himself. I believe he’s finally left her and his son to fend for themselves.\n Ebenezer blusters, “How do you know of these things, and what right do you have to pry into other people’s business?”\n “Please, Mr. Crocket, pry is such a harsh word. I prefer “assist”. I have my staff follow members of my club to monitor them to determine if they are experiencing any financial difficulty or emotional upset that has become a burden to them. I then take them aside, as I am doing with you now, and try to help them back on the road to happiness. The thing here is your fondness for Miss Plant and her child. No matter your choice, you’ll lose them either way.\n I’ll leave you with your thoughts. Pierce will retrieve the wishing box when you’re through. I bid you a good evening and good luck, Mr. Crocket.” Ebenezer struggles to stand, but Lord Develin waves him off and leaves.\nLeft alone, Ebenezer thinks back to what Lord Develin has said. It seems he truly is fond of Miss Plant because she reminds him so much of his own past. His father left him when he was nine months old. His mother struggled to get by but always kept a positive attitude toward life. Over the years, she taught Ebenezer to be kind toward others, never look down on people less fortunate than themselves, and never think that they are better than anyone, no matter how great, or small they are, for we are all creatures of God’s love. Unfortunately, Ebenezer’s mother died very young of tuberculosis, leaving Ebenezer bitter and heartbroken. He was taken in by some distant relatives who lived in these same apartments. They used him to make money for them by forcing him to work in sweatshops and begging on the streets. Eventually, his opinion toward people and his mother’s teaching faded, and when he turned sixteen, he ran away. Ebenezer learned how to survive in the dark underbelly of London. He accumulated enough money to buy his first apartment house. The rest is history.\nThe problem now is Miss Plant. Though he would most desire to banish all the bums and vagrants, he has no desire to eliminate her. She works out of his apartment for slave wages, making matchboxes by hand. She has to produce at least one hundred and fifty of them before she is paid two cents. This means she has to work from dawn until the wee hours of the following day, sometimes getting no more than a few hours of sleep. Even though Ebenezer reduced her rent after her boyfriend left, most of her money still goes toward paying him.\nThe fire has long since been reduced to embers, and Ebenezer is no closer to a decision. Instead, he leans forward, places his elbows on his knees, interlaces his fingers, and prays.”O’ dear mother, if only you were here. With your kind heart, you could instruct me in what I should do.” Tears fall from his eyes when he hears his mother’s sweet voice say, “Ebenezer, my son, follow your heart.”\n” Of course, Mother, that is what I should have been doing all along.” Wiping the tears from his cheeks, he adds,” The thing is, I have no heart!” And with that, Ebenezer takes the small black box and places it in the palm of his hand." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Pushing Buttons\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1008\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character has to decide whether to press the button or not." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I've been waiting for this all my life. I wonder every day, will today be the day? Decisions, decisions. I don't have a name, or at least not in the humanoid sense, however the word release is tattooed on my face, so I assume that that's my name. Day after day, the president of the United States was faced with a daunting decision. On one hand, he could end a war. On the other hand, he can let it continue, and sacrifice a few for the good of many. He would be responsible for giving the order that would make my life meaningful. A decision that would impact the outcome of World War II. \nFrom the conversations, debates in some instances, that people had around me I could gauge that the other people started it, but isn't that what everyone says? That the other person “starts” it. I was installed into the cockpit of the B-29 that fateful day I that was instrumental in an act of retaliation on the morning of August 6th, 1945. I remember communicating technopathetically with a few friends of mine over the years leading up to that wonderful morning. The morning where I was finally pushed for the first and last time.\n Four years before on December 7th 1941, I lost hundreds of friends. They were blown to pieces never to be pushed again, in Hawaii on the shores of Pearl Harbor. I heard thousands of humanoids were killed too. 2,403 humanoids to be exact. I wondered then if this would finally make the president angry enough to use me. Finally, I would be the one to avenge my techno bud's deaths. I waited year after year. Thousands of triggers were pushed, thousands of times. I remember thinking it wasn’t fair, they got to make a difference, they got to live out their purpose. World War II was long and devastating. 416,800 triggers would never be pushed again. I felt so bad for all the buttons that would never be pushed again. I know firsthand, how it feels not to be pushed, especially when that's all you want to do. That is our purpose as a buttons, to be pushed at least once over the corse of our duty as buttons, at least most of us, some of us are destined to never be pushed, some are destined to only be pushed once like me. I sat waiting for the U.S. to get closer to Japan, to get close enough for the pilot of my aircraft to push me and it would make a difference in the war, not just an impact because what I held the power to was the only one of its kind.\n I sat and waited for someone to get inside the cockpit of the aircraft I belong to. I waited four years, 1,460 days in a row. I wondered if today, I would make history, one of the first of my kind to do that. Pilot after pilot got into other aircrafts with all the other buttons that were lucky enough to get pushed. I knew that when I was pushed it would end the lives of thousands of people, but they started it remember. \nFor decades the US president fought the Japanese and their sense of entitlement over China. The Kamikaze style bombing of Pearl Harbor was just what Franklin D Roosevelt needed to declare World War II. it pushed enough buttons, pun intended. I have been waiting ever since for my turn to affect the outcome of the war. To bring an end to the destruction and death that surrounded me, all the broken buttons, all the destroyed cockpits and blown bits. Behind my surface, laid wires and other means of connection to the B-29 bomber and the wonderful surprise it held for Japan. \nJust before I was pushed in August, someone pushed my friend, a button on the Manhattan Project, and the first successful test for the plutonian bomb. I envied my friend Testing. He was the trigger on the controls that lead to the discovery and use of the Atomic Bomb. If it wasn’t for him, I would never have been pushed in the first place. By July 1945, when the test for the plutonium bomb was completed, allied powers had already defeated German troops in Europe. I kept hearing the pilots talking about a “little boy” that they put in my aircraft hold. A “new kind of weapon”. I found out after I was pushed that “Little Boy” was the nickname given to it the atomic bomb I would later release as my name said I would. I made sure I was ready. I couldn't malfunction that fateful day. I couldn't let the US or the world down. \nIt was time. Early morning August 6th, 1945, we all went up in the air. The aircraft, the pilot, the “little boy” and me. “Will he finally push me?” I kept asking myself this question as we flew closer and closer. Then, 2000 miles above the ground over Hiroshima, he did! \nClick, BOOM!\nI did it. I released the “little boy”! I watched as the mushroom cloud followed behind us like it wanted to take us with it while we flew away. Hiroshima was no more. Approximately 80,000 people were killed instantly, and thousands would later die, poisoned as a result of the radiation that lingered in the air.\n I finally was pushed, that would be the first and only time I would be pushed. I have mixed feelings about the outcome. On one hand, I was used to end a war that killed hundreds of thousands of Americans, and millions of people across the world. On the other hand, pushing me killed over 80,000 people. Was it the right thing to do? I can't say. I'm just happy I was finally pushed. For a button like me that's all we want. How will the buttons you push today affect your tomorrow? And when you finally push the right button, will it be worth 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: Freedom in Foolishness\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2765\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which the same line recurs three times." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The old days of school were nice, back then classes were composed of only modern tables, wooden chairs, and a blackboard. \nKids came to school to study, at least most kids. Some, like myself, would rather spend all day working in a ditch with our best mates than sit in a classroom all day watching a boring teacher teach boring teachings. That is exactly why I decided in 1998, at age 13, that I would stop wasting my time in school.\nMy parents didn't agree with my judgement.\nWe were at the dinner table when I brought up the idea…\n\"… You know, dad, I have been thinking…\"\nDad chuckled. \"You think now, son?\" My mom and two elder brothers laughed with him.\nI continued unperturbed. \"… I have been thinking, can't I come work with you guys instead of going to school?\"\nThe laughs stopped altogether once, and my dad's face became serious. \"You fool,\" he pointed his finger at me. \"… You have no idea what I would sacrifice to be given the opportunity to go to school and get an education. I am sending you to that school, so you don't have to work in a ditch like me and your brothers.\" \nHe reached across the table and grabbed my neck. \"Don't you dare say something that foolish in my presence ever again.\"\nI struggled to keep my tears inside, knowing that I was cursed to be born in such a miserable family.\nSchool started soon enough, and I found myself in a maths class being explained things that I would never use in my day-to-day life and being told that I am wrong for thinking that way when everyone knows that is true. So I decided, I would get myself expelled.\n\"Mark, place surely is printed exercises with the class.\" Mr Pillsbury was a man early 40s who was unusually skinny, had a massive head and wore very baggy clothes, his most distinctive feature was his bald head which reflected badly the light of the sun coming in from the windows.\nA tall young man with flowing blonde hair stood up and went up to the teacher's desk to pick up the stack of paper which is chiefly distributed to each of his 20 classmates. I was one of those classmates, and that day, I felt like getting in trouble.\nTo my left and right there were my two best friends, Jamie and Darren, who agreed with me that school was a waste of time, but had never mustered up the courage to tell their parents.\nAfter being given the piece of paper by Mark, it occurred to me that Mr Pillsbury had his back to the class and was solving some of those exercises on the blackboard so that we, the students, could match our own answers with his. Mind you, I was never troublesome student, in fact I was among the top of the class. That's why Jamie and Darren were shocked to see me crunch the paper into a ball and stick it inside my trousers, pull it out, smell it and go, \"bleah.\"\nThey both shook their heads. \"That's disgusting, man.”\n\"Watch this…\" I whispered.\nI held up my left hand and stared at the spot between my index finger and my thumb to triangulate for the back of Mr Pillsbury's neck while Jamie whispered. \"… You won't do it…\"\nAnd Jamie would have been right if this had happened before my conversation with my father, now my care for school had been zeroed out. Before I could realise my hand holding the ball of paper was speeding up to throw and in no time the smelly capable kit the back of Mr Pillsbury's head.\nBefore the teacher got around, myself, Jamie and Darren had swiftly put our heads down pretending to be busy doing the work, but I had nothing on my desk which immediately made me the prime suspect.\n\"Mr Dent, I don't know what has got into you... How dare you disrespect me in that manner? TO THE PRINCIPAL!!!\"\nI have to admit, although this I was shitting myself just thinking about the beating I will receive when I got back home, I couldn't help but giggle. In fact, I left the class with a smile printed on my face.\nThe next day...\n\"Oh my God… Look at that…\" Jamie tried to touch my black eye, but I slapped his hand away.\n\"You earned it, mate.\" Darren was munching on a large serving of potato chips and chicken.\nJamie grimaced. \"Close your mouth when you eat, you filthy pig.\"\n\"I-I know it weird to say, but it felt good…\"\n\"What, getting beat by your dad?\" Jamie tried to poke into my eye, I slapped his hand, harder this time.\n\"No, you dimwit! I mean, throwing paper at Mr Pillsbury.\"\n\"Well…\" Darren was swallowing a fistful of chips. \"You better not do that again, I have never seen Mr Pillsbury so pissed.\"\n\"I'll do something bigger next time, you'll see… Ouch!\" Jamie had finally succeeded in poking my black eye. I grabbed his index finger, squeezed it and pulled down to make it arch backwards, leaving Jamie screaming in pain. Meanwhile, Darren had shoved a full chicken wing in his mouth and was beating on his chest to try to make it go down more easily.\nAbout two or three months passed from that day, since I had struggled to find something bigger and more epic to do to put myself in trouble. \nIf I was going to pull another prank, it had to be bigger than the one before, but I was sure it’d have to be on Mr Pillsbury. So I watched him for weeks and realised that he was always the last teacher to enter school every day.\nNow, the only way inside the car park was a narrow gate at the back of the school. That gave me an idea…\nOne day doing reasons I ran to the gate making sure I wasn't spotted by anybody looking to get up and down I found the perfect spot there was a gap between the hinges of the gate which were just inches away from any car which passed by.\nMy brothers used to own a dagger with a thick gummy soft handle, and I believed it was just long enough to do what I wanted it to do...\n\"Ollie, why are you going this early?\" Mom had just finished cooking breakfast for my little brother when she saw me sprint out of the door. I was gone before she had any chance to force an answer out of me.\nI got to school at the same time as kids whose parents had to go to work early. They looked at me weird but I didn't care. I hid between in some bushes in the school garden, near the gates where teacher came in.\nThe last person to come in before Mt Pillsbury was usually the principle and, after I watched him enter the school, I ran to the gate and fixed the blade between the hinges of the gate, then I heard a car approaching. I left the blade near the bottom of the gate protruding about 5 inches in the direction of any incoming car.\nI don't think I've ever ran as fast as I did the day, in order to reach the other side of school without anyone noticing where I just came from. And in the mists of parents kissing the children goodbye I was able to somewhat be unnoticed.\n\"Why are you so sweaty?\" Asked Jamie coming out of his dad’s car.\n\"It's not sweat, I just had a later shower…\"\nJamie's eyes lingered on me a little too long, so I just walked away without saying anything else.\nI have to admit, I was a little nervous as I was in class to see Mr Pillsbury's reaction. And then he entered the room…\nWe all stood up as normal and immediately whispers started going around.\n\"… Look at how red is…\"\n\"… What's with the veins on his forehead…\"\n\"… Maybe his wife didn't suck him off right last night…\" This last comment was Darren’s, and he said it loud enough for Mr Pillsbury to hear, yet the man didn't say a word, which prompted the whole class to stay quiet, lest they become the target of this anger.\nIf you had looked at me at that moment, you wouldn't have been able to tell that within was smiling little devil, proud of what he had done.\nIt was in fact during recess that the others found out what happened via whispers which went across the school.\nMark had overheard, that someone scratched Mr Pillsbury's car. \"… And I don't think the small scratch either. From the way the principal was talking about it, it seems like something serious.\"\n\"How serious?\" Jamie asked.\n\"I heard the principal say ... do not worry, Andrew, whoever did this will have to pay for the damage and will be thoroughly punished.'\"\nAnd I laughed on the inside.\nSomeone snitched on me. I was thoroughly questioned all day and they concluded it was me after showing the dagger to my dad.\n“YOU FOOOL!!!” Was the last thing I heard before a smack across the face distorted my senses.\nWhen I came back to school the next day, I was questioned again, this time by all the classmates.\n“I’m shocked you’re still here…” Said Darren.\n‘I’m shocked you’re still alive. If I had done such a thing my dad would have eviscerated me. How much do you have to pay in damages?”\nI shrugged. “I got no idea. They didn’t tell me and I don’t even want to know.”\nMark who sat nearby overheard and commented. “Are you trying to get yourself expelled or something?”\n“Yup.”\nMy newfound confidence, was exhilarating and scary. I had to do something else, it would have to be bigger and better. The knockout punch.\nI thought about it for months, so much so I wondered whether it was worth pulling a prank on Mr Pillsbury alone, or to pull a prank and the entire school… So I decided to do both…\nWell, I started stalking Mr Pillsbury again and noticed that during recess, he was known to go to the teacher's lounge's toilet, where he would stay until the students went out to play in the yard. (… I suspected, he was a little antisocial and wanted to spend some time alone…)\nI had something in mind that would not only be epic, but might actually get me kicked out if I got caught this time.\nTo do what I had in mind I would need a lot of ants… I spent the next month digging up ant colonies and picking up as many ants as could to drop them inside the plastic bottle.\nSoon enough, this bottle was filled with ants' corpses. I kept that bottle in my bag at all times, just waiting for the right opportunity.\nThat came about two weeks before the end of school…\nI asked Mr Pillsbury if I can go to toilet, to which he responded. \"Don't go roaming around school wasting time. If you are not back within 15 minutes, I will call your parents.\"\nI could feel his eyes lingering as I went out the room. If only he knew was about to happen to him…\nI roamed around the school corridors until I found a door which had written, DON'T ENTER. \nThe door led to the school pantry. I opened it, peeked in to make sure no one was there and sneaked in without looking behind me. I could hear the russian school's cook's voice.\n\"… How many times I told you, bring out potatoes and peel before 11 o'clock. Now they are going to be undercooked. What have you been doing?\"\nA younger voice. \"Sorry Berta... I-I have been making the salad. It's in the fridge…\"\n\"Bring it out, let me see it.\" A door open and light entered the room. As if driven by adrenaline itself, my body found the nearest hiding spot within the second and round to it even faster. Before I knew, I found myself behind the fridge and steps moving towards me. I have to admit, my legs were shaking, I felt like even my eyes were sweating.\n\"Please God, make it good enough…\" The woman whispered to herself. She left the room and the door open, so I didn't move.\n\"Mhm… It doesn't look that bad, kids eat anything anyway.\"\n\"Thank you… I think…?\"\nI heard her steps approach the fridge again, this time to put the salad back inside. As soon as she closed the door, stepped in front of the fridge, opened it up and pulled out the bottle with ant cadavers out of my jacket's pocket. In a rush, I raised the lid of the large bowl containing the salad and poured nearly half of the bottle's insects.\nI didn't have time to do more damage, so I left crossing my fingers hoping my diversion would work. I ran back to class, where Mr Pillsbury said in a relatively calm voice. \"A couple minutes more, and you would have been in trouble, young man.\"\nAll that was left to do, was wait.\nDuring recess…\n\"Where's Ollie?\" Asked Darren.\nJamie shrugged. \"Probably doing something stupid.\"\nAnd Jimmy was right, I was patiently waiting in the corner between the corridor that led to the front door and the corridor where you could find the teacher's lounge and the cafeteria. It was just a matter of time until…\nThe lady who made the salad was now bringing it out to students, waiting for them to raise their hands if they wanted some. The first one to raise a hand was little Anita, a girl from year 2. The woman came to her as fast as she could and after pouring some salad, both her and Anita noticed something wrong.\n\"Ahhh!!!\" Anita screamed in a way only a little girl can. \nUpon looking inside the bowl, the woman screamed and dropped it, pouring the dead ants all over the cafeteria floor, which lead to dozens of scared little girls jumping on top of the table to stay away from those \"things\" - as they called them. \nI watched every single teacher dash out of the lounge and into the cafeteria, all except Mr Pillsbury – everything was going according to plan.\nI ran to the door with transparent tape, the small type that kids use for school, and tasted across the bottom of the door as an improvised trip wire. Then I ran back to my position and waited.\n\"This is what happened to everyone…\" Mr Pillsbury stepped right into my trap. In fact he tripped so hard, he didn't even cover his face from hitting the ground so when he raised his head, his nose was bleeding. I swear I tried, I tried, not to giggle, but I just couldn't help it. I did and he heard me.\n\"Who's that?\"\nI stayed quiet until I heard his heavy steps approaching, then I sprinted towards the front door, hoping I could run out before he reached me. When I got to the door, I found it locked. \n\"You're so naive, Mr Dent, to think we leave the door open after students come in. We close it in case impertinent students like yourself decide to leave without permission.\"\nHe grabbed the collar of my shirt and dragged me to the teacher's lounge, where he pushed me on the sofa and waited until the other teachers came back. \n\"We have our culprit.\" He smirked when they came back.\nMy dad had to come, and after a long and intense scolding by the principal, he declared that I was expelled. My dad maintained a straight face all the way through, in fact it didn't say a word during the ride home.\nWhen we got home, he opened the front door (which he had never done), went in before me, held the door open and waited for me to come in. Once I did, he closed the door, locked it with key and yelled.\n'YOU FOOL!!!'\nI wasn't sure whether I'd be alive by the end of that beat down, but there had never been a happier day in my life. Something about doing whatever we want makes us more human. Sadly, that ALWAYS comes with negative consequences. Freedom is a blessing and curse." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Whispers in the Fogs\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2150\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a complete city or nation-wide blackout." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Whispers in the Fogs\n\nWhitechapel, London, 1889. The city’s up-and-coming electrical lights have been a guiding hand for many people living in the capital of the Victorian Era. But where there shines a light, darkness is being cast not far. This is a grim tale of a man’s journey through the less favorable streets of London. A tale spun by fate. A tale that went unnoticed in history, for it shed light on a person so obscure to our daily lives, that most see the name and think of nothing more than the poor souls that were lost in the Autumn of Terror 1888. This is the story of Detective Clearburough and his ongoing investigation of Jack the Ripper.\n\nLondon was still in trance and fear of the previous year’s murders. Scotland Yard and its members are still amidst finding the culprit of the killing of five poor souls… Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. It was not an uncommon thing to hear of beatings over a prostitute, hell some went so far as to murder, but these? Something so obvious as to say they were murdered merely for being of the wrong profession did not sit correctly with the Detective. Since the death of Miss Chapman way back on the 31st of August 1888 was he on the case alongside many other prominent figures of London’s crime-solving team. And yet? No traces of anything. Sure they were suspecting a few people, but without proof, how would one feel satisfied to have found the actual killer amongst the populous?\n\n“Dearest, are you thinking of that case again?” The voice was as sweet as sugar, yet felt so fragile and tender. The Detective shook off his thoughts and looked to his side. Arm in arm, in his safety she was. His darling wife Anne-Liz. He took off his hat and started scratching on his mustache. When it came to looks, both looked as dapper as high royalty, despite their impoverished life. “Ah, you must forgive me, dearest. Here we are going on a stroll to see the new city lights being activated, and all I can muster to think of, is that devil..” Her soft finger quickly placed itself onto his lips and she started giggling. “I’d rather want you to not think of it at least while you are taking the day off from work. I am surprised you even let me go out still, dearest.” The Detective quickly took her finger and placed it on a blue spot next to his nose. “If you are hitting as hard awake as you do in slumber, I reckon not even the devil himself could make you flinch away from a fight.”\n\nBoth continued their conversation. Of their life, God, and practically anything they could think of. And yet? The Ripper never truly left Clearburough’s mind that night. It was as if he jumped from nightly streets to worried minds.\n\n\nToday was to be a special day. London always marked itself as one of the most advanced cities in the entire world. The epitome of modern. That night, February 2nd of 1889, a new step into the future was made. Whitechapel was to get electric lights! It was decided upon after an inventor noted, that it could bring light to the hearts of those in fear. Granted, East End London was the most impoverished part of London, but if beggars were to have light at night, so the inventor thought, rich people might want to invest in more beautiful craftsmanship. Give them electrified Art. Aberdeen O’Malick was an Irishman living in Whitechapel himself. The man, alongside a few interested fellows and with the help of London’s Administration of Development, already have contributed to a more shining future for the denizens of the city, starting with the installation of arc lamps by the Holborn Viaduct and the Thames Embankment in 1878.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Clearburough’s goal was to attend that very same initiation of new lights for Whitechapel by Mr. O’Malick. Accordingly so, many of the streets in Whitechapel did not even possess any means of illumination. Seeing all these new pillars with a lamp attached looked out of place. As if the poor banded together and stole them from where they once stood. Truly, to see the district become brighter at night gave the Detective a worry less in the world. And even so, it felt as if the Ripper mocked him still. From afar with a wide grin exceeding any person’s normal smile. “You ought to become even more beautiful, shining so brightly by yourself in all this darkened street is already illuminating my worried heart, Darling,” Mr. Clearburough suddenly spoke up and give his wife a kiss. “These lights couldn’t come at a better time, I agree, you old charmer~.” The lady caressed his cheeks as both stopped in front of a large crowd. It felt like half of London has ushered into this smaller street. All Ages and wealth were there and amidst them stood a lanky fellow with a large mutton chop beard and safety goggles. “Ladies and Gentlemen! People of London, I welcome you all to our newest endeavor for the city as a whole! Before you; I stand with the power to give light to those who have been praying for it! Would t not have been without the help of Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, as well as the kind folk from the Whitechapel Board of Works, we’d still have a darkened night ahead of us!” The crowd started cheering. At least the majority of streets were to be put under guiding lights.\n\n“As a representative of London’s Administration of Development, as well as the O’Malick Electric Company, I welcome you all to a new age of light in Whitechapel!” The man in his leathery apron turned around and pulled a lever hoisted high up on a building with the help of a string. To the astonishment of all, each lamp, one after another, started to light up. At first, there was flickering at best, then a beam of light as if the sun itself had come forth, then back to a more acceptable level of brightness.\n\n\n“It’s as though I can now see every last snowflake in that pile of snow over there,” one old denizen shouted out. “My God, I feel like we have turned night into day,” screamed a woman further back. Cheering and clapping filled the air with sounds that haven’t been heard much of in this usually gloomy world. Children hopped around and began throwing snowballs now that they could see better. Others started outright dancing with their Missus to celebrate the occasion. Commissioner Warren made his way to Mr. Clearburough, followed closely by Mr. O’Malick as he still wanted to ask him something. “Charles! I never thought you had your hands in this!” Both men greeted each other with a handshake, followed soon by a tender bow by Mrs. Clearburough. “You and I both been dreading over this case for a good few months now, Seamus. To see so many people be less inflicted with fear is at least a small token of gratefulness in all that has happened lately.” Finally, Mr. O’Malick caught up with Commissioner Warren and shook his hand as well. The young and ecstatic man could barely hold his eagerness in. So much so, that he could not even talk cohesively. “Ah, m-my apologies for coming so suddenly, but I just had to give you my thanks for setting everything in motion alongside the police force!” It’s then, that the inventor noticed Mr. Clearburough and immediately shook his hand with the same tenacious eagerness just as that of Commissioner Warren. “You are doing a remarkable step towards London’s safety, Mr…O’Malick, was it?” not even a second later, a little piece of paper is pressed into the man’s hand. “Quite so, good sir! The poster I have hung up around the city sadly forgot to check for spelling, but overall I am happy that my home is getting the illumination it so desperately needed!”\n\nAlas, the joy, as quickly as it had come with the light, vanished once more as a woman started screaming. “THE RIPPER! T-Th…HE!...” Dyed in blood, the lady fell onto the ground, bleeding away her innards as her stomach revealed a nasty, open cut to her womb. The light began flickering and their protective illumination blew away like a candle’s light in the wind. Mr. Clearburough, Commissioner Warren, and a few Police Officers present at the event quickly drew their weapons. Not a single sign of panic had come out of anyone’s mouth yet. Heavy breathing…a flock of people cowered together like sheep in a thunderstorm. The ever-so-intrusive fog of London hushed out of the varying streets nearby. “Stay…close to me…very close…Anne…” Detective Clearburough wrapped his left hand tightly around his dearest, pulling her closer to his back and keeping his hand firmly placed at her back.\n\nStill no sign of panic or screaming. Silence and quiet dread overcame the once illustrious singing and dancing. Atop a building, the very same hosting the lever for Whitechapel’s lights, a silhouette began to form amidst the thickening fog. The first lamp that had just illuminated everything around it sprung to life once again, only to break violently right after. Sparks flew away from the lever, causing the thick to partially reveal the silhouette once again. A hat…a coat…a cane and a smile going beyond a normal one. It’s as if Clearburough saw the very thought he been having for the last few months. It was him. The Whitechapel Murderer, Leather Apron…Jack the Ripper\n\n\nThe very sight of his shadow alone made people feel dread and fear deep in their hearts. It could not have been a mere coincidence, that the lights had started to fail when he showed up. What was even more unusual, was the sudden appearance in front of so many people. One could argue, he is still anonymous, but why risk that, especially with the police and a member of Scotland Yard present? Truly, the conundrum only spun deeper into the web of mystery.\n\n“YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET ANYWHERE, GET HIM!” The doors of the building were run over by the officers. Commissioner Warren and Detective Clearburough rushed after him, keeping Mrs. Clearburough in the safety of Mr. O’Malick. Upon reaching the roof, the silhouette still stood there. One officer ignited his lantern and swung it forth, but was met with a terrible view. Instead of the Ripper, they found the corpse of a once beautiful woman. Slaughtered like an Animal, dressed in an expensive suit, and most gut-wrenching of all, cut at an aorta as she was leaning against a pike with a hook holding her up like a dried trout over a fire. Detective Clearburough and Commissioner Warren enter the scene not so long after and are taken aback by the unfolding view before them. “Oh dear God…that Woman…she is…” Mr. Clearburough looked at Mr. Warren with a confused mind. “You know this woman?! Who is she?” The entire police force around him became silent. The Commissioner took off his hat and placed it upon his heart. “Molly O’Malick…sister to our handshaking enthusiast. What a terrible fate…Get her down from there and put her into some loins!”\n\nThe lights sprung back to life once again as the corpses were both being put into cloth to transfer them to Scotland Yard alongside Mr. Clearburough. Nobody felt like celebrating anymore, especially not Mr. O’Malick, who broke down in tears as he saw the hand of his sister peek out of the cloth. Only she had a ring with the initials of her name engraved on it. Even though he did not show it, Detective Clearburough felt an immense dread lurking behind his back. Jack had returned. Not only had he prevented good publicity over the new lights, but they were also shut off again by the O’Malick Electric Company just a day after for ‘maintenance’. London’s people were still in danger. It was time to finally put a stop to this maniac and his killing spree. Whitechapel has been in nigh complete darkness for too long.\n\nAnd despite this setback and blackout. Neither Technology nor the will to catch evil had been stopped. If anything, it only engulfed Mr. Clearburough in even more thoughts on how to catch him…and perhaps…solving the city’s lack of light in Whitechapel and Spitalfields might be a good start on solving Jack’s nightly terror. What will follow, is a cat-and-mouse game between the murderer and police, as if it wasn’t already. And to you, my good sirs and madams reading this…I welcome you to sit down and watch closely, as one of history’s most notorious killers returns. The Blackout brought forth…Whispering in The Fogs" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Truth About My Sister\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1079\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character doing something they’ve done hundreds of times — only this time, it’s taken on a new meaning." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I really did not think it would be any different, Anna coming to school with me that day. I’d always thought that everyone would understand her the way I always understood her, the way our best friend Katie always understood her.\nEveryone always wondered why my twin sister didn’t come to school with me, I just said she had some issues going on and everyone just acted as if they knew exactly what I was talking about.\nYet when Anna finally turned up for her first day at my school why did they behave so differently than what I had expected?\nSuch an exciting day it was for us, I braided Anna’s hair and we had breakfast together, then Katie came to walk to school with us as she usually did.\n“You excited Annabelle?” Katie asked my sister, Annabelle nodded in reply. Katie, Anna and I had always been the best of friends, all born on Christmas eve!\nSo why were people nudging each other, whispering and keeping a distance from us when we first went to school that day?\nWhy did Amelia not want to sit next to me as usual during our science class?\n“Hi!” I said to my good friend Carla, “Hey Chloe!” Answered Carla and left so quickly that I could hardly ask her what she’d been up to that weekend.\nI could not understand why everyone was being so stupid! Was it because of Anna? Poor Anna had been so excited! Why did those people need to do that to her?! Why did they need to ruin her first day at school when she had been so enthusiastic?!\nAnna was crying, Katie and I, comforted her and tried to stop her from being so upset, telling her that they were always like that when new people came (which was a lie).\nThat day we went home, our faces gloomy with despair, Mum was not at our house yet.\n“Tell you what!” I began, “Katie, get some ingredients ready to make s’mores and hot chocolate, I’ll help Katie out of her wheelchair and into some crutches.\nWe made hot chocolate and s’mores and even popcorn and started watching our favourite movie.\nA while later the doorbell rang, it was Mum. “Mum?” I asked.\n“Hello darling! There is someone here to see you!” She answered.\nCarla came into the living room in a track suit, looking a bit embarrassed, “Hey!” She said.\nShe sat down on the couch and started munching my popcorn. “I wanted to say sorry!” She babbled, “For running of . . . I should have been more friendly what with it being Anna’s first day! I just felt nervous and didn’t know what to say or do! I might not have been tactful enough! Sorry Anabelle!” She said.\nAnnabelle nodded, Carla hugged her and said she’d like to be friends with her.\nKatie looked at me and rolled her eyes, she’d never really been a fan of Carla as she used to be a bully to us when we were in year five, I say she’s changed now we’re nearly in year eight but she disagrees.\nThe next day we again went to school, Anna started chatting with Carla who chatted back like they’d known each other forever!\n“Oh Carla I don’t think much of your taste!” sneered Skye, “First Amanda and now Anabelle!” Emily continued. Skye and Annabelle were the most liked people in our class, Amanda on the other hand was the least favourite. Even the teachers had Emily and Skye as their favourites and Amanda as their least favourite.\nCarla shrugged and walked off with Anna, still chatting as if she were a radio. As we approached our form room everyone dodged us, as if we had a deadly virus!\nMy lips quivered, as even Hannah (the nicest person in our class) dodged me, as if we were playing dodgeball, and I were the ball!\nSuddenly I saw Emily and Skye racing forwards like rockets! Skye fell down, her face was white, she looked dead! Everyone thought she was!!\n“Skye?” I asked, but no reply came.\n“Lower me!” Anna commanded strictly.\n“Wha . . .?” I asked.\n“No arguing!” She demanded.\nI lowered her and she lay there, on the floor. Anna put her head next to Skye’s head,\n“SHE’S NOT BREATHING!” Anna shouted as she put her back up and lay down on Skye, her tummy on Skye’s, her hands holding her up from the floor. “Someone call the emergency service and get us an ambulance whilst someone else please call a teacher!” Two students ran off to get a teacher, as Emily dialled for an ambulance.\nAnna took her hands and started pumping Skye’s chest, once, twice three times, all the way up to twenty! Then Anna put her ear back on Skye’s mouth! “She’s breathing!” Anna said relieved.\n“Skye” She asked, but no answer came. Anna started squeezing Skye’s shoulder as Skye turned and finally opened her eyes . . .\n“Get of me you squirt!” She squealed, when she saw Anna.\nI helped Anna back into her wheelchair as she looked loathingly at Skye, who didn’t actually know what had happened. Skye tried to get up, but she was too weak, her face was still so pale, her lips so blue, her body so lifeless.\n“Well done, Ann!” I told my twin sister and gave her a hug, she hugged me back and smiled.\n“Thanks sis!” She answered.\nMrs Hans stomping down the corridor looking very flushed, she asked what had happened and thanked Anna for saving Skye!\nSkye, who was very shocked, got taken to the hospital by some ambulance workers and we went home.\nCarla and Katie came with us to have a movie night and sleepover. While Katie, Carla, and I chatted, Anna just stared into space, lost in thought.\nThe next day when we went to school, nobody dodged away from us. Nobody whispered behind our backs. Nobody was rude.\nWe saw Emily, she smiled at us and when she saw Anna her smile widened, “Hey guys! How are you doing?!” She gabbled in a jolly tone.\nAnna smiled, Katie smiled, Carla smiled and I smiled.\nA week later, Skye came back to school, she hung out with us and thanked Anna for saving her.\nFor the first time in a while I was happy! People finally knew the truth! My sister, she is amazing, being a wheelchair doesn’t stop 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: Who Would Dare Suppose?\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1515\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters whose paths briefly cross, but are actually going in opposite directions — whether literally or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content warning: WWII concentration camp setting\n\nThe light of the sun is fading, much like the strength of the prisoners in striped trousers, shirts, and caps. Since the morning roll call, they have stood at attention as the July sun blazed down on them. Movement, even to sit, would be rewarded with the crack of a gun and the thud of a falling body. Many collapsed anyways from dehydration, starvation, and fatigue. Though beaten and kicked, they were unable to rise, and were dragged to the back of the standing ranks to be piled on top of one another. Revived by a small meal of soup earlier in the afternoon, they are still weak. \n\nEvening roll call has been taken in Auschwitz, and now Colonel Fritsch, the second in command of the camp, approaches the miserable prisoners of Block 14. Yesterday, one of their number did not return with the work gang. The escapee has not been caught. As punishment, the colonel declared that ten prisoners will die in the starvation bunker.\n\nLukas Krause, one of the armed S.S. guards attending the colonel, watches as the prisoners are ordered into ten rows of sixty prisoners each. One will be taken from each row, and it will be his and his fellow soldiers’ responsibility to attend to them as they are selected. \n\nColonel Fritsch paces up and down the length of the front row. All is silent. All is still.\n\nHe points at one of the prisoners.\n\nPalitsch, the recording officer, writes down the number emblazoned on the cloth badge. One of Lukas’s fellows seizes the prisoner and drags him a few paces away, eddies of fine black ash raised by the feet scuffling on the hard-packed dirt. Palitsch barks, “Five steps forward, march.” The front row does so, opening an avenue for the colonel to examine the second row. \n\nThe selection continues. Able to understand Polish, Lukas listens as the selected cry out defiance in their native tongue, some giving farewells to friends, others declaring that they are dying for the glory of the country of Poland, which will never be defeated. Of course, they are wrong. The ruling years of the Third Reich are approaching and will truly begin once the war is won. That is what has been promised by the Führer.\n\nThe colonel is pointing at another. The recorder writes his number. In Polish, the selected one says, “Oh… my wife… my poor children… I will never see them again.” Tears leave this one’s eyes and travel down his hollow cheeks, the last of the fading sunlight turning the droplets to liquid gold.\n\nLukas translates the crying prisoner’s words to Colonel Fritsch, but the colonel gives no indication of having heard him.\n\nAnother prisoner in the same row steps forward without being called. The infringement of protocol so stuns everyone, including Lukas, that for a moment, all simply inhale and stare. He hears the rest of the stripe-clad prisoners whispering and murmuring in Polish, “Who is it?” and others answering, “It’s Father Kolbe.” Some exclaim in hisses, “What, the Franciscan?” \n\nRousing himself, Colonel Fritsch reaches for his pistol and half-fearful forces out, “Halt! What do you want?”\n\nThe prisoner who has broken rank is short, emaciated as they all are, wearing round wire-rimmed glasses held together with bits of string. Those glasses. Lukas recognizes those glasses. He heard a story from a fellow guard: Two work gangs were out farming, and a capo—a prisoner set over the others—was beating someone during a break. The prisoner being beaten was down on his hands and knees. A prisoner from the other gang came up to the two officers and informed them that he was a boxer, and asked if he could “train” with the capo who was beating the other prisoner. Both officers gave the boxer permission to go ahead. The boxer had gone and spoken to the capo, and then punched him twice, knocking the capo to the ground beside his victim. The other prisoner, who was wearing glasses, had immediately stood up and said, “Don’t beat your brother, my son!” The boxer had told him to “Bug off!” and hit the capo a third time. But the bespectacled prisoner fell to his knees and grasped the boxer’s hands, saying, “Do not fight, my son.” This must be the same one. \n\nTaking the cap from his head and holding it in his hand, the little prisoner’s eyes peer up at Fritsch. No fear or contempt are in those wide-open eyes, but they contain a light which Lukas has not seen in a long while. Very softly the prisoner says in Polish, “Please, Herr Commandant, I would like to take the place of that man.” And he points at the crying one.\n\nFlustered, completely ignorant of the language being spoken to him, the commandant turns to his recorder. “Who is this man? What is it all about?” \n\nThe tranquil little prisoner speaks again, but now in fluent German: “I am a Catholic priest and I want to take his place. He has a wife and family.” \n\n“Are you crazy?” Colonel Fritsch demands. \n\n“I would like to die in his place,” the little bespectacled prisoner continues in German. “I am old, and sick… I can barely work. I am of no use to anyone anymore. This man is young and strong, and he has a wife and family… I have no one…” The prisoner is certainly right about being of no use. Lukas is surprised that this one is still standing, and not unconscious on the ground.\n\nThe commandant drops his eyes from that open, sincere gaze, then turns to his recorder. His voice rings out. “ACCEPTED.” \n\nThe crying prisoner covers his face as Lukas pushes him back into line and grabs the Catholic priest. The previous number is scratched out by Palitsch, and the little bespectacled prisoner’s number is substituted.\n\n5659\n16670\n\nThe rest of the selections are made, and the prisoners not selected are sent off to their barracks. The replaced prisoner is still crying, and Lukas hears one of the others say to him, “Take hold of yourself! Is that priest to die for nothing?” \n\nPalitsch orders the condemned to remove their shoes, and Lukas and his fellow guards escort the ten prisoners to the starvation bunker. 16670 holds up another prisoner at the rear. When they reach the dank cement building, the S.S. men strip the prisoners and march them down the hall. They are forced into a cell that is not even large enough to allow all of them to lie down at once. “You will dry up like tulips,” one soldier says before slamming the metal door. \n\nOutside, the sunset is spectacular. \n\nMarching down the cold cement halls the next day, the guards are accompanied by the Polish prisoner conscripted to remove the bodies of the deceased. Where formerly the moans of the dying chased one another through the gloom, the walls now echo with song. When they heave open the door of the cell filled with the prisoners from Block 14, the song rolls out. Ave, ave, ave Maria!\n\nThe days pass, and the guards say to one another, “Never have we seen anything like this.” No more moaning, instead, all the prisoners in the various cells sing and chant prayers to one another. When they enter the cell where the Block 14 prisoners are, the naked inmates often do not seem to see the soldiers. When the priest lifts his eyes, the S.S. men grow uncomfortable, reprimanding, “Turn your eyes away. Do not look at us that way!” \n\nLukas furrows his brow and speaks for his fellows as he says, “We have never seen a man like this.” \n\nTwo weeks later, Lukas heaves the door open again. Four of the prisoners from Block 14 are still alive, though only one is conscious: 16670 slumped in a corner. More prisoners have been condemned to starvation. This cell must be cleared at once. Boch, head of the sick quarters, is on his way to administer injections of carbolic acid.\n\nAs the syringe approaches, lips moving in prayer, 16670 lifts up his trembling arm to Boch.\n\nThe accompanying Polish prisoner assigned to remove the bodies turns and flees the room. Lukas decides he will not summon that one back for a minute or two. It will not take longer for this man to die.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAuthor's note: All dialogue in quotation marks was taken from the book Kolbe: Saint of the Immaculata edited by Br. Francis M. Kalvelage, FI for purposes of historical accuracy.\nSergeant Francis Gajowniczek (prisoner number 5659), survived the concentration camp. After Father Kolbe's sacrifice, many other prisoners helped Francis, determined that the priest's gift would not be thwarted. Francis Gajowniczek was present at Father Maximilian Kolbe's canonization by Pope John Paul II on October 10, 1982. On that day Francis said, \"For years I suffered great doubts over the part I played in contributing to Fr. Kolbe's death. This great day has put an end to my doubts forever. Today is the happiest day of my life.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Beside Lake Michigan\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2999\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two opposites finding themselves surprisingly attracted to one another." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "One summer afternoon, I took a stroll along Lake Michigan. The path where I walked was behind the Milwaukee Art Museum, the icon of the biggest city in Wisconsin. It had a unique shape which looked like a sailing ship. It was 5 p.m. when the sail was almost folded down. I walked and watched the scenery around. Covering all was the magnificent landscape, in which a person felt humbler and smaller like a helpless leaf in a vast forest. Lake Michigan was as immense as the sea, where you were not able to see the other side but the faraway horizon. I used to walk along Lake Michigan in Chicago and the feeling for the spectacle scenery of the lake was the same. I wondered from my location, Milwaukee, which city on the other side was. I watched the seagull spreading his wings gliding on the sky, wishing I were a bird flying to the blue sky, through the floating clouds and to the other side of the lake. Turning back, I found myself in front of the vast green lawn in Veterans Park. Standing in the midst of the lawn, tall trees suddenly felt like dwarf mushrooms. Faraway, high buildings desperately attempted to rise above the trees which separated the park from the noisy civilized world out there. In this strange world, everything became slow and lazy. White clouds of various shapes slowly drifted as if they were in a race in which the slowest one would be the winner. Faraway, a big ship almost stayed still on the lake. The gulls did not bother to flap their wings, just glided on the air. Humans are not the exception in this unreal world. A fat man was lying sunbathing on a table. A couple was lying on the lawn kissing so passionately that even a pouring rain seemed not to be able to interrupt the endless kiss. Two middle-aged men were lying and cycling relaxedly on funny recumbent bikes. A Mexican couple sat on two camping chairs, which could be folded, watching Lake Michigan and holding hands together while their children were playing with kites. The scenery made me feel like I was lost in a fairy land, an unreal place which made me forget all the sorrows of life. In that world, there were no joy or sadness, all were engulfed in vague happiness and peacefulness… \nI had been absorbed in my thoughts until I found myself standing in front of three high marble pillars. I asked an old man standing nearby:\n“Excuse me, what is the meaning of it?” \n“Oh, you don’t really know,” he answered. “This is the memorial for Vietnam Veterans in Wisconsin. By the way, you’re Vietnamese, aren’t you?”\n“Yes, I am. You’re great, other Americans often suppose I’m Chinese.”\n“Oh, because I was in Vietnam for a long time, from 1965 to 1975. At first, I was a soldier, then a reporter. Were you born in the United States?”\n“No, I’ve just been here for two years for college”\n“Ah, I’m James O’Brien, call me James. Nice to see you”\n“I’m Kien. Nice to meet you.”\n“Oh, your name means diligence, doesn’t it?”\n“Wow, you’re awesome”\n“So, I still remember a bit Vietnamese”, James laughed.\nThe way he talked made me feel comfortable. When he said that he used to fight in Vietnam, a terrible thought swept through my mind: he had killed my fellow citizens. Yet his friendliness quickly dispelled that feeling. \nJames pointed to the ground.\n“Look!” he said. “Each of these bricks was engraved with a combatant’s name and his position, unit and service period in Vietnam.”\nI looked at the bricks. An inexplicable feeling came to me as I saw the names: Bob Janicek, Raymond Parry, Michael Cieszki…\n“This is my brick”, he showed me.\n“James O’Brien\nPFC USMC\n1965-1966”\n“And this is my close friend,” he pointed at another brick.\n“Thomas Nelson\nPFC USMC\n1965-1965”\nI was suspicious when I saw his period of service and James confirmed my suspicion.\n“He died in an operation called “Harvest moon” in Que Son Valley where we were ambushed. I was by his side when he drew his last breath. It's a horrible memory that I can’t forget.”\nHe suddenly turned to be emotional and his eyes were wet with tears.\n“Tom and I had been through many things together. We shared a lot of memories. We marched in tropical forests in endless pouring rain, sat side by side in the helicopter watching immense green forests, chatted on idle afternoons, and sometimes went to the city hanging out with beautiful Vietnamese girls. Tom was so handsome and smooth-spoken that a lot of girls liked him, and as I was his fellow, they liked me too. Tom often told me that when he returned to US, with the money he earned for his military service, he would buy a Mustang. But in the end, he returned to the US… in a coffin covered by the national flag. That’s awful as his death was right before Christmas. His parents had a terrible Christmas as their son had died before everything began… I’m sorry for telling such a sad story. Do you mind?”\n“Not at all. I really enjoyed your story. So why did you take part in that war?”\n“There are some reasons. First, our country called and we responded. At that time, a man went to Vietnam was considered a brave person. Plus, President Kennedy’s words had inspired me: “Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country”. Second, I imagined I would return home with sparkling medals and admiration of people like the soldiers in the second World War. But things turned out to be different. Vietnam Veterans was discriminated then. People considered us murderers who killed civilians. I rarely revealed that I had taken part in the war. Had I listened to my mother, my life would’ve been very different. She was upset when I didn’t go to college but enlisted in the military. She cried a lot as she was scared that one day she would receive a death notification of her son. But nothing could stop me. You know, I was an 18-year-old perverse teenager then.” \n“Do you regret that decision?” I asked him.\n“No, I’ve never regretted any decision I made, especially that one,”he said. “Had I not come to Vietnam, I wouldn’t have met Tom, known your beautiful country, and most important, found the love of my life. It’s a long story.”\nThe old man trembled and gazed at Lake Michigan. We walked closer to the lake as he started to tell me his love story.\n“After Tom’s gone, I endured a hard time. It’s the first time I saw a man dying, and worse, he was my close friend. Before going to Vietnam, I supposed death in combat would be something heroic. But since that battle, I really felt the fear of death and my only desire was to survive and return home. And gradually when I realized the meaninglessness of this war, that desire became more intense. I had been drowned in sorrow until the day I met Huong. After a few months fighting fiercely on the front line, my Lima company was drawn to Da Nang air base to rest. On off-duty days, we were allowed to go to the city. One day, my platoon mates took me to a bar called Blue Ocean where I met Huong. I told her that I was so sad after losing my close friend and she comforted me. She had a gentle voice which made me seem not to hear loud noise around. And when seeing her eyes, I felt the same feeling as I was standing in front of Lake Michigan: being overwhelmed. In that moment, I knew that I fell in love. Returning to the base, I could not stop thinking about her. Afterwards, I went to Blue Ocean whenever possible just to see her. Whenever I saw her laughing with other guys, I got mad. But afterwards, when she just looked at me, talked to me, I would forget everything and only feel happy. After some times refusing my invitation to hang out, she finally agreed.\nOn our first date, we strolled along Hung Vuong road, watching the scenery and talked about our families, hometowns, dreams, and other things. It seemed that I could tell her everything, even my little secrets. She was the only one who could touch the deepest part of my soul. I realized that I would never meet anyone like her in my lifetime. So, I decided to make her mine. I held her hand and said “I love you” in both English and Vietnamese. She was surprised and speechless. Then I kissed her. She seemed to be happy but then suddenly stopped. She was scared and told me that she couldn’t love me. I seemed to fall from heaven to earth. I was confused and asked her why. She told me that her family would not allow her to love me, moreover, people would say that she loved me because of my dollars. I was disappointed but still hoped that she would change her mind. However, everything changed when a terrible event happened. We discovered that Blue Ocean bar was only the cover of a Viet Cong spy nest. Those bar girls collected information from our soldiers and officers. A sergeant was even kidnapped and became the prisoner of war. I felt painful and hated Huong as if she had betrayed me. I wondered if everything between us was totally fake and if she just talked to me to collect intelligence information. Huong had escaped. I thought I would never see her and quickly forget her, but her silhouette was always in my heart. I loved her and hated her at the same time. Then, I was wounded in a battle, which gave me a ticket to return home with a “Silver star” and a “Purple heart” medal. Coming back to the United States, I still missed Vietnam and wanted to return there. Finally, in 1969, I came back to Vietnam as a press reporter. This time, I stayed in Saigon, Paris of the East. As a reporter, I could meet and talk with many more Vietnamese than before. The more I witnessed the brutal fights, the more I felt sorry for Vietnamese and Americans who had bled. Once I met a woman, whose son had gone North to join the North Vietnamese Army in 1954 and another son drafted to the South Vietnamese Army. She was always haunted that one day, one of her sons would kill his brother in the battlefield.\nAs time went by, work invaded my mind, but before sleeping, I always thought of Huong. Sometimes walking on Saigon streets and seeing a woman who had a similar shape, my heart beat faster but then I would be disappointed as I realized it wasn’t her. One day, I met a Senator of South Vietnam Parliament. He introduced me to his wife, Mrs. Le Van. When seeing me, she was pale. Mrs. Le Van, the wife of the Senator, and Miss Huong who had worked at Blue Ocean bar before seemed to be the same person. I tried to hide my surprise and said: \n“You look familiar. Have we met before?”\n“No, I don’t think so,” she replied.\nBut I’m sure she was Huong even though she had changed her appearance as I still recognized her gentle voice and beautiful eyes. Seeing her, I had mixed feelings. Glad as I saw her again, but also upset as she had married and angry as she had betrayed my love for her. After that day, I could not stop my desire of seeing Huong again. So, I tried to find ways to approach her husband. I provided him some valuable information in return for his sympathy. But Huong always avoided meeting me. Whenever I met her, she would appear with her husband. I wasn’t discouraged and finally, my opportunity had come when she and her husband came to a big ball. There were a lot of important people: Prime minister Khiem, US ambassador Ellsworth Bunker, generals and statesmen of both Houses. I only paid attention to Huong however. At the ball, I asked for her husband’s permission to dance the waltz with her. He accepted my proposal. So, after five years, I held her hands and was so close to her again. I still remember the fragrance of her perfume that day. I stared into her eyes. I loved her but still remembered the pain she had caused me. So I asked her sarcastically:\n“How many names do you have actually?”\n“I won’t hide the truth anymore, James.” she said “My real name is Mai. Have you been satisfied? Why can’t you let me live peacefully?”\n“Why? Because you broke my heart. I loved you. I thought you really wanted to be my friend but it turned out you just took advantage of me.”\n“So, what do you want now? Revenge? Then do it, tell CIA or the secret police of Saigon to arrest me.”\n“No, that ain’t what I’ll do. I will keep it a secret. I just want to talk to you, a real conversation”\n“Then…okay, I accept it,” her eyes were gentle again. “I’ll let you know when we can meet later”\nThe waltz ended. I regretfully bid farewell to her. Her words made my hatred suddenly vanished: \n“James, I still remember the day I hang out with you. I was really happy”\nIf she lied, it’s the sweetest lie I’ve ever heard. A week later, we saw each other again when we pretended to coincidentally meet in a tea room to listen to Khanh Ly, a popular singer at that time. Mai asked me if I understood the meaning of the song the singer was singing. It was an anti-war song of Trinh Cong Son. I forgot its title but still remember Trinh use a metaphor that a mother was hurt as her two sons fought each other to imply the situation of your country. We stayed there for a while, then I invited her to my apartment. There, she told me that she worked for National Liberation Front (NLF) and that she could sacrifice everything for the reunification of her country. Her marriage also resulted not from love but from her mission. \n“How about me, do you love me?”, I said emotionally.\n“Yes, I love you, James”, she said.\n“How can I believe you?”\nShe didn’t answer but give me a passionate kiss. We made love that night. It was the happiest day in my life. Since then, we secretly dated occasionally. Our affair was somewhat dangerous to her. Her superior officer was not satisfied with our relationship but she explained to him that I was a valuable source of information. We enjoyed a fragile happiness for half a year. Afterwards, CIA began to doubt that she was a spy. I knew that through a friend in CIA. All other people of her network were arrested. CIA hadn’t had enough evidence that she was Viet Cong but when they asked her where she’d gone and who she’d met on the day she gave the secret report to her organization, she couldn’t answer. The situation was urgent and I had to take risks. I told CIA that she had been with me, that we loved each other but she got married so we had to secretly date, that if people knew the affair her life would be hell so she couldn’t answer. Thank God, they believed me. They thought a patriot like me, who had spent two years in the forest hunting the Communists, would have no reason to cover up a Viet Cong. So, she didn’t have to go to jail but couldn’t continue her work, and her husband didn’t allow me to get close to her anymore. She was locked up in the house and didn’t intend to escape as she thought it was her fault to cheat on her husband and it was the price she deserved to pay. We were separated again for a long time. Then, on April 30th 1975, Saigon fell and the Communists reunified Vietnam. Her husband fled to the U.S. while she still stayed in her country with me. We had a happy time together, ignoring that the earth was shaking out there. But happiness seems never last long. Once again, we were separated as most foreigners were forced out of Vietnam. I returned to the United States, hoping that I could come back soon when the situation in Vietnam was stable. However, several years had passed but the road returned to Vietnam was still obscure for Americans. I sent her some letters but did not receive a reply. I didn’t know that my letters did harm her. The Communist government suspected that she was the spy of the United States, so she had a tough time. Nobody knew that she used to be the spy of NLF, a loyal Communist who risked her life many times for the cause of reunifying Vietnam. Her superior officer, the only one aside from me who knew that, had died in Con Dao prison. Besides, she didn’t even want to reveal her real identity, letting her fellow countrymen consider her the wife of the Senator of the old regime and the betrayal of her country. Two years later, she died of pneumonia. That’s all I can tell you.” \nJames became silent, his eyes were wet with tears. We were absorbed in our own thoughts. In front of us was Lake Michigan, which was as immense as the sea. A seagull glided in the air. Cool breezes blown from Lake Michigan seemed to ease the sorrow of mine and the old American who had lived an extraordinary life." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ella's Saviour\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2817\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character doing something they’ve done hundreds of times — only this time, it’s taken on a new meaning." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a normal day for Ella. Well, that’s what she thought. Little did she know that she may be able to have a better future. Under one circumstance.\n6:03 a.m. \nShe threw one of her white flattened down pillows at the alarm clock when it started buzzing obnoxiously and she couldn’t take it anymore. However, it didn’t turn off the first time, so two minutes later she finally threw the covers off of her and dragged herself out of bed. It was Monday. A day where most people dread. But not Ella. It’s the day she gets to leave her house. Leave her dad. She grabbed a black pair of skinny jeans and a white Adidas shirt and changed. She grabbed her blue, pink, and white flowered backpack and went downstairs. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of her dad's cigarettes, she placed her backpack on the floor right by the steps. Her dad was slouched in the ugly dark green couch. As usual.\n“It’s about time you got down here.” he said as he rolled his eyes.\n“It’s 6:15, the same time I get down here any other school morning.” Ella replied, walking to the kitchen.\n“Whatever.”\nElla knew better not to say anything after that. As much as she hates letting him say things like this to her as much as he does, she was pretty used to what happens if she were to continue to go back and forth with him, so instead she walks away.\nHaley, one of Ellas best friends, meets Ella at her house every morning at 7:00 to walk to school together. Haley is one of the very few people who know what it’s like inside Ellas house. Yes, Ella's house is beautiful on the outside. Anyone of her classmates who know where she lives think she is lucky to have a life like hers. But that’s because they have no idea what her life is really like. \nEllas house smells of cigarette smoke from her dad's horrible obsession. Once in a while, the downstairs would get foggy because of the smoke but not very often. The living room consists of a black TV stand, 79” flat screen TV, a black coffee table placed directly in front of the ugly dark green couch with a small glass end table on either side of the couch. That ugly couch has burn holes on it, along with the carpet. The carpet used to be more fluffed but because of the damage done to it, it’s all matted down. Well at least the tables seem nice? Ha! Nope, her dad has filled ashtrays on both of the end tables, the coffee table and somehow managed to get one on the TV stand. How he managed to do that but not empty any of them out, I don’t know. There are usually a couple ashtrays on the kitchen counter but they aren’t normally full. Her dad is found slouched on the couch, drinking Bud Light and flicking through the TV channels. If he isn’t he is in the kitchen staggering to find a cigarette lighter. Ella got used to having to pick up empty beer bottles or cigarette packs. If she didn’t, it would be like living in a junkyard...but with only beer bottles and cigarette packs. \nElla had to learn to do laundry, dishes, and taking 100% care of herself when she was 7 years old. That’s because her mom left Ella and her dad for some magazine model life in Hollywood. When she left, Ellas dad completely lost it. He basically trashed his life and went downhill 100 MPH. He quit doing things for himself and taking care of Ella. He would get overly angry at Ella for some of the silliest reasons. Then would blame her for things that aren’t her fault, like the reason her mom left. If times he got furious with Ella, he would occasionally throw things at her or call her names that would hurt. As she grew older, she began not trusting many adults because she thought they would all be like that.\n6:30 a.m.\nElla was in the kitchen preparing to make some eggs for breakfast.\n“Would you like some eggs, dad?” she asked standing in the living room doorway.\n“Yeah, I do.” her dad responded flatley.\n“Any particular way?” this time with a slight smile.\n“Scrambled.”\n“K.”\nElla went back into the kitchen and whisked 6 eggs in a plastic yellow bowl, adding some skim milk for fluffiness. She had the butter melting and popping in the black skillet that is set on the front left burner. Once it was fully warmed up, she poured in the fully whisked eggs. It got loud when the food hit the hot skillet, but then settled down the longer it sat. 30 seconds later, she stirred the eggs, forming themselves into chunks. About 3 minutes later, she switched off the stove and scooped the eggs on two white glass plates, her only having a little and her dad a lot. That’s mainly because she isn’t a breakfast person. She struggled getting the silverware drawer open but when she did, the shiny metal spoons, forks, and butter knives flew forward making a loud CLANG!\n“GEEZ!” she heard her dad yell from the couch.\nShe quickly fixed the silverware and then carefully placed a fork on both plates, then carried her dad's food out to him. \n“My bad.” \nElla walked back and ate her food in the kitchen, standing. After about 30 seconds her dad was yelling again.\n“Are you freaking kidding me Ella!!” \n“What?!” Ella quickly responded.\n“You didn’t cook these eggs all the way!!” He yelled a little louder this time.\n“Yes, I did. Mine are the same way and they’re fine.” Ella said, now standing in the living room doorway again.\n“I’m glad you can make your own taste good but mine is like trash.” He said clearly getting angrier but the second.\n“I made ours together, so it would be faster. They are the same!”\n“You know you’re 15, you would think you would finally understand how to do things as easy and making eggs by now. You’ve only been doing it for a whopping 8 years!”\n“Listen to yourself! You sound ridiculous. You said it yourself, I’ve been doing things like this for the last 8 years while you just sit on the couch like a slug and never appreciate anything I do for you! And just to put it out there, if it should be this easy for me to do, then it should be just as easy if not easier for YOU to do!”\n“What did you just say to me.” He responded in a deep tone, standing up.\n“You heard EXACTLY what I said to you, no need to repeat myself when I said it loud and clear enough the first time.” Ella snapped back.\nEllas dad came lunging at her and grabbed her hair and yanked it. She let out a loud cry as he ripped out a small, but noticeable chunk of hair.\n“Yuck!” He yelled, throwing the loose hair on the ground.\n“Maybe you shouldn’t have yanked it out then.”\nMaybe you should learn how to talk and respect me then.” He shot back.\n“What?! Other than right now, how am I not respecting you? I was planning on making breakfast, but instead of only thinking of myself, I decided to ask you if you wanted some too. I made you food, got it ready for you, and then brought it to you without you even saying, “thank you”. You NEVER appreciate what I do for you! You don’t like how I make food, then maybe you should just make your own food from now on.”\n“I don’t need to appreciate anything you do for me. Your mother used to make me amazing food all the time, and never failed me. The only reason she left is because of YOU! YOU’RE the reason why my life is a reck! So the least you could do for me is make me food, clean my house, and get me what I want.”\nEllas eyes were filled now, fighting back her tears and trying to ignore her dad's words. She doesn’t say anything after that. Silently, she walks over by the staircase and throws on her shoes and backpack. Ella tries walking out of the house to leave for school early but her dad pushes her away from the door. Ella falls back into the corner of the end table with a loud THUD! She goes to touch the back of her head that hit the corner of the table and she closes her eyes tightly to stop herself from crying due to the burning feeling. When she pulls her hand away from her head, she sees a little blood. Her dad saw it too, and walked to the kitchen without saying a word. Ella gets up and leaves the house slamming the door behind her. \n6:52\n8 minutes before she meets with Haley. Ella walks over to the sidewalk at the end of her driveway and whips out her phone and texts Haley: R u on ur way\nWithin seconds, Haley replies: Ya y?\nElla quickly texts back: I’ll explain on the way to school. Keep walking to my house..I’ll meet u on the way\n“K.”\nElla starts walking and then sees Haley walking quicker than normal. Ella was now in tears and Haley hugs her tightly. She noticed Ellas head was bleeding when she put her hand on Ellas head for more comfort. \n“What the heck happened?! Your head is bleeding!”\nElla explains the entire morning to Haley.\n“That freaking jerk!!” Haley yelled instantly mad.\n“ Yeah, I know.” Ella said, feeling guilty.\n“Do you think you’re going to need stitches?”\n“No. I can put some antibiotic ointment on it when I get home.”\n“No. I’m not going to let you go back to that jail cell after what happened.”\n“Seriously, it’s fine. I’ll get over it soon, okay?”\n“No, not “okay”. You shouldn’t have to “get over it”, this shouldn’t even be happening to you.”\n“Yeah, I know but…”\n“But what?”\n“I don’t even know anymore.”\n“Maybe you should talk to someone..”\n“You know how I feel about that.”\n“Yes, I do, but maybe it’s not so bad? You’re older now, they will listen to you. \n“But neither of us know that..”\n“Would you rather keep getting hurt like this? He isn’t going to get better Ella..”\n“No, not really.”\n“Exactly, so again, maybe you should talk to someone. I’ll even come with you, both for support and to make sure they listen to you.”\n“Let me think, ok?”\n“Alright.”\nElla and Haley walked the rest of the way silent. Ellas mind was everywhere. She’s never liked the idea of talking to an adult about home. When she was younger, about 8 or so, she tried telling one of the teachers at school, but all they did was called her dad and asked him about it. Obviously he denied everything. When she got home that day, her dad threatened her if she ever told again. He then told her she is never allowed to move out, and that she’d better enjoy her school years because after them, she’s not allowed out of the house. Since then, she's never opened her mouth about home, to anyone but Haley and Maci.\nHowever, Haley and Maci don’t know the threat her dad gave her, because she didn’t want them to worry. As she’s getting older, the way her dad treats her is getting worse. Ella wanted to tell someone but never had the guts to do it. She liked the fact that Haley was willing to go with her if and when she decided to go.\n7:30 a.m.\nHaley and Ella arrived at school 7:30 sharp. That gave them time to talk and hangout with their friends until 8:15, when school started. They walk over to the red table to meet Maci.\n“Hey!” Haley said to Maci. Ella just smiled. Trying to hold back tears.\n“Hi, geez El, you look rough.” Maci said, instantly regretted it once she saw Ellas face.\nShe couldn’t hold it anymore. Ella broke down in tears. Not because she was mad at Maci, but because it was just not a good morning.\n“I’m sorry, El, I didn’t mean to make you upset.” Maci said, walking to give Ella a hug.\n“It’s ok, it’s not your fault.” Ella responded, accepting the hug.\n“Your dad?” Maci whispered in Ellas' ear. Ella nodded.\n“I told her she should maybe talk to someone, and that I’d go with ehr, but if it helps, you can come too.” Haley said. Maci nodded in agreement.\n“Do you want to see if there is someone here you feel comfortable with to talk to, now? That way, it’s out of the way.” Haley asked Ella.\n“Yeah, I guess.” Ella responded quietly.\n“Is there someone here you think you can trust?” Haley asked.\n“Well, there’s Mrs. Trace.” \n“Okay, lets go.” \n“Maci, can you come too?” Ella asked.\n“Of course.”\nThe three of them walked to Mrs. Traces classroom. Haley knocked on the partially opened door. \n“Come in, hon.” Mrs. Trace said after glancing to see who it was.\nNow, the three girls walked in.\n“How can I help you young ladies?”\n“Actually we were wondering if we could talk to you...about something personal.” Haley said.\n“Of course you can, you’ve got me until 8:30, when my first class comes in. If you’re going to need more time, I will be available again from 11:00- 12:30 and, of course, after school.”\n“Thank you.” Maci said.\n“Now, what’s going on?”\nHaley and Maci started things off simply that Ella has been having issues at home.\n“I see, Ella would everything, beginning to end?” Mrs. Trace asked with a worried look. She quickly reached in her top drawer and grabbed out a pad of large sticky notes and a pen to take notes.\nElla first started off by saying what happened this morning. Mrs. Trace used to be a nurse so she was able to help Ella with the cut on her head.\nElla explained everything to her two minutes before 8:30. \n“How about you come to my room about 11:00 and we’ll think of some sort of plan together. I do need to email the principal about this. He will call someone to help get you out of that home.” Mrs. Trace said.\n“Okay, thank you so much.” Ella responded.\n“I’m really sorry to hear all this, Ella. It breaks my heart just thinking about how you must feel. You’re a really brave person, and for you to come talk to me says a lot more than I could explain.”\n“Thank you, but without my friends' help, I don’t think I would have been able to do this.” \n“Well, you have two of the greatest friends in the world for that.”\n“Yes, thank you, see you at 11:00?”\n“Yes!”\nElla nodded and then Haley and Maci took Ella by the hand and they walked to first hour class.\n11:00 a.m.\nIt came sooner that she thought. Ella was now in Mrs. Traces room, both thinking what to do. The principal was going to meet with Ella and Mrs. Trace at 11:15. \n“Do you have any other family members you could stay with?” Mrs. Trace asked.\n“ Not really, I have a very small family. My little brother is in foster care but the nearest one they could get him in was 12 hours from here. That was a while ago though. I really don’t want to leave Haley and Maci. They are the closest people I’ve got to family.”\n“Well, if we get it approved, why don’t you stay with me? I’ve got an extra bedroom and two cats. But if you don’t feel comfortable with it, then you don’t have to.”\n“You don’t have to do that.” \n“You’re right, I don’t. But I want you to have a wonderful future. I want to find a way to give you back the years you missed. Plus, I could use someone to look forward to seeing and talking to after a long day of teaching. And it would be fun to have movie nights together, cook dinner together, and you would be able to have your friends over when you’d like without having to worry about anything.”\n“I would absolutely love that.” Ella said, smiling.\nAfter talking with the principal and the CPS it was approved by the end of the day for Ella to live with Mrs. Trace. An officer and Mrs. Trace took Ella to her dads to get all her stuff and say her goodbyes. Her dad was now facing his own problems, which were now, none that Ella would have to deal with." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Mark of David\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 3009\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters whose paths briefly cross, but are actually going in opposite directions — whether literally or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Excuse me,” the restless old man asked. “I seem to have misplaced my suitcase. Can you see it?”\nThe obvious concern in the tone of his voice, solicited an instant response from the young man standing beside him.\n“I see many suitcases,” replied the young man. “What colour is it?”\n“You have me at a disadvantage, the old man curiously responded. “What colour do suitcases usually come in?”\nThe peculiarity of the question immediately brought to light that the old man was blind. Without drawing unwanted attention upon him, the young man reached for the nearest suitcase, then gently placed it at the old man’s feet.\n“There! It was closer than you think,” he explained – hoping the old man wouldn’t recognise the deceitful tone in his voice. But before the old man could shift it between the protection of his frail legs, a guard snatched it from his grasp.\n“You must leave all personal belongings here while you enter the shower rooms,” the guard instructed. “Don’t worry, no-one will steal them. If they do, I will have them shot…”\nThe callous statement alarmed the young man, who looked up and down the courtyard for any possible means of escape. Only moments ago, he and several wooden carriages of men had disembarked from the cattle train that transported them to this unidentified location, resembling some type of confined camp. Estimating that approximately ninety people stood in rows along the track, he studiously watched the train reverse back through the fortified gates of the camp - leaving him and others - young and old, huddled together in small groups, watching helplessly, their belongings being seized and reappropriated as property of the Third Reich. Stormtrooper-looking guards methodically stacked suitcases into one neatly sculpted pile, resembling a miniature version of the great pyramids of Egypt. At the base of the arranged suitcases, jewellery collected into used ammunition crates brimmed over the edges. To the side of these glittering pieces of gold and silver possessions, lay paintings, framed photographs, and an assortment of brass menorahs too valuable to leave behind.\n“These are now all property of the Third Reich,” a portly guard bellowed. “On behalf of the Fuhrer, I thank you for your war contributions.”\n“What does he mean?” The confused old man asked.\nThe young man’s scowling voice, spat out his interpretation. “He means that he is a thief…”\nStudying the precious pilfered possessions, the young man found it distastefully amusing that the multitude of generational heirlooms discarded into what looked like waste piles, resembled a swashbuckling assortment of stolen booty - as if awaiting the famous pirate, Captain Blackbeard, to arrive at any moment to ship them all off to destinations Caribbean.\nAnything worth anything was stripped from the prisoners, leaving them only with a thin layer of clothes struggling to keep them warm beneath their overcoats. The eclectic gathering of individual detainees stood shivering in the frosty air, too frightened to ask why they were there for fear of being beaten. However, one identifiable yellow star sewn onto the breasts of their overcoats, answered the most silent of queries. They all had one thing in common. They all were of the Jewish faith, corralled and incarcerated for that sole incriminating reason only - helplessly at the mercy of their heavily armed, ruthless captors.\n“Nothing to worry about,” cracked the newest white lie straining the young man’s voice beyond emotional control. “…It will be nice to get clean again, won’t it.”\nHis casual comment was prompted by the fresh memory of being trapped for weeks on end in the Warsaw ghetto, leaving him and most of the others in this current situation, filthy and stinking to high heaven. The Nazi occupiers had starved them into submission, ransacked their homes, and carted them off initially as political prisoners. Treating them like livestock, the men were crammed into small train carriages fit only for animals - reeking with the scent of an unkempt abattoir – a cruel subliminal message of what was to come.\n“There’s a funny smell in the air,” the old man pointed out.\n“Perhaps, it’s all the dirt and shit washing off the people,” the attempted explanation spat out, trying to allay growing suspicions of what was really being played out in front of them.\n“…Reminds me of the trenches in the previous war… Oy vey… Unmistakably, the smell of death. You can never mask that odour or erase it from nasal memory…”\n“You were in the Great War, old man?”\n“Boris, my young friend. Please call me Boris… Yes, we were under the command of the Central Powers, fighting as a Polish army. Back then, the Germans saw us as a future colony for them. In the end, we just became a Polish dog on a Russian leash – a Regency Kingdom, was the term used. However, when the Tsar fell in 1917, our leaders started to cooperate with Russia – who supported our right to self-determination. After the Western powers added their support, we eventually became a sovereign nation…”\nRunning his fingers gently across his face, Boris lost himself in a moment of painful recollection.\n“I still bear the battle scars on my face – as your unmolested young eyes can probably see. My own are permanently dark to the horrors of war; however, every explosion, every fallen comrade of every second of every minute, still haunt my dreams… Blind in physical appearance, I can still see everything in my mind. This fragile old man you see before you, was once young and strong and virile – full of chutzpah… But war changed me, then age took its toll, and life cruelly followed on. I turned into a kvetch, complaining of this and of that, and forgot my folly of youthful ambition. It seems like yesterday, when I was just a young schmoe trying to make a living as a blind cobbler. How I’d like to live my life all over again… get one more chance to do things differently…”\nRealising his rambling speech might not be interesting to young ears, Boris, refocussed and changed tac.\n“…Boots, young man. Take care of them and they will last your whole life. Do you know, I can tell just by the way your shoes sound when you walk on the street, whether they need repairing or not… I’d say some of these schmendriks ordering us around, could do with some fresh soles and heels to comfort their sore feet.”\n“You have needed skills, Boris… and you are a war veteran. Why have they included you with all of us so-called political prisoners?”\nThe old man’s hands traced the stitched emblems attached to both of their coats.\n“Like you, young man. I bear the mark of David. For centuries, it has been a symbol of slavery, a story of emancipation, and a beacon of our faith. However, as in centuries past, it still sadly remains a target for persecution… Our captors see not the old soldier that fought alongside their forefathers, they see only an old man with a yellow star on his chest. This is not another exodus of our people, this is a hidden agenda of something very unholy, led by meshuggenehs… madmen! Perhaps, God – in his wisdom - has finally abandoned us to our own fate.”\n“I think it is God’s way of telling us it is time to rise up and be counted.”\n“Do not fool yourself, my friend. This is man’s way alone – not God’s. Man, is telling us we are not all equal in God’s eyes. Man is waging war against fellow man… War is always man’s way…”\nBoris abruptly stopped in the middle of his sentence, realising his manners had run amiss during his rant.\n“…Forgive me… What is your name?”\n“It’s Leo. Short for Leopold.”\n“…Tell me, Leo. What do you see over where that vile smell is coming from?”\nLeo took a moment to look toward the direction that Boris was pointing, before inhaling deeply – almost catching his breath at the stench. Across the railway tracks at the perimeter of the camp, were two purpose-built brick buildings. A neatly printed sign above the entrances to each building spelled the word, Duschen – the German word for showers. Both buildings were alike. Single storey, long and thin, gabled roof, windowless, mostly nondescript – except for the fact that groups of men stood outside them, waiting to enter each building. He also noted that the shower building on the right had an extra high wall shielding the other side from view. Beyond that, Leo could make out another partially hidden building with a tall smokestack, bellowing thick grey smoke from its chimney at an industrious pluming volume. Relaying this information to Boris, Leo had a sudden morbid thought pass through his mind that perhaps the shower building on the right was not as it appeared to be. Nazi guards had started to separate the first thirty people ahead of him. Those in good physical shape were directed to line up outside the left building and those of crippled persuasion, unsound of mind – the twitchers, and the old, were led over to the building on the right.\n“I sense movement,” Boris perceptively commented.\n“Yes, I think it’s shower time,” Leo casually replied. “Finally… Won’t it be nice to stand under some hot water flowing over our heads, warming our bodies…”\n“Is there a smokestack next to the left building?”\n“No,” was Leo’s unemotional response. “Perhaps, the one on the right heats both showers…”\nLeo studied the people being led towards the buildings. It was apparent to everyone that the guards were keeping the less abled in a separate group headed for the building on the right. At the entrance to both buildings, he could hear the guards shouting at the men to take off their lice-infested clothes, then forcibly shoving the naked men into the shower rooms.\n“New clothes will be waiting for you at the exit,” Leo could hear the portly guard shouting. “Now Schnell! Go Fast, or you’ll catch your death of cold out here.”\nThe guards’ disingenuous concern for the health of his charges, reflected off the shower building walls, then faded into the cold morning air – a throwaway to placate the concern of the interred. To Boris, it was indicative of reality revealing its true nature. He was well versed in sensing words that were vacant and mocking in their tone. Like a dark cloud arriving before a storm, the cynicism escaping from the Nazi guards’ insincere concern, broadcasted a loud and ominous warning of approaching uncertainty ahead, plus an even louder and unsympathetic apathy to the plight of Boris and Leo’s people.\nLeo spent the next several minutes watching the shower building for any activity. The sound of splashing water, excited voices, and the re-emergence of cleaner and disinfected men clothed in striped pyjamas, brought a sense of relief to his anxiety.\n“See? They look happier all cleaned up and marching off to their barracks,” his relaxed observation calmly attempted to curtail his recent growing doubts.\n“Tell me, Leo,” Boris queried. “Which of the two buildings are the clean ones exiting from?”\n“The one on the left, Boris.”\n“…And the other…?\n“It’s hard to tell. I can’t see beyond the wall blocking my view.”\n“Use your ears, Leo. What do you hear?”\nLeo turned his head to one side and strained to hear anything that would give him an answer to Boris’s question. Something caught his attention enough to mention.\n“Screams… I hear… someone protesting… crying… and there’s someone on the roof. He’s standing on the other side of it, but I can see his head and he’s wearing a….”\nLeo’s commentary suddenly went deathly silent.\n“What is it, Leo? What is it he is wearing?”\nHis voice quivering from the combination of the chilly air and nervousness, Leo placed a steadying hand on Boris’s shoulder.\n“…It’s a… gas mask.”\n“There!” Boris exclaimed. “You now see the truth… Do you understand the truth that is blatantly assaulting your eyes?”\nShocked by what he was seeing, a dejected Leo hung his head in disbelieving shame, then quietly replied, “I think I do…”\n“Don’t think… know it… It is here, it is now. If I had become an accountant – like my mother wanted – I would say that we have come to the final total. The tachlis… The bottom line. No sooner have we met, I suspect that our brief friendship is coming to an end, Leo… and what a shame because I think we could have become mishpokhe… like family…”\nLeo continued to hang his head, stifling a tear. Seeing this, Boris gently lifted Leo’s chin, causing him to look at Boris’s war-scarred face.\n“Before we head in opposite directions, Leo… and we are most certainly destined to… Promise me one thing.”\n“Yes, yes. Of course, Boris. What is it?”\n“See everything, remember everything you see, and tell everyone what you remember… No matter how long you are in here, stay alive by whatever means at your disposal… Promise me, Leo…”\n“I will. Yes, of course I will.”\n“Never let this be forgotten… We are standing next to railway lines, prisoners in the freezing middle of a concentration camp with Nazis telling us where to go, what to do… Everything here is wrong, Leo. You won’t be able to make it right, but when it is over, you have to be able to recall it for others to re-tell…”\nA flurry of activity approached the recent arrivals, then orders were issued for them to walk single file toward the shower buildings. Leo noticed immediately; the distinct selection of individuals directed toward the building on the right.\n“Put your hand on my shoulder, Boris.” Leo instructed. “I’ll guide you.”\nBefore Boris could reach for Leo’s shoulder, two guards separated them.\n“Come, old man,” directed the portly guard. “You must pass through the special shower… Don’t worry, there will be someone in there to guide you through.”\n“Remember,” shouted Boris, as he was led away. “See everything… remember everything.”\nAn anxiety suddenly welled up inside Leo, like the rush of a terrifying sense of foreboding washing over him. As he was pushed toward the left building, his eyes once again filled with tears.\n“Boris!” Leo shouted in reaction to the realisation of what was happening. “Boris!”\n“Think of me,” Boris yelled back. “…Think of me when you shower. For it may be me heating the water…”\nHow Boris had managed to make light of the dark moment, briefly disarmed Leo. Ordered to strip, he and the group accompanying him, were forcibly pushed into the shower building - the door behind them slamming shut. The echoing sound of the door bolt locking them in, created an air of collective fear reverberating throughout the chamber, causing desperate cries from the most terrified. A clunking sound rattled the overhead pipes. Some men dropped to their knees to pray, while others stood heads bowed ready to accept their fate, like subdued animals in a small cage. Leo closed his eyes, his face pointed upwards toward the shower heads. In an instant, hot water gushed out, enveloping the men with cascading warmth. The relief and delight emanating from everyone was emancipating. Grabbing bars of soap from the floor, they began to wash themselves, trying to scrub away the reality of their predicament – as if they were in the middle of a bad nightmare and their abrasive actions would wake them up. Leo placed his bar of soap under his nose. It had a slight cleansing fragrance, but an undertow scent of something like cooking fat. But, he needed to get clean, so began to lather the bar all over his body and head, unashamedly enjoying the pleasure of showering.\nWithin minutes, the water was turned off, leaving the cooling men to dry themselves with torn rags laying in a floor pile at the exit door. Quickly donning a pair of striped pyjamas, Leo scavenged a pair of shoes, then exited outside where his group was organised into two lines, awaiting further instructions. Noticing that some of the guards wore similarly striped clothing as his, he tried to strike up a conversation with one of them.\n“Pardon me,” he politely asked one of the inmate guards. “Did you see the old man I was with?”\n“No,” was the curt reply. “Now, move along!”\n“He was blind. They took him into the other shower building.”\n“If he’s gone into that building, then he is truly gone.”\n“What do you mean?”\n“I mean… stop asking stupid questions and start marching…!”\nWith several guards flanking the long line of two-abreast men, Leo and the others were led away. Turning his head back toward the other building, all he could see was a thick plume of smoke being blown in several directions by a swirling wind that had swept through the camp. He had survived the first selection process. There would be many more to come. Many challenges lay ahead to stay alive and be counted for.\nThe short-term warmth of the hot shower quickly made way to the freezing cold morning creeping through Leo’s new clothes. Marching toward an unsure future, Leo visually scanned the camp and its surroundings.\n“See everything,” he mumbled Boris’s words. “Remember everything you see… Stay alive by whatever means at your disposal, then tell everyone what you remember…”\n***\nAfter four hard years of cruelty, starvation, and hard labour, Leo miraculously did survive the camp that was eventually liberated by the allies. For sixty more years, he continued to tell the story of Boris and of all the countless others that had disappeared at the hands of madmen - never to be seen again. He faithfully remembered everything he saw up until his final days. At his request, the epitaph on his gravestone read,\nHere lies Leo, witness to the brutal horrors of man, survivor of the madness of meshuggenehs, and loyal friend to the Boris’s of this world… Shalom…" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: War and Peace 1920\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2298\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters whose paths briefly cross, but are actually going in opposite directions — whether literally or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "WAR AND PEACE, 1920\nWilliam awoke to the sharp clatter of breaking glass. Second time this week, he thought as he surveyed the window opposite his bed, visible as a grey square against the blackness of his room, as February inched reluctantly towards the equinox. Light enough now for him to put a match to the small candle that was his only source of illumination. But he would wait, he was not in a hurry.\nAnother few minutes and there would be enough daylight to locate a dustpan and brush, sweep up the debris scattered over the floor of the small room where he slept, cooked, ate and read. He would light the single gas ring, which enabled him to boil a kettle or heat up some soup. Water he could fetch from a tap in the yard outside. This was where he washed and used the privy in the far corner. None of these arrangements incommoded him, for they were not much different from those he had left behind six months ago, when he had been released from prison.\nHe got out of bed, swept up the broken glass, boiled the kettle of water for his breakfast cup of tea. Prising the lid off an old biscuit tin, he extracted his current loaf of bread and cut off a couple of slices, deciding that the remainder would probably last him another day or two. He finished his meal, stuck another square of paper over the broken windowpane, resolving to repair the damage before another one came to grief.\nHalf-an-hour later he was out of his room, on to the street, walking fast in the chill late winter air.\nIt was Sunday, best day of the week, when he went out to the local newsagent to buy a newspaper, his weekly treat. The shopkeeper glanced at the small, tidy figure at the counter, grabbed the Observer, and threw it down in front of him. William put down two pence, took his paper, and ventured a remark about the weather. The shopkeeper, resuming his sorting of the papers, did not reply. A fortnight ago William had been handed an old issue, so he was careful to check the date of the one he had just bought. February 15th, 1920. Eighteen months since the end of the war. Six months since his freedom.\nWilliam had no job. Not for want of trying, his chief daily occupation was looking for work. It will happen, eventually, he thought, new opportunities were opening up, civilian occupations that had been set aside in favour of those vital to the war effort. He would like to have his old job back, a senior clerk in the housing department of a Midlands town, but that was impossible. The world had changed since those days, he thought, though he had not.\nSix months ago, he’d answered an advertisement for a gardener. The house was on the edge of the village, its boundaries adjoining open moorland, it had been late summer. He’d heard the ancient sound of the lark rising into the clear air above Hay Tor, recognised the honey-smell of heather drifting down from the moor, felt the August sun on his shoulders and his neck, reminding him of the aching toil of the work he used to do amid so much beauty. His prospective employer droned on.\n‘I’ve been doing the garden myself up to now, but I’m getting a bit past it – one day a week should keep it tidy. Grass cutting in the summer, trimming hedges and a bit of digging in the winter. The borders will need weeding, of course, and the compost heap turning each week. The glass in the greenhouse will have to be kept clean, and the tomato plants pinched out. There’ll be other odd jobs that crop up, any messages my wife might need you to do…I’ll pay you thirty shillings a day. Where was your last job? I’ll need a reference.’\n‘I worked for Northampton Council. In the housing department. I’m sure they’ll give you one.\n‘I hope so. Come back a week today and you can make a start.’\nWilliam returned the following week. The door was opened before he had time to knock.\n‘So you’ve come back, have you? Didn’t tell me everything, did you? Said you had a responsible job with a Town Council, you didn’t say that was four years ago! The council said the last they’d heard of you was that you were in prison somewhere. D’you think I’d bring an ex-convict into my home? My wife would be terrified!’\n‘Yes, I broke the law. But the law I broke was not a reasonable one.’\n‘I’m not interested in what you did, but it must have been pretty bad to put you in prison. Whereabouts? Northampton jail?’\n‘No, here. Up on the moor.’\n‘Dartmoor? Dartmoor prison? By God, there’s no job for you on my property. You’ve got a bloody cheek to come here at all. Clear off, now!’\nWilliam left.\n That was six months ago, his first attempt to find work. Despondent, he watched day by day the shrinking of his tiny bank account. From time to time he managed to find someone who would pay him for casual work without asking too many questions. He wondered if the reference that had been given had mentioned his record in the job he had held for so long. Not a day’s attendance lost, steady promotion from lowly clerk to a position of responsibility.\nWhat else could he do but keep trying? His latest attempt followed a notice he’d spotted in the newsagent’s window. He found himself walking up the drive of the grandest house he had ever entered. Sir Lorimer Beck was M.P. for the area, and needed someone to shift a ramshackle barn which was blocking his view of the distant sea, moving the stones to a nearby field. William was ushered into the library. He glanced around. So many books, he thought, with a flash of envy. Their owner was seated at a desk, lighting his pipe.\n‘Well’ said Sir Lorimer, without formality, ‘You’re looking for work.’\n‘Yes.’ said William, wondering what members of Parliament did when they weren’t representing their constituents. Representing him? He smiled to himself. But there had been people willing to support him, Kier Hardie had written him a kind letter, he had kept it with him, hidden, to read and re-read in the darkest days.\nSir Lorimer spoke again. I know something about you,’ he announced, People say you’ve been in Dartmoor prison.’\nWilliam knew that passers-by had often seen prisoners, walking in supervised crocodile formation, repairing roads, or breaking rocks in the prison quarry. He guessed it wouldn’t be long before someone recognised him and passed the news on. Recently that he had seen a change in the attitude of his local shopkeeper, experienced his first broken window.\n‘ I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he started to explain, ‘I was in prison for what I didn’t do, in a way, not for what I did.’\nSir Lorimer looked at him distastefully.\n‘I’m not interested. I don’t care why you were there’ he said. People get into all sorts of trouble during their lives. Usually through stupidity. You broke the law and you’ve paid the price. You can start work tomorrow, job shouldn’t take more than a few days. And you’d better bloody behave yourself or you’ll find yourself back inside. I’ll pay you a pound a day. And no trying to make things last longer, I know the tricks your sort play.’\nThe offer was not a generous one but it was better than nothing. He was back next day, at the appointed time. He was greeted by Sir Lorimer, apoplectic with fury.\n‘How dare you?’ he shouted, ‘How dare you set foot in my house! I know why you were kept out of decent people’s company. I had a word with the prison governor. He told me why you were sent to the Moor. He remembers you very well!’\nWilliam was silent. He too remembered the governor. He’d been reprimanded and deprived of all ‘privileges’ after downing tools to join a protest meeting. Sir Lorimer, in a climax of righteous triumph, took a step towards William, fists clenched.\n‘You’re one of those ‘conchies’. A coward and a traitor. Too goddamn scared to fight for king and country – I tell you I’d rather shake the hand of any one of those decent convicts than soil my fingers touching you. And I’ll make bloody sure that everyone else knows what you are. Get off my property, before I kick you out!’\nWilliam got off the property. Making his weary way homeward, he wondered if he should try to move out of the area. He had not anticipated such a reaction to conscientious objectors now that the war was over. Men were being demobilised in their thousands, some welcomed back into their old jobs, others changed by their experiences, many unable to fit in to civilian life, with new attitudes, new politics, new beliefs. He could imagine the social upheavals that would follow their return. Surely some people would find it in their hearts to offer work to someone who had never done harm to a living being, and could not bring himself to do so, even to an enemy of his country. I can only do what I think is right, he told himself, it’s all I have left.\nBack in his room, he felt too dispirited to take any useful action. He leafed through a few old copies of his weekly Sunday paper, hoping to come across some article he had missed, something, anything, to occupy his weary mind. There was a first meeting, he noted, of a movement called ‘The League of Nations’. It was designed to look at policies that would foster friendship between countries, to avoid situations that might lead to war. A step, maybe, towards a kinder world? There had been people willing to support him, Kier Hardie had written him a kind letter, he had kept it with him, hidden, to read in the darkest days.\nA tap at his door brought him quickly back to the present. No-one had ever called on him before, his landlord, he thought, come to tell him to find somewhere else to live. He opened the door.\n‘I’m sent to tell ye that if ye’re looking for work, call round to this house. It’s written down on this card.’ The unknown man handed William a calling card, ‘Tha’s all.’ He turned away and left.\nStrange, thought William, but worth checking. He looked at the card. A name and an address. This, he noted with some dismay, was next door to Sir Lorimer’s place. The name gave him even less hope. ‘Brigadier Mark Holdern, M.C.’. A high-ranking army officer, decorated for bravery. Friend, no doubt, of the angry M.P. who had reviled him from the moral high ground of patriotism and loyalty... Was it even worth bothering to call? What else should he do with himself tomorrow, the next day, the day after that….Oh, well…\nHe set off on the journey he had already made before. A short distance past Sir Lorimer’s house stood an equally imposing dwelling. Sighing, he pushed open the wrought-iron gate, and made his way to the rear of the house. ‘Hullo!’ a voice shouted, ‘Over here!’\nThe owner of the voice appeared through a cluster of trees. His military bearing was unmistakable, William thought. Taking a deep breath, he introduced himself.\n‘You sent a card,’ he said, ‘I’d be glad of any work you can offer.’\n‘I ran into my next-door neighbour’ announced the Brigadier. ‘Told me he’d considered you for a job but changed his mind. Said he didn’t want to employ you, so I thought it’d be a chance for me to get a bit of help’. He gestured towards a mass of overgrown bushes and weeds. ‘Time this lot was cleared,’ he said, when can you start?’\nWilliam decided it would save time to cut straight to the point.\n‘Yes’ he said, ‘I’m looking for work. But I might as well tell you now that I have been in prison for my conscientious objection to conscription into the Army. Didn’t Sir Lorimer tell you?’\n‘Oh yes, he was going on no end about it all. I don’t take much notice, he’s a funny old bird. Only speaks to me because I’m an army man. Seems to think I won the war single-handed.’\nWilliam felt a jolt of surprise. An unexpected lack of shock and horror from a prospective employer. He was being addressed as a normal human being. Felt strange, felt good.\n‘I would have thought...’ he started, but his new acquaintance interrupted him.\n‘Look,’ he said, ‘Load of bunkum. Can’t be bothered with all that nonsense, what matters is getting things done. As I said, I’m an army man through and through, and proud of it. Yes, my unit were in the front line, and I was responsible for inflicting as many casualties as possible on the enemy. So were they. That’s what armies are for. I saw bravery, self-sacrifice, heroism, even. But courage comes in different forms, doesn’t it? Bet you’ve needed plenty of it during the past few years.’\n‘I never thought of it as courage,’ William said uncertainly, ‘it’s a matter of principle. I’ve had to hold on to my belief that it’s wrong to kill. It’s not been easy. I knew there’d be consequences. I’ve really got no alternative but to get on with my life and make the best of it.’\n‘Same here,’ said the Brigadier. That’s what we should all do. We’ll get on fine. Army pay. Start tomorrow?’" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: 2014\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2913\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a meal or dinner goes horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "'Dear Susan,\nYou've been invited to the St. Mary's high school class of '14 reunion dinner. It would be great if you could come.'\nWhat a scumbag reunion, I scuffed. They should rename it the \"reunion of backstabbing and phoney friendship.\"\nI'm not sure why they still want to see their backstabbing faces; of course, many individuals will turn up merely to brag; I wouldn't even go to such a meal.\nSt. Mary's High School was a school in the western part of Ghana that was known for producing great people who would eventually help society develop. \nIt was also a pricey school that only the wealthy could afford, and it was full of snobs who had been born with a giant spoon shoved down their throat. \nWhen I received a fully paid scholarship to that godforsaken hell, my parents were overjoyed; at first, I rejoiced because the school was known to be the best among others, but.....\n\"Oh sure, my daughter received the scholarship,\" mother enthused to a friend who had dropped by unexpectedly.\nWe weren't poor; we belonged to the middle-high class in society, so we weren't poor, but we weren't particularly wealthy either, and the school fees were quite high for boarding and day school.\nI wasn't the only child; I had younger and older siblings, and as the middle child, I was mostly ignored, which I didn't mind.\nI privately rolled my eyes, pleading with her not to brag about me because if I made a mistake, I'd be an embarrassment to my family. Well, not that I intend to do so, but even so... ah\n'Oh sure, no pressure,' I thought. \nThis was the first time she boasted about me so proudly, and my shoulder felt heavier than usual.\n\"Susan, come say hello to your aunty,\" she said proudly.\nI rubbed the back of my neck and walked slowly in front of the cheerful woman.\n\"Good afternoon, ma,\" I said, bowing slightly.\n\"Oh no, is this the Tiny Susan of a then? I recall her playing around naked.\"\nShe pretended to be surprised, which we all know was a ruse. Come on, lady, start acting in movies, acting as if she didn't just see me last Sunday.\nWhat does my nakedness have to do with this woman, I wonder? Backing away slowly will save me from this unnecessary discussion about my diaper days.\n\"Yes, that's my girl,\" my mother said, her shoulders raised.\nI wanted to palm my face, but I just excused myself.\n'Women and Drama'\nWhen school finally started, I was dressed in a pleated red skirt and a plain milk-coloured long-sleeved blouse that had been ironed. This was the dress code at the school. My cat-eye shaped glass fit perfectly on my face, thanks to two neat cornrows in my hair.\nI wanted to make a good impression on my first day, and I wanted to make a good impression on my teachers and classmates.\nI repositioned my glasses on the bridge of my nose and grabbed my bag strap, allowing my sweaty palm to wet it.\n'You can do it; simply go to class 4 white and enter.'\nFeeling encouraged, I began my journey; thirty minutes passed without my noticing, but I didn't know which way to go.\nA handsome young man dressed neatly approached me.\n'Ask him,' I told myself, but I couldn't muster the courage to do so. I turned away from him, hoping he wouldn't notice my perplexity.\n'You don't see me, you don't notice me.'\n\"Student?\"\n'Ah, he noticed,' I thought as I slowly turned to meet his smiling eyes.\n\"Ye-Yes, sir?\"\n\"I've been watching you for a while now, you look lost,\" he said, making me look down in shame.\n'I was actually lost.' I wanted to say something, but I bit my lower lip.\n\"As a new student, there's nothing to be embarrassed about, so what class are you in?\"\n\"Class 4 white sir,\" I'm glad I recovered my speech; today can't get any worse.\n\"Oh, that's my class, I'm the teacher in charge of that class,\" he said with a small smile as he walked away, knowing instantly that he wanted me to follow him, so I did.\nWhen we arrived at the class, he opened the door for me like a gentleman, and I thanked him as I walked in.\n\"Good day, sir!\" The students in the classroom rose to their feet and greeted the teacher.\n\"Sit down,\" he said, his voice becoming louder and his aura more authoritative.\nEveryone sat down and stared at him, making no noise.\n\"This is a new student,\" he said, motioning to me, \"please introduce yourself.\"\nWhen the students finally noticed my presence, I flinched; this was the moment that would make or break my future in this classroom.\n\"My name is Susan Green, and I'm new.\"\n\"We know you're a new dummy,\" a female student joked and the others laughed.\nCrash!\nMy brain had just exploded on me, and the girl was looking at me with a smirk and a raised brow. She was so beautiful, and it was androgynous beauty, that I stared at her dazedly as she turned to talk to her friend. My palm began to sweat as I became hot.\n'Dear God, not today,' I say.\n\"Shut up Marie, we know you like attention, but we don't have enough for you,\" the teacher said, rolling his eyes at the girl.\nThe other students laughed as they sat down, and the teacher turned to show me an empty seat in the first row, third seat.\n'The window seat is fantastic.' At the very least, something is working in my favour today.\n\"I am Mr Michael, your class teacher as well as your geography teacher,\" he introduced himself before beginning his class.\nMarie and I became enemies, or more accurately, she made me her enemy for no apparent reason.\nI was able to make two best friends, Sandra and Annie, who people quickly turned into a clique, and wherever we went, Marie and her minions tried to make things difficult for me.\nI quickly grew accustomed to it and was no longer bothered by her; she was popular among the boys and her boyish behaviour made her appear to be one of them.\nTime flew by and it was my final term at St. Mary's High School. I had witnessed some crazy things and survived some backstabbing, and when we returned to school, I discovered that my two friends were dating guys from other classes, which made me happy for them.\nI had no intention of joining them in this childish dating, but Marie was now approaching me whenever she saw I was alone, and she came without her minions.\nI was concerned at first, but after noticing she wasn't as hostile as before and instead spoke calmly to me, I became suspicious that she was plotting something big against me.\nOur Math teacher did not show up one day during afternoon class, so I felt pressed and excused myself from my friends, telling them I needed to use the restroom. They both nodded, so I went on my own.\nI didn't realize they were following me until I entered the large female bathroom and looked at myself in the large mirror before entering one of the stalls to relieve myself. When I finished, I went to the sink to wash my hands, and when I looked up at the mirror, I was surprised to see Marie staring at me with dark eyes.\n“Hey Marie,” I said.\nShe seemed to snap out of her thought and smiled shyly at me; I decided not to point out her red cheeks because she had white and black parents, literally a white father from America and her mother from Ghana.\nI moved to leave, but she stopped me; I took a step back and looked up at her. She was about 6ft 2 inches tall, which was a full foot taller than me.\n“Can I assist you, Marie?”\n“I have something to tell you,” she said as she moved closer to me, continuing, “I really like you and I can't stop myself.”\n'Wait, what?' Before I could think of anything, she kissed me, and it was my first kiss stolen by Marie.\nI couldn't move because I was too shocked, so she kept kissing me; my lips felt tingly, and her lips felt so soft on mine. I pushed her away and rushed back to class, picking up my bag and running out of the school when I heard the bell for the end of the day.\nThroughout, I kept wiping my lips and refusing to eat with my family because I was afraid they would find out what happened at school. My family did not stop me, so I ran into my room and tried to read to distract myself from what had happened.\n‘I should feel disgusted,' I kept telling myself.\nA week passed, a week of avoiding Marie as if my life depended on it, a week of feeling my best friends' disgust and anger when they thought I wasn't looking.\nIt was almost a month before my last exam at this school when I was summoned to the principal's office, where I found my crying mother and stern-looking father, who was rubbing her back in comfort, waiting for me.\n“Good afternoon, sir,” I said, then looked at my parents, concerned about what had happened to them and hoping that my siblings were doing well.\nI left home, and everyone was fine, so what was the problem?\n“Susan, I have a question for you, but first look at this,” the principal said, picking up his phone and placing it in front of me, urging me to press play, which I did with shaking hands.\nIt was a video of Marie kissing me, with my face visible but not Marie's. My hands and feet were cold, and I could feel bile moving up my throat.\n“Isn't this you kissing a fellow female student in the girl's bathroom?” His words left no room for me to explain. If I said no, it was obviously a lie, and if I said yes, I would have major problems.\nI remained silent, and my mother's sob grew louder as if they had murdered her favourite child.\n“Your silence is confirmation, and some female students accused you of sexually harassing them,” he stated matter-of-factly. I'm not sure when I did this.\n“I didn't-” the principal cut me off as I was about to defend myself, turning to my parents and saying.\n“The council decided to let your daughter graduate, but she would be suspended before her exams and would write her papers from a special centre, and that is all we can do for her because of her good grades.”\nThis was the start of my downfall, as I returned to the classroom to pack my books and bag. Everyone looked at me, some with disgust, others with laughter, and a few with sadness and pity.\nSandra and Annie mocked me and hurled insults at me, so I fought back tears and stormed out of the classroom. On my way to meet my parents, I was followed by a red-eyed Marie who claimed she wasn't the one and that if she had known someone was there, she wouldn't have done anything.\nI simply ignored her and got into my parents' car; they didn't say anything to me until we got home. They called my eldest sister and explained what was going on, and my two younger siblings discovered what was going on and avoided me like a pledge; my life had already been shattered as a result of me allowing Marie too close.\nWhen I finished my exams and the results were released, my parents packed all of my belongings and threw me out, saying they had never had an abomination of a daughter. I cried and begged them, telling them I was innocent, but they didn't care.\nWhen my immediate elder brother found out what they did, he tracked me down during a storm and picked me up, taking me to his apartment since he had stopped living with our parents when he finished university.\nHe called our elder sister in New York and told her what our parents had done, and she was furious.\n“They shouldn't have done this, which is why whenever I called, they always gave me one stupid excuse after another.”\nI finally said, \"I didn't do what they accused me of.\" I finally had someone to explain things to, and their next words surprised me.\n“We know you didn't harass anyone sexually, and even if you aren't straight, that doesn't give anyone the right to hurt you,” my brother said, and I sobbed. I felt warmth again for the first time in two months after the tears I had been holding in for so long finally poured out.\nAfter spending a week with my brother, my sister finally revealed that she was working on my papers to move to New York and live with her and her in-laws. She also assured me that our parents would not be aware of anything.\nThat was five years ago, and I was able to start a better life in New York; I was a made woman, and I was proud of my accomplishments.\nI'd travelled to Ghana with my sister because our brother was getting married, and I wasn't going to miss it for the world.\n“Susan, you should go to the dinner,” my sister and her husband had been trying to persuade me to go because my brother's wedding was in a few weeks and we had arrived earlier.\nIt was during these leisure days that I received the email in my inbox; I was still using the old account for some personal matters that were not particularly important.\nI agreed and decided to attend after their persuasion, so I rented a car that I used to drive myself and went shopping for something new.\nFinally, the day of the dinner arrived, and I dressed perfectly as usual and styled my hair; I had gotten rid of my glasses a few years ago, and now my honey brown eyes were on display.\nWhen I arrived at 8 p.m., they had already laid out a red carpet and photographers were photographing people. I parked my car and walked into the hall, ignoring the cameras and continuing to wear my dark sunglasses.\n‘It's time to watch the drama.'\nI sat in the corner of the hall on an empty table, watching everyone do whatever they wanted.\n“Excuse me, is this chair already taken?” I shook my head, not looking at the individual.\nAfter a few minutes, each table was full of people, and I recognized some of my classmates and the principal.\n‘Irritating bunch of humans,' I grumbled as they introduced everyone present until they said her name.\n“Marie Peyton, please greet everyone,” the Mc, who I recognized as the former student body president, said with a smile.\nThe person next to me rose to their feet, and I looked at her in surprise. She was dressed in a pants suit with a bow tie, and her hairstyle was ideal for the occasion.\nWhen my name was called, people began to spread rumours about how I died on the street and how I became pregnant.\n‘It's time to stun them.'\nI stood up and walked towards the stage, my head held high because I was here to ruin their celebration and be petty for a change.\nI took the microphone from the stunned MC and let out a light chuckle at everyone's expression.\n“Oh hello there, those who don't remember me,” I paused for emphasis before continuing. “I am Susan Green, the scapegoat,” I said, my gaze meeting the shocked expressions of Sandra and Annie.\nI came prepared, and let's just say my brother got enough dirt on them and saved it for me, so I discovered my so-called best friend was the real devil who wanted me to suffer.\nI gave the people in charge of the media equipment a flash drive to show them what was on it.\nEvery little secret of theirs was playing in the background, as were my innocence to their framing. I walked out wearing my shades again after dropping the bomb.\n'Haha, I ended the dinner before it started,' they can try to explain to their husbands who sat next to them at the table.\nWhen I got to my car, I breathed a sigh of relief and went to open the door when a hand grabbed mine.\n“Susan, please don't leave me like you did the last time,” Marie and her tall self were the source of my predicament.\n“What exactly do you want?” I asked calmly, feeling the warmth on my face. It's a good thing it was dark because my skin tone wouldn't have given me away.\n“Can we talk, perhaps over a drink?” She rubbed the back of her neck.\nThere was nothing wrong with us drinking together, so I nodded, and she happily fist pumped before opening the car door for me and entering the passenger's side.\n“What exactly are you doing in my car?”\n“I don't trust you enough to not disappear again, so drive woman,” she said, and I laughed lightly before driving off into the 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: The Confessor\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 3019\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone’s paranoia is justified." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "MEDIEVAL MANUSCRIPT DATABASE\nManuscripts > Digitised Manuscripts > French > XIV Century > 322-511\n—-----------------------------------------\n~ Access granted through your institution ~\n—----------------------------------------\nLa Roche-Aiguille Manuscript BNF Ms-412 to 416\nDate: 7-10[?] December 1316\nAuthor: Robert of Lyon\nFol. N/A\nParchment, 5x pieces 250 x 340 mm.\nDescription:\nFive pages, bound roughly together in the top left. Presented in order.\n___________________________________________\n[1]\nI fear that my love is in mortal danger, and that my paranoia is justified. I must make haste before it is too late, and so I cannot offer a full explanation on this page. Instead, I herewith attach four entries from my notebook, in which I chronicled a most unholy series of deaths which occurred over the past few days. I trust they will explain all. I do so at the risk of divulging personal information, but I have concluded that it matters not, for the evil which I believe I have discovered ought not to go unseen. Know that I do so for love, for I do not believe it is a sin. I pray for those who may come across these pages in future, and hope you shall do the same for me. \nRobert of Lyon, Anno Domini MCCCXVI\n___________________________________________\n[2]\nThe feast day of St Ambrose. With the first light of this inauspicious day - grey, chill and melancholy - I sighted the body of a man in the town square. Initially, under the bleary, leaden weight of half sleep, I was unsure what I had seen when I first opened my shutters; merely a vague form. Not fully comprehending, and only slightly perplexed, I set out to investigate. Others followed soon after. Muted and numb, shrunk under layers of clothes, a handful of figures emerged from doors, having peered through their own shutters and seen the first stirrings of commotion. \nYet once within a certain distance, even the most cursory inspection revealed this to be something quite out of the ordinary. \nThe man was quite dead; that much was shockingly certain as he lay there, stiff and lightly dusted with frost. Yet most strangely of all, his clothes had been removed and a number of coals had been placed across his body, cooled now but which had evidently been hellishly hot when they were put there, judging by the unholy burns which cratered around each one. Further still, a white cloth had been placed across his head bearing strange writing made in charcoal. ‘The first trumpet sounds for avarice’. \nIn the half-reality of extreme shock, I realised that I had in fact known this poor man, albeit not closely. It was Enguerrand the merchant, who often had writing business for me in my capacity as a notary - drafting and reading documents, and so forth - as his own written skills were quite rudimentary. I struggle to imagine who might wish him such harm. Perhaps he could be accused of being greedy and covetous, but he was not an evil man. In any case, when last I saw him he had told me that he was planning to confess and donate to the church. \nSoon, more people trickled to the scene, and it wasn’t long before stunned silence transitioned to disconcerted muttering. Even after the guards had arrived, spoken to me and loaded the corpse onto a cart, the crowd continued to swell until the whole square was in some turmoil. As my senses recollected, I felt my humours bubble and fought the urge to be sick. \nAs I limply vacated the square, I saw the gnarled figure of Friar John, a zealous rabble-rouser and an aggressively pious man, believed now to be around seventy. His head was bare, speckled like an egg apart from two rough white thatches on either side and a pair of thickets overhanging his eyes, which sunk deep into his lined, leathery face. One eye was keen and blue, the other a blank orb, grey and milky. He scurried around the crowd, gesticulating and shouting himself hoarse arguing that this must be the work of a vengeful angel. ‘See how the devil sits atop the merchant’s strongbox!’. Here was a most choleric, volcanic man if ever there was one. I always find he carries an aura of hysteria, yet he regrettably makes a veritable impression on people, particularly following an event such as today’s. With his wild eyes and impassioned speaking, in some peoples’ minds his sermonising imprints like wax and sets like marble. \nThe mass in the parish church today was sombre. The congregation was dead silent, heads bowed and huddled around pillars and walls decorated with biblical scenes, as though seeking solidarity. I tried to catch the eye of dear Aimery. I am always able to count on his steadfast friendship, yet today he seemed particularly aloof. In a similarly fearful mood, the priest was as white as a sheet, his voice wavering as he fumbled his way through the Latin readings. In truth, even at the best of times I believe him to be incompetent when it comes to tending his flock. He is young, has not taken the required literacy examination, nor has he even been consecrated. Since the papacy has moved to Avignon, clerical positions have been up for sale as a way of filling the Pope’s coffers. Thus appointments are made for those who can pay, and little else matters in terms of competency or indeed suitability. The real spiritual figure in the community has always been Friar John, irrespective of how much he frightens people. As I exited the church he stood across the dirt road, eyeing everybody with the penetrating malice of an omniscient deity. By his side was Raoul, a newcomer to the town and his most fervent disciple, hanging on his every word. I confess that I found the sight of the pair quite unnerving. \nI write as the light ebbs outside. The Friar was convinced that divine retribution was at work, punishment against the lamentable state of Christianity as he perceived it. However, I am suspicious that there is a more worldly explanation. I don’t suppose I shall sleep much tonight. \n____________________________________\n[3]\nThe first day after the feast of St Ambrose. Last night I fell into a fitful sleep thinking of the seemingly omniscient Friar, and awoke a while after dawn under the thrall of the same man. Indeed, it was his voice which carried news of the second death through my window, as he wound his way through the town, shouting. As usual, he was accompanied by Raoul. \nThrough his lyrical fervour I deduced that this second poor soul had been another man, found in the small stream running in the moat outside the postern gate, with a massive rock atop his torso, and dead rotting fish placed around him. On the rock was written in ash, ‘The second trumpet sounds for adultery’. I learned later in the day that he had last been seen merely the previous afternoon, entering the church.\nSome of the things Friar John said made quite an impression on me: ‘See what happens when the antichrist sits in Avignon! The time is near! See how the sinners are struck down!’. He was frenzied, arguing that the deaths corresponded to the apocalypse foretold in the Book of Revelation, which I have not read although I have heard tell of it. As the seventh seal is broken, seven angels issue forth, each consecutively sounding a trumpet. The first trumpet causes a hail of fire which burns all in its path, whilst the second causes a mountain to fall into the sea, killing many sea creatures. The fate of those poor souls certainly alluded to such prophecies, and I noticed John had attracted a number of followers who seemed to agree.\nI left the window dazed. My mind was already flooded with the terror of the day before, and yet I was also bothered by something else, which even now I cannot quite place. I found myself setting out across town to see Aimery. I found him in as lamentable a state as yesterday, his kind features chased away and replaced by a mask of anxiety.\n‘Did you hear the Friar?’ Was all he whispered at first. I entered, and we spent some time in fearful discussion. He was convinced that the apocalypse really was coming. A few years ago the northern seas had frozen over, and last year there had been rains of hitherto unseen proportions, like a biblical flood, so that famine scourged Christendom. And the horseman of war had seemingly been unleashed, as the King of France attacked the Pope physically at the turn of the century. He was cowed by all of these portents, which had fired from the tongue of the Friar and left a mark. I, too, am unnerved, yet it is not the root of my concern. After all, similar predictions have been made historically and none came to fruition. I am still paranoid that the real cause lies in our midst.\nI left to attend to my remaining work, involving a property deed brought by a wealthy woman named Constance, which I drafted according to template and read out to her. As I handed the document over, she seemed to frown as she took it, as though it would soon be worthless. By then I was far away; indeed, she was half talking to herself when she stated that she was on her way to confess to the priest, for she believed that judgement day was near and that she had committed a mortal sin. ‘I fear burning in hell if my soul is not absolved’, she said. ‘Did you know that in hell the impenitent hang by their tongues from burning trees?’. If I was not in such a vacant state, I might have been shocked by her candour. \nThis day has been strenuous. Once again I snuff out my candle, fearful of what tomorrow may bring. \n____________________________________\n[4]\nThe second day after the feast of St Ambrose. The state of my mind is frayed, and I lack the fortitude to write or even recall in detail all the routines of the day save for a series of momentous blows which fell on me like a smith’s hammer. \nThe first thing to permeate the haze is the image of my neighbour mournfully declaring that Constance was dead. She was found laying in her bathing tub, filled with water which had been dyed black, pale and limply reclining with a stem of the herb wormwood placed in her mouth. And as usual, the text: ‘The third trumpet sounds for heresy’. This transpired to be another macabre allegory to the Book of Revelation, where the third angel’s trumpet causes a star called Wormwood to fall to earth and turn the fresh waters bitter. In the adjoining square I saw John and Raoul again, announcing as such, that here was proof of Christianity’s decay.\nYet as I lay in stupor, an even more pertinent event occurred, and one which I now ruminate upon with severe anxiety. Aimery had come to the door. He was at once melancholic and determined, bearing the kind of disposition found in those resigned, reluctantly yet confidently, to an unpleasant task.\n‘I must confess to the priest about what we have done.’ I could only croak back a faint protest. ‘I fear hell, Robert. The day is near, that much is evident from what is happening. All I need to do is confess and pay an indulgence, and we may be saved.’ \nEven as I write, my hand shakes, for I have never consigned what we did to parchment. I am so fearful that anybody, anything should see it that I ensured that the only record existed in our memories. But now, in my fearful state of mind, it seems the only thing to do. I suppose by now we won’t be the only ones who know. \nIt only happened once, but I know the Church considers sodomy the gravest of all sins. Perhaps I always knew that the friendship I had with Aimery was different to that which I shared with others, but I could not think of any other way to describe it. Love? No, such a term - as I have seen and heard it in the world around me - describes a feeling towards one’s biological counterpart. And yet it is a feeling which I seem to understand even if I lack it according to this definition. \nEvery fibre of me strains at the thought of Aimery confessing, but I saw that he had made his decision. I let him go, unable to articulate why it unnerved me so terribly.\nIt is only now - late in the evening and some time after Aimery left - that I feel nagging paranoia that something terrible happens at confession. I remembered what Constance had said which I had almost dismissed; that she was going to confess that evening. With mounting anxiety I also recalled that the second man to die had last been seen exiting the church, and that poor Enguerrand had told me a few days prior to his death that he too ought to confess. But even if incriminating things were divulged at confession, how would anybody know given that it was wholly confidential? Maybe their deaths were, after all, a divine visitation. \nI am being too suspicious. Aimery has no enemies. Yet, it has been a long time. Perhaps I could check his house. Yes, it is resolved; I quit my notebook for now.\n_________________________________________\n[5] \nI know not the the hour. I am frantic with worry, for a search from which I have just returned - breathless and sputtered with mud - yielded no sign of Aimery, although it did reveal the truth, and I am now in possession of a grave revelation. With the Lord as my witness, I shall continue my search, but first I feel it my duty to record what I have learned for posterity, lest such evil go unnoticed for eternity! \nAfter finding Aimery absent from his house, my suspicions flared like angry sores. Some unfathomable instinct told me to go and find the priest. Although the hour was late, I bolted to the parochial house adjacent to the church and banged furiously on the door. Making an effort to sound like a freed demon, I succeeded in rousing the priest, whereby I immediately asked what had happened to Aimery, at which point he quailed and his mouth hung agape. \nAt this stage I am quite convinced that the hand of the divine guided my actions, for I sensed something was amiss and forced my way inward, pushing him through the doorway. Without such force I do not believe I would have discovered the truth, so unspeakable it is that it had to be forced out of the rascal under duress. Guided by some instinct which I didn’t quite understand, I seized him by the neck.\nSquirming like a stabbed rat, he choked something about Raoul. I learned that after Aimery had confessed, the priest had handed him over to the aforementioned rogue, who had taken control of the monetary indulgences by threatening the priest with blackmail, and claiming that he was an angel sent by God. He confirmed that this had happened with the other confessors, and that, worse still, he was bullied by Raoul into revealing what had been confessed! When I asked why, the priest stammered that Raoul needed to know the sin so he could charge the according amount as a penalty. \nYet the bleakest revelation was to come. Since Raoul was nowhere without the Friar, I sensed the wretched hand of the old man in this dark scheme. I pushed the priest still more; by this stage he was in such an agitated state that I thought he might have forced all of the air out of his body. He only said that on the day of Enguerrand’s confession - when Raoul had explained to him what he must do - he later overheard Friar John talking to Raoul about ‘starting the movement here’. Still, the priest was adamant that he thought the deaths were supernatural, that Raoul only meant to take the money, and he had allowed him to do so because he was frightened. \nAs I left, numb but guided by the same indescribable passion, I believed I understood the full truth. My paranoia is vindicated; the foul nature of the murders, everything the Friar had preached; all had sudden, sickening relevance. I consign my deduction to posterity:\nThe Friar is starting a movement, a rebellion against Christianity as it stands, and he is doing so through a campaign of fear, money-hoarding and worse, murder! Through his acolyte Raoul, he gathers ‘sinners’ and their secrets, takes their money and then has them killed; I suspect Raoul does the odious work. Perhaps John believes he is a harbinger of the apocalypse sent to cleanse the world of sin. In any case, his following burgeons with every death, and every claim he makes that the murdered have been smote by an angel. I believe in doing so he aims to imply that God is dissatisfied with Christendom, whilst placing himself under the guise of righteousness, perhaps to move even against the pope himself. Indeed, people already believe he has the gift of prophecy and his movement grows steadily. \nI can bring myself to write but little more. If my suspicions are correct - as I am convinced that they are - then I must go and find Aimery before it is too late. I do not know how or even where to look, but I do realise now that love is after all the only term which describes my compulsion to approach this maw of danger unflinching. \nIf he lives, then I will return. If he dies then I will leave, or I will die too. Know then that what I have written is true. May the Lord be with me. \nRobert of Lyon\n2996 Words" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cicero and Catiline\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2796\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone’s paranoia is justified." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My face burned with humiliation as the other Senators laughed and jeered at me. The entire Senate hall, or curia, as we called it, had turned against me. And the instigator of my shame? Catiline. Who else would it be? That he, an ignorant disgrace to Rome, wished to insult my reputation was no surprise. But that my fellow senators, men of honour and distinction, valued his birth and breeding over my cold logic and flawless rhetoric was a savage blow indeed.\nI had just completed a lengthy and thoroughly researched speech detailing why Catiline was completely unfit to hold the lofty office of consul and the dangers he posed to us all. I spoke of his irresponsible character, frequent drunken banquets, and rampant debt. Not to mention the many scandals that come to mind when one hears the name Catiline, including rumours that the vile monster killed his wife, brother, and even his own son.\nBut did Catiline tremble in fear at my words? No. He laughed. Rising to his feet, he said, ‘Senators, my dear friends, should I sit here and let this bumbling provincial insult my honour? No. Perhaps in Arpinum, it is acceptable to throw around wild accusations without a shred of evidence, but here in Rome, we follow proper legal procedure.’\nI leapt up. ‘That’s a lie. I have evidence. Legal documents Catiline arranged, claiming that his brother somehow murdered himself. Obviously, this is proof of a cover-up.’\nCatiline didn’t even flinch. He cocked his head. ‘And we are supposed to believe that these decades-old documents simply found their way into my opponent’s hands right before the upcoming elections? I think not. An obvious and disappointing forgery. I thought better of you, Cicero.’\n‘But—’\n‘Sit down, Cicero,’ one of the consuls, the most senior magistrates in Rome, said. ‘It is Catiline’s turn to speak.’\nThat was it. No evidence, no logic. Just the simple assertion that enough time has passed since he committed his crimes to prove his innocence. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Did our noble ancestors forget the crimes of the Carthaginians or the treachery of the Greeks and Macedonians? No. They waited until the time was right to strike, as I did.\nCatiline continued. ‘As for our provincial friend’s attitudes towards my lifestyle, I can only assume this comes from his humble beginnings. He clearly doesn’t understand that here in Rome, we possess great wealth and prosperity and that it is only proper to celebrate these things from time to time.’\nI wanted to scream. There was so much wrong with his statement. So much I wanted to unpick. Though my family hails from Arpinum, I am a Roman citizen like him. If anything, my values and ideals are far closer to those of Rome’s ancient heroes than his. They didn’t believe in softness and luxury. Modesty and hard work were at the core of their philosophy and were, undoubtedly, the key to their success. Likewise, my family is far wealthier than Catiline’s, what with his mountain of debt. We simply use our funds wisely.\nBut glancing around the hall, it became clear that far too many agreed with Catiline. As I watched him basking in the approval of his crooked friends, my blood boiled. That fool, with his perfumed oils and preening good looks, stood against everything that made Rome great. I could not allow him to tear our city down. I would not allow it.\nI shot to my feet. ‘You must listen to me, this man is a threat to us all. I may have been born in Arpinum, but Roman blood flows through my body as surely as it does through any of yours. If you allow Catiline to be consul, he will destroy the city we love. You must choose me instead.’\nRunning my eyes over the room, I desperately sought some support. But nobody would meet my gaze. Nobody besides Catiline. He chuckled. ‘I think we’ve all heard quite enough of your baseless whining for one day. Sit down, Chickpea.’\nAs soon as that word hit my ears, my jaw clenched. Chickpea. A cruel nickname mocking the small growth on my nose. As a wave of tittering broke out across the curia, a shudder ran throughout my body. I could bear it no longer. As soon as the consul called an end to the session, I fled, my cheeks burning.\nI dashed down the curia steps, intending to rush across the forum as quickly as I could and get far away from the site of my humiliation. But my sandal slipped, causing me to drop the wax tablets which held my notes. As I crouched down to pick them up, I sensed a presence looming over me. The cloying scent of lavender oil turned my stomach. Catiline.\n‘What do you want?’ I said.\nHe smirked. ‘To thank you, actually.’\n‘Thank me?’\n‘Oh yes. Your shambolic display gave me the perfect opportunity to show off my rhetoric. Really, I expected better from a man of your reputation.’\nI wanted to punch him in his smug little face. ‘It’s hard to win a debate when everyone already has their minds made up.’\nHe shrugged. ‘Yes, well. Sometimes that’s how the dice fall. You know, I actually respect you, in a way. You’re a new man, the first of your family to reach the Senate. That you’re competing for high office at all is remarkable. Unfortunately, you’ve overreached. You don’t understand how things work in the big city. Here in Rome, it’s not the strength of your words, or the righteousness of your cause, that matters. It’s the depth of your coin purse.’\nI opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to silence me. ‘Yes, yes. I know. Your family is perfectly wealthy, but what good does that do you if you won’t spend it?’\n‘But our ancestors—’\n‘But our ancestors,’ he mocked. ‘Yes, our ancestors didn’t flaunt their wealth. They didn’t buy silks and spices from the East or elaborate metalwork from Gaul. They kept their coins invested in the land, nice and safe. But that’s boring. The world moves on, my dear Chickpea, and so must we.’ He leaned in so close that his warm breath tickled my cheek. ‘I can’t wait for you to see the changes I have planned.’\n\n*\n\n‘Master, master. You must wake up.’\nI ignored the voice, keeping my eyes clenched firmly shut as I rested on the couch. A searing pain shot through my head.\n‘Master,’ the voice came again.\n‘Go away, Tiro,’ I said. ‘I wish to be left alone.’\n‘I’m sorry, master, but we have a visitor.’\nI opened my eyes, frowning. ‘A visitor? I wasn’t expecting company.’\n‘I invited them, master.’\n‘What possessed you to do such a thing?’ Though a loyal servant, Tiro, my faithful secretary, possessed the same wild energy as all young men. On occasion, this led him to take rash, unfortunate decisions. This was one of them. After my humiliation at the curia earlier, I had no desire to speak to anyone.\nBut Tiro was not cowed by my irritation. ‘Please, master. It’s important. I believe it will make you feel much better.’\n‘I very much doubt that,’ I said. Then again, I had learned long ago to trust Tiro’s judgement on such matters. He was almost always proved right in the end. I sighed. ‘Very well. Bring them to my study.’\nAs Tiro strode off to fetch our guests from the atrium, I shuffled into my study and slumped into a chair. I usually loved that room, filled with my scrolls and papers. But on that occasion, I could only think I had spent my whole life working hard for nothing. Thanks to their birth and connections, men like Catiline would always have the better of me.\nI was thus in a sombre mood when Tiro returned, accompanied by a rather rough-looking man, his weathered skin marked by scars. My breath caught in my chest. I wasn’t used to receiving visitors from members of the plebian class.\n‘Master, I would like to introduce you to Pax. He works for you,’ Tiro said.\n‘He does?’\nTiro nodded. ‘I hired him to look into Catiline’s affairs.’\nMy mood changed in an instant. Leaning forwards, I said, ‘And did he find anything?’\n‘He certainly did. I think it best he explains.’ Tiro gestured for Pax to step forward and speak.\n‘Master Cicero, sir. Me and my boys been following this Catiline fellow for a few weeks now. He gets up to all sorts of mischief and visits places men of his class have no business being.’\nMy heart fell. Is that it? I thought. ‘I’m aware that Catiline is hardly a model senator. I sincerely hope you have more for me than that.’\nPax nodded eagerly. ‘I do, sir. I do. Last night, we was following Catiline as usual, and we saw him meeting with some real dangerous types. We followed them and ended up at a secret weapon stash. They had the usual daggers and clubs, of course, but also swords, shields, javelins, even armour. Quality stuff, too, like the legions have.’\nI froze, my mind reeling. I knew Catiline was shady, but this… this was something else. To be hoarding such a cache within the city limits of Rome itself was deeply disturbing indeed.\n‘By the Gods,’ I said. ‘He’s raising a private army.’\nTiro placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Your mistake wasn’t attacking Catiline, master, but the manner of your attack. In this day and age, many senators are no strangers to scandal or excess. We need something earth-shaking, and I think this might be it.’\n‘He said earlier that he couldn’t wait for me to see the changes he planned to make. I hoped it was an empty boast, but it seems he really does have some sort of evil plan.’\n‘He does. You were right, master. Catiline is a threat to us all.’\nI was right. Yes. I was, wasn’t I? When I tell the Senate—\nI pursed my lips. ‘This is all well and good, but we need concrete proof. Nobody will listen to me otherwise.’\nTiro grinned and nodded at Pax. ‘I think that can be arranged.’\n\n\n\nThat night, I pulled my hooded cloak tight around me as I followed Tiro and Pax through the streets of Rome. They led me far away from the safety of the Palatine hill with its large manors and into the dense labyrinth of the subura. The slums.\nI wrinkled my nose at the stench of cheap wine and human excrement. ‘How much further?’\n‘Not far,’ Tiro replied. Seeing the look on my face, he added, ‘You could go home, master. We can manage this without you.’\nI shook my head. ‘No, I want to see it with my own eyes.’\nI could get used to the smell, and I wasn’t truly in any danger. Several of Pax’s men, armed with sturdy clubs and sharp daggers, trailed along behind us. Pax assured me there were more than enough of them to deal with any trouble from Catiline’s people.\nAfter a few more minutes of trudging through the muck, we arrived at a rowdy taverna. Pax led us to a small yard out the back, where we hid in the rafters of a stable. We waited there for about an hour until another group approached. Most of them were of a similar breed to Pax. Hard men. Killers. But one was different. Ringed fingers poked out from the folds of his fine hooded cloak, and he crossed the yard carefully, avoiding any piles of animal muck. Though I couldn’t see his face, I knew. This was the man we wanted.\nThe group leader pulled the lids off a series of large crates in the yard, gesturing for the well-dressed man to take a look.\n‘This is the stuff. Swords, javelins, shields. It’s all there.’\nThe well-dressed man nodded. ‘Excellent work. My cousin will be pleased.’\n‘About that. Did he say how long he wants us to hide it for? My lads are getting jumpy. If we get caught with this sort of gear, Jupiter himself wouldn’t be able to stop the storm of cac coming our way.’\n‘It won’t be long now, don’t you worry about that.’\nPerfect, I thought. He knows Catiline’s plan, just as we hoped. I glanced around to signal Pax, but there was no need. He’d been listening just as closely as I had.\nIt happened in a flash. Pax and his men leapt down from the rafters, brandishing their weapons. They charged at the opposing group, taking them completely by surprise. Given this, and our numerical advantage, it took only seconds for Catiline’s men to fall. All but one. The well-dressed man.\nGingerly and with no small amount of help from Tiro, I climbed down from the rafters before crossing the yard to join my men. I grinned as Pax pulled back the well-dressed man’s hood, revealing the pale face of Catiline’s cousin. ‘Hello Fulvius, I heard you might be here.’\nHe blanched. ‘Ci-Cicero. What are you doing here?’\n‘Oh, I think I’ll be asking the questions.’ I pointed at the weapons. ‘What does your cousin intend to do with these?’\nFulvius trembled but shook his head.\n‘Come now, Fulvius. It will be much better for you to talk.’\n‘Can’t. Catiline would kill me.’\n‘Your cousin is the last of your worries right now, believe me. Besides, you shouldn’t feel any loyalty to him. He’s the one that got you into this mess. Where is he, anyway? Why did he send you in his place?’\nAgain, Fulvius shook his head.\nI shrugged. ‘Very well. Perhaps you’d prefer to talk to Pax?’\nMy hired thug leered at Fulvius, flexing his knuckles.\n‘I assure you,’ I said. ‘He can be very persuasive.’\nFulvius’ trembles turned into full-blown spasms. ‘Alright. I’ll talk, I’ll talk. He’s at the temple of Vesta.’\nI frowned. ‘The temple of Vesta? What on earth is he doing there?’\nAs Fulvius explained, the frown on my face turned into the biggest grin of my life.\n\n\n\n‘What’s the matter, Cicero? Come to complain that Catiline stole your honey cakes?’\nWith a smirk on my face, I gazed across the curia at the speaker, one of Catiline’s friends. ‘Laugh now if you wish. I guarantee you won’t be laughing once I’m finished.’ That shut them up.\nTurning my attention to the rest of the hall, I said, ‘I apologise for taking up your time so soon after my last speech. But fresh evidence has come to light.’ I brandished a scroll. ‘I have in my hands a declaration made by Catiline’s cousin, Fulvius. It states that Catiline has been stockpiling weapons in preparation to launch an attack against our city.’ The senators erupted at that, forcing me to raise my voice to be heard. ‘Apparently, his debts have gotten so out of control that he sees no choice but to burn Rome to the ground in order to erase them.’\nAs the consuls called for silence, Catiline sprang to his feet and jabbed a finger at me. ‘Lies. Outrageous lies. You’ve clearly concocted some elaborate scheme to discredit me. Really, Cicero, this is all getting rather pathetic.’\nI beamed at him. ‘Do you think so? Perhaps you’d prefer we asked Julia for her testimony?’\nCatiline’s face fell.\nIt turned out that his visit to the temple of Vesta the previous night involved a crime almost as heinous as his plan to burn Rome. He was engaged in an affair with Julia, one of the Vestal Virgins. Except she was a virgin no more, not after Catiline had his way with her. Defiling one of Vesta’s servants was punishable by being buried alive. I had him, and he knew it.\nBefore I could press home this advantage, however, the consuls called on me to present my evidence. I soon lost myself in describing the details of Catiline’s plot. Nobody laughed this time. They hung on my every word.\nIn my distraction, I didn’t notice Catiline leave the hall. I only found out later when a breathless messenger dashed in, saying that he had fled the city and was raising an army of debtors and criminals. Wasting no more time for debate, the Senate summoned the legions, and Rome marched to battle.\n\n*\n\nIt didn’t take long for us to secure victory. Catiline’s rag-tag bunch of down-and-outs were no match for the might of Rome’s professional army. However, had I not warned the Senate early of his wicked intentions, things could have turned out oh so differently. That’s a fact I intend to make sure everyone remembers for a very, very long time." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hidden Dystopia\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2143\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who fails to understand something until they have the full context." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "High school- a memorable place for some, and an embarrassment for others. My name is Harlow Williams, and I am just like everyone else. I’m just like every student who is simply trying to survive and get through this hell hole of a building. However, a single difference separates me from the rest of the entire student body. I lost my ability to speak at age two, and since then, I have never uttered a single word. Naturally, I do feel this invisible barrier that has been put upon me, which is understandable. Nobody wants to hang out with “that mute girl.” I have been called many names, but “that mute girl” pains me the most. I used to envy those who had what I didn’t. They had social lives, friends, family, beauty, and happiness… or so I thought. Every student has a secret they want to hide, and they all have flaws. No student wants their image in society ruined, even if it means hiding who they are because society is a cruel thing. The day I started noticing these flaws was the day when my perspective changed altogether.\nI tend to go around by myself, especially since my family isn’t around. My parents are divorced, and my mother was never here when I was growing up. I always told myself that I will only have myself, which pushed me to keep going because I knew no one else would care. In all honesty, I was never the innocent, doe-eyed girl. Despite my conditions, I never let myself become that vulnerable girl who needs a man, or even a family for comfort or love. I have myself and that’s enough, I told myself. I knew that I was extremely average, but if I didn’t fight for myself, nobody would. Stay alive, I kept saying. \nI got on the bus at the station to get to school. I hated that bus; it was always smelly and crowded, and worst of all, everyone on that bus had a friend. Since I was mute, I was alone because no one tried to talk to me. However, I am very observant and was able to quietly notice many things people didn’t want to be noticed. Everybody has a vibe that radiates off of their fake face, bleached hair, and cruel being. I noticed one girl on the bus, who radiated a bright but unhappy vibe. Her eyes hid sorrow and misery behind her masking smile. I have noticed many people like her who tend to hide their pain. But I am never able to help them and nor can I help them, since vulnerability is seen as an open wound the sharks would take advantage of. \nThe bus lurched forward, and I looked out the window. I sighed, “Another day, same shit.” I put in my earbuds and walked towards Wilson High.\nThe bell rang loud and clear. I headed to the assembly, where our student body president was screeching the announcements. God, she’s perfect, I thought with sheer jealousy. In fact, Serena was the epitome of perfection. Something I learned was if you aren’t perfect according to the harsh beauty standards of today, you must be perfect in something else which is just as difficult to achieve. However, Serena had it all. She was able to pull off natural looks because the entirety of her was an absolute beauty. Along with her beauty, she was the student body president, so everybody considered her a goddess. She was ethereal, and also intelligent, especially since she never seemed to study but got amazing grades. I envied her life and how she always seemed to have everything under control. However, I couldn’t have been more wrong.\nThe fact is, nobody is what they portray themselves as. Everyone is flawed in one way or another. I had just finished lunch and was heading to the bathroom to wash my hands when I saw something I shouldn’t have. It was Serena, but she looked different. Instead of her usual, brilliant smile, there was melancholy and angst poisoning her face. I waited and watched as she entered a stall, and I heard a sickening noise. Was she...gagging? The realization hit me, and I understood what was going on. I heard the sobs coming from inside, and I was frozen with confusion. Why is Serena, of all people, doing this? She was as beautiful and perfect as winter jasmine in the snow. She walked out and noticed me, looking me up and down as if I was not important enough to judge her. I flinched as she approached me like a predator approaching its prey. \n“Look mute girl, you didn’t see anything!” she practically yelled. I flinched and nodded as she shoved me to the side. Was that even Serena? I was in shock. This was the first time I realized that not everything is as it seems. I always idolized her, but I never stopped to think about what she might be going through. I shrugged off the cold feeling of realization and walked to my theatre class. \nEveryone was surprised when they first saw “the mute girl” in the theatre. I would probably be surprised too. People still stare, and I can’t help but feel awkward and on edge. However, I didn’t let my disability stop me from being in a place where I feel the happiest. I was always into theatrical arts, but my disability was a setback. I decided to stop letting that be an obstacle, so I joined the backstage crew. Painting sets, fixing lights, and doing makeup make me feel like I am part of a family that I never had. It makes me feel so euphoric and blissful to be in that bustling scene, especially right before opening night. \nI entered the classroom and put my stuff away to go get ready to paint the set. I was in such a hurry that I dropped my binder, and papers scattered in a mess around me. It was so embarrassing, and I hesitated and looked around before deciding to pick them up. I bent down, but to my surprise, my hands met others. Startled, I looked up and saw a smile so bright, it was blinding. \n“Hey Harlow, let me help you!” Darwin excitedly said. I slowly met his eyes. They were blue with gorgeous ripples of emerald green and amber. However, today something was different. The ripples in his eyes looked stilled and shunned. The life in them looked stifled. I awkwardly smiled and nodded in thanks. He smiled just as bright and left to rehearse. I wonder if he’s okay, I thought as I stared at his back. I shrugged it off; it was Darwin after all, and he’s always full of joy. \nI left to paint the set. I was greeted by the scent of paint and bristles, which wrapped around me and engulfed me in a hug. Not many people liked the smell of paint, but that fact that I did let me work backstage peacefully. I looked at the set we had been working on, which was green fields with beautiful hyacinths smiling at the world. They beamed in the sunlight at the peaceful sky.\n“Oh, Harlow! Come join me,” greets Rani. I walk over and smile back at her hazel eyes. Rani was the first person who acknowledged me as a human being and not a piece of irrelevant trash. She was just like Darwin; she had a bright personality and a voice that was as calm and clear as a millpond. Rani is the type of person who doesn’t care about what others think, and she does what she wants. I envy her in a way since she always seems so carefree. We paint the beautiful set, my wrists cracking as they get used to the movement of the brush. \nA little while later, Rani whispers, “well done,” as she analyzes our work. I nod in agreement and let out a small giggle. \n“Dude, come on!” yelled Lucas. Startled, Rani and I turned to see Lucas complaining about something. “This is the second time you are leaving early!” Lucas whines. \n“Sorry, man,” Darwin said apologetically. He walked out so abruptly that both Rani and I were shocked. We looked at each other and shrugged. Darwin was probably busy with something else going on in that fast-paced mine of his.\n“Wanna get ice cream?” Rani asked. I nodded, grabbed my jacket, and left with her. A car ride and a short conversation later, I had toffee ice-cream in my hand. While we ate, my mind kept wandering back to Darwin. He was such a sweet guy, but his eyes looked so dull and lifeless earlier today. I am just being paranoid, I convinced myself as I let the toffee bits melt onto my tongue.\nI got home to find my dad missing, which was not a surprise. He always works late at the call center, but I couldn’t help but feel lonely. I grabbed a soda from the fridge and tried to relax, ignoring the homework piling up in my backpack. What else is everyone hiding? I wondered as the carbonated drink went down my throat, quenching my racing nerves. \nHalf an hour later, I decided to finish up my homework. I went to bed, as calm as ever. Based on today, I had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, but something told me I didn’t want to know. I tossed and turned for some reason, not being able to fall asleep easily. \nThe next morning, when the bus reached school, pure dread and sorrow were seeping from the walls. A grey wreath of pain seemed to be surrounding everything. I cautiously walked into my homeroom, when I realized something was definitely not right. \nMr. Heartsworth, my homeroom teacher, trudged slowly to the front, and slowly said “I am very sorry to inform you that Darwin Kingsley passed away last night.” \nMy heart dropped so low, and I couldn’t hear the beat anymore because my ears started to slightly ring. My thoughts glazed over, and I had no sense of what was going on. I could vaguely hear the cries and sobs of the fellow students who were close to him. My vision blurred, and I felt nauseous. Time felt like it had paused. \nDarwin was an innocent soul. He had an amazing personality, and he was quite witty too. He was the guy who lit up everybody's lives, and he only had kind words to say. He was the sun of so many people’s worlds. Darwin was the guy that teachers and students loved. He even used to attempt to make conversation with me to make me feel included. \nI couldn’t believe my instinct had told me that there was something wrong, but I chose to ignore it because I didn’t know how right I was. I felt my heart become heavy with regret. December 23, 2019 was the day that Darwin jumped off the school roof, to his death. Nobody ever asked how he was, and nobody expected him to do something like this. \nThe funeral was packed with people who loved him. Turned out, he was suffering from clinical depression, which he had not told anyone about. Nobody was there for the ray of light that supported the entire student population. Nobody was there for the one person who gave us warmth on the cold days of winter. Nobody saw the signs, the stress, or the pressure that was put on him.\nChildren have asked me, what is high school? Today, I have found the answer. High school is a moon, with a hidden dark side. It is a place where nobody truly feels freedom or joy. It is a dystopia in the disguise of a happy and beautiful society. We see gorgeous girls and handsome guys, who hide their sorrows with smiles. We see groups of friends laughing and chatting, despite the pain they hide inside. Nobody truly sees the things the students hold in their hearts and their minds. The darkness that radiates off them goes unnoticed. Truthfully, we are just broken souls trying to survive the pressure. The pressure to be beautiful, smart, funny, happy, and perfect overwhelms us. Why do I have to be that image? Why do I have to be what society tells me to be? Am I not a person if I am not perfect? People say, be smart, but don’t study too much. Be skinny, but don’t diet. If you study, you’re a nerd, and if you fail, you’re dumb. Nobody questions the physical things society asks of us, but they question us for feeling normal, human emotions. We deserve happiness. But right now, I am trying to survive this dystopian world. I have to go. Goodbye." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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's Go For A Walk\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1539\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “Let’s go for a walk.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "WARNING: Mild profanity.\n‘Okay, gentlemen, let’s go for a walk.’\nSgt Lewis stood in the doorway of what was once a barn. Three, wooden-slatted walls survived, as did the majority of the hay bales that were stored there, but the roof had gone and so had the gable end. The hay bales were now makeshift beds for the eighteen men of Alpha Troop. The most comfort they had experienced since landing in Normandy eight days earlier.\nOur job was to blow up the bridge at Pont-l'Évêque, over the river Touques to slow the German retreat and allow the soldiers of 13th Parachute Battalion to pick them off.\nI knew this because I was their company commander, Lt Jack Brooks RE. Sgt Lewis knew it, because I had briefed him. The men were, so far, blissfully unaware. Although, as they groaned and stretched, rising from their pits, I suspected they knew this “walk” was not going to be a stroll in the park.\nI was their company commander, but I let Sgt Lewis do the talking. Before the war I had been a journalist, Sgt Lewis was a seasoned campaigner, and he knew how to talk to the men.\n‘Cum’on, ladies, shake a leg. Gather all your kit and get some scran. God knows when you’ll get a chance to eat again.’ He skidded two ten-man ration packs across the dirt and debris-encrusted floor, whilst I placed the two Norwegian flasks of tea beside them. The men pounced on them like a pack of Labradors. Everyone wanted the Coronation Chicken, no one wanted to be left with the Bully Beef or the Cheese Possessed (processed cheese).\n‘Cam up.’\nSpr Bell (Dinger), opened his tobacco tin and started to roll a cigarette.\n‘And no lights!’ Sgt Lewis barked.\nWe were already deep behind enemy lines. That is the lot of the Royal Engineers, “first in, last out”. It was 22:30 Zulu and the sun had finally dipped below the horizon. This had to be a night op, it would have been suicide in daylight. As it was, the prospect of us all coming back alive was poor. I looked around at the men, stuffing tins of meat and tubes of Milk Condemned (condensed milk), into the pockets of their webbing. They all looked keen and eager, wide-eyed with the adrenaline rush of battle. I was leading some of these men to their deaths, I just didn’t know which ones, so I stared at them all, trying to lock away their images so I would not forget them.\nI called Spr “Smudge” Smith over to me, he was our radio operator. ‘Your oppos’ are all carrying dets and mines, Sapper, but you have the most important piece of kit in this entire operation. You stay close to me, Smith, do you understand?’\n‘Yes, Sir.’ He proudly hauled the heavy radio pack onto his shoulders. ‘Do you want me to test the comms, Sir?’\n‘Yes please, Smith.’\nHanding me one half of his headset, and holding the other half to his own ear, he switched on the radio and twisted the dial until a faint crackling sound rattled my eardrum. ‘Hello One, this is Holdfast. Radio check. Over.’\n‘Hello Holdfast, this is One. Loud and clear. Out.’ The reply was instantaneous.\nWell, at least the radio worked. \nThe distant rapport of gunfire filtered through the woods behind the barn. We were not alone. I didn’t know who was firing at whom, but it didn’t really matter, there was a battle going on; men were getting killed; we had to go out there and face it; no more playing soldiers, now it was real.\n‘Okay, lads, follow me,’ Sgt Lewis was now whispering. ‘Single file, hard targeting. Rear man, Ballantyne, you're covering our arses, so stay alert.’\nA thumbs up from Cpl Ballantyne and we started to move out of the barn. Cpl Ballantyne was an odd chap. I went through basic training with him, and we’d become good friends. We had both been picked up as potential officer material. I went forward, but Ballantyne declined the offer. I don’t think you could define his character as brave in the sense of bravado, it was more the air he carried of unsupported confidence that he would be alright because he had God on his side. I’d never seen him without his bible in his hand.\nThe men were heavily laden with detonators, explosives, haystack mines, det cord and rifles. Not to mention all the ammunition that had to be carried too. Dinger Bell and Chalky White carried the Bren gun, it was a good job they were both built like Charles Atlas. We were on the outskirts of the village of Saint-Étienne-la-Thillaye, it was two kilometres to our target and we were crossing open ground.\nI had already studied the map. If we headed southeast towards Reux, we would come to an area of woodland, which should help cover our advance. Then we could follow the road into Pont l'Évêque all the way to the bridge. It sounded simple.\nWe’d crossed the first field and reached the safety of a ditch. I held us here to allow everyone to get their breath back and allow their night vision to accrue. I could still hear the sounds of a fierce gun battle in the distance. I know it sounds uncharitable, and I knew good men were probably dying, but my thoughts were in this ditch. Whilst Gerry was being engaged elsewhere, maybe we might be lucky.\nWe weren’t! As I rose from my prone position to look over the rim of the ditch I felt the wind from a round pass my ear. Then I heard the crack of a rifle. I dived back into the dry ditch, but I knew, even before I hit the ground, that we’d been spotted. The sound of gunfire, not distant anymore, was now rattling along our position. They must have been close because I could smell the cordite in the air. The top of our meagre trench started dancing like a puddle in a thundershower, throwing mud, grass and stones into a hailstorm of shrapnel, bouncing off helmets and covering us with dirt. We were trapped.\nI looked along our position and counted the heads. One man was missing!\n‘One, armoured vehicle, on the road,’ Sgt Lewis shouted in my ear. ‘They could keep us pinned down here for hours. Can we call in the artillery?’\n‘They're too far back, sergeant.’ I replied. ‘Besides, we’re only 50 metres from the road, no artillery is that accurate. Just keep your heads down and let me think.’\nThe firing had stopped, but I could still hear the thrum of the engine. I poked my head above the ridge. Rat-a-tat-tat. A round bounced off the top of my helmet sending me flying backwards. My back hit the ground and all the breath in my lungs burst out of my mouth. I was dazed and disoriented. I felt a trickle of something viscous running down into my left eye. I raised my head towards my hand and another volley of gunfire spattered the earth behind me. I felt a tug on my webbing and the next thing I knew, Dinger Bell was dragging me back into the ditch.\nHe gently removed my helmet and shined the bright, red light from his map torch into my face.\n‘No purple heart for this one, I’m afraid, sir. It’s just a scratch. Still, it is a war wound, so you’ll have something to show your girlfriend when you get home. I bet she’s fed up of looking at your dick.’\nI was just about to remonstrate with him when an almighty explosion shook the ground beneath us. The blast wave ripped my helmet from Spr Bell’s grasp, and it flew off into the field. I turned to go and retrieve it, but he held me back.\n‘Keep your head down, sir. Sounds like they're bringing in the mortar.’\nBut this seemed unlikely. A mortar barrage usually consisted of more than one explosion, and now the area was eerily quiet. I sat up.\nA huge plume of white smoke, looking like a ghost against the indigo backdrop of the night sky, loomed up in front of the trench. As I stared at it the cloud began to swirl and fracture, and the dark figure of a man appeared out of it. In an instant fifteen rifles and one Bren gun levelled towards the figure.\n‘Don’t shoot!’ I cried. ‘It’s Cpl Ballantyne.’ I knew this because I could see the bible in his hand.\nHe jumped down into the ditch and everyone gathered around him, patting him on the back and trying to shake his hand.\n‘What happened?’ I asked.\n‘“If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.” Matthew 5:38,’ replied the beaming corporal. ‘I slapped them on the right cheek with a Beehive mine and a hand grenade.’\n‘I do believe you are holding your bible upside down, corporal.’\nHe swivelled the book through 180 degrees. ‘You know, sir, I do believe you are right.’\nWe both laughed.\n‘Okay, gentlemen,’ boomed Sgt Lewis. ‘Shall we carry on with our walk?’" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hero of the Appalachians\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2923\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who, for whatever reason, retreats to a remote cabin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(CW: dialogue, mature themes, tobacco use, alcohol use, violence)\n “You sure I am safe? They are not finding me?” Elena asked in her best English, which she’d studied since age thirteen. She wiped sweat from her brow, improbable with the driver’s window open, blasting cold air through the cabin of the Ford LTD. It was the 1974 model, they said, but that year was still two months away. These men wanted to impress her, obviously. Suits, ties, shined shoes, and suppressed Uzis slung underneath their jackets.\n “You did your part,” said Stan over his shoulder. “Let us do ours. Sit back and relax. You want another cigarette?”\n She reached forward and took one, insisting she light it herself while Stan adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses.\n “Why he is Mario Andretti-driving if there is no trouble?” she asked.\n “Elena, we like to be careful.” Stan was the boss of the team that took over her security when she got to America. He always spoke as if to a child old enough to know about consequences. “Frank can relax and concentrate on the road as long as you stay calm. Okay?”\n Elena had sucked down Pantoprazole and Alka Seltzer ever since her handler picked her up three weeks ago; none of it settled her nervous stomach. Seeing the red dot halfway down the staircase, on the right side, at the Lubyanka subway station felt like Stalin himself trained a spotlight over her that singled her out among all the commuters as a traitor. She almost vomited as soon as she saw it. She wanted nothing more that day than to go home, but if she did, she was dead. She did like she was instructed: keep going downstairs, take the red line to Sportivnaya Station. Then cross October 10th Street and walk north. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. And act natural.\n As soon as she hit the sidewalk on 10 October, her American handler and a couple of guys snatched her and shoved her inside a van and drove her to God knows where. She lost track of time. She was out of Moscow that evening, and spent a series of nights in safe houses between long drives. At one point, they put her in a box underneath a lorry and told her to keep quiet. She almost panicked when the metal compartment filled with exhaust fumes, but when the truck got moving, the air was clean, but cold. They never told her where she was for the whole time, but when they pulled her out of the box, they gave her an American cigarette and a cold Berliner Kindl. She’d never had such good beer.\n One more car ride had her at the American base in Frankfurt, where she boarded a plane for another military station in North Carolina, and her anxiety went away. When they landed, they gave her a pack of Marlboros, some new clothes, and put her in a car heading west for the mountains. Elena’s uncle had raised her when her parents died. He was a Hero of the Soviet Union from the Great Patriotic War. He had been banished to Siberia when she was ten, supposedly for disloyalty. She never knew the real reason. When they ransacked the house, they even took their medal back. She couldn’t do anything for him, and he died there a few years ago.\n Years later, Elena, apparently cleaned of her uncle’s sins, took a job as a secretary for a colonel in the Ministry of Defense. Seeing his gold star on a red ribbon evoked images of her uncle, alone and helpless. The pig-faced man interpreted her presence as romantic interest. After he tore her blouse, she never again closed the door when she entered his office. The next day, she took a paper from his desk containing the specifications of a concept that would become the feared T-72 main battle tank, and passed it on the sly to an American she had seen entering his embassy. They made her a full-time spy; she fed them serious secrets for a couple of years, until something went wrong. The CIA never told her what that was. At least they got her out.\n Frank picked up speed down a two-lane road that cut through the southern Appalachians in a blur of autumn yellows, oranges, and reds in the bright sunlight. Stan, if that was his real name, barked into the radio first, and then at Frank, and Frank stomped the pedal harder, bouncing Elena all over the back seat. With a dry mouth and pounding temples from last night’s binge, she would have given anything for a place to vomit and clean herself up.\n “Elena, get ready.” Stan turned around and rested both elbows over the seat back. “In a few minutes, you and Jack,” the CIA man riding in back with her, “will get out of the car. You will hide in the ditch for a few minutes, and then you will go up the hill and go inside a cabin up there, and wait for us.”\n “I am now dead!” Elena forced herself to keep the cheeseburger down. “I do everything you say, and today I still die!”\n “Jack will be with you the whole time. Nothing will happen to you. This is just a precaution. I guarantee you are safe.”\n Frank went through a couple of switchbacks, and on the second one he screeched to a halt. Jack grabbed Elena’s arm and pulled her out of the back behind her. No words, just force. It was the Soviet way, too. The door hadn’t even closed before Frank stomped the gas and was off again.\n Jack pushed her into a ditch, and flattened her with his body. She tried to get up onto her elbows and he pushed her head down again, squashing the side of her face into the mud and holding it there. During one of the trips, she went into the wrong room in a bungalow where they stashed her. Jack, with his bare back arched and with a straight arm, held a woman’s head down like that, on a bed, while he stood and worked her from behind, saying “Jesus.” She didn’t stick around for the show. Through the weeds, Elena wasn’t sure what roared by, but Jack was tense.\n “You crushing me.”\n “Shut up and lay still.” Jack had told the dark-eyed woman the same thing.\n Then another car flew past, a flash of blue. Jack laid on top of her for a while. She squirmed and he put all his weight on her. He was a shoe; she was a bug.\n “Quit moving.” His Uzi was in his hand, laying flat on the mud, gravel, and bottle caps that lined the ditch. Jack laid on top of her for a while, so still, she wondered if he was holding his breath. Just when Elena thought he was going into a honeymoon mode he did a push-up, and rolled off to the side. After a quick scan of the hill, and the road again, he took Elena by the wrist. He said, “Come on,” as he jerked her behind him. One of her grey, low-heeled pumps slipped off, but she dared not stop. Jack would have pulled her arm out of the socket if she didn’t keep up.\n “Where we are going?”\n “There’s a safe house at the top. Keep moving, one foot in front of the other. If I tell you to get down, lay flat. Versteh?”\n “That’s German language.” None of the Americans, even the ones in Moscow, ever spoke to her in Russian. She doubted that they’d ever have recruited her if she didn’t know English.\n “You know what I mean.” The hill got steeper, and Jack shoved her in front of him, keeping her there until they got to the top, three or four stories above the road. Just before the crest, he forced her to the ground again, and she bumped her chin on a rock.\n “Shit.” Her face was wet; a couple red stars marked the shale beneath her face.\n “Shut up.” Jack was flat on the ground next to her. He lifted his torso about six inches, enough to see over the top. “The cabin’s not far. I’m going to go check it out. Stay here.”\n “Jack.”\n “What.”\n “Give me gun.”\n “I’ve only got one.”\n “You have one on your leg, by foot.” Elena was too tired to remember the vocabulary.\n Jack rolled onto his side. His eyes were lighter, as if Elena flipped a switch and the toy became human.\n “You saw that?”\n “If something happens, I am dead. Give me.” She stretched out her arm, palm open. “Please.”\n Jack fumbled with the leather strap, and handed over the half-kilo hunk of metal.\n “It’s ready to go. And don’t tell anyone I did this.” He chambered a round and showed her the safety catch, still on. Then he scrambled up over the top of the hill, out of view.\n The air was hot, sun beating down on the hillside. Elena strained the humid air through her teeth. She was afraid she was making too much noise, gasping for whatever oxygen remained on this mountain. A dab with her wrist suggested her chin was clotting now, and she wiped some of the dirt off her face. She took deep breaths, and wished Jack would hurry. If the KGB found her, they’d drug her and cart her up to D.C., to the Soviet Embassy. Maybe the rezident would have something special for her, too. Then he’d put her on the next Aeroflot heading for Mother Russia.\n Elena fumbled with a button and dropped the magazine--six bullets were in there, for a total of seven. She re-inserted the clip, flattened herself against the weedy rock, and waited.\n Her handler took her watch in Moscow, when they put her in the van, so she had no idea how long Jack had been gone. She wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know where the house was. Elena felt stupid trusting these men. These guys were businesslike in the car, and on the plane, when anyone--citizens, they called them--were watching. After that, in the hotel rooms, the masks came off and the bottles came out. Then they were nicer; she could have all the vodka and cigarettes she wanted. Despite their hungry looks at the end of the day, unlike the colonel, they never touched her. At least that was something.\n Elena’s breathing slowed, and a breeze cooled her sweat-soaked blouse. Still no Jack, so she crawled on bruised elbows and knees up towards the summit. She tried a push-up move like he did, and almost crushed her finger with the pistol. She shouldn’t have had her finger inside the trigger guard, but at least the safety was still on. She lay on her back, pistol on her stomach, listening to the wind as it blew softly over her. Now she felt tired. Maybe she closed her eyes; she tried not to, but she wasn’t sure.\n Two shots rang out, followed by a rhythm like a compressed air pump. Then, nothing but the breeze and a couple of blackbirds cawing.\n At some point, she was going to have to take a look. How else would she know if things were okay? Jack didn’t tell her what to do if things went wrong. These guys were so confident. She felt so stupid.\n Elena inched closer to the top, careful to keep her black hair below the crest. The wind whipped a little more here, alternating gusts with voices not too far off. Maybe…, no, the voices were definitely Russian.\n Another shot rang out, and then it was just the wind.\n Elena held the handgun with both hands. Going back down the hill wasn’t much of an option. Plenty of grass, but nothing to stop a bullet. She had to take a look, and if it came to it, she had six shots. She’d keep number seven for herself. She closed her eyes tightly. Her uncle would’ve done the same thing. The report said natural causes, but an old friend in the know said they shot him in the back of the head. If he had a chance, he would have fought back. Stalin’s specter made you think it was futile, but her uncle would have said that’s what men do.\n Elena crawled across the dirt until she was at the place where Jack went over. She laid her head flat on the side, temple against the cold rock, as she slowly edged up behind a clump of weeds. Two men with handguns, wearing jeans and button-down shirts were patrolling towards her, chattering in her mother tongue. Behind them, Elena couldn’t believe, was the cabin.\n The men scanned the area wildly, not focusing on anything. One said something to the other as the wind rushed across Elena’s ears, and he disappeared into the edge of the woods off to the right of the rundown cottage. The other man stalked in Elena’s direction, unable to fix his eyes on anything in particular. When he was about ten meters away, he stopped next to a pine tree with a wide trunk and put his gun in his pocket. He checked the wind’s direction and then put his back to it--and Elena, too. He faced the tree and unzipped his fly.\n Elena crouched and moved when the breeze blew leaves across the land. When she was about three meters away, the breeze stopped. The man was done, too, and was starting to put himself away when he turned around and almost walked into Elena. He froze.\n Elena pulled the trigger, but nothing happened, not even a click. She brought it in for a closer look and the man rushed her and reached for her pistol and caught her wrist instead. Elena tripped and fell backwards into a sitting position, legs splayed in front of her. The Soviet still had hold of her arm, and used his other hand to wrench away the gun, almost breaking her finger.\n “Miki!” yelled the man in Russian. “I’ve got her.” He told Elena to get on her feet. When she did, he pushed her limping towards the cabin. She was tempted to kick off the other shoe, but the tiny rocks and twigs were making a mess of her foot, and she’d rather have something whole to balance herself before her executioner.\n “Miki?” Still no response. The wind picked up again. The Soviet grabbed her collar and twisted the fabric, holding her close up against him. Elena gagged as the man walked her in front of him, towards the treeline where Miki went. She squinted and turned her head away from the blazing sun.\n The Russian yelled and fired three shots towards the shadowy pines in front of them. Then came the air pump and a flash of light. A blow to the shoulder knocked her backwards into her captor, and she dropped to the ground. He fired again at the source. After another pup-pup-pup, he was on the ground next to her, eyes open, white shirt turning a bright, glistening red. The wind halted, and her nostrils filled with the tang of cordite.\n Then the pain came, worse than anything she’d ever felt. Her hand was wet, real wet, and she didn’t want to look. If she could move, she’d run, maybe find the gun and take off. Instead, she lay there, frozen, waiting for the crunching footsteps to close in on her.\n “Elena, are you okay?” Jack knelt over her. His head wore the corona of the sun behind him, briefly. She rolled over and barfed on his shoes. “Jesus, Elena.”\n “Sorry,” she said. She was sorry for a lot. Sorry for her uncle, for getting herself into this mess, even for the dark-eyed girl. She started to cry and Jack got her to her feet, and half-carried her to the cabin. By the door, he leaned her up against the log wall.\n “Stand up here,” he whispered. “Don’t sit--Elena, are you listening?”\n “Mmmh.” The pain blinded her, and she got sick again, and collapsed into her puddle of muck.\n “Jesus,” Jack said. He checked the knob, it was unlocked. He burst into the dark room.\n Elena’s ringing ears played tricks on her, teasing her with the blowing wind that came and went, giving small samples of indiscernible sounds. Maybe it was the Uzi, or an engine, or nothing at all. Shoes scuffed across a wood floor in between heartbeats pulsing blood into her throbbing shoulder and ears. Every time she touched her injury, she almost passed out, so she settled for clutching the torn fabric in a bunch. Her eyelids were heavy.\n After more footsteps and a creaking hinge, a shadow fell across her. Someone picked her up and brought her inside and sat her on a wooden chair at a rickety table. She rasped as another chair scraped the floor next to her. A greasy aroma had her retching again, but there was nothing left to come up.\n “Jesus.”\n She opened her eyes as Jack shook out a match and set a smoking kerosene lantern on the table in front of her.\n “Try not to fall over,” he said. “As soon as I patch you up, we’ve got to get moving. Stan’ll be here soon.”\nElena groaned and lay her forehead on the table. Bits of dirt and who knows what else left imprints in her skin as she lost consciousness." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Moon Pilgrim\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2999\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who realizes they're on the wrong path." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The sea is calm today. Barely a breeze to keep the sails open and the ship on course. Only the vast blue motionless ocean to entertain the eyes. On days like these I tend to think back to my home. I was a priest for a quaint church. I would attend my priestly duties, offer a prayer for those who need it, then return home. I close my eyes and pretend I'm back there sometimes. The chatter of crewmen, waves beating against the ship’s hull, and the smell of salt water becomes the crackling of a warm fire, the gentle prayers of good Christians, and the smell of a freshly cooked supper. \n“Stop that wandering mind of yers Manning, won’t do us any good out here”\nMy captain, Osman Richards says, interrupting my pleasant memories. He stood over me, blocking my view of our old sails. \n“Aren’t cha’ sposed to be scribing or something?”\nThe shiny metal buttons on his dark blue doublet moved as he motioned for me to get up. \n“Sure ‘Captain’ Osman, right away” I sigh and pull out my quill, putting ink to paper.\nThe day began pleasantly, gentle winds carry the Pilgrim on its journey.\n“Is that all?” Osman says, his rancid breath blowing on my face. I angrily scratch down some more.\nOsman partook in his daily feast of stool.\n“Aye '' Osman's voice raises “Even if yer my friend, I’ll flog yah like any other member of the crew” I wipe his spittle off my face.\n“It’s a joke, Osman.” He thinks he’s above taking jokes now, even though he used to dish them out all the time. I stifle my anger, The past is the past after all.\n“It’s fine, just don’t do it again. Passenger or not, I am still yer captain. Show some respect. Weren’t you taught any manners in the clergy?” \n“Just let me rest. It’s just my journal anyways, no harm done.” I lean back on the deck, and I try to wipe some more of his spittle off of my cassock. \n“I’ll allow it for now Manning, but-” He said, looking around at the sparse crew scattered about on deck “Don’t let the others think I’m giving you a break just because we’re friends. If you disrespect me again I will flog ya”\n“Yes, Osman. I understand.” I say dismissively, already closing my eyes. Osman takes a seat by my side.\n“No harm in a tale or two though, right Manning?” Osman says, smiling a wide grin with a notable lack of teeth. I don’t respond, I know he’s going to blather either way. \n“You know, this calm sea reminds me of the shallow waters around Merry Iona point…”\nI had hoped to avoid his ‘tales’. I will admit, he has always had his way with words. When we were young lads his stories would enthrall me, tales about him buying a simple loaf of bread would evolve into fantastical adventures. He had this way of blending reality and fiction to the point where sometimes I'd worry he didn’t even know which was which. It’s as if every time he tells these tales he’s back living them, and his listeners are there with him. I’ve grown weary of them with time.\nHe spun tales of his expeditions to islands on the edge of the world, lost isles in the Mar di India inhabited by Tiger people. Cities of men who crafted swords out of metal so sharp “It could cut The Pilgrim into two pieces” in Cipangu. These tales are undoubtedly false, stories likely taken from tribals. If he spouts his drivel in the wrong direction he may support the wrong kinds of ideas. Sometimes I wish I could live the life he regales. Adventures and glory, meeting new people. Of course, I would be teaching them the ways of the Lord. I want to spread His message, help the misguided tribals onto the right path. Though there is a selfish side of me. A side of me that wants to discover something. In truth, that’s the main reason I'm on this trip. I just want to find something so amazing, so brilliant, so indescribable it marks my name in history. I joined his crew as a missionary, though I'm treated as more of a passenger. Despite my dislike of Osman, it seemed the easiest option. \nHe rattled on so long the sun began to set and the moon peered over the horizon, taking its rightful place up in the heavens. He finished his stories, but instead of branching off into another one, he stopped, letting his last words hang in the air. After a long silence I turned to him, his eyes glued to the sky.\n“Thinking of another one are we?” I said dryly.\n“No…no, just thinkin’. I’ve seen more than most men could dream of, and yet it feels like I still haven’t seen everything, seen what I was meant to see.”\n“Don’t let your fantasies get to your head Osman, I will admit you’ve seen a lot. But, from what I can tell, you may have lost touch with what is truly important. ” I state calmly. \nHe seems to ignore me, as he asks me a question.\n“What do you think’s up there?”\n“Up where?” I ask as I follow his eyeline to the full moon.\n“Nothing worth thinking about. It was put out of our reach for a reason. It’s not meant for human eyes, only the eyes of its creator” I snap.\nHe doesn’t even acknowledge me and continues.\n“I know what’s up there, jungles filled with exotic creatures, deserts of ruby and emerald, palaces made of golds and jewels that are inhabited by the gods themselves, and the sea-” he chuckles to himself, “A sea filled with islands that no man has ever laid eyes upon, a sea that…”\n“Gods?” I felt some anger rise in my throat “You mean our Heavenly Father? right? Were you not listening to me before Osman?” Every word like a snake’s hiss. Rattling on about these things that seem completely out of this world, and multiple gods as well. \n“Or just the one, the one and His… angels.” He said passively. \n“Osman, this is your problem, You never listen ” I look over at him. No response. The heavy moonlight reflects in his eyes. I felt the anger in my throat fully explode. I stand up and move in front of him “I’m trying to help you Captain Osman. I’ve listened to you ramble on thousands of times, but-” I take a moment to find my words “I can’t accept this, this isn’t right Osman, this fantasy, this idea you’ve conjured of the world. You’ve clearly gone mad. What would your mother think? What would Cherie think? You abandoned her all those years and now you betray her again? Do you ever think at all! Or do you just spin fantasies to make you feel grander than you actually are!”\n I look at him again, he’s averting his gaze from mine. No light reflects back. Though I feel my anger justified, perhaps I took the incorrect approach. \n“Osman, I care about you. You’ve been a dear friend to me all my life… I don’t want to see you suffer in Damnation. When we pass, I hope we can stand alongside each other at the Golden Gates of Paradise. I want you to see your wife again Osman, you deserve that happiness. Don’t ruin it with all this talk about moon deserts and ‘gods’.”\nOsman says “ Just-” but I cut him off.\n“Osman. The Heavens are not meant to be breached by man. We are here. On this sea. On The Pilgrim. Not up there. We are not meant to go there. Not until our Heavenly Father deems it so.” I push a heavy breath out with that last statement. I take another breath and follow up.\n“Please Osman, please understand. There’s a good path, and a bad one. Please choose the righteous one.” \nOsman looks me in the eyes, stands up, and begins walking away. The moon shines brighter in the starlit sky, though Osman is left in the dark. He throws open the hatch, making his way down into the hull of The Pilgrim.\n“Just look at it, I know you can see, if you just look.” \nHis words feel different, as if another man speaks in his stead. Quiet yet confident. No words leave my mouth. The hatch slams shut. Nothing on the horizon, nothing on the sea, no one on deck, only me and the moon. Silence echoes, as do my thoughts.\nSome small part of me itches painfully in my chest. The feeling I got when Osman first left our town to see the world all those years ago. That feeling never left, in all the years he was gone. Osman would leave for years at a time, only visiting briefly to see his poor wife. I would avoid him on those visits, I despised the man for abandoning his wife. I never had a wife or kids, all I had was the Lord and His word. When his wife Cherie passed, of course I was sad, but some part of me was excited. I knew it was my chance. He had to return for his wife’s funeral. Despite my dislike, I wanted to get rid of the itch. I knew joining his crew as a missionary was my only chance. If I can’t scratch it, it’ll never go away. \n Lord forgive me. Standing on the deck, drifting listlessly on the infinite sea. I look and I look and I look, and all I see is a gray dreary rock staring back. It’s just the Moon.\nLittle inklings of Color begin to sprout out of the surface. Nothing notable, a trick by a tired mind. Still, The colors begin to move and prance across the Moon, spreading over her surface. Filling the gray derelict rock with oceans, colorful lush jungles, deserts of ruby, and mountains of jade. Cities begin to spring up, made of metal and gold, filled with colorful exotic creatures. I take a deep breath, The Pilgrim’s deck escapes me, as do the waves beating against its hull. I cannot tell if I am drifting further into my mind or elsewhere. I smell food. Wines that are fruity and rich, meats and steaks seasoned with spices from all across the world. Their aroma fills my nose and makes my head spin. A meal for a king, no, a King of Kings, or even greater than that. A being revered by the Heavens. I stand up, and instead of the hard wood of The Pilgrim I feel warm sand under my toes. I would panic, but my awe is overwhelming. I look upon a palace that towers over me, almost the size of a mountain or maybe two? It’s grandeur almost stinging my eyes, not too unlike the salty air of the sea. An opulence that befits a God. A God? \nAm I wrong in saying its beauty is far beyond my own God? \nIn the sky above, the stars dance and twinkle with delight. It seems our little blue marble has a dancing partner with Mars as it joins a ball in the sky. The whole universe is celebrating this King upon Kings. Behind me a desert of ruby spans as far as I can see, flanking the palace is a rainforest with trees that shoot up into the sky, on its ground flowers of every color and variety. A choir of birds emit from the leaves of the forest, a song so beautiful I resist falling to my knees in awe. I look upon the palace once again, its form a mix of smooth and sharp edges that imitate the waves of the sea, somewhat harsh yet entirely welcoming. Two depictions of an indescribable being are on either side of a massive door engraved with red and purple light. So brilliant, so spectacular, I feel as if I cannot even take another breath. The choir of birds joins a choir of man that emits from the jubilant blue marble. A song of pure nostalgia and warmth. The massive doors click and groan, slowly pushing outwards. I feel excitement rise in my throat, the stars in the sky twinkle and waltz. I feel a crowd of beings push past me, yet there are none in sight. I feel their eagerness, their elation. All of us united in bliss and wonder.\nHe’s finally revealing himself again. \nThe doors push all the way open, inside a hall of celestial significance. The jubilant dance in the sky pauses, the Choir halts. Banners made of an early morning sky drape the walls of a deep hallway, and at its end a throne. \nA throne that is…\nEmpty? \n Abandoned? No being leaves the hall. No King of Kings reveals himself. It’s vacant? Why is it vacant?\nI open my eyes. I don’t understand, it was so vivid. Everything I saw, I experienced. It felt like I was really living it, a fantasy far beyond my own imagination.\n I close my eyes, I need to go back. It can’t be true. Empty? What was all the lavishness for then? I try to recall every detail, keep it fresh in my mind. I have to hold on. I open my eyes, and look up at the radiant Moon again. Splendor and beauty in all. I know I just have to keep looking, and I'll see it again. I’ll be there again. \nI look and I look and I look, I begin to fear I was lost in the mind. The details of my first visit slipping like sand through open fingers. A fear takes hold in my stomach that I can’t shake, like I've lost something precious to me that I may never get back. I desperately close my eyes and open them, hoping the lights will show themselves again. I press my hands on the hardwood, hoping to feel the warm sand again. I can’t lose this.\n“Manning! What the hell are you doing? Get off yer knees''\n“The Moon, the palaces, the deserts, the…” I fumble for a moment. Searching my mind for a description.\n“Manning?”\nI recollect my composure “The Moon, you told me to look….you said I’d see, the beauty she holds, I’d understand, and I do now, I understand. I just want to see it again, see what you saw.”\nOsman’s look of anger quickly recedes into a look of confusion. \n“I didn’t tell you to look at anything Manning.”\n“But you do want to see the Moon right, you told me you wanted to go there. That she’s the one place you need to go, right?” I say somewhat desperately “I’ve been wrong this whole time. I never knew anything, right? Osman?” My voice cracks. My composure breaks again “Osman?” Tears fall down my cheeks.\n“The moon. An old dream of an old man. You were right, Manning. It’s clearly not meant for any of us down here to see-”\nHe pauses for a brief moment.\n“I was wrong.”\nI look for words to explain myself before I realize they clearly don’t exist. So I saw something that he was unable to see, I discovered something he didn’t. A moment's elation is replaced by despair as I realize, I might not have even been there. \n“No! No! I was wrong, I've lived my whole life and somehow I never looked up. No wife, no family, I’ve wasted my life and you never even tried to-”\n“Manning-”\n“No! Just…No! Heaven's sake Osman, you can’t just. I’ve been looking down my whole life, why didn’t you ever tell me to look up. Do you hate me! Do you think you’re better than me?!” sweat drips from my brow, my voice grows hoarse. “Better than me?” I say with a lot less vitriol. I feel my hands twitching.\nOsman walks up, placing both hands on my shoulders. The stench of his breath once again hits my face.\n“I want to see my wife again, Manning. ” his voice croaks up “And that’s only going to happen if I follow the right path. You know this Manning” He stops for a moment, letting go of my shoulders.\n “Whatever you saw, it doesn’t matter. That’s what faith means eh? Maybe a trick from the Man himself, a test of yer faith?” He looks at me, I can’t make out his expression. The Moon doesn’t light his face, only his back. Yet, she shines in my eyes.\nI nod, I know it happened. I know it’s real. This is what I wanted right? Osman clearly never saw it, hell he may have never even been the one to tell me to look up. I hesitate to glance at The Moon’s surface. That’s what faith means eh? His words echo in my mind, they set me on the right path. I don’t look up. He was referring to the false words of the Bible. My stomach twists and growls. Even thinking that wrenches my insides, and yet. The realization hits me..\nThe itch, it’s gone. \nJoy rises through my throat and up into my eyes. I begin to laugh, an overwhelming bliss that I do not resist as my eyes begin to well up with tears. It has to have been real. I’m going to go back, I'll see it again. My vision begins to blur. I wipe tears from my eyes. Osman swings open the hatch, he sneaks a worried glance at me. But nothing more. I have faith. Faith in something far greater now. He walks down the rotted wood, I regain my composure and follow. Faith that our true Father will return. I slam the hatch shut. When that time comes, I’ll sail the Pilgrim straight to where it belongs, through the sky and the stars. Straight to the Moon." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The spicy gathering\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1144\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a group of strangers — or people who know each other, but may as well be strangers — eating together." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Spensa is in the last year of her high school . She's supposed to attend a get together for dinner today with her classmates. However she hasn't even talked to all of them properly as she never really liked too much socializing . So she was nervous and wished she could come up for a reason to not attend . Eventually she ran out of time and started getting ready . She reached there in a couple of minutes and exchanged greetings and fake smiles . She was already exhausted but little did she know this was just the beggining . Henry one of her classmates was arranging food today . He was an extrovert unlike spensa and he barely had a conversation with her but he had a crush on her secretly . He saw her sitting in the corner alone and thought that he should finally talk to her . But he was dating a girl named Alice who also happened to be in the same class . She was the most popular girl in high school yet her personality was not as beautiful as her appearance . She asked Henry out last week because she thought he liked her as she saw him looking at her often in class . But it was spensa who Henry always looked at in class alice just happened to sit near her . Henry had lost hope that he would ever get a chance with spensa so he started dating alice . He regrets that now because she is very clingy and dominant . Alice dragged Henry to sit with her and spensa sat right Infront of Henry . The situation was very intense and awkward at the same time . Everyone else were eating and enjoying thier food while henry kept looking at spensa. Spensa eventually noticed it and was confused . Ever since he dated alice she had been a little sad because she liked him and he was the only one who used to greet her everyday . But she went with it . Alice noticed the tension and started getting a little jealous . She tried to flirt with henry everyone rolled thier eyes while spensa went outside to get some fresh air . Later Alice sneaked into the kitchen and poured a lot of spicy chill powder in spensa's food . When spensa ate it she started freaking out she hates spicy food . Her friend Jane took her away and gave her some juice . Henry saw Alice smiling when it all happened. Later when Spensa arrived Alice started a conversation and kept mocking her about her outfit and lack of friends . That made Henry really angry he grabbed her wrist and took her outside to talk . Alice started acting aggressive and kept saying she deserved it and forcefully tried to kiss him . Henry pushed her away and broke up with her that instant . He went to apologize to spensa but saw everyone staring . It seemed like they heard the entire conversation. They all were shocked to see that side of Alice as she pretended to be kind and nice infront of people . Henry walked up to spensa , she told him he can talk about it if he wanted and he told her how exhausted he was . Eventually as the conversation developed he confessed to her and she was shocked . A few of their classmates were eavesdropping and were even more shocked. Seems like nobody really knew their classmates well . Spensa told him she liked him too and he was so happy that he grabbed her hand and kissed her . Everyone peeking gasped . Henry looked behind but saw nothing. Later they went back to where everyone was. Alice was too embarrassed so she went home. But she took Billy with her a guy who had a crush on her for a year . He was flushed and went along . Chris who came with Billy was cringing and went after them because Billy had the keys of the car . Everyone were laughing at that . All of that was fun but the main course of dinner was still left and people were hungry . So when the food arrived everyone digged in . Spensa was happy but she was so hungry from all of that and started eating really fast . Henry was astonished to see that side of her because she always seemed like the shy girl who didn't like to eat much . Chris finally came back but the food was almost over so he took a plate and ate quickly. It finally seemed like a normal get together for them. Everyone was happy after the food . They started conversations and everyone were talking about what they would do after highschool. Spensa was mostly listening but she felt happy that she finally got to know people better and regretted not talking to them sooner. She made two new friends marina and anna . They seemed to understand and like her. Three of them were having conversations of their own when anna told them that she liked billy and was sad about the fact that he went with alice . Marina comforted her and told her it was only a matter of fact before she ditched billy and he realized what an awful choice that was . It cheered anna up and spensa was laughing . But to thier surprise Billy was standing in the door sulking he told chris that alice was mean and told him to go away instantly. Marina was laughing hard at that but she had to admit it even she didn't expect her prediction to come true that quickly. Anna told her to stop and went ahead to cheer billy up . Marina rolled her eyes at that . She started complaining how this gathering was turning into a romantic dating station and that she was glad to have spensa with her . But as she turned around Henry had already took spensa away . She groaned and wished she could go home. After an hour it started getting dark . Billy and Chris went home first. Marina and anna said goodbye to spensa and headed to their car . Henry told spensa he would drop her so she agreed. They reached and she stepped outside the car and thanked henry . He grabbed her hand before she left and told her how he appreciated everything that happened today . She was flushed but didn't show it and went inside. She layed in bed while trying to process everything that happened . She expected the gathering to be messy but it was way more dramatic. She thought to herself that atleast one good thing happened and went to bed." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Shriven\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2749\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “Let’s go for a walk.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Jesu have mercy upon my soul.” \n\nAs he approached the locked door, he could hear the mumbled prayer from the other side, her voice was husky as if she’d worn it out with her incessant imploring of the Lord throughout the long night. Upon entering, William made his way through the suite to the Queen’s privy chambers with silent feet so as not to disturb her devotions. Her faithful almoner, John Skypp, Bishop of Hereford, sat beside her, his face weary and worn, but the Queen remained kneeling, her hands clasped together in fervent prayer. Her lips never ceased their repetition of the words that formed her petition, begging the Good Lord to show her weary soul clemency.\n\n“Pray thee, how doth she fair?” William whispered, pitching his voice low, as to not interrupt the woman.\n\n“My Lady is strong and her faith doth not waver.” The older man also spoke in hushed tones and, with a soft groan of exertion, pushed himself from his chair by the Queen’s side, padding on soft feet towards William. “How goes the petition? Doth our King relent?”\n\n“Nay, Our Sovereign is firm of resolve and remains unmoved.”\n\nNeither man made comment, but they shared a glance that was like to see both of them executed, should the thoughts that passed between their eyes, cross their lips.\n\n“Her soul is shriven and ready,” the bishop said, “Will mass be celebrated?” \n\n“Cranmer, will arrive anon to perform the rites. Will you stay with her, Your Excellency?” William asked.\n\n“I will,” the bishop replied most solemnly, his sad and worried eyes never leaving the woman whose hands trembled even as they were clasped before her in prayer. “Doth His Majesty still require your report of this days events?”\n\nWilliam inclined his head, “I am bound by His Majesty’s wishes.”\n\n“I do not hold you to blame for that, good Sir, your honour and deference doth do you credit. I can not fault you for it.” The Queen spoke with that soft serene voice that she saved for Queenly discourse. William had been unaware that she had heard their whispered exchange, and he turned to see her dark eyes opened and fixed upon his person. Even on her knees, with her whole body bowed in supplication, she emanated such regal composure, that William was humbled to be in her presence.\n\n“Your Highness,” William addressed her formally and gently. “His Excellency, Archbishop Cranmer, will be here anon to celebrate the Mass with you, that you may receive the Blessed Sacrament. Will you come now to the chamber your Ladies have prepared?”\n\n“Please, good Sir, help me rise. I fear my feet have forgotten their purpose.” She reached out her hand and William, being well versed in courtly manners, assisted her to stand. She stumbled a little, but he caught her against him, steadying her gently, before setting her hand upon his arm to assist her through the chambers. They came at last to the one set aside for the celebration of the Mass.\n\nThe Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, was before them and prepared to celebrate the rites of the church. When William made to bow and leave, the Queen stopped him.\n\n“Good sir, will you not remain and partake of the Holy Sacrament with me today?” And with those words, he was made to take a seat. The rituals of the Mass washed over him. The words were a flow of aching balm for the soul, and he responded, knelt and prayed, sang and lamented at all the correct moments, but his attention never wavered from the bowed head of the woman seated before him. God save and preserve his soul, but she was a saint, her steadiness in the face of what was to occur today ripped open his chest and laid his heart bare at her feet.\n\n“I do solemnly swear upon God’s Holy Word that am innocent of the charges against me,” Her soft voice rang through the chamber as she knelt before Cranmer, head tilted back to receive the sacrament. “By this Holy Sacrament I am to receive, I swear I have never offended with mine body against mine husband, the King.” \n\nWith calm grace, she received the Blessed Sacrament upon her tongue and closed her eyes in prayerful devotion. Upon his turn, William lowered himself to his knees before the Archbishop to receive communion. He hesitated a moment before opening his mouth to partake of the sacrament, fearing for his immortal soul. Deep in his heart, he knew that one should not receive communion unless, and until, his soul was shriven, cleaned of all sin. Deep down lurked, a thought, a sinful, unclean and unworthy musing, that could see him hanged should he breathe air into it. He pushed it down further, not allowing it into the light of day, even to examine it.\n\nWhen all had received the Holy Sacrament, the Queen cried out once more, “I do solemnly swear upon God’s Holy Word, that I am innocent of the charges against me, and I declare that have never offended with mine body against mine husband, the King!” Her eyes were wet with the passion of her statement and raised heavenward, as if to implore Our Lord to bear witness and hear her words. William was moved and he looked about him. No one present, not her Ladies in Waiting, not Cranmer, nor Skypp, could deny the sincerity of her statement, their faces drawn, as his own must be, in despair and horror. \n\nOnce the rites were completed, the Archbishop approached the Queen and bowed before her. “Do not despair, Your Highness, do not lose faith. I may have some influence yet and I will do everything that is within my power to save you from this travesty of justice.” He grasped both of her hands in his and raised them to his lips one at a time. She sank into a low curtsy before him, a queen humbled before the last bastion of her defence. \n\nWithout waiting for a formal dismissal, William bowed his way from the chamber. He had to deliver his observations to the King, perhaps His Majesty’s conviction of her guilt could be swayed, if William could but do justice to the heartfelt and passionate declaration he had witnessed.\n\n*\n\n“Nay, Sir William, His Majesty can not be seen to overthrow the expressed judgement passed by the court. What precedent would that set for the people? The King can not be above the law.” Cromwell eyed William disdainfully, as if he viewed a particularly unappealing bug or worm. \n\n“Her Highness spoke most eloquently-”\n\n“She is Her Highness no longer! The Archbishop of Canterbury has, himself, this day, declared the marriage invalid.”\n\n“Invalid? Then she is free?” The accusation of infidelity was only treason if she were Queen. If the marriage were invalid then so too must the charges be. Very clever of Cranmer to find a loophole and exploit it. William felt the tension within himself release. Her Highness would be freed, he could deliver her from her persecution this very day.\n\n“If Mistress Boleyn accepts that the marriage was invalid,” Cromwell declared in sonorous tones, “then she may go free.”\n\n“And the child?” \n\n“The bastard daughter will remain at court, just as Catherine’s daughter has. Even a bastard can be of use to the crown in some way.”\n\n“And what if Her Highness doth not agree to the divorce?”\n\n“Then she will be executed as a traitor to the crown. She has until tomorrow morning at 9 of the clock to decide. By then the executioner will be present to remove her head with a sword in the French way.”\n\n“The French way?”\n\n“Henry has sympathy for her and doth not wish for her to suffer. The French way is rumoured to be less painful… for everyone.”\n\n\n\n“The French way?” The Queen stared at him as if he had misspoken. \n\n“It is to occur by sword tomorrow at 9 of the clock, unless you accept that your marriage is declared null and void.”\n\n“Divorce!” William could hear the horror in her voice. “You expect me to bastardise my daughter? To leave her to the fate that Mary suffered. No, I shall not do it!” The Queen paced her chambers, her gown and veils flowing behind her in her agitation. “And why has there been such a delay? If it is to be done, there is no kindness in forcing me to wait!” \n\nWilliam was horrified to see the carefully constructed composure beginning to crack. The lovely dark eyes held a glint of tears that only her strength of will seemed to keep at bay. She whirled about and upon spying her Ladies in Waiting huddled upon their seats about the room, she cried, “Get out! All of you! I have no need for you to be here.”\n\nWith a flutter of fabric, like birds disturbed by the hunter’s horn, the ladies scrambled from the room.\n\n“You should not dismiss them so, His Majesty will hear of it,” William advised her.\n\n“And what, pray tell, could he possibly do about it?” She glared at him as if he were the enemy, and William supposed that in some manner, he was. She knew he was bound by Henry to spy upon her, to pass every detail into his waiting ears, or at least the ears of those His Majesty appointed to hear for him, when he was busy. William did not like to think about whom Henry was busy with, most likely swiving the lovely Seymour wench.\n\n“It is the interminable waiting, William!” she cried, and William was struck speechless, his mouth open with shock. The Queen had never once used his given name. Kingston, or Sir, she had used aplenty, but never William. “I can not bear it! Please tell them I am ready, I am shriven, I have prayed, my soul is prepared to meet the Lord!”\n\n“I am afraid, Your Highness -”\n\nShe rounded upon him with spiteful wrath, “Do not address me so! Henry has stripped my of my name, my self and dignity, I am Anne!” Her eyes flashed and she was righteous in her fury. He could believe her to be the incarnation of one of the Greek mythical beings, her hand ready to smite those who thwarted her. “That piss-poor excuse of a whore-son rotter! By Christ Almighty’s bloody wounds he can not strip me of it all!” she cried, then gasped eyes wide as she threw her hands over her mouth in horror. “And now I have taken the Lord’s name in vain! How do I go to my death with a soul so besmirched!?”\n\n“Your Highness-”\n\n“I am Anne!”\n\n“As you wish, My Lady Anne, your husband wished to show you mercy at the end. The French way is not very painful, or so I am told.”\n\n“And whom, pray tell, has told you this? Have they had their heads cleaved from their shoulders?” Despite the fire in her eyes, the anger and the hurt, her bottom lip began to quake and tremble. William watched in horror as she bit that gentle pillow of flesh so hard, as to almost puncture the skin. She began to gasp, soft stammers of air, and her eyes, which were ever moist, overfilled with salty tears that spilled from their banks. Her hands fluttered like a trapped song bird, unable to find rest or ease, until they landed upon his doublet, whence they scrunched the fabric in a silent grasp of terror.\n\nWilliam had no notion of how he came to be standing before her, only that her pain called to him and he gathered her quaking body to his chest.\n\n“My Lady, hush. Your soul will be shriven once more, I myself will see that Cranmer or Skypp return on the morrow in good time to hear your confession. Until then be free to curse and cry and blaspheme all you need!”\n\n“Oh, William, I am afraid, and the terror sits in my soul, deep and low!” she whispered as she wept against his chest. “At least I only have a little neck, ‘twill be over quickly!” With gentle hands, William removed the frame of her headdress, there was no need for it today, no one was to see her, and freed from its confines, she pressed her face to his chest in an agony of uncontrollable weeping.\n\nWilliam cradled her body in his arms as she wept, a storm of tears that seemed to never end. Her body trembled and wilted in his embrace and he found himself curled upon the seat with her enfolded in his arms as the hours passed. He knew that if they were discovered thus, he would join her in her fate, his head decorating the tower walls. But despite the danger, he could not pry his arms from about her person, and as she fell into exhausted slumber, he refused to move her.\n\n“Do not tell them I wept,” her voice was soft, the whispered words caressed his beard some time before Vespers. He had not realised that she had awoken, and although his arms had grown numb to the point of pain, he refused to move. Gently he eased her away to peer into her face, her eyes, now dry, were more luminous than the stars as they pierced the encroaching night sky. \n\n“I will tell them you laughed!”\n\n“You would tell them I was unafraid? You would lie for me?”\n\n“For you, Your Highness-”\n\nShe stilled his words with a finger pressed upon his lips and whispered, “Anne.”\n\n“For you, Anne, I would perjure my immortal soul.” Her eyes widened, lashes spiky with the traces of her tears, mouth agape. Her hand trailed from his lips, to his hair, and slowly, cautiously, ever so carefully, she drew his head towards hers. Their lips met, a soft pressing of flesh upon flesh, and as Vespers gave way to Matins, and Matins eased into Lauds, Anne did not pray. She did, however, call upon the Lord with gasped breaths and heaving sighs, as for one night, she revelled in the pleasures denied her.\n\nAs the morning bird trilled it’s ode to the dawn, William trailed his fingers down the face that had always been so dear to him, one he had never aspired to do more than gaze upon with distant ardour and devotion. \n\n“Today, I will follow you into eternity,” he promised.\n\nAnne struggled to an upright position, clasping the bed linen to her bosom. “Nay, do not follow me, dear William. I can not have your death upon my soul!”\n\n“I have known you, therefore I must share your punishment. Your sins are not your own, forsooth they are now mine to bear,” he swore to her.\n\n“Do not speak of it!” she cried and stumbled from the bed as she gathered her clothing. “You shall not go to your death because of me! I implore you, nay, I demand it of you, that you remain here and care for my child, my sweet Elizabeth. She will need a champion amongst the knaves and vipers of court. Say you please, if you have care for me at all, that you will not allow harm to befall her!”\n\n“I…” he hesitated, his heart a heavy stone of duty and honour within his chest.\n\n“Swear it!” Her eyes were ablaze with frantic light.\n\nWilliam was crushed by the weight of her demand, and he whispered “I swear it. By God’s own wounds I swear to you, I will keep her safe.”\n\nJust after Lauds, William brought His Excellency, John Skypp to hear her confession and shrive her soul once more, and upon the appointed hour, Anne dressed with such care. Her dark gown and red petticoat were chosen especially for the occasion, as they would not show the blood.\n\nShe held her head high.\n\n“It is a beautiful day, my Queen,” William said as he held his arm out for her to take, his eyes awash with misery, the suffering only apparent to one other in the room. “It is time. Let us go for a walk.”\n\n\nPlease note, this is a piece of historical fiction. I have taken extreme liberty with characters, relationships, chronological events and language in order to create a purely fictional story that readers today may relate to. In no way do I claim this to be historically accurate.*" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hope on the Other Side of the Fence\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1450\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “Let’s go for a walk.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Let’s go for a walk,” says Kristoff. \nA walk, he says as if it isn’t so blistering cold our toes may freeze at any moment. \nA walk, as if we have the power to truly go anywhere. \nAs if there isn’t a fence between us, keeping us from touching, from loving, from the warmth each other provides. \nAs if we aren’t prisoners. \nAs if… I shutter. \nMomma reminds me every morning to be brave. She says that the only thing they can’t take from us is our hope and we must cling to it like our life depends on it. Because these days, it does.\n“A walk sounds great,” I muster. The lie tastes bitter in my mouth. \nWe try to make small talk. I ask him about what breakfast he would be eating right now if he could choose. He asks me if I am going to do anything to commemorate Hanukkah. That makes me cringe because I had forgotten such a celebration could still exist. No such joy survives in a place like this. \nIn the distance, I hear the screams, the wails as skin falls off bone. As loved ones wake up to the now-familiar scent of death and waste. It is a sound I pray I never get used to but one I have heard much too often.\nBefore the Führer came to power my family was always taken care of. We didn’t have as much money as some others but we had enough. I never knew hunger. I was always bathed. I had never had lice. Even the place we shit was cleaner than any of my surroundings now. We took it for granted because we had no idea how quickly it could be lost. \nIt wasn’t a quick loss. First, it was neighbors and friends turning their backs on us, being forced to wear a star on our clothes, and losing customers who behaved as if our fate was contagious. We slowly lost everything we had but didn’t know true loss until the day they came for us. \n“What are you thinking?” says Kristoff. “You’re face looks so distraught.”\nWhy doesn’t yours? I want to ask. His sunny disposition is part of why I love him so much but it can be annoying. Why doesn’t he want to scream? My own bones are sore from holding in the rage. How can he smile as every day someone leaves and never comes back? And every month new trucks of people arrive ready to join in our torment simply for the way they were born or what they believe. Why do I carry this burden alone?\nInstead, I say, “Momma has a cough. I’m a bit worried. Hopefully, it is nothing. But she’s all I have left now.”\nThe spark disappears then from his eyes as he turns to stare at me through the links in the chained fence. “There are men on this side that are dropping dead. We don’t know why. Some rumor the food is poisoned. I’ve barely eaten in weeks. Is that happening over there?”\nI think of Mrs. Bosko who died in her sleep last night clutching her stomach and groaning. \nShe used to be our neighbor. She sold flowers in the town square while her husband worked at the bank. Her two kids were separated from her on the train ride over. We never saw them again. Momma sent a prayer this morning that she is now with her children. \n“No,” I sigh. “But it’s hard to know for certain. The colder it is, the more work they have us do— the more death I awake to. It’s becoming harder and harder to have faith.”\nHe nods. The fear and pain flicker in his eyes. “Some of the men over here say help is going to arrive soon. News of what is happening has finally reached the Americas. Surely they won’t let this go unpunished for long.”\nI nod but I don’t believe it. No one is coming to save us. I think deep inside he truly believes that too because he turns to me and says, “Kasia, we need to leave. I don’t want to wait on them. We can leave your mother for now and go get help. At least get away.”\n“What? Why would you say such a thing,” I hiss, my eyes scanning the area for the possibility of being overheard. “A guard will send you to the chamber for even suggesting it.”\nA big tear falls from his eye. Just one. I almost don’t notice it, save for the trail of skin it leaves through the caked dirt on his face. He’s always had such a beautiful face. Seeing it so dirty and worn, tears me to pieces. \nSome say we are lucky. Many women and girls on this side have not seen their lovers in months or even years. Some have heard from others that their men/sons/brothers now lay in a pit, never to have a proper burial. Their families never getting closure or a chance to say goodbye. Even if I never again get to wrap my arms around Kristoff, at least I am not alone. The fact that he is still breathing is the only reason I force myself awake most mornings. \nKristoff’s words grow more breathy, more panicked. “We can’t live like this. I try to be happy. I try to hold on to joy but I can not. I want to touch you, Kasia. I want to eat real food instead of scraps like a pig. I want…” his voice trails off and he reaches his fingers towards me through the fence. “God will save us only if we try to save ourselves.”\n“God doesn’t care about us anymore, Kristoff. He’s abandoned us all.”\n“Kasia,” he says, holding my stare. “We have to try.”\n“It can’t be done,” I whisper. “The few people who have tried to leave have ended up in a trench.”\n“I would rather die in a trench than live in this filth. To live as a coward. I have to try, Kasia. One of the men has a plan. There is a small hole in the fence over there. We can make a small hole in this one too and you can come over here. We can sneak out together.”\nI shake my head vigorously. “We can’t. We’ll be caught! Sneaking through one fence is hard enough. You want to attempt two? Guards aren’t stupid and they are everywhere.”\n“One of the men is going to sacrifice himself. He’s going to cause a distraction and we are going to go. No one will notice.”\n“Why do you speak like it’s already a sure thing?” Panic fills my lungs. If we stay here we will die but if we try to leave, I will have to watch the air be removed from his lungs in front of me. I can’t stomach the thought. If he leaves without me, he may have a small chance. With me, there is zero. Making a hole, hiding on the men’s side of the fence—it can’t be done. I know I must let him go. \n“Kasia. I’m going. Today. It is already in place. Please, come with me.”\nMy tears fall in droves now. “I can’t. I’m afraid. Please. Don’t be mad at me but I can’t do it.”\nKristoff swallows hard. I can see the acceptance on his face as he knows as well as I that there is no persuading the other. It is futile. He bends down to kiss my fingers sticking through the holes. “I will get help. I will come back for you. I promise.”\n“Girl!” yells a guard behind me. “Get away from the fence. Get to your barracks for roll call!” \n“I love you,” I whisper as I turn to walk away. I try to keep the knowledge out of my bones that this will be the last time I ever see him. God help us all. \n“Line up!” the guard yells. There are already women assigned to dragging Mrs. Bosko’s lifeless body towards the pile of this morning’s dead. I see other women glance at her feet to decide if her shoes are worth stealing, if she has socks or a sweater on her to help them ward off the cold, as she won’t need them anymore. \nI grab my mother’s shaky hand and that’s when I hear it, the shot on the other side of the fence. Then another. And another. \nKristoff… \nIn my mind, he got away. In my mind, the shots were for someone else, for something unrelated. And I shall cling to that hope because my life depends on 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: Why Not Me\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1126\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with two characters sitting down for a meal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There is nothing special about me. I can’t sing or dance, or draw, or paint or do anything really. I’m not wildly beautiful or smart or good at sports. I don’t have many friends or any special talents either. I’m okay with that though. At least I think I'm okay with that. I don’t have to be any of those things to be special. Right? For people to love me? And hey if not, there is always room for improvement? Or at least that's I thought. I was sure of it, but I guess it's different when \"SHE\" exists. You’re always hearing someone talk about “HER”. How just “out of this world” she is and how there’s always something new with her. “She’s so amazing”, “Did you hear about what she did last week” ,“I’m so proud of her, she's going to do great things when she grows up”. Blah. Blah. Blah. I get it she’s the daughter you’ve always wanted, The valedictorian every high school dreams they had, The success story everyone wants, The person everyone wants to be friends with. She is everything I’m not and it sucks to be constantly reminded of not being good enough. Of not being “HER”.\n\n She’s my best friend though. Someone that I love very dearly, and hate just as much. I’m just so tired of always being compared to her. Being belittled to show appreciation for her. “Why can’t you be more like her” ,“Try harder so that you can succeed like she has”, “Do better like her” Jesus I get it. Just become her.\n\nWhen she got into the honors program, I tried to do the same by working extra hard in school and never missing an assignment or missing school unless it was absolutely necessary. When I didn’t get in by 4th grade I realized that I just wasn’t going to get in so I slowed down on the all hard work I put in. I started misbehaving in school when I realized nobody really cared about what happened to me in my life. They really just wanted someone to compare to her. Someone lesser than. I still had to work hard to be successful because of my internalized fear of failure. Just so I could have at least someone proud of me. Deciding at the ripe age of 8 that I was going to be a lawyer so that I could make a ton of money and be smart and lovable. That was my goal up until the summer of last year. Then as quarantine came around I realized that I wanted to become an astrophysicist; hopeing that maybe that will get more attention out of people but i’m only met with an “oh that’s cool” and a look that says “yeah like you could make it” and I hate it. So. Fucking. Much. Just knowing that I can’t be her and have people believe in me like they do her.\n\nIt really hit me that I wasn’t good enough for people to like me as much as her in 8th grade. We had our end of the year ceremony and almost everyone was getting an award. Everyone but me. I thought I would at least get one for my English class but the day before, when I wasn’t at school, my friend asked my English teacher if I was getting an award and she looked at her with a “come on now” look. She was my favorite teacher and that was my best subject. All year she told me that I was an amazing writer and such a smart kid and that I would do great things. she just lied to me. I wasn’t even good enough for a stupid paper award. That hurt pretty bad. And there I was, yet again going home with nothing for anybody to be proud of. Knowing that if \"SHE\" were there, she would have gotten every single award you were able to get and more because that’s just who she is. She’s otherworldly.\nI still talk to her and see her whenever I can. I mean she is my best friend. But I just wish that’s all she was. My best friend. Not my competition. I shouldn’t have to compete against my own family for my family's love and attention. I hate myself for not being her. She’s the family favorite. Everyone always wants to meet her and buy her things for her just because she’s there. Giving them the time of day. She gets compared to the ways she’s like the rest of our family and I get described as the “problematic child”. “She’s smart like her dad”, “She’s so much like her grandparents” and I get compliments on nothing but my facial features. At least it’s something though right? Can I just want to be acknowledged for the things I worked hard on, not the things I was born with and can’t change?\n\nI went to visit her recently and I was excited to see her because I haven’t seen her in 3 years. Then almost like clockwork, everyone started bragging about her to each other. Even though we all already know everything there is to know about her, it's like she still has to be the topic of conversation just in case we missed something. Always looking at her or talking to her and seeing what she’s doing when she’s not talking or interacting with them. But when I look to my family for a little attention; A little love just for reassurance that they still care, I get called “selfish” because they \"haven’t seen her in years and now she’s here\" But even when she isn't there I'm never a top priority. Never a second thought. I’m “old enough to take care of myself” but yet I'm still a child in need of her mothers love. I only wish someone cared about me the way they care about her. Loved me the way they love her. Seen me the way they see her. Knew me like they know her.\n\nWe went to a restaurant while we visited her and I just say across from her and noticed how she was laughing and eating with her dad and the rest of the family in ways I never could and I just couldn’t help thinking how amazing she truly must be because no matter how hard I try, i’m just never good enough for them, not smart or pretty and talented enough for them. Seeming to always forget that I exist when she’s around unless I acknowledge them first, otherwise not knowing that I am there. I just wish that I were her so that I can finally be good enough. Finally, be….. Special." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Fate I Changed From a Goddess\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1565\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who realizes they're on the wrong path." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I always thought that what I wanted would only happen if the gods and goddesses allowed it. Clotho, the goddess of fate, was who my people relied on the most. If you angered her, what you wanted would not be taken into her account. Your blessings would become curses, and your fate the exact opposite of what you wanted. My mother told me stories of Clotho when I was little, about how she blessed her family and brought good fortune. She also told me about how she bestowed a curse on her best friend when she told my mother “I don’t believe in some dumb gods, they don’t control our lives Lyra, we do, we create our fates.” Of course, Clotho did not appreciate her remark and neither did Hephaestus, the god of fire. Hephaestus brought fire to her house and with that her fate was death. \nMy whole life I prayed to the gods for good fortunes like my mother and her family were giving and for my whole life, I have waited for a blessing from them. The priests told the kids at our school that we will know when we are blessed when we can unlock the blessings from all the gods by will. Meaning that, when we want good weather we can have it, when we want life or death we can have it, and so on. All of my people are on the same path to winning favour with the gods and being blessed, but no one has reached it. Clotho has not bestowed this fate upon any of us.\n\n*\n\nI woke up one morning to a thunderstorm, Zeus, the god of thunder, was mad again. He had been mad all week it had seemed. Every morning I woke up to a gloomy day, either raining or foggy. Because of this, people have been offering sacrifices to Zeus to lighten his mood in hopes that sunshine will break through the clouds, but none were successful. I got out of bed and put on the same clothes that I have worn for the past year. We are not supposed to have more than one pair of clothes unless Plutus, the god of wealth, delivers them to us. Typically, he will bring them to us when our one pair outgrows us. \nI went downstairs to see my mother smiling and rushing over to me to hug me. She kissed my head and looked into my deep blue eyes. “Maleeka, are you ready to see what Clotho has in store for you today?!” My mother asked excitedly. I was confused at first, but then it came to me. Today was the celebration of Clotho, her birthday. This meant that\ntoday was the day that all boys and girls who had turned seventeen have their first and biggest fate decided by Clotho. What my mother says happens is there are two bowls one for the boys and the other for the girls. In the bowls are scraps of paper that tell you what you will forever be. The second highest person in status who is below the gods was the king, and he would call out names one by one and pick out a scrap of paper. Whatever it read was what Clotho wanted to be picked and what you would become. My father became a farmer and my mother a weaver. Whoever got king or queen would replace the previous king and queen. And those people who were replaced would become regulars like the people under seventeen.\nI nodded toward my mother, but in reality, I wasn’t ready because some people get picked to become sacrifices. “Well, then you better hurry up. We have to leave in twenty minutes top.” My mother said, clapping her hands. I ran along with finishing my usual routine in the morning quicker than ever.\n\n\nMy mother and I arrived at the temple where a great band of seventeen-year-old boys and girls, who were separated, stood inside a roped-in barrier while the others who were not having the “big fate” stood around outside the roped-in barrier. I looked at my mother and she smiled and gave me a little nudge to go in with the other girls. I stepped over the rope and headed toward them. \nSoon after, maybe fifteen minutes or so, the ceremony began. Music played, people cheered, and the king and queen walked out onto the platform of the temple above the steps and waved. I looked around me and saw faces of excitement and none whatsoever of terror like my face had.\n“Good morning my fellow friends!” the king began, “Today is a very special day for our here boys and girls, today is their Big Fate! But, first, I want to take a moment to honor our lovely Clotho, who has already decided what these young ones shall become. For her, I sacrifice my son, Eli, whose fate was to be a sacrifice to Clotho.” I could see Eli. He was smiling and seemed really excited, as was everyone else but me. Eli stepped up on a sacrificial altar and laid down. The king then was handed a sword by the queen which was made of gold that was only used for sacrifices like this one. He stood in front of the altar and said, “Dear Clotho, I offer Eli, son of Anlee and Marken, up to you.” The king then brought down his sword piercing the stomach of the boy and Eli was dead. I flinched at the sight of the blood streaming down the altar and the cheers of the people around me. This seemed wrong, but I shook that thought out of my brain, Clotho would not like a thought like this. \n“Now,” the king began, “It is time to find out your fate,” He said, pointing to us. He stepped toward the bowls and began calling out names and telling them what Clotho has chosen for them. “Emben Clark, Priest.” He yelled. Being chosen to be a priest was a good thing. It meant your status was ranked third. “Aby Isbell, nurse. Leum Terbine, Builder. Tammy Clay, sacrifice.” I heard a small gasp and saw who had made it. It must have been Tammy because tears were falling down this girl’s eyes. “JJ Avrey, farmer. Nora Bale, provider.” This would continue for hours. Justine Degner would become king and Anna Vaile would become queen. Five other people would be chosen as sacrifices, two of which I knew and three other boys became priests. Then my name was called, “Maleeka Lock, weaver.” I looked behind me to see my mother beaming with joy. She was happy to know that we would get to weave together. \nAnother hour later, the ceremony was finished and we were all sent to work. Some went to the hospital, while others were dragged off to be sacrificed in the temple to other gods. Some of these people were excited to be sacrificed. Others screamed and struggled to get out of the priest's grips who were escorting them into the temple.\n I followed my mother and she began telling me all about weaving, but I tuned it all out. I didn’t want to be a weaver. I was never a crafty person, I was always a scientific person. That had always been my strong suit in school. Why did Clotho choose this for me? I couldn’t help but think of the story of my mom’s friend and what she said. \n\n\nAfter days of weaving, I began to find myself turning away from the gods. I was angry at them and I stopped praying to them. I was told in school that if we forget or stop praying bad things would immediately happen to us, but it had been days and everything was the same. I began questioning our faith in the gods. Could this all be bogus, could I have chosen my own path the whole time? I pushed that thought out of my head and continued to do my job. \nThat night my dream was of myself saying, “It’s all fake, I am on the wrong path, they have tricked us all.” I woke up and sat on the edge of my bed while my legs dangled over the bed. I started thinking if Clotho decided what I do then surely she decided for me to think and feel the way I am now. I thought of all the other gods and how it wasn’t making any sense with what we were taught about in science. And so I decided that the fate the king had given me was not from Clotho but from him randomly picking a scrap of paper. Paper that was produced from a tree and written on with ink, not a god. \nI snuck out of the house, careful not to wake my mother, and headed off into the woods to the path I wanted for myself, the path of science, the path of freedom, the path of my own fate. I am finished listening to what others tell me to do.\n\n*\nAs years went by, I showed people the true world, and eventually, the gods were no longer a part of anyone's lives, I wiped them out of the world. We all lived in peace, choosing what we wanted to be and when to be 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: Sunset remind me of you sweetie: my ephemeral love\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1238\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I stare out at the sunset I remember how much this symbolizes for ourselves, even more for you. When we gave our sweetest first kiss and our last. I just took advantage of the fact that you were close to me. You looked as radiant as the brilliant red and purple colors of the sunset. Along with your charming smile that could stun anyone. Besides, at the same time it can bring you a magical feeling for a lifetime. Indeed, it was the perfect timing and setting for both of us. Nevertheless, we were too young to handle a long relationship yet, even harder if it’s in a boarding school and you were about finishing and me just starting the journey of baccalaureate. Whenever you read these words, perhaps you should think that I am a traitor for not keeping the promises that I have told you one day. However, as I told you before, every part of you caught my attention, especially your passion in every little thing you did. I know it well, due to my immaturity, I probably lost you forever, I was an idiot and I do not regret it enough. Our convictions aligned perfectly with our souls; unfortunately, it didn't last as long as we wanted.\n. I know you deserve somebody who always will be by your side; otherwise, I ain’t honorable of supporting you; whenever you are feeling down. That is why I had decided to remove you from all my social networks to lie to myself and I already know that I am a coward when I say that if you are happier with another person, and even with a close friend, it is totally fine. However, I emphasize it because I noticed when I looked into your coffee eyes shining when you used to talk with him in front of me. It was even very evident the last day of high school and I couldn't say goodbye to you or try to fix it a bit I broke down, getting all the hate from your friends, I noticed that I screwed it up but the pain is done, I can't go back in time. I’ll stay single for a long time, and approach one of our interests, especially biology. As you once told me, you had chosen visual arts, because of someone you loved in your first grade of baccalaureate. Now I can say I’m doing the same. Although my interest in physics is strong. Because of you, I found out my passion in genetics, and biology, you transcended my life and I cherish having met you and stay with you at least for a short time. This was one of the writings that he was never able to send her.\nShe always was considered as a like-minded person, clever, gorgeous and empathetic, as well as a bit of rudeness and cold. If you take into account her romantic side with people. Regardless of that aspect, she felt loved by a boy who ultimately hurt her later, simply because of his actions that didn't match her words. So the rule of thumb, never to trust so much in a person who shows up unexpectedly and becomes rapidly special because will probably disappoint you. You cannot live a fairytale or to feel like the romantic songs including all its lyrics says, otherwise likely would turn into a melancholic story. Then, the destiny don't wanna to stay together by now or maybe in a year or two I’ll take care of you, everlasting whenever you wanna honey.\nComing back to the present; she is staring at the beautiful sunset and then look up the calendar on her cell phone and it is June 21, 2021, and remind her of some facts that happened before the high school graduation.\nShe said: \"It has been a long time, exactly two years ago, I had decided to allow my heart to gain over me and I got disappointed. Fortunately, I am no longer that immature girl who thought that a prince charming would rescue me in the worst moments, at least if the person who can help me is my true friend, brother or sister without necessarily being blood-linked relatives. Sometimes I keep living those experiences in my head for a while. Happily, not in the idealistic way I used to think.\"\nThen she walked through the main streets of the small town where she lives and she used to frequent alongside him, breathing the fresh air of the coming season then. She decided to go back to read her diary and to forget the past because she has already forgiven. \nAfter reading, what she fell on the same day in which butterflies was flying in her stomach. She thought again, and when ring marked the same hour she used to hang out with him likely at 6:30pm and suddenly overthought realizing one thing in particular.\n I was glancing at each colorful sunset always reminds me of that time when it was our first date. I lied to my parents to go to the movies with you for the first time, with someone special to me; my friends accompanied me in this madness as usual. I remember that day as if it were yesterday, but especially when it was getting dark, but we still observe the beauty of the sunset, that day 21 brought me back two years ago, but life goes on darling, I'm letting you go. I was achieving it both in my head and in my heart. Although sometimes every person I've met over the years reminds me of something about your personality. I'm not going down again, you decided to lose me forever, without regrets and tried to seem interested in that girl who made me feel somewhat insecure.\n I never understood the way you treated me when you were about to break up with me. Even if I felt that, you loved me in that instant, it’s still tearing me up but I’m healing. You hurt me so much, when I was learning to love, when I thought you were the one. I set aside a space in my heart, your dazzling presence petrified it and turned into such mellifluous one. I think of you with tears in my eyes. I’m proud to say that I’m vulnerable in that aspect because of you, as well as being stronger than ever. I thought you were the love of my life and even if you were, I discovered that not always the love of your life would stay with you because not everything will last forever. My close friend witnessed how much I always wanted to get back to you, but I’m not the typical person who misses his ex and roll back to the past, because I keep going; otherwise, I couldn’t accomplish many things. I can only say that the best description of our relationship is the way the shimmering sunset lasted, that is, how ephemeral as our relationship was. Currently I am blooming like a flower in the spring season, thanks to the support of my close friends, especially the person who supported me the most when you ran away from my life. I'm not ready to love again the way I did but what I really want is to stay with the ones whose lift me up from my burdens and appreciate the beauty of the sunset." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tints and Colors\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2303\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Per usual, I am listening to Linkin Park. I am listening to their 2003 hit song “Breaking the Habit,” which I initially assumed was about some catharctic break-through yet is apparently about suicide. The theme makes sense in hindsight, considering that lead singer and lyricist Chester Bennington killed himself in 2017. Just like any artist, he wrote about himself, predicted his own grim future in some sort of twisted self-fulfilling prophecy. \nThe wind from the May clouds spews itself into my ears. My left-side earphone falls out. I quickly put it back in- the auditory imbalance always unsettles me- but not before changing the song to something more bland, more happy. I always worry that if I listen to a certain type of music too often, I will subconsciously begin to embody it. \nI lean against the park lamppost and watch the sun slowly crawl down into the horizon: aware of its own surrender, but shamefully so. I close my eyes; I have never been one for sunsets. The closing of the light seems too philosophical, so that I cannot stop thinking. \nSuddenly I think I hear my phone alarm go off. I listen closer, trying to discern the authenticity of the sound: my alarm ringtone is the sound of a duck quacking, carefully selected as a joke when I was twelve years old. The quacks remain small, elusive enough to seem both tangible and imagined. \nIf you are just imagining that your alarm is going off, that would be very unfortunate.\nAfter a moment’s hesitation, I turn on my home screen; there is no alarm going off. I smile lightly to myself. That is very unfortunate. \n“Hey!” The noise jars me. I look up from my phone to see my boyfriend, Cole, who I have been waiting for.\n“Hey.” I smile at him and scrunch my nose against the sunlight, a habit which I know he likes. \n“Long time no see.” Of course, we saw each other yesterday. Cole likes to think that such statements are charming; I can tell by the self-satisfied glint in his eyes, a small crease in the bottom left corner of his cheek that only emerges when he feels surreptitiously cocky. His joke lacks humor, but I let out a small laugh for his benefit. The crease grows wider.\n“So, what did you do today?” My question seems like idle small talk to any outsider; but after a good three or four months of being with Cole, I had long ago learned that that was the dynamic of our relationship. \n“I worked until six-ish, picked up Ellie, ran along the reservoir, you know. The usual.”\n“You worked until six?”\n“Yeah. My legs are killing me.” Cole teaches rich elementary school students to play soccer at a family club downtown, which means that his outward patience for spoiled children translates into a good $20 an hour. \n“That’s really late. But, you know, if you’re exhausted, we can just meet tomorrow.” I start walking towards my house, which is in the opposite direction from his. \n“No, I still have some energy. For you, at least.” I don’t have to look at Cole to notice the wideness of his crease; likely the size of a small crater, enlarging as he awards himself credit for what he considers romantic. Cole matches my pace evenly and puts an arm around my shoulder, his dark blue sweater grazing the tips of my hair. The weight of his arm is sizable, but not unpleasantly. “So what do you want to eat?”\nI pause, as if genuinely thinking. Cole always asks me what I want to eat in the context of him being some sort of dignified gentleman, giving up his manly culinary tastes for his picky woman. Either that or he has no distinguishable taste buds, which would make sense given the general basis of his chameleon-like personality. I can’t decide which alternative is worse. “How about just pizza?” \n“Sounds good.” He strokes my hair gently, smoothing the edges and brushing through the knots.\nOf course it sounds good. Everything sounds good to you. You have no opinions. Ignoring myself, I think of the appropriate way to reciprocate his intimacy. I mat his hair playfully, letting myself enjoy the softness of his dirty blonde locks. It is moments like these in which I remember why we started going out in the first place. I inhale deeply. \n“So what about you?”\n“Uh… What?” The moment now broken, we pause at the sidewalk in unison as we wait for the light to turn green. I wonder what we look like to passersby, if we seem to be one of those couples that move as one. \n“I mean, how was your day, Spacey?” His notorious crease returns; “spacey” is his nickname for me whenever I daydream, which is admittedly often. \n“Oh.” I momentarily think of how much information I should disclose to him. “Well, I was on the subway to my painting internship and listening to my music was good. But everyone was so peppy on the first day, and it was way too early for all that smiling small talk. Anyone who actually wants to socialize at 7:00AM is clinically insane.” \nI wait for a response, but Cole simply walks ahead as the light turns green. My chest slightly constricts, only loosening when I choose to believe that his silence urges me to continue. It is either my fatigue or the three shots of coffee I drank previously, but my openness both terrifies and invigorates me. “Then I went home, and my mom asked me about you and our relationship, I guess because we have nothing else to talk about. Obviously I avoided all of her characteristically invasive questions. I think she noticed, so she left my room kind of abruptly. So I went for a run, and it was great with the trees and my music and everything. But Melanie has been a bit cold to me recently, and I don’t know if it’s all in my head or maybe she’s sick of m- I don’t know.” I stop talking to take a breath. I open my mouth again, having a lot more to say, yet gently close it. \nThe silence looms again, stretching itself wider like some sort of invasive grass. “It’s probably just all in your head.” Cole responds lamely, his words dripping into themselves. \n“Yeah.” Subconsciously, I find my body inching away from his, the cold of the air seeping into my shoulders in his absence. I hate how my body always resorts to depending on him for heat, as if too indolent to deal with itself. I resist the urge to shiver. \n“What?” His murky blue eyes slowly turn to face mine, as if reluctant. \n“Nothing. It’s just, you could give me more of a response. I was pretty… you know, open, just now.” I look down, feeling my cheeks betray my inner self as they tint red. “That’s rare for me.” I ignore the biting edge to my tone, try to dilute it with a gentle fold to my eyes. \n“Yeah, you were pretty open.” He pauses, pursing perfectly-crafted lips into the quintessential pose of discomfort. “You just have to understand- I’m kind of realizing recently how you’re really moody. Like, you only listen to sad bands with angsty lyrics that you pretend to relate to, or like weird artists who complain about life. And you get annoyed at people easily, but then the next moment you love them. Or you’ll be all mad at the world, but then you’ll do something else and feel all fresh and lively.”\n“I’m not moody. That’s just… how I’ve always been. I’ve always been defined by my emotions.” I hear my voice as an outsider: soft, as if unwillingly squeezed out from my core like some unwarranted slug. I try to make my last sentence have more conviction, but it only manages to come out more high-pitched. \n“No, you are moody. You’re all cheery one second, and then the next you’re like going through something.” \n“I don’t know, life can be tiring.” I smile lightly. I imagine myself drawing furiously in charcoal, as if each jagged black strand is a desperate attempt to infuse humor. \n“Just be normal. You don’t have to pretend to care about weird things or to feel so intensely all the time.” Cole gently pulls me into his chest, lets his chin rest on the top of my head. He releases me and holds my hand as we turn the block, his grip loose as a stray ribbon.\nI am grateful that we are not facing each other: my heart beats faster as I try to restrain the tears gathering themselves into a small arsenal inside me, ready to attack Cole with what a part of me knows is well-deserved guilt. But another part of me- the larger, more prominent one- claims that this guilt is unnecessary. For better or for worse, Cole is one of the few to have truly gotten to know me well, and must be given some sort of objective credibility. \n“Yeah, you’re right,” I whisper. I imagine a thin gray wall separating myself from my emotions, and the wounded sizzling in my chest begins to subside. My mother’s words echo in my head: You want a boy like Cole, someone who is stable, that is what’s good for you.\nI lightly brush my fingers over Cole’s as we head into our usual spot, which is a pizza restaurant owned by Italian immigrants. \n“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, order for me?” \n“Sure.” Cole smiles at me; it culminates in his eyes in a playful twinkle, so that I cannot resist smiling back. “One spinach, one mushroom, right?”\n“You know me well.” Turning my head before I can see his reaction, I briskly walk to the bathroom.\nThe click of the lock immediately calms me, a physical iteration of having temporarily separated myself from external reality. I stare at myself in the mirror. I adjust my hot-pink bra to show a bit more cleavage, and pull up my denim pants to cover more of my lower stomach. I take my pointer finger and brush it under my eyelashes to have the pseudo effect of mascara, and do the same for my eyebrows. After fixing a few frizzes on the top of my head, muttering about the hairy halo I was apparently sentenced to, I apply a tad of dark pink lip gloss. \nFinally I observe the one part of myself that I have been avoiding: my eyes. Of course, my glassy gray eyes are irritatingly expressive, reflecting my every emotion like the most disloyal of rivers. As if observing a different self, I have seen my eyes at various lights and colors. Presently they are vacant, rows of willow trees reflecting a dead sort of nothing. \nI look down at the sink and slowly close the faucet. The paper towel ingraining itself into my hands feels like a grainy push from reality, and I practice a frozen half-smile in the mirror. My eyes now look poised, crafted to the very cusp of perfection. They irrefutably belong to someone who is simple to understand, who is as grounded as the most gentle kind of breeze. This girl is who you are, I tell myself. Her, and only her. \nI walk out of the bathroom and check the time: 7:36PM, which means that I have time to eat with Cole and then study for my chemistry test tomorrow. I turn my phone off and put it into my back pocket. My chest feels lighter, stronger, as if I painted it in some sort of golden lining. \n“Hey, I’m here!” I see Cole in the far-right corner of the restaurant, his three plain margherita slices already in front of him. My order is more detailed, so it always takes longer to come. That other girl within me notices the indicative symbolism behind our orders, and demands I leave the restaurant. \nI smile and hug Cole from behind, my arms gently wrapping around his neck and chest. I take my phone out of my jeans pocket. “The picture will just be for me,” I tell him shyly.\n“But I have longer arms.” Cole takes my phone and lifts it high upwards, an angle which he knows I prefer. After he takes the photo, I sit down and move my chair closer to his. \nCole shows me the picture. Per usual, his smile is wide and natural, accompanied by creased eyes that have an easy mirth within them. I look like a robot next to him, haunted by a characteristic frozen half-smile that makes me appear unsettled by the camera. \nI stare at Cole across the table and feel a slight jab in my chest. His mind is effortlessly arcadian, without question, without thought: an open plain, mostly grassy with a few dandelions wedged here and there. In my head, I see him as a surfer, gliding endlessly into the sunset as if the very meaning of life is some joyride. \n“What?” Thankfully, Cole is at least occasionally able to pick up my social clues. \n“Nothing. Just hungry.” I tousle his hair and take a bite of my pizza. I chew slowly, as if the rate of my chewing will hopefully transcend into the rate of my thoughts. \nIn response, Cole places a lock of my hair behind my ear. I force myself to smile at him. In such a public sphere, we easily look like we are in love; the whole restaurant takes notice of us, desperately eager to observe and inhale our youthful vigor for themselves. Their attenuated yearning reeks in the air like tobacco. I recognize it like an aged friend, because I recognize it in 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: Gyre\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1323\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “Let’s go for a walk.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Gyre.\nAs in the gold mosaic of a wall\nCome from the holy fire, perne in a gyre.\nWilliam Butler Yeats 1927\n“Let’s go for walk…”\nI didn’t mean to hurt you, John, I’m sorry – I’m really sorry…. These words were Stewart’s last, after which voice faded into unheard spaces and stopped less abruptly than his determined heart. Last words uttered as an apology were wasted as they were silence to his hapless trail walking companion. But Stewart struggled against this death as an ending; he tried to push onto something more now his physical life vanished.\nOnce more he looked off into white-out distances. Squalling winds and sleet. Stewart lost all feeling in his feet now and liquid soaked through to skin. Snow continued falling. He felt an irresistible urge to lie down, if only for a moment. But dared not give way to these impulses. Everything covered with snow, and he could see nothing through thickly falling flakes. Any outline, feature or shape muted, only semi-discernible, were those other walkers, or rocks, or trees? Stewart felt himself slowly slipping down. He knew this storm, being lost, hypothermia all leapt about like ghouls about to take his life. Yet Stewart felt light-headed, any fight against his imminent death gone, and he flushed warm. In these last moments of life he descended into a wave of euphoria.\nHe saw a warm yellow light burning and smiled to feel a more intense heat. Instead of being on snow-bound, disheveled mountain Stewart enjoyed being lifted into a semi-tropical place. Even though dawn lightened this winter’s day, morning delightful, nothing like slow creeping grey of typical mountain dawns. No, this new light vested with scents of Sydney suburbia.\nA bedroom curtain, yellow again but trickled with blue flowers separated him from a sleeping form Stewart reached out toward.\nInside this intimate room, being a fresh spectra forced into another’s life, a woman’s skin brushed against Stewart’s cheek. Acutely aware of unmanly smooth texture; child-like as if he might breathe a kiss onto his son’s sleeping form. Yet vested with womanly scents, yes here a lover, rather than a child slept.\nWhat would a grown-up Adrian do when news came of his father’s tragic death? Still Steward would not deal with the boy now, grief would no doubt wrap several people into a tangled web. Instead his aura remained urged on by stronger desires.\nSoftness of the woman’s past tears tangible as she slept. He could discern their tracks across her cheeks. Aware his bristles caused discomfort, he pushed closer. But she continued to sleep.\n‘What the hell do you want?’ Were whispered waking words past her lips.\nSurprising aggression in her tone, Stewart recoiled. Nothing drew him back, on a storm ridden mountain, nothing more to do, nowhere else to go amongst ice, rocks and wind. Yet Stewart knew he now dwelled beyond these mountains, away from tempest. No, ice, sleet, lost, all gone; this, her room, her house, now his only forum. If she pushed him away where would he go - what now?\nA desire for connection, even in the smallest way, pressed, draw his urgency. Stewart wanted to kiss her, push his lips on hers demanding, with almost animal longing. She kissed him, quickly, dismissive with only a fleeting touch of lips yet he tasted all her urges, fears and yearning, as if a whole kaleidoscope of emotions suddenly within his perception.\n‘I am sleeping… I can’t deal with this,’ she said.\nHe heard her voice and wanted so desperately to cajole her into being awake, into being with him. She must help John. Understand now when his heart stopped beating, he thought of them – both. And he didn’t mean death to happen this way.\nThis sleeping woman experienced an awareness which took several days to identify. At first she dismissed it as a weird, confusing dream. Reliving past erotic experiences, tangles of bodies, gyrating and thrusting. Sure, that’s all it was! She too felt warm, hot and beginning to sweat, despite a cool morning. Explaining away her bewilderment about what might be happening as one of those damn night sweats, again. Except this one was peopled. Pressed too close to her face, rough stubble of several days without shaving. These bristles a legacy of days John and Stewart were lost, rambling through vegetation, unable to sight a track, wandering mountains.\nShe only thought stubble strewn face, that chin, those scratching spikes were a non-descript night traveler attempting to destroy her last semblance of a morning sleep-in. How she despised waking so early, she longed for winter’s chilled mornings when sunlight arrived late and extend lay in bedtime. Languish in warm quilts and shadowy half-light before her job, kids, breakfast, the cat and so many other things gobbled up day spaces.\nEventually she concluded this dawn’s intrusion was a lover, from long ago, thinking of her and contacting whatever part of her loosened in dreams. She did not want this communication, now happily married, house finally renovated, everything in her history needed to remain securely there!\nOn that winter’s morning she attempted to break past’s binding threads, in a selfish manner. Instead of being motivated to rekindle former loves, she wanted to lounge in slow return out of her sleep world. Wondering what right did an ‘ex’ have to rub his bristles across her face, why did he need to force a kiss, as if attempting to rob her very breath?\nBugger off!\nStop pestering me like some dog humping my leg; get your rocks off elsewhere. Bad enough trying to be your lover, let alone being visited by you in my dreams and thoughts.\nAnyway, their break-up, messy, they’d not parted on good terms. Once through beyond packing up sundries and making a split she fully contemplated his inadequacies; examined reasons for relationship failure then became glaringly obvious. Only further fueled by an admission she heard later, “…you knew Stewart married that nurse he’d been going out with for two years.” A quick count back verified his duplicity. Why hadn’t anyone told her beforehand, made his cheating obvious? Quicker she got rid of his astral travelling, dream visiting self, the better.\nYes, she was aware of giving him a flippant kiss but only to eradicate any nuisance from her sub consciousness. If you offer them something, they will take tokens and vanish – such were her early morning, still slumbering logic.\nAfterwards she felt herself far enough back from this entity to perceive a shroud like whiteness over his facial features. Snow, or swaddling cloth, misty clouds engulfed mountains obliterating any landmarks, wind-borne dust, ice, storms thickened air, making it impenetrable, she wasn’t sure. Forced her to break through in order to start her day. Sort of thing didn’t happen on a bright sub-tropical Sydney morning. An unshakable feeling of some sort of link, connection or binding kept tumbling about in her mind and this would simply not be dispersed. But other than stumble about confused, she could not, did not want to explore these bewildering feelings.\nOnly weeks later did she learn of his death. Made multiple newspapers in New Zealand. Major angle taken dealt with storm’s ferocity, coupled with surprise and dismay a seasoned trail walker would attempt such a trek in mid-winter. Mystery of his unanswered emails promptly solved when Stewart’s PA rang and informed her… ‘he was lost, both Stewart and John did not survive.’ As well as informing her, ‘live-feed access is currently available to his memorial service.’\nOnly then she grieved; only then did she know on one morning, a few days ago, Stewart invaded her early morning slumber.\nHer tears provoked a whole new emotional mine-field, especially when her husband asked, “what happened. What’s wrong?”\nJust how much should she tell him? How on earth would he understand her grief? What words to explain their intensity, deal with a moment of death haunting?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Light from within\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1525\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Golden, like a basket of light. Strong, orange tones at the corners. Light swatches of pale blue mixed with a deep purple.\nMy eyes start to water as I haven’t been blinking. Slowly, I draw my eyes reluctantly away from my window, back to my textbook.\nThe sunrise looks so beautiful. It still lingers in my vision, even though I’m looking at the question in the book. I stare and stare at it. “Find the value of ‘y’ if the value of ‘x’ is…” My mind slips off and after five minutes I’m still trying to figure out the meaning of the question. My eyes are trying hard to be awake and my head keeps jerking down. I have been awake for nearly 23 hours now. My eyes sting and I feel exhausted. My throat is dry, even though I drank water like ten minutes ago.\nI have a very important exam today. For days, I’ve had nightmares about this exam. I would feel very nervous when any mention of this exam was made. So much so that I couldn’t concentrate on the questions the teacher was discussing, which were important for the exam. I would visit the library at least for a month, in hope to find a guide for somebody who was a beginner on the topic, like me. All around me, in the library I would see students with huge reference books by their sides. All I had was a notebook, hoping to collect all the important points on the chapter. Seeing those students, my confidence level hit rock bottom. They knew what they were doing. But I, even after days of struggling, could manage to learn only so much.\nThis is my last chance to save my scores so that I could get on to the college list. I don’t want to be the only one who remains here, when all the others are in a good college. I don’t want to feel like an outcast. Nobody wanted to be friends with a girl who wasn’t good at math, right? Those who are good at anything else aren’t given a second thought. All these are the reasons why I want to be good at math.\nIt feels like everybody except me, can score an eighty. I feel like I’m the only one who is stuck in one thing for days on end when the others are miles ahead. It feels like everybody can score well on a test, without studying when I have to spend days, studying for the test. \nI hated the stares I would get when I got a question wrong. I felt humiliated when the marks were read out loud. The people don’t know about the sleepless nights, the cries of frustrations I have had, to just be above average. All this just so I could walk in those corridors one day. All this so that I don’t appear just like somebody in the crowd. All of this so I could feel like I belong here, I am normal. That I’m not the weird one, that I’m good at math or science. That I have brains.\nI am here. I am at the examination hall. Just a few minutes away from the class. All this never appeared this scary just a few hours ago. Yet now, it dawns on me that this is my last chance. My palms are sweaty and I am trying to walk straight. All around me, there is casual chatter. After a few minutes I reach the class and go to my seat. Even though I have already sat down, I get a faint sense that I’m still trying to sit. The walls of the room look confining and I feel dizzy. The papers are given out and I clutch at my skirt tightly.\nAn hour later I find myself in the washroom, crying.\nThe granite steps are hard and cool. The plants sway gently in the wind and this sight calms me. The paper is still next to me, almost wet from my tears. I sit like this for some time.\nI don’t know how much time it has been and my back starts to ache. A person comes and sits next to me and I turn and look. I look into a pair of brown eyes. The edges of her mouth crinkle from her smile.\n“You’re not allowed to be here.” I snap back into reality on hearing those words. “Yes.”, she says.\n“Its time for me to go home, why don’t you come along?”\n“Yes ma’am.” I say.\n Ms. Eve.\nHer brown hair appears familiar and I feel like it should belong in my class against those white walls. I loved the forty minutes I had with her thrice a week. At the end of the class, I felt happy, that I am good at something. Her classes made me feel alive. This was one class where I felt like no one would dissect my brain open to find what was there. Her warm, but still firm attitude made me love her classes. I felt thrilled whenever she would walk down my aisle, glancing at our paintings. Even if it was just a glance, I felt like she could figure out all the measurements, all the tones used in my artwork.\nNone of us says anything till we reach the road. The evening air feels cool on my neck.\nThe trees sway as if to brace itself for what is coming.\n“So…?” She speaks. Her tone is comforting, yet has a slight edge to it, which feels like she thinks it’s all my fault. I look at her and I resist the urge to start crying. Somehow, somebody else saying it makes it more real.\n“I…” My voice breaks and within no time I am crying. She puts a hand on my shoulder and doesn’t say anything for a while.\nI finally break the silence by saying, “I’m sorry I’m a mess. If only I would have studied harder-”\n“Listen here” She cuts me off. I look into her eyes and her eyes look worried. They almost look as if they are pleading me for something.\n“You don’t have to be good at math”, she says. This catches me off guard. I did not expect her to say this. I thought she was going to give me advice on how to score better. I thought she was almost joking. I turn to look at her, expecting her to smile, but her eyes are adamant and firm.\n“Yes. You don’t have to be.” looks like she read my expression.\n“There are so many more things than being good at studies. Have you ever looked beyond that?” She waits for me to answer.\n“No…” I answer, embarrassed.\n“Exactly. You don’t have to be good at something to be accepted.” This grabs my attention.\n“Look at yourself. You have so many things in yourself that are amazing. You don’t have to be good at something just so you are recognized.”\n“Tell me one thing. Why is this exam so important to you?” Again, she waits for me to answer.\n“Because I want to be felt real, to be seen as somebody…?” my voice goes small. I now realize how stupid it sounds. On seeing the look of my face, she says, “Did you see? How small that sounds?”\n“You are capable of so many great things. You cannot call yourself great, if you only try to be good at what others are good at. Stop enclosing yourself in boxes and see beyond it.\n“See your interests, your likes, your gifts.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You are amazing, your artwork is brilliant.”\n“I love the way you focus, the look of sureness in your eyes every time you paint. There’s a thrill in your eyes every time you hold a paint brush or every time you mix colors on the palate. And your artwork is so true.” I had never heard her say anything about my artwork before. Only those stern eyes on every one of our canvases, quick to point out any flaw, any smudge of a line on our work.\n“It reflects everything so beautifully.” She pauses and lets out a sigh.\n“So please” she puts her hands on my shoulders and continues, “love every aspect of you. Stop wanting to be accepted by others. First accept every flaw and gift of you.” She smiles and her eyes sparkle. I feel light, as if her words embraced me. Somebody who thinks I’m good at something. Somebody who feels that I’m not only okay at something, but great at something. This realization hits me and my eyes well up. My heart feels like somebody has broken it open and revealed something beautiful inside of me.\nI look at her and I manage to smile and I end up crying. She puts a hand around my shoulder and I can see the sunset at the corner of my eye, This time its stronger, almost red, powerful. Like as if it has realized its great value and decided to shine, just like 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: Fight or Flight\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1049\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having a run of bad luck." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was with that dream that Esther Douglas’s bout of bad luck began. She hoped it was a bout at least because she did not know who she was if not lucky. Her whole life, perhaps even before she was born, good luck had followed her. \nWhen Pinky Douglas was eight months pregnant with Esther, she visited Mrs Jency, a woman too young to be on her deathbed. At just sixty four, Mrs. Jency had suffered quite the stroke that had left her weak and practically immobile. Hope was chipped away with each visit of a doctor, even the ones from the more distant neighbouring villages. When Pinky visited, there was resignation in the family’s eyes and Lallu, who was quite talented with charcoal was being commissioned to sketch out a final portrait of Mrs. Jency. \nBut somehow, after the visit, things turned around and Mrs Jency had miraculously recovered. Some even said she had started walking the same day and quite a few passing by had even caught a glimpse of her weeding out her garden. Pinky had gone into labour two days later and by then, word had spread of the miracle baby. And amongst many well wishes, Esther had been born, a little premature but healthy nonetheless and noticeably fairer skinned than all of her cousins. \nAnd thus, it had begun. When she took her first step in the backyard of their house, Esther had stepped on her grandmother’s gold ring that had been lost for months. She had learnt to walk and talk earlier than most toddlers and by three she could recite some of the longer prayers by heart. Well adored by everyone in the village, Esther grew up bright and full of life and curiosity. In the little village tucked between two mountains and away from the world, Esther was the lucky star. \nBy the time Esther had reached the age of eight, Mrs Jency, the very one who Esther had saved, had built the first school for girls in her village. The school was just a classroom with about 30 chairs but there was a nice collection of books and a tidy little blackboard where the girls learnt their numbers and alphabets. Esther who loved reading was delighted with all the books she could get her hands on. Even at school she was popular and well liked by all the children, some of whom were even hoping to have some of her luck rubbed off on them. \nWhen Esther went apple picking with the girls, she never got a sour one. When a swarm of bees attacked her group of friends, she was the only one who returned without any stings. When her shoe got swept away by the ocean, it somehow washed back up on the shore, a couple of metres away. Some of the villagers even swore that once the rain had stopped the minute she stepped out of her house. At the communion, people would rush to shake her hands. And what she wanted, she always got. \nAnd then came the dream. Just a few weeks shy of her nineteenth birthday, Esther dreamed that she was flying. It wasn’t just regular floating but something in the air was pushing her forward and she was seated in a chair softer than the one at her grandmother’s. The exhilaration, the vast view of the world below her was something she could not forget even after she woke up. She wanted to fly. No, she was going to fly. She didn’t know how a human being would grow wings and take to the sky but she had to.\nAt first, people laughed thinking she was just running with her imagination. But when she would bring it up repeatedly, they looked at her with worry in their eyes. Her father asked the priest if it was because of all the reading she did that she was caught up in fantasies like that. People started questioning if they were pinning so much admiration on the wrong person and all this while she had just bewitched them with her delusions. \nThe village folk wouldn’t understand the dream Esther had because they hadn’t experienced it. She started noticing all the sidelong glances she would get as she walked along the street. That summer, she ate two sour apples. Once she got toppled over by a speeding bullock cart and fell into muddy ditch ruining her white dress. On one of the days when she forgot her umbrella, it started raining for the first time that month. She had to sit on the last pier at church and her grandmother would often suggest that she stay at home instead of go out. \nFor Esther, this was not something she knew how to handle. She only knew how to want things and then get them. The only difference to the people was that her desires had been realistic before and now she was dwelling on something that was not in the realm of possibility. Birds had wings, not humans. And like the good folk of the village, she needed to plant her feet back firmly on the ground.\nAt nineteen, she was of marriageable age, but no suitors were lined up at the Douglas household to ask for her hand in marriage. After many months, her mother decided to put word out to the neighbouring village and it had caught the ear of a travelling businessman looking for a wife. When he came to visit her and laid his eyes upon her, he knew he had made the right decision. Esther, on the other hand, told him of her dream of flying despite her mother's insistence that she remain quiet. The businessman merely chuckled when he heard this and said that he would ensure that she would one day fly. They were married at the church the very next week and left for the city. \nA year later in 1932, Esther’s father in law founded the first commercial airline in India. In 1954, Esther finally flew in a passenger airplane, sitting beside her husband, on a seat definitely softer than the one at her grandmother’s. She watched out of the window as the mountains grew smaller and smaller and far away from her. She was lucky 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: A BOY AND A GIRL\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1314\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This is no ordinary fairy tale; there is no prince nor a princess. Just a boy and a girl. The sunrise that day was unique; it was different. The sun rays appeared in the sky one at a time and the cold breeze of the summer morning cools the place. Nick was enjoying this beauty when his eyes met her face; she was anything to his eyes but existent, her beautiful, deep blue eyes and her silky blonde hair and mostly her face and her body covered with the shiny rays of the sun; it was a magical moment. She was smiling; it felt to Nick like he had all the happiness in this world. He wanted this moment to last long, but as he was busy dazzling, her eyes saw him staring. She suddenly stood up and started walking fast; he wanted to run behind her, stop her but that would be creepy. He never believed in love at first sight, but the vibe and the feeling he got with her at the time of sunrise gave him a kind of pleasure and made his heart feel something. He wanted to meet her again but; it was summer so he could not search for her in school and also he had never met her there. Days passed by and, yet he was still lost in her dreams. One casual sunny day, he went to the old age care center for community work as a part of his holiday homework. As he reached there, he saw her face, the same beautiful face across the room; he hurried towards her and said, “Hello!! I am Nick, you might remember me from the park at the time of sunrise. Do you often come there?” The words came out faster than a bullet train; he was scared and so did he made her. She turned around and walked away; she did not even say hello. Well, it was not her fault; it was really creepy of him to just walk up and start talking. He went home and dug his face in the pillow; he was embarrassed and feeling stupid more than ever. He went to the care center again the next day and, this time, he gently said, “hey! I am Nick! What is your name?” Again she did not reply and simply poured her coffee and went. He felt stupid and crazy but decided not to give up until she answered. He went up to her every day, but she never replied. Sad as ever, he was sitting on a chair near the coffee table when an old lady arrived and asked if she could sit beside him, and he said sure. She said “You are Nick! Right?”, “Yes!”, “The girl you try to talk to every day is Lily; she is the sweetest and most innocent girl but she is also shy and does not get along with the people of her age because they used to bully her.” “BULLY HER!!! Why?? She is so sweet and pretty!!!” “Oh, darling!! She is indeed beautiful but, the reason is not her looks. When she was a little girl, she was stuck in a fire and; her mother tried to save her and died during the rescue. Therefore people call her a murderer. Also, her father is away in the army, so people tease her by saying she sent him as well. And about you, she thinks you are a little crazy and creepy.” “I just like her and want to be her friend. Get to know her.” “Oh lord! He felt sad for her. First, she lost her mother and her father is far away and secondly, people are bullying her!! Oh! What must she be going through?” He thought. He did not go to the care center for a few days. It was hard being around her after knowing this. But one day, he gathered the courage and went to the center. He was with the old people playing bingo when he heard a soft voice calling him, “hello?? Nick right? Can I talk to you?” he said yes while jumping out of his seat. They went outside in the sun and being a gentleman, he let her speak first. She said, “Hey! I am Lily. I am heartily sorry for the weird behavior I have been giving you. I just thought that you might be like any other person bullying me but, it turned out that you had no such intention.” After taking a deep breath, he said “I would never-ever-ever torment someone. I saw you in the park and wanted to know more about you. Then one day, I saw you here and started introducing myself every day.” Interrupting him she said, “And I did not; I am so so so sorry and, for a token of friendship, I made brownies for you!! Do you like them???``''ya!! I totally love them. Thank you!!” She gave him the brownies and started to walk inside. He called her, she turned, he said “do you like to hang out sometimes??”,”SURE, I thought you’d never ask.” Since that day, they have hung out a lot. Sometimes at his house and sometimes at her apartment. It was fun both ways; she was so nice and crazy and great and he was charming and gentlemanly and nice. Now he was sure that he was in love!!! This feeling was so great and he decided that he would tell her that he loves her. They were gonna meet at the coffee shop today and he arrived early very eager to tell her his news. She came in happy as always and sat next to him and before he could say something she said “I have news!!!” “WHAT?!” he impatiently asked so that he could tell her his. She placed a paper on the table and began “I GOT ACCEPTED AT HARVARD!!” Wow, that was a bummer. He felt that someone had placed a flower pot on his heart well in this case, it was an acceptance letter from Harvard. She was excited and thrilled. The only words that came out of his mouth were ‘great’. Nick was so heartbroken because he did not want to come in between Lily and her dreams, so he had to keep his mouth shut. He did not talk to Lily for days and it was almost the end of the summer holidays. Over there, she was sad and confused. She did not know why he was not talking to her or not answering her calls. She could not focus on anything and there was this strange feeling in her heart that she was unaware of. On the last day of the summer holiday, Nick went to the park still, not talking to Lily. He reached there in the evening and sat under a beautiful tree; and just enjoyed the moment. Lily was passing by when she saw him sitting there. She rushed towards him, and when he saw her, he stood up and, she hugged him tight and after pulling away said, “why didn't you answer my calls. I was so tense; were you okay; are you okay; Oh my god! are you upset with me. I am sorry” and, it was then that he pulled her into a kiss. His lips touched hers and it was a magical moment for both of them. “I love you”, he said; “ I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you laying there with the sun rays on you; I would have said this earlier but I did not want to come between you and Harvard.” She did not say a word and pulled her in for another kiss. The sky was purple with a shade of pink and blue and, under a tree, a boy and a girl were kissing." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Amalie's Escape\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2391\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has to “move mountains” to get what they want." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On June 25th of 1930, Amalie turned eighteen and lived with her parents near the Saint-Lizier Cathedral in a house overlooking the Salat river in France. One year later, she would go to the Spanish side of the Pyrenees to become a teacher of children, change her name to Amala, and marry a sheep farmer who lived high on a mountain and had a bent toward philosophy.\nAmalie had always been an unpredictable child her father would say of his beloved daughter—smart, impetuous, and often unruly. She was always driven to follow her whims —no matter the consequence.\nAmalie’s father had not purchased the lavish house on the river and could never have done so on his meager salary as a public schoolteacher. The home had been his family for nearly 100 years. It dated to a great-great uncle from the Tobelem family who had been a wealthy merchant in Morocco. This uncle had purchased the house when he moved from Morocco to France in the 1850’s. When he died childless, the house passed through generations of Tobelems until it was inherited by Amalie’s father who was then a single man teaching in a Moroccan public school in Casa Blanca. Upon receiving the house as his inheritance, Amalie’s father moved to France to claim it, but only after first securing a humble teaching position in Saint-Lizier so he could afford the taxes on the house and buy necessities. When people asked him how had acquired his wealth, he told them he had sold a lucrative business in Morocco. He bathed in the status that the home conferred upon him and his family.\nOn her birthday, Amalie sat at her learned father’s desk in his library. Behind her was a wall of his many books extending to the ceiling. Many more tomes gathered mildew in the basement and others were covered in dust in the attic. Most were in French, but some were in English, German, and Arabic. Her father always said that if times became difficult, he would start a bookstore. Though her taste in literature was broad, she had a secret place in the attic where she sneaked inside and indulged in forbidden books. Each volume in her special collection contained vivid, spicy depictions of lascivious lovers, fornicators, and adulterers in flagrante delicto. She relished the fact that the subjects were irresistibly forbidden. \nIn the dining room adjacent to the study, her maman and père, Hana and Hillel Tobelem, were quarrelling about politics behind a closed door. The weakened third Republic of France was under threat from the conservative New Right. The revanchist movement had grown skilled at fearmongering over the Great Depression, the threat of communism, foreign immigration, and the self-inflicted scandals that had roiled the feckless left-leaning government. The New Right claimed they had a cure for the country’s ills. France, they said, needed nothing less than an iron fisted authoritarian government to quickly right the ship. Many in France were beginning to agree. \nIt was not that Hillel and Hana were on opposite sides of the political divide—both leaned liberal. True, they were not pleased with the performance of their current progressive government. But it was better than what the New Right proffered. No, their argument was over Hana’s right to vote—or, rather, her lack of that right.\n“Mamour,” began Hana, knowing that calling him sweetheart would nudge him off balance. “The issue is whether we have enough votes to prevail. We do not. Why? It is very simple my husband. Half the population cannot cast a vote. And by that, I mean women—women like me.” Hillel squirmed in his chair at her words. “The election is but two years away,” she added. “And these strutting authoritarians clamoring for a new King or a fresh dictator may well sweep themselves into government unless something is done,” she urged as her hands contorted into small fists in her lap. “You know what will happen then. We will need to flee France.”\n“Hana, Hana,” Hillel replied throwing his hands above his head in exasperation. “This is an old argument we seem never to put to bed. There are good reasons for women not to vote. And things are not so dire that we need to run away and leave our lovely home just because of some noisy politics.”\n“Name the reasons women should not have the right to vote Metuka,” this time using the Hebrew word for sweetie as a cudgel. Sometimes she wished she knew Ladino so she could arm herself with more endearments to use as weapons against Hillel. But though she was born to Sephardic parents, they had left Morocco before she was born. So, she grew up speaking French in Saint-Lizier. Lately she had learned a smattering of Yiddish from an Ashkenazi woman whom she knew in town. But she never learned Ladino like Hillel who grew up in Morocco or Amalie who learned it from her father as a child. \nHillel knew that listing his specific reasons for denying women’s suffrage as she had requested would only empower her. He had learned to parry this strategy of hers of dividing up the issues in an argument and then conquering each isolated one as if they were abandoned soldiers. That approach allowed her to pick apart his logic for each point he was reckless enough to name. Thus, deflection was the better course for Hillel. “Not again Hana. You know where this will lead— bad feelings, cold dinners, sitting in silence, and separate beds for a week. Please, not tonight.”\nAmalie pressed her ear against the door of the study to overhear better. She did not know why she enjoyed eavesdropping on her parents. She knew it was disobedient, disrespectful, and wrong but that only made it tantalizing. Her devoted père had raised her to be worldly, womanly, and free thinking. Universal education had been the norm for Jewish girls in Morocco since 1860. So, by tutoring Amalie in the arts and sciences, he was merely following tradition. It was assumed. In Hillel’s mind, her education also earned her the right to vote. Beyond that right, he also wanted her to have equal rights in employment. After all, even in chaotic Spain on the other side of the mountains, one party was poised to grant women those very rights with their upcoming election in June of 1931. It was only a year away. \nBut Hillel dared not confide his aspirations for Amalie to Hana. His wife was of his world, not the future world that Amalie would inherit. Granting equality to Hana now would give her power just as his power waned with age. And such a shift in his patriarchal birthright would disturb the equilibrium of their marriage. That was more than he could tolerate. Let sleeping dogs lie.\nDespite his outward dismissal of his wife’s concerns, he secretly agreed that Hanna was correct to worry about the upcoming vote in France. The strength of the liberal coalition that had safeguarded their rights from Christian zealots, revanchist monarchists, and sinister politicians bellowing for dictatorial power was weakening. What the republic needed now was a fresh infusion of liberal votes to add to what they had in-hand. Women might provide those needed votes, if only they had the franchise. But Hillel convinced himself into believing that the authoritarian threat was not that serious. He had heard such blustering before. Nothing too drastic needed to be done much less give women the right to vote or flee France. Silly, he thought dismissively. Besides, that would mean leaving their home by the river, and that he would not do. \nSometimes he reflected honestly on how important the house was to his sense of self. In Africa, he once saw hunters catching monkeys. They drilled a small hole into a gourd and then filled it with fruit and nuts. The hole was just large enough for a monkey’s open hand to squeeze through. But when the monkey closes his hand over a fistful of the fruit inside, the hole is too small to pull it back out. Even as the frightening shadow of the hunter hangs over his head, he won’t let go. That is, you, Hillel. It was a thought he allowed himself to think but never to say out loud. \nAmalie soon bored of listening to the quarrel and pulled her ear away from the door. But their argument reminded her of her own worries. She was a devoted reader of The Saint-Lizier Voix over coffee every morning at her favorite boulangerie. From her reading of the paper, she knew the dangers lurking on the horizon.\nThe global depression of 1929 was bruising all of Europe—not just France and the United States. And with the financial turmoil, the political tides were flowing away from liberal democracy and toward the empty promises of dictators. Germany was now enamored with a fascist named Hitler. That man, she read, was growing bolder month by month encouraged by his gullible adherents who believed his every lie. Frighteningly, he based his rising influence on demagoguery over old grievances for perceived wrongs even when the wrongs were based on falsehoods. He fear-mongered over the threat of communists, socialists, Jews, Gypsies, and railed at the reparations forced on Germany by the Allied Powers after the war to end all wars.\nMore alarmingly, he spoke of lebensraum—living space that he wanted to wrest from other countries for Germany’s use—perhaps even France she worried. After all, France had taken Alsace-Lorraine from them as part of the Treaty of Versailles. Maybe, she worried, he would offer to his aggrieved countrymen, that Germany should take it back.\nAnd just that morning, Amalie read in the Voix that Hitler had announced— with no basis in fact —that Germany had never really lost the war to end all wars on the field. Instead, victory had been snatched from Germany by dark forces claiming defeat from within. Dolchstosslegende, he called it: a stab in the back she read. She knew it was false, but it did not seem to matter because enough Germans did believe it. “Hitler said it was true,” they said. And that was enough. Believe only me, he urged. My critics in the newspapers lie, he claimed. “Lügenpresse,“ he called it. The lying press. He was fashioning himself into a cult leader who could do no wrong and whose militant adherents would topple the government by force at his whim.\nIn the same Voix edition was an article on Italy where the news was similar. A dictator had led Italy for almost a decade. Worse, his grip on power was flourishing under a fresh banner of making Rome real again through fascism. Even in the Americas—the United States, Canada, Mexico, Central and South America, fascists, communists, socialists, and pro-Nazi groups were a rising threat amid increased political tensions over the Great Depression. This was the world that, as her father said, she would inherit—a dangerous world that seemed to be spinning out of control. Where, she wondered, can I be free and safe?\nOn the Continent, only Spain of the major countries seemed to be on a liberal path. Its monarchy was in retreat and the dictatorship it had supported had already failed by the time Hanna and Hillel were having their tiff in 1930. Now there was talk of a people’s government in Spain. It was being called the Second Republic. In it, women were being promised equal rights to men. Other liberal freedoms would prevail. Old religious yokes would be tossed. It sounded wonderful to Amala even if it was not yet the law. That required a vote and a new constitution.\nBut the darker reality in Spain was mixed. Though the prospect of a fresh new government was energizing a downtrodden left, it was panicking the powerful on the right. There was no guarantee that the Popular Front, the coalition supporting a Second Republic, would ever be voted into power. On the right, Catholics and Monarchists yearned for a return to the old ways. Frighteningly, they were bulwarked by their armed civilian militias called the Requetés who sported blood red berets. Wealthy landowners and industrialists had much to lose if socialism and, god forbid, communism was voted in under the proposed Second Republic. They vehemently opposed it.\nThe military craved order and threatened to step in if the new government was not to their liking. They already had a history of coups. Meanwhile, fascists and falangists thirsted for naked authoritarian power to crush the liberal trend. They had the support of despots like Hitler and Mussolini. Yet despite the risks to the lofty goals of the Second Republic ever being realized, eighteen-year-old Amalie feared even more for her future in France which was toying with its own retreat into darkness. Even worse, it shared a border with an egocentric leader who was eager for land, thirsted for revenge for past wrongs, and hungered for retribution.\nSo, Amalie turned her attention to the land across the Pyrenees. The Popular Front, which was pushing for a liberal Second Republic, was already busy discussing a new constitution. It promised free speech and suffrage for women. So as France fretted with its future, and Germany rattled its rapidly growing stock of sabers, Amalie dreamed of a life on the other side of the Pyrenees and rooted for the Second Republic to come into being with all its promises.\nA year later, as Hitler’s and Mussolini’s military might grew, Amalie answered an advertisement in the Voix for a schoolteacher to come to a small village in the Spanish Pyrenees called Zegama nestled in the Basque Country. “You are too young to leave our beautiful house on the river,” protested her doting father.\nBut the school promised a small salary, room and board, a beautiful view of the Aizkorri Massif, a taste of adult freedom, and a chance to vote. Even better, it was high in the Pyrenees and too remote, she hoped, for armies to trouble with. The advertisement read: “Teacher wanted in Zegama Spain in the Shadow of Aizkorri ” Perhaps on the mountain, I will be safe from madmen?\nFours years later, Amalie married a shepherd and lived high on the mountain when news came that the Spanish Civil War had broken out on the foothills below." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lonely Summer Paradox\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1583\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about characters going on a summer road trip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I get up, and nothing gets me down. You gotta tough, I seen the thoughest around. And I know, baby just what you feelin. You gotta roll roll roll with the punches, I give you best swinging. Can you see here I am get back my back against this record machine. I ain’t the worst that you seen. Can you see what I mean? Might as well jump, go ahead jump. Might as well jump, go ahead jump. “\nOn a plain white mattress in a cheap rented flat, a second year West Valley High School student who had just finished the 1976-1977 Final Tests. It would be summer vacation. He lives alone, beside his parents who take care of his 5-year-old sister in Ohio. Towards the study table with a tape recorder on the table, still in the clothes to go out of the house that he wore until he fell asleep then woke up in the morning with a glass of coors 2 months expired. He played a song using the tape recorder because he didn't have enough money to buy a radio. The song from Bananarama entitled Cruel Summer was set.\n“The city is crowded, my friends are away and I’m on my own. It’s too hot to handle so I got to get up and go.\nIt’s a cruel (cruel), cruel summer. Leaving me here on my own it’s a cruel (It’s a cruel), cruel summer. Now you’re gone. You’re not the only one.”\nWhile singing, take a cold bath at 04:00 AM. Don’t know why it feels good for Tony Lawrence, every health secrets unintentionally he did without anyone know about it. Really fresh. Brush the teeth, washing blonde long and shaggy hair, 80s style. He’s tall, atletic looking teenager, every teenage boy dream. Not very wide, not very thin, just average but looking good, fashion designer’s favorite. Right after that, as usual, wearing a long plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up with buttons, tucked into baggy jeans in a tight top down, brown fantofel. The inside is a black T-shirt with the UFO logo, purple on top, red below, in which there is a city with tall buildings. From a distance, the light looks like a yellow-orange rainbow. Underneath it is a giant yellow “BOSTON” inscription in a writing style that is dominated by sharp turns. At the bottom end there is a silver iron grip that strikes a kind of lightning or water shaped like the letter \"R\". Out of the Reseda, California flat on a desert bike used in the city with the lights off. With a helmet of course. He didn't wear a red leather jacket that looked very cool because it was very hot outside. Still with the tape recorder hanging in his left pocket, he played a song:\n“Memory cool, back in the days of high school, we were a real pair. Barely of age, I was the star on your stage, so devil may care. I used to say, “Hey hey wanna ride wanna ride, hey hey what do you say? Hey hey won't you go, don't you know, I'n love with you, hey hey\". Ride by matches, obviously. The theme is night, while what happens is during the day. I don't know what he was thinking. Does he have many friends? Not at all. Likewise in middle school. It doesn't seem to stand out in any way. However, there are differences between the two. While in middle school, all of that was due to his low self-esteem, very low self-esteem, insecurity. While in high school, especially summer vacation after the final tests, he himself wanted it. Think first before forming a relationship with anyone. Along with a song that is not connected to the chronological time he is experiencing, he stops at a quiet mini mall in the middle. Lined up with 4 other mini malls. No name, definitely not famous, maybe just to survive. Indeed, in the neighborhood where he lived, he found many Mexican immigrants who tried their luck in the neighborhood because Echino Hills was too expensive. Exactly at 6:00 a.m., a display case was dewy in the morning with some kind of expired bread inside. As usual, he bought a slice of unbranded Pizza bread, for $2. You can imagine the quality alone, in addition to the taste which is quite good but boring. With a few pieces of sausage and spicy seasoning. Eaten on the edge of a bench with weeds in the middle in it. With the Law of Attraction imagine the sumptuous dishes he eats. One of the homeless girls with long messy hair, tattered sweaters piled on top to cover the cold. His very thin body is very easy to feel the cold next to the summer that is happening. Plus last night must have slept on pieces of cardboard arranged around the edges. Or hang out with other homeless people, most of whom are ex-hippies who are half-failed because they are still trying to make a living with any effort. With barrels formed a fireplace above the weeds that are actually still very comfortable to sit on or even sleep in.\nA suitable place for relaxation for teenagers who are experiencing \"Raging hormone\". The woman seemed to be the same age as Tony. It's very convincing that if her life was more groomed she would look much more beautiful. \"This is my my mart, you aint' hustler point on my mart.\" “I'm not a hustler, I'm not homeless. That's my bike” (while looking at the motorbike, pretending to be middle class). The word \"homeless\" was pronounced with a definite emphasis. As one piece entered his mouth, his appetite was disturbed. Eating while talking is done accidentally, so that the pizza that enters is connected to the trachea, not the esophagus. Of course, as a normal human being choking, coughing, throwing phlegm in any way. One of the interesting facts about Tony: He is not a smoker, but often phlegm. He didn't really think of this as a mystery that had to be solved, because the surroundings where he lived two years ago were full of wild life, smokers, drinkers, thugs acting threateningly because they were huddled in colorful bandanas, mullet hair trimmed to the side. back. The tank top used because of limited capital actually makes it look cooler. Never looked cold at all. Of course, due to natural selection early on. As usual went to the nameless beach near Reefy apartment. Reflect on what has happened. Last year in March until this year in February, he experienced a lot of positive changes, especially physically. Without realizing it, his desire is only limited to changes in body shape leading to more than that. He did not realize that physical fitness determines mental health as well. Which is also one of the biggest mistakes in his transformation. Starting from his habit of oversleeping, overeating that doesn't make him fat because his body type is Ectomorph, which is tall with long thin bones. However, sugar is still sugar. Meeting the brain makes the mood to be lazy, it feels like sleeping all day. Watch tube television. The mind is actually already gifted to do positive things. His favorite films are generally directed by John G Avildsen, with a typical training montage for each of his films with the theme of martial arts accompanied by drama, social conflicts that are often experienced in everyone's life, from teenagers, adults, to middle aged man. , or maybe someday old age. With typical music by Bill Conti. His favorite is \"Gonna Fly now\" in the Rocky saga. Don't like soap operas, maybe occasionally just for fun and a lullaby. It is not uncommon to fall asleep on the gray sofa which is very comfortable for him although sometimes itchy. The rest are Bloodsport, Iron Eagle, Iron Eagle 2. He did the Diamond Push Up 50 times just for fun. Who knows it will calm his mind and be productive again. “Bam”, his brain is flooded with dopamine. A trivial activity for him was just realized by him. So far, what makes being alone feels good is exercise. Apparently the sun had set. You can imagine how much time he spent contemplating the refreshing beach waves. He left the bottle of coors on the beach, washed away by the beach waves. It turned out that the coors he drank was only his favorite squeezed orange drink since 12 years. Lucky you. Otherwise, I don't know what will happen to innocent seawater contaminated by medicinal and destroying alcohol. Summertime Discovery that looks physically ordinary, but extraordinary to him. While getting on the motorbike, he played the Boston song entitled “Don’t Look Back”:\nIt’s a bright horizon and I’m awake now. Oh, I see myself in a brand new way. The sun is shinin’ The clouds are breakin’ ;Cause I can’t lose now, there’s no game to play. I can tell, there’s no more time left to criticize. I’ve seen what I could not recognize. Everything in my life was leading me on. But I can be strong (Oh, yes I can). I finally see the dawn arrivin’ I see beyond the road I’m drivin’ Far away and left behind (left behind). Oh the sun is shinin’ And I’m on that road.\nSomehow this is the turning point when he was 12. Ride a bycicle as a little skinny young boy, the same song, different feeling. It’s been a long road." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Calypso & The Coin Flip\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2491\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was unlucky to be born in Pontus, although I didn't realize it as I was growing up. My father was a successful merchant and had a prosperous business brokering the products of our abundant kingdom — cherries, olives, nuts, and fruit wines. When I was young he taught me his trade and I learned well how to conduct the business, source the products, find buyers and make them happy. \nMy family lived very well until our king, Mithridates, picked a fight with Rome. King Mithridates stoked the passions of the young men of our kingdom, so my friends and I went off to war. We lost.\nMy father's business was ruined and our formerly abundant land was impoverished. Most unlucky of all, when I was 22 years old, I was sold into slavery in Rome. \nI was bought by a freedman named Maximus, a tall, vigorous Gaul already close to 60 years old. He was also a merchant and he bought me because I was only 22 years old, strong and intelligent, and I had experience running an import export business just like his. So I labored long hours learning the business of Maximus and doing most of the work. \nMaximus treated me well. Besides being a slave, I lived a decent life. For a few years I was under his servitude until Saturnalia one year when Maximus got very drunk. We were gambling and I was winning a lot. Our game came down to one last roll of the dice. Maximus beat me. I lost all that I'd won that day. Maximus, however, had a tendency to be magnanimous when he was drunk. He gave me one last chance to win. \n“Let's flip my lucky coin, Androcles. Heads…I give you your freedom. Tails…you continue to be my slave for ten more years.” said Maximus.\nI was willing to take the risk, of course, so we proceeded. This coin was a special coin because it was the first money that Maximus earned as a merchant after gaining his own freedom from slavery. He regarded it as his good luck charm because it was ancient and his first tetradrachm as a free Roman. On the front of the coin was the head of Tyche, on the other side was a detailed wreath and the motto of Smyrna. \nWe flipped; I won. Maximus manumitted me in the next census after Saturnalia. He gifted me the coin of Tyche that won me my freedom and told me to guard it with my life. I made it into a necklace, and this talisman got me out of harm’s way many times. Maximus said it was no accident that the Greek goddess Tyche appeared on the first silver coin he’d earned, and had delivered me my freedom, because she is the equivalent of Fortuna, of whom he was a devotee.\nI went on to work for Maximus for several more years as a freedman. He treated me like a son and initiated me into the worship of Fortuna. To many Romans, Fortuna was a fickle goddess who dealt out good and bad fortune without regard for the merits of people, cities or nations. To slaves and freedmen, though, she was our benefactor and we always gave her tribute.\nMaximus was an influential magistrate in the community and we regularly participated in temple services at her sanctuary in the Forum Boarium. I adopted Fortuna’s worship as Maximus adopted me. I was a faithful adherent and lady luck always came through for me.\nI made a lot of money and became a successful merchant in my own right. Eventually, I went off on my own after Maximus died, inheriting his business and duties at the shrine of Fortuna. I was happy, even though I didn't yet have a family of my own. I was just working, sailing the Mediterranean, going back and forth between Rome and the Ionian city states, and enjoying my adventures at sea.\nDuring that time, the pirates of Cilicia molested Roman merchant ships and made our lives a lot harder than they needed to be. By then, I had built up my own successful fleet. I had a huge merchant ship, a Corbita type, the Isis-Fortuna, which could carry 1200 tons, that I filled with products in Italy and sailed them to the Hellenic city states. I’d fill it back up with products along the Ionian coast and bring them back to sell in Italy. It was a great business and an exciting life, except for the pirates. \nOne morning off the coast of Sicily, I was on the catascopus, our scout vessel, with ten of my crew. It was a marvelous day! I remember the cloudless azure sky soon after sunrise, cool breeze, and the taste of the salty air stinging my skin. Most of all I remember the feeling of invincibility and great possibility. Spirits were high because the weather was perfect and we were set to land in Sicily that evening, where we’d make a huge profit and enjoy the fruits of another successful journey.\nThis feeling was usually hubris, though, so I said a quiet prayer to Fortuna.\nWe spotted two pirate ships. Our small, quick scout vessel warned away our large, less maneuverable merchant ship. One pirate ship chased the corbita, and the other came after us. We chased off the pirates long enough for the corbita to raise all the sails and get away. \nFrom the catascopus, we fought them hard. The deck was slippery with blood and seawater. We were fending them off on all sides. Two were coming at me when the pirate in the lead slipped in a pool of blood. I cut his throat, then crashed shields with the one behind him. I managed to slice his leg open and bring him to his knees. I thrust my short sword into his throat. Before I could pull it out I heard the crack of a whip and felt it wrap around my neck, strangle me, and pull me onto my back.\nI passed out and came to in the hold of their ship. The necklace with my lucky coin was gone. Had Fortuna forsaken me?\nThe pirates had killed five of my men and easily captured our smaller scouting vessel, taking the rest of us captive. They took our ship in tow and put us in captivity. They were cruel to us, tore off our shirts and whipped us. \nThey said they would ransom us for a lot of money, but my crew members didn't have anyone rich to ransom them. All I had was my merchant ship, which had hopefully gotten away, containing almost my entire net worth. If it was already safe, there wasn’t much I could do now to go get it for them. \nThey made us gamble for our lives. They said that we could play dice, and if we won, they'd sell us into slavery. If we lost, they'd make us walk the plank. We spent that afternoon throwing dice, which were probably loaded, for our lives. \nAll of my crew members lost. I felt powerless to help these men who had helped me grow rich, with whom I'd shared great adventures. There was nothing I could do to save them. \nThe pirates had fun toying with their lives. They would stab them in the hamstring and then make them walk the plank so they couldn't swim and they’d just drown in the middle of the Mediterranean. Or, they’d make them humiliate themselves before slicing them up and throwing them over the side of the ship. \nFinally it came down to me and I had to play dice against the pirate captain. Again, I was winning, just like that fateful December 19th Saturnalia that changed the course of my life. I won nine times. The pirates were getting frustrated because apparently their loaded dice didn’t work anymore. \n“We'll play one more game. If you win, we'll drop you off within sight of the next landmass and you can swim for it. If you lose we’re going to make you die a slow death,” the captain said. \nThey had already taken away my lucky charm, the silver tetradrachm with the head of Tyche, which I had won from my master to gain my freedom. So, I figured my luck had run out and I was getting mentally prepared for a slow death. \nThe captain decided to change the game. He took a coin from his pocket and showed it to me. On one side was the head of Tyche, on the back was the goddess Nike standing with a palm branch. This coin was a recent one from Syria. \nI knew when I saw it I was going to win. \n“If you get the head of Tyche, you swim for it. If Nike shows up, we’ll have fun killing you,” said the captain. They flipped the coin and I won. Of course they didn’t like the result. He flipped it two more times and I still won.\nFortuna had not abandoned me after all. Shortly thereafter, we saw land in the distance. The captain said, “I hope you can swim!”\nHe slapped the coin into the palm of my hand, punched me in the stomach, and they threw me overboard. I had never swum so far in my life. The sea was mostly calm, but there were times when I nearly drowned. I almost didn't make it, but I could see the beach in the distance and I just found the will to keep going. As the sun was going down, I flopped onto the beach and passed out. \nI dreamed I was in a cave in the middle of the night and a woman was giving me cool water. I fell back asleep and dreamed of the most beautiful song I've ever heard in my life. As I was coming out of my dream state in the morning, I awoke, looked up, and saw the beach where I had landed from the mouth of a cave I was now inside. \nIt wasn't a dream. I turned around and there was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, singing and smiling at me. She gave me water, fruit, and fish to help me regain my strength.\nWhen I was back to full strength she kept me there with her, but didn’t speak much. We made love every day, played on the beach, explored the coast, and took walks along the beautiful hillside cliffs. \nMy savior seemed to have an endless supply of fresh, cold spring water, wine, fish and fruit. She sang songs that filled my heart with joy and love. At last, she told me her name was Calypso. I couldn't believe it, but I knew the story of Odysseus. This was the nymph who had captured Odysseus after saving him from a shipwreck, then forced him to live with her for seven years as his love slave. \nHad Fortuna come through for me yet again, or not?\nI was satisfied, but I started to long for the sea again. I wondered what happened to my ship. I wanted to go back and rescue my business, continue trading, and rebuild my life in Italy. I desired to be a rich and successful merchant like Maximus. I longed to have new adventures, as well as to contribute and make something of myself and my freedom. \nI didn't have it bad as a slave with Maximus, but as a freedman, I valued my liberty more than anything. And with Calypso, I had again lost my freedom, even though it was the sweetest slavery imaginable.\nI confided in Calypso and told her how I was feeling. She expected it. She had gotten the same treatment from Odysseus. She told me this is one of the reasons why she likes mortal men — we want to be out, be active, have adventures, meet different people and live our lives to the fullest. \nShe took me for a walk into the interior of her island. We arrived at a subterranean temple. The facade had a formal entrance marked by enormous carved stones and a capstone bearing a crudely carved face that guarded the doorway leading to a central corridor. There were stone altars containing strange idols: one had a pig's head, the second a well-carved human head on a phallus-shaped pedestal, and the third a head supported by two legs.\nI noticed that the walls were ochre. I saw the skeletons of thousands of people. In the center, there was a large statue of a rotund woman lying on her side on an elaborate woven bed. Calypso left me there to draw my own conclusions. I wasn't sure what all this meant. Was she trying to tell me that no matter how much I accomplish, this is ultimately all I have to look forward to?\nWe left the subterranean temple and she took me to a monolithic structure. Young women were dancing around it. Then, one would sit on it, say some prayers, jump off, and another one would follow. Calypso told me that these were local women from the village and that they wanted to get pregnant. \nShe gave me an offer. I could either stay with her forever, become immortal, and be the king of her lovely island along with her as my queen. Or, she would set me free to go live in the village. I could take one of these young women as my wife and live a normal mortal life. \nMaybe I'd stay there forever, happy with a limited lifestyle on the island. I’d have a beautiful young wife and a happy family, enjoying my freedom in this beautiful place. I could probably get back to Italy somehow, save my business, continue adventuring, and become the successful merchant I dreamed of being. \nLater that night, Calypso and I were sitting at the mouth of her cave, admiring the beauty of her island and watching the sun go down. “Let's play a game,” she said. \nCalypso produced a coin with the head of Tyche on one side and Nike on the opposite side. “I found this on you at the beach. When you arrived on my island, it was in your mouth. Since you weren't dead, it wasn't for Kharon. Tyche is my sister, so I recognized her face and took it for safekeeping.” \n“I'll flip the coin. If the side of Nike comes up, you get to go free and do what you will. If the head of Tyche comes up, you'll stay here forever. You'll be immortal, Androcles, and I'll make you infinitely happy,” said Calypso. \nShe flipped the coin. I’ll always remember the ping of the silver coming off her thumbnail and reverberating off the cave walls. She caught it with her right hand, slapped it onto the back of her left hand. It landed on…" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Blink\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1046\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Blink once.\nWaves lap quietly against the rocks.\nBlink twice.\nWaves lap quietly against the rocks.\nSarah watched the waves, listening to the pattern they sung as they lapped against the rocks in the ocean. She was the only person on the beach. She ran her fingers through the cold sand and watched as it seeped through the cracks between her fingers, still listening to the waves. This was her safe place. Her sanctuary. Her home away from home, providing comfort and solace, even when she no longer needed it.\nShe couldn’t recall how many nights she spent waiting for the sunset or how many mornings she spent waiting for the sunrise. She just recalls the peace that swallowed her soul when she did so.\nShe had told nobody about her secret spot near the end of the pier. It’s always dead here. No bars, arcades, or shops occupied this end of the pier so people were scarce. At the very end, both lights were broken and had been for years. Sarah had discovered an old, rickety bench at this end while riding her bike late at night years ago. She was searching for a quiet spot to sit and enjoy her book. It was so quiet and so peaceful just having the lapping of the waves to lull her through the night and the very faint distant voices of people, so distant, they hadn’t sounded like they were speaking words. Just worlds away from where she was.\nIt was at the moment that Sarah had finished her book, reading it cover to cover, that she realized just how much time had actually passed her by.\nThe sun was rising.\nSarah noticed an opening to the beach that was behind the rickety bench. It was like a secret entrance just for her, the moon, and the sun. A secret all her own.\nShe ventured onto the beach, dropping into the sand, and watched the sunrise on her own, her book clutched in between both hands.\nThere was something magnificent and magical about watching the sunrise on your own.\nAfter that day, Sarah dubbed this “her spot” and would come often. Sometimes, she’d watch the sunset. Other times, she’d watch the sunrise. There was no rhyme or reason for her to come here. As an Introvert, she found peace on her own and with quiet contemplation.\nThis is where she came when she and her mother had fought.\nThis is where she came when her mother and father had told Sarah and her siblings about their impending divorce.\nThis is where she came after she had won the 1st place prize for a literacy piece at school. She had felt overwhelmed by the sheer energy of other people who congratulated her, surrounded her, and tried to engage her in small talk. This was her center.\nShe came here when starting new books.\nShe came here when writing new books.\nShe came here when Jimmy Zamudio had kissed her while tutoring him.\nShe came here when her best friend had moved away.\nAnd she came here today to reflect on the week. No other reason. As Saturday was coming to an end and Sunday began a new week for Sarah and everybody else, she wanted to reflect on her week. It was ordinary. Boring. But also different all at once.\nThis was the last week of summer vacation and soon Sarah would begin her senior year of high school.\nShe was excited, but afraid. Though not exactly popular, Sarah was also not an outcast. She simply made the decision to stick to herself most of the time, though she was friendly with everyone. She was invited to parties frequently and outings with the other kids, but rarely had the energy or desire to partake in the activities. She just preferred quiet evenings at home or on the beach to read, write, and regroup.\nSarah sighed a long exhale, thinking about the words her mother had spoken to her earlier, “Sarah, you HAVE to start hanging out with others your own age more often. I’m concerned about you. You don’t go out, don’t date, don’t do anything rebellious. At your age, I was already… “ and this was when Sarah had tuned her mother out. She knew the worry and concern she had felt would fade as her mother reveled in her memories, revisiting teenage years and memories of innocent rebellion that had long since passed by her.\nShe often wonders if her mother was living vicariously through her. But she had no more words to say. Nothing else she says or does would ever make Diana realize that Sarah was not like her older brother and sister, not like her mother, and she was her own person. One she quite liked. She was…different. In all the right ways.\nShe smiled and she watched the sky illuminate. It was changing colors from the darkened black sky with balls of light sporadically scattered throughout it to a purple, orange, red mix, like a painters easel. It dripped with the light of the morning, clouds splattered here and there as they began to wake up. Sarah caught a peek of the sun as it awoken, ready to signal to the world that the day was beginning, already saying “good morning” to Sarah as she watched the reflection of the sun and the colors of the sky through the ocean.\nShe had imagined the sun was playing hide and seek with the moon and when caught, would rise.\nInhaling once more, Sarah blinked once as the waves moved quicker, lapping more frequently against the rocks.\nBlink twice.\nFaster waves.\nSarah blinked once more before standing up and stretching. She inhaled…\n1, 2, 3.\nExhale…\n1,2,3.\nSarah bowed her head to the sun, silently sending a “good morning. I appreciate you.” thought to the sun. Silly, she knows. But it made her feel better, like the sun and she had a bond and connection that was intimate and strong. She felt ready to go home and prepare for Monday morning, when she’d become a senior in high school.\nBlinking once more, Sarah hoisted herself up onto the pier, stealthily slipping through the unknown entrance, got on her bike, and began her journey home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Come In Spinner\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2827\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Thommo rammed a bayonet into the rocky clay and tied a string to it. Thommo, the only one of us over thirty, and therefore responsible, was our Ringie, the supervisor of the Two-up ring. He attached a second bayonet to the other end of the string and, using the bayonets like a giant school compass, drew a perfect circle in the clay soil.\nIt was the 23rd May 1915, just months since I'd left Australia, to fight for my country and our King, George V, King of England and the British Empire.\nWe were perched on a small section of rock on a hill high above the Aegean sea, at a place called Gallipoli. Sheltered from the Turks above by an overhanging rock ledge, Thommo had declared this an ideal place in which to have a bit of fun before, as he said, we went \"up'n over that little hill and then non-stop to Constantinople.\"\nThommo had managed to find a small, flat bit of wood to use as the kip. He'd pulled it off a beam holding up one of the few wooden shelters available for the officers. He'd also managed to find some sandbags he'd lugged up from below to make comfortable seats for us while we waited to be sent to our likely doom over the top of the cliff.\nWe called Two-up the \"Fair Game\" then. You might think it was a simple-minded game created by our convict ancestors and the poor Irish settlers, but Two-up has a code of conduct stricter than the Queensberry boxing rules. Once Thommo had placed the two pennies on the kip, no one could touch them until they'd been flipped correctly, landed inside the dirt circle, and a winner declared. Our Ringie had already carefully checked the pennies to make sure they hadn't been filed down, although he'd had those same pennies in his pocket since we left Egypt. Two-up pennies must be highly polished on the \"heads\" side, in this case, the magnificent head of George V, and left dirty and dark on the \"tails\" side, so the winner is known instantly when they land.\n\"Come in Spinner!\" Thommo screamed at the top of his lungs, signifying he was ready for the Spinner to toss the coins.\n\"Jesus Thommo, could you keep it down?\" Stretch said in a stage-whisper. \"You may as well send up a flare to let Johnny Turk know exactly where we are.\"\n\"She'll be right mate, they'll think it's a battle cry and waste their ammo shooting at the rocks over our heads.\"\nStretch was our Spinner. In true Australian tradition, his nickname reflected his physique. At 6ft 6\", Stretch had been a spin bowler for his local cricket team, so Thommo figured that qualified him to toss two pennies at least 10 foot into the air and make sure they whirled like a spinster at a country dance. It was a miracle Stretch was still alive. His head and shoulders, towering above us, should have been a magnet for the bullets of the eagle-eyed Turks, yet he had defied the statistics by not only surviving the beach landing, but a full three weeks on the cliffs.\n\"All right, Gentlemen,\" Thommo said, \"As we are under certain time constraints due to our obligation to go over that cliff and have Johnny Turk take pot shots at us, we have new rules unique to the situation in which we find ourselves. Bets on odds will be permitted. The winner will be the first to make the correct call, and if no one makes a correct call, we will carry on until someone does. If you make an incorrect call you're out. Agreed?\"\nWe all nodded. There was only three of us to play. We'd also agreed on the winner's prize. We were positioned halfway up the cliff, with the Turks lying in their trenches just beyond the top. The route upwards was a hand-over-hand mountain goat track which could take only one man. The prize was going first.\nWith no disrespect to my fellow competitors, I suspected they were true amateurs at the game. I'd seen them play before and both of them were clearly of the view that good tactics involved only betting on tails. In fact, there is a 50% chance that the pennies would fall on odds, being one head and one tail, 25% on both tails, and 25% on both heads.\n\"Heads,\" I called. For possibly the first time in their lives, both Mick and Stan called \"odds\".\nStretch flung the pennies from his kip. The coins gyrated in the air, the polished heads of King George catching the sunlight and glinting like a lighthouse beacon. A bullet screamed past and hit one King George full on, sending him spiralling downwards towards the Aegean.\n\"Excuse me Gentlemen, while I confer with my Spinner.\" After muttering for a bit with Stretch, Thommo asked if anyone had a spare penny.\nI had a couple of Two-up coins in my pocket. I handed one over.\n\"She'll do,\" said Thommo. I called heads again, Stan and Mick called odds, and the coins were flung into the air, although not quite so high as the previous throw.\nThis time, it all seemed much more real to me. The coins floated down in slow motion, and once they hit the ground, they rolled endlessly around on their edges before coming to rest. Two shiny, goateed images of King George V blinked up at me.\n\"And we have a winner!\" cried Thommo, letting me know from the firmness of his hand on my shoulder and the regret in his eyes, that no outcome could have been a good one.\nI was slinging my rifle over my shoulder when the head of a messenger poked up from a rock below us.\n\"Pass it on. Message from headquarters. Both sides have agreed to a short ceasefire to bury their dead. You'll be given details soon, but until then, it's business as usual.\nBusiness as usual, so I climbed slowly up the cliff face, plastered against the rocks like a gecko, and tried as best I could to blend in behind bushes and stony outcrops. Occasionally, a sniper's bullet peppered chips off the surrounding rocks, but I emerged unscathed at the top.\nThe first waves of our boys to go over the top had taken up a position just past the top of the ridge, and had already dug rough trenches in which they lay. The Turks had taken up their positions on higher ground a short distance away, complete with their vicious machine gun nests, waiting for us to show our faces. I didn't suppose anyone on our side had been able to carry one of our machine guns up the goat track.\nAs soon as I reached flat ground, I flung myself into the nearest foxhole, occupied by two other soldiers, Johnno and Max. The No Man's land between us and the Turks was a stinking swamp of bloated, maggot-infested corpses. Laying where they fell, the bodies of the soldiers of the British Empire were melded with those of the enemy. Embracing each other in death, the soldiers' clothing was now a uniform shade of dark brown from blood, decaying flesh, and putrid mud. It was difficult to tell whether a body was Turkish, English, German, Australian or New Zealander.\nMy new friends in the foxhole had been on the ridge for two days and two nights. They had news of the ceasefire. From up high, they'd seen a Turkish officer being led blind-folded on a donkey along the beach, to where our officers were waiting, and had been told a one day armistice had been negotiated to bury the dead.\nJohnno had made his pack into a pillow and laid his head on it, his feet resting on a smooth rock. He'd fashioned a dirty rag into a kerchief, tied over his nose to help against the stench.\n\"We only have to avoid getting shot for one more night, boys,\" Johnno said, \"and then tomorrow the sun will shine, the details will remove those stinking corpses, and we'll have a peaceful rest for nine hours before Hell opens its gates again and the Devil puts out the Welcome mat.\"\nAt nightfall, I curled up into a ball and slept fitfully. I dreamt of the going-away party my parents had thrown me when I was about to be deployed.\nMy mother had organised a farewell afternoon tea, with all friends, relatives and neighbours invited. I had never been out of the country, so it was a celebration of the glorious event of my deployment to the exotic Middle East. Even my old history teacher, Miss Busselton, came. Tucking into my mother's famous sponge cake with raspberry jam, she decided to give me some advice.\n\"Watch out for those Ottoman Turks, my Jack. They've had centuries of practice and are some of the most ferocious warriors the world has known. They have managed to overcome every invader. First, they threw out the Romans, then the Crusaders, then the Mongol hordes-\"\nMy mother stood up, frowning.\n\"So sorry, Doris, I think Jack is probably needing to get some rest before his trip.\"\nAs she ushered Doris out, my father came over and put his hand on my shoulder. \"Pay no attention, Jack. The war will probably be over before you even land. The papers say the Turks are running out of ammunition and are disorganised. They're basically just a bunch of misguided goat-herders, with the Germans leading them astray.\"\nThe sun woke us the next morning at dawn, when we slowly ate our chow, dreading a call to advance on the enemy line. Perhaps due to lack of time, it never came. At 7.30 am, the ceasefire began, and men from both sides started to emerge from their trenches and converge on No Man's land.\nAustralian officers were sharing their chocolate with German and Turkish officers. We stretched our legs and wandered over No Man's land, hoping we might learn what sort of terrain we might be faced with in the coming days.\nA Turk walked towards me. He was clean-shaven, unlike his compatriots, who mostly wore full beards. He was just a boy, his face fresh with youth. Like many of the Turkish infantry, he wore a pointy woollen cap, with a heavy buttoned jacket, and a leather bandolier criss-crossing his chest. His trousers were tucked into soft, knee-length leather boots. Most of the Australians were in loose shirts, with the sleeves rolled up, and broad-brimmed hats to protect us from the sun.\nThe young man held his right hand over his heart, said something in his strange language, and inclined his head towards me. \"Mehmet,\" he said.\nI guessed that was his name. Or maybe it meant \"Hello\". Or perhaps he had been saying \"May you die a thousand deaths by a thousand cuts, you dishonourable infidel.\"\nI didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but I held out my hand and he took it in both his and roughly shook it up and down.\n\"Jack. From Australia.\"\n\"Smoke, Jack?\" He offered a Turkish cigarette.\n\"You speak English!\"\n\"No, just few words.\" We both sat down and enjoyed the excellent, pungent tobacco in companiable silence.\n\"You from around here, Mehmet?\"\n\"No, long long way. They make us come.\" He gestured to the German officers in charge.\n\"Me too, English make us come.\" We both laughed.\n\"Both same, maybe,\" he said.\nI rummaged in my pockets to find something to give in return for the cigarette, and found a ration biscuit. He took it when I held it out and scoffed it down. He was hungry. Perhaps he'd only come over hoping I had some food. He stayed though, after he'd eaten, with no indication he wanted to leave.\n\"Many days here Jack?\"\n\"No, just arrived. You?\"\n\"Yes, many days, nights. We see you, in water, then coming up mountain. Crazy we say, but brave soldiers.\"\n\"You a good shot, Mehmet?\" I gestured as though shooting a rifle.\n\"Yes, since boy I shoot deer, rabbit, anything, for family to eat. No good shoot no eat.\"\n\"Remind me to steer clear of you then.\" I don't know if he understood, but we both laughed again.\nI thought of the city boys I'd met on the ship over, who had recently been enlisted. Young boys who, if you'd made them cut off the head of a chicken and gut it for the Sunday roast, would probably throw up. They weren't ready to stick a bayonet in a charging Turk and disembowel him.\nI took a worn photo out of my breast pocket and showed it to him.\n\"My wife, my baby.\"\n\"Very beautiful,\" he said.\n\"You?\"\nMehmet held up ten fingers and then eight to show he was only eighteen. \"Soon, maybe, if I can go home.\"\nHe reached under his coat jacket and pulled out a curved knife. I instantly flinched, but he sliced off one of his coat buttons and gave it to me. \"Soldier like these, for remember.\"\nWe had been told not to cut off our buttons. I pulled the coin out of my pocket.\nHe looked at it with amazement. \"Don't worry, Mehmet, it's not worth much, just for playing Two-up.\" He didn't understand, but gave me a broad smile and pressed it to his lips and then forehead before tucking it in his jacket.\nAn officer yelled something in his direction, motioning him to return to his position. Perhaps he thought we were discussing secret battle tactics. I didn't think either of us had a clue about what the next tactics in this battle might be.\n\"Goodbye Mehmet.\"\n\"Goodbye Jack.\"\nI held out my hand, but he clasped me in an embrace, and then he was gone.\nAt 5.00 pm the ceasefire finished. Red flares exploded and bled their brilliant colour into the sky. The Turks' deafening cannon resumed their barrage against the ships waiting below. Their machine guns started up their death rattle. When a body did not absorb the bullets, they hit the rocky ground, creating billowing dust clouds with sharp fragments of rock. Snipers raised their heads, just long enough to pick of one by one, and with uncanny timing and accuracy, our soldiers who had also raised their heads from their trenches and prepared to fire, but not always fast enough.\nEven so late in the day, the order came to advance. Crouching, I had run less than a couple of yards into No Man's land when I saw Mehmet's unmistakable smooth face. He was running far from the Turks' trenches. I saw him far to my left, raising his rifle towards me, and then I felt a sting to the back of my left calf, and I went down. I got up again, dragging my left leg. I could see Mehmet had changed direction and was running to my far right, aiming his rifle at me again. Another sting, this time to my right leg, and I stayed down.\nSoldiers ran by me, firing at will. Mehmet was exposed, far from the trenches. It was only seconds before I saw him fly backwards and then he was down.\nThe pain in my legs came and went in dizzying waves, sometimes excruciating, sometimes, if only for seconds, stopping as though it were withdrawing to gain strength for an even greater assault. I crawled on my belly back to my foxhole and tumbled in. I could feel my boots fill with blood. There were some men still fighting with bad wounds, but my legs refused to hold me up.\nI drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, then felt the hand of a medic, shaking me.\n\"Where are you shot?\"\n\"Both calves, I think. I can't walk.\"\nHe cut off sections of my trousers and inspected the wounds.\n\"Looks like a bullet went straight through one leg, but the other's still in there. Your fight ends here Matie. We'll get you down to the hospital ship. Lucky, seems you got shot by the only Turk who can't aim.\"\nA lifetime has gone by since then, and I try not to think of that terrible war. The only mementoes I want to keep from that time are the deeply puckered scars in each of my calves, and a button from a Turkish soldier's jacket.\nMy little granddaughter, when first seeing my bare legs at the beach, asked me \"Why are there dents in your legs, Grandpa?\"\n\"A present from a brave soldier called Mehmet. He did it to save my life.\"\n\"We should write him a thankyou letter then,\" she said.\n\"Tell you what, when we get home, you write him that letter for me, and we'll post it together. We'll send it all the way to the other side of the world, to Turkey, Mehmet's country.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sunset: A Hope\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1003\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sun, sea, the sand, and Shehnaaz! Perhaps, her only way to escape the downcast reality. How gravely she wanted her fortune to change. She wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth. This made her envious of the rich high class society. She herself claimed sunsets to be her only way of detoxification of her mind. Her family involved her mother, father and three siblings. She dreamed of being an fashion advisor but most candidates were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Rarely do they come from middle class families. Belonging to a lower middle class family she literally burnt the candle at both ends to get the scholarship. But at the result day Demet, daughter of a highly influential person got the scholarship even though she didn’t top. Even after knowing the truth behind, Shehnaaz didn’t utter a word against Demet. Shehnaaz being upset was roaming around the corridor of the university, she heard the senior event manager saying “Owner of the university is arriving on Friday”. Shehnaaz didn’t give any attention as she was already drenched with dejection. But who knew that this Friday will come with the most amazing twists into her life perhaps will change her ethos wholly. Burak Sarsalmaz the owner of the university and a very handsome man owned more than 500 profiting companies. Shehnaaz as usual came to the university where all the students were invited to hear some from Burak. Shehnaaz sat at the last seats of the gallery. Burak started his speech in which he included that only deserving students get a scholarship from this university. This triggered Shehnaaz and she straight away stood up and threw water from a bottle on his face and stated that Burak is a lier. As she was sitting in one of the last seats Burak was unable to identify her but was pretty much disgusted with such a disrespectful act by one of the students. Shehnaaz was forced to leave the spot by her friend Asla. Demet was aww struck looking at the handsomeness of Burak. She got up and started helping Burak to clean himself. Burak being a womanizer started flirting with Demet. Burak was completely unaware about what the future had for him. He had no clue that Demet is the daughter of his father’s friend and his father only has helped her to grab the scholarship without any merit. Demet all night kept thinking about Burak and on the other side of the coin Burak was anxious to know who actually the girl was who threw water to him. The next day things started as usual. Shehnaaz came to the university and entered her class. Burak was still curious and suddenly the event manager came and said that it was her who did it pointing at Shehnaaz but Burak misunderstood it with Demet. He went near her and said “I have never in my life met a person as brave as you who in front of the whole university threw water on me and had an opinion”. Though Demet knew that it was false but she didn’t want to lose such a good impression of Burak of her. When Burak asked her the reason behind the act. She crumpled and said that she by mistake did it. Burak was not satisfied as he knew that was a willed action but he kept quiet as he can’t deny it. Days passed away suddenly one day Shehnaaz saw Burak and got triggered again. This time she went towards him and directly confronted him of being a liar. Burak immediately understood her to be the same girl who threw water towards him. Though he knew he kept quiet and just listened what Shehnaaz was speaking. He got completely lost in her. Shehnaaz after completing her word called Burak insensible. The very next day Burak knowingly entered Shehnaaz’s class and asked her to come with him. Shehnaaz though unwillingly went with him and Demet seeing this was highly jealous. Burak cleared the matter and said that he was completely unaware about the scholarship facts. Shehnaaz hearing this felt guilty and asked Burak forgiveness. Burak asked if they can be friends and Shehnaaz said yes. Demet heard this slyly and was unhappy. The next day was the final semester exams, Demet made a plan to catch Shehnaaz of false copying and she was successful too. Shehnaaz being disqualified went to see the sunset to release her grief. Burak when heard about this went after Shehnaaz. Though Shehnaaz didn’t want to meet anyone she didn’t deny Burak. Burak came near her, put a arm around her neck and calmly said “Look at the sunset, it symbolises that after every darkness there sunset be a sunrise too. Trust on what destiny has for you. You changed me. The moment I saw you I forgot all my past affairs. You made me a good human being. If Burak can turn good then things will change your fortune will change.” Shehnaaz calmed down and Burak then said it wasn’t her fault, he has already seen the CCTV footage and Demet is the cheater. Then Shehnaaz went back to university and she gave the exams and topped and got the scholarship too. Burak held her arm and took her near the sea and in front of the Sunset said her to marry him. Shehnaaz had already fallen in love with him and said yes. Burak and Shehnaaz’s family arranged the marriage and surprisingly it was a beautiful sunset Beach marriage. Burak's father was unhappy as he wanted Demet to be his daughter-in-law but after seeing Shehnaaz and knowing about Demet's actions he accepted the marriage. Demet's father came and kidnapped Shehnaaz. Burak chased the kidnappers whereas Burak's father called the police. Thankfully Demet's father was prisoned and Shehnaaz ran to hug Burak. Quite soon Shehnaaz and Burak got married and Shehnaaz’s family’s fortune changed. So, Sunsets are a hope of a better future. Every sunset brings the promise of a new dawn." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Our Lot in War\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1851\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having a run of bad luck." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "[TW: pg-13 WW2 battle scene]\n\nIn 1942 my father was lucky. He studied anthropology in university—even published a paper on the Minahasan people of Indonesia—and when the draft came he was enlisted into US Army Intelligence rather than being called up for combat.\n\nDuring the war he shuttled around the Pacific collecting information on local populations, providing weapons to resistance movements, and helping negotiate problems locals had with US military bases.\n\nOn one such journey, on a troop ship bound for the Philippines, he saw something unusual. A young Marine with perfectly white hair. There were reports of US soldiers suffering malnutrition from being garrisoned on remote islands.\n\n“I noticed your white hair,” he said, “have you always had it?”\n\n“Why do you ask?” The man's hands were shaking slightly. \n\nSoldiers sometimes find it hard to talk about their problems, so my dad changed the topic for a while. “The Philippines. A great place. Pineapple, steaks, beer, can you believe it? A lot better than those goddamn atolls.”\n\n“Looking forward to it, sir.”\n\nAfter more small talk about how pleasant things would be at their next destination, the white haired Marine got back around to answering the first question, and started to talk about himself.\n\n**\n\nMy name is Doug, and I'm a mechanic from Michigan, engaged to a wonderful girl back home, Carol.\n\nLast year, after Pearl Harbor, I signed up for the Marines. Soon enough I find myself on a Marines troop carrier circling around in the middle of the South Pacific.\n\nOne day, we are told to get ready, and soon enough, we are climbing out of the ship into landing craft. After we are onboard, the squad leader tell us our mission. In the Marines, they don’t tell you where you are going until the last second. Well the battleships had been firing their guns at an island in the distance for a few days, so it’s not a big surprise.\n\nHe says that’s Tarawa island, and we Marines plan to take it that day. Thousands will be landing. On the main beach, the Japanese have a dozen cement bunkers and the machine guns in those bunkers have a full range of fire across the beach. We need to do something about those guns.\n\nI enlisted in Michigan as a vehicle mechanic but when I show up at Parris Island, they weren’t training mechanics, so I was taught Combat Engineering instead. Eight weeks of learning how to clear minefields, build pontoon bridges, and use explosives.\n\nIn the first landing wave we are the only combat engineers. We're given 40 lbs of TNT. We need to take out any bunker still in operation after the USAF bombers and the Navy artillery do their work. One of us will need to crawl up to the bunker and toss the bomb onto it. Under enemy fire, it’s a near suicide mission.\n\nThe Sergeant says he’s not asking for volunteers. Our squad has 10 Marines, and we will draw lots for who takes the demolition pack. The rest of us provide cover fire.\n\nHe writes the numbers 1 to 10 on tiny scraps of paper and puts them into a sock.\n\nThe first guy the Sergeant hands it to pulls out a “6”, looks happy with himself, and passes the sock to me. I put my hand in. I feel one of those pieces of paper between my fingers. Concentrate on feeling the number on it before pulling it out. If it's a \"1\", I can get ready to kiss this world goodbye. \n\nI think about my fiancee Carol. Will she miss me when I'm gone? I can't imagine her with another man. Nervously, I pull the tiny scrap of paper out. Sweat runs from my face. I open it and my head spins when I see a “2”. Then I focus again, and see it’s a “9”.\n\nI keep my cool as if this is just a game of dice. Marines, we are all in this together. I can’t show it to the others but I can’t believe my luck. I might get a chance to get out of this after all.\n\nAfter two more draws, a kid from Colorado turns pale when he pulls the number “1”. Another guy gets a “2” and the Sergeant reminds him he needs to be ready if anything happens to the number one guy. We talk to the kid from Colorado the whole boat trip and tell him It's going to be alright. We know better than to leave him alone in his thoughts.\n\nAt a steady crawl, the heavy wood boat moves toward the beach. From our seats swinging wildly from side to side, half the marines get sick on the floor. But not me. I’m used to the waves on Lake Michigan.\n\nIn training we learned landing craft need to ride in on high tide to push in high up the beach. The boat driver grumbles that the tide might fail today, A neap tide. The driver says he doesn’t have a gun and doesn’t want to get stuck on the beach.\n\nAround us are dozens of boats like ours. Only a few Japanese artillery shells land anywhere near us. Seagulls fly overhead, oblivious to the war. I wonder what they are thinking about all this. Ahead, we see a thin band of white sand steadily getting closer.\n\nThe boat lurches and throws us out of our seats. A terrible scraping sound comes from the bottom of the boat. \n\n“The reef,” the driver shouts out. At low tide, the coral rocks of the reef hide just below the water surface.\n\nHe reverses the engine. We back up and then go forward again, trying a different channel. Another bump, and we’re stuck again. This time, reversing the engine doesn’t free the landing craft from the rocks.\n\nNow we’re immobile and the tapping of Japanese bullets on our boat becomes more frequent. If the Japanese open up with anything high-caliber, we will be Swiss cheese in this flimsy wooden landing craft.\n\n“California, check the depth,” the Sergeant says—he calls us by our home states, says it's easier than remembering our names. The Sergeant never answers our questions about the battles in North Africa we know he was in.\n\nCalifornia pulls himself over the edge of the boat and drops into the water. His shoulders are showing above the water.\n\n“Drop the gate,” the Sergeant cries out.\n\nWith a loud creak, the front of the Higgins boat drops open, which fully exposes us to fire from the beach. We have trained to get out of the boat fast and into the water.\n\n“To the beach and dig in, Marines,” the Sergeant shouts.\n\nWith water up to my armpits, getting to the beach means wading in one step at a time. The tide pulls us out every other step. Splashes from bullets in the water around us look harmless.\n\nSomebody shouts, “Phil!” \n\nI look over and see Phil fall face down into the water. The white foam of the waves turns pink. Phil was number “7”. He almost cried after he had seen the number.\n\nAn artillery shell explodes in the water right behind me, It’s pointless to look if anyone got hit, and I keep pushing in.\n\nWhen the water is down to my knees, I start running. The cracking of Japanese infantry rifles and the piercing ripping sound of their machines guns is now very close. I ready myself for the pain of red hot lead.\n\nA rise of sand is just up the beach, and I dive behind it. Taking out my infantry shovel, I start digging. A few infantry already on the beach toss grenades at the Japanese, but they don’t reach their lines in the trees or the bunkers.\n\nI see smoke from the machine guns inside firing in the bunkers 10 feet above the beach. \n\nFrom his foxhole, the sergeant shouts out, “Roll call!” \n\n“Colorado!” and then, ”Delaware, Carolina, Arkansas, California, Michigan, Dakota!”\n\nThere’s seven of us left.\n\nI scan the surf behind us. Hundreds of marines are slowly wading in. At intervals, the Japanese machine gun strafes the surf. Soldiers topple over and sink into the water.\n\n“We need to take out that machine gun,“ the Sergeant says, “Colorado, prepare the charge.” \n\nWe back off while Colorado readies the fuse. When it’s armed, if someone pulls the cord, they only have 10 seconds to get away from the explosion.\n He puts the backpack on and slithers out of his foxhole. It’s 300 feet to the bunker. The sound of a Japanese machine gun rips through the air.\n\n“Colorado?”\n\nA Marine uses a shaving mirror to look over the top of the foxhole. “Colorado has been hit, Sergeant.”\n\nThe Sergeant waits for another round of US navy artillery to hit the Japanese line. \n\n“Delaware, go get the pack and complete the mission.”\n\nThe Japanese are barely firing back now, and Delaware looks more optimistic. He only makes it two feet farther than Colorado before getting hit.\n\nIt goes on like this, and soon Carolina and Arkansas are also gunned down, having made it just a few feet further.\n\nThe beach is silent for a long time.\n\n“I think they’ve run out of ammunition,” the Sergeant said, “California, you need to do this.”\n\nCalifornia is number 6, He slithers over the top of the foxhole, makes it to Arkansas without being spotted, slowly takes off the backpack, and then crawls very slowly back to our foxhole. \n\n“It takes a while for the machine gun to ready itself, sir,” California says, “I can make it before they notice me.”\n\nThe Sergeant nods.\n\nCalifornia takes off at a full sprint. The beach remains silent for what seems an eternity as he runs and runs and it looks like he’s going to make it.\n\nThe sound of the Japanese machine gun fills my ears.\n\nCalifornia’s goes down. He hasn’t even made it 10-feet.\n\n“Michigan. You’re next.”\n\nI look around and see number 7 and 8 aren’t here. Probably dead. My knees begin shaking uncontrollably.\n\nThe sergeant is holding his pistol in his hand. “We must take out that bunker, Michigan.”\n\n“Yes, sir.”\n\nTogether we study routes to the bunker as he did with the previous Marines. Listen to the crescendos and lulls of the machine guns. Scan the beach strewn with dead marines looking for possible hiding spots.\n\nI see a tiny look of indecision on his face.\n\n“Do you really think this is a good idea?” I ask.\n\nHe looks at me, looks at the bunker, and puts his pistol back into its holster. “Nah. Let’s just forget about it for today.”\n\nAfter a long night pinned down, the next morning we hear the rumble of a US army Sherman tank. Behind it, a fresh wave of troops with heavy weapons begins to clear the bunker line. We join the mop up operations. A day later, the battle of Tarawa is over.\n\nAnd the next week, sir, my hair turned white. I can’t wait to get home when this war is over." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Choice\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1571\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A bead of sweat trickles down my eyebrow. I feel the salt in my eye as it mixes with my tears. I have to blink a couple of times.\n\nMy hands are tied behind my back. The rope cuts into my skin, but I am used to the pain.\n\nMy knees are starting to hurt though. The chair that I sit on is far from comfortable, and its splinters are digging into my back. An old man like me cannot take much more of this.\n\n“I will flip a coin,” a gruff voice says near me. It’s calm and measured, almost as if the words have been rehearsed. “Heads or tails. If you choose correctly, you get to live, but she dies. Choose incorrectly, and she lives. You die.”\n\nI hear a frightened shriek next to me and my heart trembles faster than before.\n\nI look to my left and see my wife squirming in her chair. I am certain she is about to take a tumble, but somehow the chair stays upright. Her red dress is so muddied now that it looks brown. I give her a reassuring nod, but that just makes her even more agitated.\n\nI try to muster up words of comfort, but all that comes out is a frail mumble. The piece of cloth tied around my mouth is causing me to salivate, and I can feel spit on my beard.\n\nOur discomfort causes the men around us to start laughing. There are two standing in front of me. The one who just spoke wears a long black overcoat adorned with various medals, the red band on his shoulder catching my eye. The younger man beside him wears a green field uniform that is a size too big for him and holds a rifle by his side. There are a few more standing behind us. I do not know how many there are in total, because I haven’t the courage nor the energy to crane my neck around.\n\nWe are in an abandoned factory a few kilometres away from my hometown. I remember cycling past it back in my youth. Back then, its purpose was to manufacture toys. The war put an end to that.\n\nThe sun shines through broken windows. The air is dusty, and there is a damp smell working its way up my nostrils.\n\nThe man who spoke leans down on his knee and pulls out a coin. Five Reichsmark. He holds the coin up to my face, and I see the familiar image of Paul Von Hindenburg. He turns it around, and I see the eagle perched atop the Swastika.\n\n“Choice, my friend,” he says, as he spins the coin between his knuckles. He is low enough now that I can take a proper look at his face. A small scar runs from his upper lip to his nose, and his skin is blistered. Several of his cuts have barely healed. His black visor cap is so polished that it’s gleaming. I spy a pistol holstered by his side. He exudes an air of authority.\n\n“Choice is what the Fuhrer has bestowed upon us. We choose to be what we want to be. Choice is freedom. And freedom is what you do not have.”\n\nHe gets up and puts his hands behind his back, almost as if he is standing proud. His mouth contorts into a sly smile. “But today, I will allow you to choose. I will give you freedom.”\n\nI hear jeering erupt around me, but the man lifts a finger, and it is instantly quiet again. I can hear my own ragged breathing, and my wife’s chair scraping on the floor.\n\nThe younger man watches on. He has a smirk on his face, and there is a hunger about him. He bears a look that I have seen many times before.\n\nI recall seeing it on the faces of similar young men as I wandered the streets of my hometown. I remember seeing it on the faces of those who burned it down, and on those who found us and dragged us to this godforsaken place. It is a look tainted with delusion, a primal thirst for destruction.\n\nOrdered by the man, the younger one walks over to me and unbinds the cloth around my mouth. I try to spit on him, but my saliva is now either on the cloth or on my chin. He resumes his position next to his superior.\n\n“Let my wife go!” I plead. “Take me, but please let her go.” My voice is coarse, and the words seem as feeble as my bones.\n\n“That is not your choice to make, my friend. The only choice you have, is heads, or tails,” the man says calmly.\n\nHe holds out the coin and puts it in his palm.\n\nA fifty-fifty chance. My life has boiled down to a fifty-fifty chance. My wife’s life, decided by a single coin. My forefathers came to this country for freedom, and here we are centuries later, hedging our bets on a piece of silver.\n\nI think about my career. The book I was writing will probably never be published. My other work will most likely be burned by now. My wife’s dress shop is probably in tatters, just like her own dress. We never had children, and by God do I wish I’d had some now. Regret is powerful when death is so close.\n\nThe man walks over to my wife and slaps her across the face. I hear a muffled scream and the screech of her chair.\n\n“Leave her alone!” I shout.\n\n“Choose, or I will kill you both.”\n\nI feel anger rising up inside me, but I tell myself to focus. I cannot know for sure if they will let one of us go. But I must do something. Anything.\n\nMy wife needs to live. I cannot live on without her, and I’m sure she cannot live on without me. But she must live. I have to make my choice.\n\nI take a gulp, make a silent prayer, and say the word.\n\n“Heads.”\n\n“Well chosen, my friend!” Beams the man, and I hear roars of laughter from his lackeys. They are having the time of their lives.\n\nI peer at the coin in the man’s palm. His hand is so steady, I almost envy him. He flips the coin and I see it flying up into the air. I see Hindenburg’s face as it tumbles back down.\nThe coin lands in his hand, and he closes his fist.\n\n“The moment of truth.”\n\nI cannot help but look over at my wife, who has been gaping at me this entire time. Her face is streaked with tears and mud. I see pain etched into it. But looking into her eyes, I see love, and I see compassion. I see a woman who has been by my side for decades. I take in her beauty for what may be the last time. I focus on the single streak of white that runs down her otherwise black hair, which caught my attention the first time we ever met. I think back to that time. Oh, how blissful it was. How innocent we were. But peace seldom lasts. \n\n“Ah,” says the man, as he looks at the coin.\n\nI glance over to him, and summon the courage to weakly murmur, “is it heads...or is it tails?”\n\nHe doesn’t reply, and simply puts away the coin. He unholsters his pistol, which is greeted with cheers all around.\n\nI had seen death before, when the first bomb dropped on our street, bodies lying lifeless just a few minutes away from our house. I had seen it when my friends were massacred, gun fire tearing them to shreds. We had fled from our town, hoping to make it to safety. We had somehow eluded death, bypassing soldiers as we ran as fast as our old legs would take us. A part of me thought we would actually make it out. But death caught up to us in the end.\n\nI do not want to look at him. Or his pistol. Or the young man. I want to look at my wife. I do not know who he is aiming at. I just hope it is me.\n\nMy wife tries to smile behind her cloth. I try to smile too.\n\nThe gunshot rings so loud that the birds perched on top of the factory take flight and scatter.\n\nMy wife’s body slumps, and it takes me a few seconds to register what has happened.\n\nI scream as loud as my lungs will let me. I squirm in my chair and fall over, my head hitting the ground with a thud. I do not feel the pain.\n\nTwo young men come over, lift the chair back up, and bind the cloth around my mouth. I feel numb, my body cold.\n\n“You chose. You lived. Well done,” says the man.\n\nI look at him, my eyes full of rage and contempt. He smiles, a smile so wry that it cuts right into my soul.\n\nHe walks over to me, hands behind his back, still holding his pistol. “But you see, my friend…”\n\nHe raises the pistol, and I feel the heat of the barrel against my forehead.\n\nHe looks me dead in the eyes.\n\n“The truth is, you never really had a choice.”\n\nHe pulls the trigger." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Lamp Lighter of Cape Woolamai\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2997\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character always makes the same promise; to change. Will they finally make it happen this time?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a balmy, summer night on the island. A chorus of insects chirped loudly underneath a cloudless, starry sky. The prospect of a new year had brought an air of excitement and nervousness into the house. In a warm room lively with laughter, William poured three more glasses of wine.\n\n“Willy, not another!”\n\nAbby, his wife, hugged him from behind and rested her head on his shoulder. He smiled and kissed her, spilling wine onto the table as he did so.\n\n“It’s a celebration, honey. A tribute to a new year as parents.”\n\nHe set the bottle on the table, spun around and kissed her again, grabbing her waist. They swayed to the music. A gentle waltz. A gangly man sat on a maroon armchair nearby, taking drags from a cigarette and puffing out small clouds of smoke from his mouth as he watched the waltzing couple turn about the room.\n\n“Seeing you two like that makes me really wanna find a woman and settle down. I think that’ll be my New Year’s resolution.”\n\nThe couple stopped dancing and each gave their version of a sarcastic smile. Abby rushed over to Pete and kissed him on the cheek.\n\n“But if you finally settle down and make a life for yourself, you’ll be too busy to come over and see us!”\n\n“Exactly! And then I won’t have to put up with looking at this bloke’s ugly face.”\n\nWilliam feigned offense and the other two laughed. Pete half-walked, half-danced his way to the gramophone and pulled a record out of its sleeve.\n\n“Ah, Marion Harris. If only she was as wild about me as I was about her. Then I’d be a happy man.”\n\nHe kissed the photograph of the woman on the cardboard sleeve and placed the record onto the gramophone. Jaunty band music filled the room and Pete offered a hand to Abby. She curtseyed playfully and they danced to the music, chuckling loudly.\n\nWilliam sat on the table and sipped some wine from his glass. It was his turn to watch this time. His focus was on Abby. He noted the way her curly, brown hair fell over her face, how her hazel eyes sparkled in the dim candlelight, how her dimples sat perfectly above her charming smile.\n\nSuddenly he felt like throwing up. He began to pick at a rash on his forearm. A recent anxious habit. The other two were now singing loudly above the music, too distracted to notice.\n\nWilliam opened a window, took a breath of fresh air and looked up into the black sky at the luminous moon. It was a half-moon tonight. Seven days away from being full. He pulled down the window and threw his weight into the chair as he sat.\n\nHe watched Abby again, took another sip of the bitter wine and made the same promise he’d made to himself countless times over the past few months.\n\nI have to change.\n\nNo more cheating.\n\n\n\nSeveral hours earlier, as the sky began to darken, William slipped into his brown leather boots, grabbed his flat cap and headed out the front door to find Pete approaching the house. He’d arrived early, offering to accompany William in the lighting of the lamps. William accepted the offer warmly.\n\nThe two men set off on the arduous walk following the hints of a path through the high grasses. They passed black trees that rose from the ground like lightning bolts, their leafless branches forking off in all directions. Crows cawed and circled above, flying down and clustering to scavenge the meat of dead marsupials. Pete kicked a stone nearby.\n\n“So, how’s all the father stuff going? It’s been, what, a good two months now?”\n\nHe turned to face William.\n\n“And you can be honest, mate. Not here to judge.” He slapped William on the shoulder and winked. William grinned.\n\n“Honestly, Evie’s great. I was worried about being a father at first but as soon as I saw her I knew that I’d do whatever it took to make her happy.”\n\n“And Abby?”\n\n“Abby’s good.”\n\nThey stopped talking and the lively sounds of nature amplified; the trampling of grass beneath their boots, chirruping birds from above, distant waves below the hills.\n\n“That’s all?” Pete finally asked. “Abby’s just good?”\n\nWilliam focussed his eyes on the path ahead as he spoke.\n\n“Yeah, Abby and I are alright. It’s just now that Evie’s finally here she thinks it’d be better if we sold the house and the farm and moved into town instead.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“Closer to family. Plus, the farm’s not making as much money as it used to.”\n\n“Ah.”\n\nWilliam and Pete reached the first beacon point. A basic wooden scaffolding stood near the cliff’s edge, a podium on its highest level. Atop the podium rested a cylindrical, brass lantern about the size of a small keg. William climbed the ladder of the scaffolding, struck a match and lit the wick. A magnificent, bright orange flame ignited inside the lantern and grew bigger as William adjusted a brass dial on its side. Once William’s feet were on dirt again Pete pressed further.\n\n“And you don’t want that? To move into town?”\n\nWilliam couldn’t meet Pete’s gaze.\n\n“Nah. I like the farm. I like this job too.” He nodded towards the lantern.\n\n“Yeah, but you’d get a fair bit of money selling the farm. And you could always get a building job with me. I’m loving it. Good pay and the boss’ll send you home early sometimes and-.”\n\n“Yeah but I like doing this job here.”\n\nPete gave him a sympathetic smile.\n\n“Mate, I get that but it’s just a small side job. You’ve got a kid now. Don’t you want Evie to have the best future possible?”\n\nTrepidation washed over him. He knew that Pete was being logical. He just couldn’t admit why he really needed to stay. That mysterious woman. Her allure. It tore him up inside to acknowledge the hold she had over him.\n\n\n\nThe first time he saw her was about five months ago. William made the walk to the beacon points, as he did every night, braving icy winter winds that stung his ears and nose.\n\nWhen he reached the clifftop, he became temporarily deafened by the wind. It was fiercer here. He lit the wick of the second lantern, closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of salt for some time, feeling the infinite expanse of water in front of him. When he opened them again he saw that the first stars had appeared, white shimmering dots contrasted against a blanket of purple. The moon, glowing and full, was reflected in white fragments over the moving waves. He watched them until they crashed upon a thin sliver of grey sand which snaked around the edges of the red rocks below. The tide was strangely low, he observed.\n\nA blurred figure darted between the bushes near the shore, escaping his peripheral vision. A creature of some sort.\n\nProbably a bloody wallaby.\n\nAs the thought struck him, he glimpsed what he believed to be a human leg disappearing into the rocks below, almost silver in the moonlight.\n\n“Hello?” he shouted towards the beach. “Can you hear me?”\n\nHe moved cautiously down the steep cliff.\n\n“Do you need help?”\n\nHe heard no reply except for the wind which had now quietened down to a whisper.\n\n“Bloody hell,” he said to nobody.\n\nWilliam skidded on dirt and small stones as he descended the cliff, scraping his legs on shrubs and hoping to high heavens that he wasn’t disturbing the nest of a snake.\n\nEventually, his boots hit sand and the water’s edge was only a step away. Small waves lapped onto the sand at a steady tempo.\n\nHe took a moment to find his breath and balance and then clambered across the stones to where the leg had disappeared to. He discovered a thin crevice wedged between two large rocks. Turning his body, William squeezed between the rocks and found himself in a small, dank cave. The smell of mould and salt water permeated the space. A spider scurried along the ridged walls to his right and he followed it until it disappeared into the darkness. After a few seconds his eyes adjusted.\n\nHe saw the curved silhouette of woman, a shade lighter than the black of the cave behind her. William jumped back in fright and the figure stepped forward towards him. He could see her more clearly here in the moonlight. Her hair was dark brown and fell over her shoulders, sticking to her glossy skin like wet seaweed. It seemed to be tangled in parts but on closer inspection he saw that it was twisted through seashells and sticks which hung like sinkers on fishing line. He noticed was that she wore no clothes. She looked at him through her violet eyes, daring him to say something. William accepted the challenge.\n\n“Ma’am, I don’t… don’t know who you are but... you-.” He stopped, deciding to project an illusion of confidence after failing to source the real thing.\n\n“You don’t wanna be down here once the tide comes properly in.”\n\nShe laughed at him, throwing her tangled hair behind her shoulder. The woman shortened the distance between herself and William. She spoke to him not in words, but through a discordant melody. William felt something rise from his feet, up through his chest and into his brain. He was giddy, lighter than air, as if somebody had pumped his body full of helium. They found themselves, nose to nose. She reached up and held his cheeks in her hands. She kissed him. He kissed her back and they spent the next few hours lost in each other.\n\n\n\nWilliam awoke the next morning in his bed, a strip of sunlight shining through the curtain into his eyes. He turned over and found Abby dozing beside him spooning Evie, both in a peaceful sleep. Dread sat in his stomach like a piece of lead. He climbed out of bed, put on his boots and left the house.\n\nAs he walked to the clifftop to extinguish the lamps at sunrise, visions of last night festered in his mind like a bad sore. He remembered walking back to his house from the cave. He remembered the woman too. The enigma that she was. Their intimacy. But the memories were stained with a filter. A filter whose image had been streaked and blurred and he couldn’t be sure that any of it really happened even though he knew it had.\n\nBut in the soberness of daylight it was easy to compartmentalise this memory, and the ones that were to follow it in the coming months. So that’s exactly what William did as he snuffed out the flames in the lamps. He compartmentalised. And each time he met with the woman in the cave he promised himself that this would be the last time it happened.\n\nBut it never was.\n\n\n\nTat-tat-tat\n\nTat-tat-tat\n\nA polite tapping on the front door shook William out of a daydream. He opened the front door to find a short, old man standing in a pinstriped suit, a black bowler hat atop his balding head. The voice, chirpy and light.\n\n“Good evening Mr Carter. How’re you?”\n\nWilliam was startled at the visitor’s presence but maintained his cool.\n\n“Mayor Anderson! I’m well thanks, and yourself?”\n\n“Yes, good, good.”\n\nThe mayor looked up and squinted at the sky.\n\n“Lovely evening. How was your New Years?” He looked back at William.\n\n“We kept it small, relatively quiet, but it was still good.”\n\n“Ah yes, because of the baby I imagine.”\n\nWilliam nodded.\n\n“Anyway, have you got a minute? Need to discuss some business with you.”\n\n“Of course.”\n\nWilliam stepped aside to let the Mayor into the house. Abby was in the kitchen nursing Evie and after exchanging more pleasantries the adults took their seats at the dining room table.\nDriven by anxiety, William switched the topic to more serious matters.\n\n“Mayor Anderson, what business did you want to discuss today? Is it to do with the farm?”\n\n“No, no. Not the farm. It’s to do with your lamp lighting job.”\n\nWilliam’s face dropped and he attempted to mould back his composure through his expression. The mention of the lamps had put him on alert. He muzzled his fear.\n\n“Oh. What’s going on with the lamp lighting?” he asked and exchanged a confused face with Abby across the table. Evie was sitting on her lap, giggling at William.\n\n“I’ll just cut to the chase then. We don’t need you to light the lamps anymore. I’m very grateful you took the job and it made sense because of where you lived but-.”\n\n“Who’s gonna light them then?” William asked with vexation, more than he’d intended. It didn’t go unnoticed by the others.\n\n“Can’t have boats crashing into the cliffs, can we?”\n\n“No... we can’t,” replied the Mayor.\n\n“Anyway… it’ll probably be Jimmy and Tom. They take care of those gas beacons we installed at the Nobbies a few years back so they’ll probably do the ones at Cape Woolamai too. Oh yeah, we’re finally getting gas beacons here, I forgot to mention. About bloody time too.”\n\nAbby’s countenance lightened upon hearing the news. William picked at the wood of the table’s edge, eyebrows lowered and mouth upturned. Images of other men with the mysterious woman flashed into his mind. Scenes of their bodies writhing on the rocky, cave floor played out in his imagination.\n\n“Darling. This could be a good push for us. Finally sell the farm and move into town like I’ve said before. There’s no reason to be out here anymore.”\n\nHer tone was hopeful. She looked at him with her shimmering eyes. William felt his blood chill. Guilt strained his lungs making it harder to breathe. He ignored the tightness in his chest.\n\n“No, I still think it’s best to stay here anyway.”\n\n“But William, I think it’d be better for Evie to be closer to family. Willy, it’d be easier for me to be closer to family.”\n\nShe placed her hand on his arm and he felt his rash flare up. William smothered a grimace. The Mayor, sensing that his presence was no longer welcome, rose from his chair, gave a polite goodbye, and offered to help the family in any way he could whilst they digested the news. He exited the house, leaving the door wide open behind him. A draught blew through the hallway. After a silence, William spoke to the table.\n\n“I still think we should stay here.”\n\nAbby looked perplexed.\n\n“I don’t understand William. It doesn’t make sense for us to be here anymore. The farm’s not making much money and you’ve just lost your other job. Don’t you want the best for Evie?”\n\nWilliam stood up and slammed his palms onto the table.\n\n“It’s not negotiable.”\n\nEvie started crying.\n\n“What’s wrong with you?” Abby asked, eyes wide with furious concern.\n\nWilliam didn’t answer the question. He was distracted by the sound of the wind coming through the house which had now picked up. It carried with it a faint whistle, an eerie dissonance.\n\nPanic gripped William and he rushed out into the front yard. The sky was beginning to darken. He needed to leave. He walked away from the house. Abby stood at the door with a teary Evie.\n\n“William! Where are you going? Come back!”\n\nThe wind drowned her out until all he could hear was a muffling of words. He followed the dusty track towards the beacons, passing the charcoal trees and circling crows and the animal carcasses scattered throughout the grass. The whistling gale became stronger as he approached the second beacon point. He stood at the edge of the cliff and stretched his arms out wide, letting the wind push him wherever it wanted to. He smiled and his worries melted into the dirt.\n\nHe spotted the woman swimming in the choppy waves below and descended the cliff, unafraid of injury. The discordant melody drew him to the water’s edge and he gave into a sudden urge to strip his clothes off. Salt water covered his toes, his legs, his waist. The horizon was no longer distinguishable as grey gave way to both ocean and sky.\n\nWilliam looked up to the lamp on the cliff and saw a figure had appeared there. Abby. She was waving one hand frantically in the air and holding Evie in the older. William couldn’t hear anything above the wind or the whistling melody but he could tell that Abby was shouting by the way her mouth was opening and shutting rapidly.\n\nHe found that he could not breathe. The rash on his arm flared up into small red dots that spread across his body like line of kerosene ignited by fire. He screamed and stared at the swimming woman, asking with his frightened eyes for some kind of explanation but she only smiled at him. The peripheries of his vision blurred, hyperventilation set in. He became dizzy. He looked down at his arm and saw blisters rupturing, the same with his other arm. It was excruciating. The blisters gave way to reveal blue skin underneath. The skin expanded and contracted and then split into scales. William realised what was happening and put his head underwater. His vision was clear, his breathing normal.\n\nAbove the water, the swimming woman was beckoning him over with a finger. She watched him through brilliant grey eyes. Her dark hair was the same as usual but her face and arms were now covered in blue scales. She ducked underwater, flashing her metallic tail above the waves.\n\nWilliam turned back towards Abby, her eyes wide with shock. She broke down and cried salty tears into the earth. He took one more look at her and at his baby, plunged his head underwater and swam down into the ocean’s depths." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Evendella’s Commision\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2947\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a kiss at midnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Thematic content includes parental abandonment, child mortality, conveyance of criminal activity, immoral infringements, and violence.\nHe scuffled a handful of Adams' Cheese Korn Kurls from the crinkled bag; a few spilled between his fingers onto the flooring behind the accelerator and brake petals. Hadrian hated when that happened inside his Pontiac Streamliner, especially after he cleaned it. Rolling down the window, the solstice chill whipped against the side of his face, and his leathered jacketed arm reached around to the tip of the window wiper. He tossed the curly nibbles on his hood over the melting snow due to the warm engine. The seagulls need not hear a tinkle as they descend to nip up their treats. \nHadrian pressed on his cap and shoved the door open, and he kneeled outside to reach for the loose munchies on the floorboard, throwing them as close to the dock piers as possible. He conjectured why his attachment to these feathered fellows. Is it because he feels they are the only ones attentive to him? The realization is evident each holiday season; the ease of driving a taxi when no family and friends are calling to express their greetings. Where does he often shift the blame? \nMy biological father propelled me early to feel unworthy of myself. He, a married man, impregnated my mom, ditching her to care for me alone while he tended to his official family.\nThrough his workman's garb, he sensed a radiating presence behind him. Turning on his knees and ankles, he beheld a tall, slender, chocolate-skinned woman with a marbled flamingo-hued iris and luscious thick rosy lips. Wearing a wool beret over her head, her satin black hair flowed down the sides of her face like the Tugela waterfall. And her splendid face is indescribable; it was like no one had seen her before.\nShe cannot be over thirty and wore a faux fur lapel collar coat over a plaid print swing dress. For the moment, as he was stunned, Hadrian could not move. His stiffened neck failed to tilt downward to notice her sheer charcoal iron button boots. Yet her smooth classical voice became a cause to lubricate his muscles' tissues to respond and peer upward. He felt the warming effect of her presence a few inches away. \n\"Driver,\" she asked. \"Are you accepting any rides?\"\n\n......\n\n\"Hadrian, we're stopping here,\" she said with her eyes focused on the opposite side of the street housing a trolley train line and its bus stop at the sidewalk.\nHe remained bewildered, with his eyes fixated on the rearview mirror as the cab slowed to a park.\n\"Have you not seen black women? You stare at me. It's a wonder you drive safe.\"\nHadrian smiled, \"I have not envisioned a lady like you who has yet to tell me her name.\"\n\"I am Evendella.\" Her sight focused on the area of the bus stop. \"We wait here.\"\nA trolley's light flickered in the evening darkness through the falling snowflakes condensing in the sky until it stopped before the stand. The sound of its sliding side doors opens, and Evendella unlocks her passenger door. \n\"Come with me, honey; it's time to start business.\" She spoke.\n\"Hey, I'm the black cabbie guy sitting on the sideline. You go in and out at your will. I drive but don't follow.\"\n\"Come with me, please,\" Evendella expressed with a sweetened firmness. Her vocals plucked him like guitar picks.\nHe crossed the street with her as the trolley departed, leaving a young African American woman wearing a second-hand coat over factory attire at the bus stop. Noticing Evendella, the girl cringed like a stone in apprehension; her eyes popped in white, her sepia iris enlarging.\n\"You betrayed me; why did you eject my brother?\" Evendella addressed her, grabbing her forearm and examining it. \"Your soul trembles. Why did you not fear to cause me displeasure?\nA rushed, resentful recollection Hadrian immediately discarded; my mom abandoned me at the Saint Mary orphanage to fetch a new boyfriend.\nThe woman cascaded tears icing along her cheeks, \"my dad pressured me; he threatened to evict me.\" She sank her knees into the snow, her head bowed. Evendella threw down her arm.\n\"Adele, I trusted you and vowed to protect you. If only you called and trusted me.\"\nThe industrial worker fastened her hands prayerfully, seeing upward at Evendella.\n\"I am in sorrow, so sorry, forgive me. I tell you everything in my voice of confession,\" pleaded Adele.\n\"I'm aware of the details and the culprits who forced you.\"\nEvendella came around Adele's rear and lifted her to standing. \n\"You compelled me to make tough decisions. And I must find my brother.\"\n\"He is dead. There's no one to find.\" Adele insisted.\n\"He's alive.\" Evendella came to him and smoothed her black leathered glove against Hadrian's back. \"Take her to your cab. She needs rest and recovery at her apartment.\"\n\"Please don't kill my father,\" Adele cried.\n\"Time expired to plead, girl, judgment set.\" Answered Evendella.\n\n......\n\nMarshall Tuck's rust-colored teeth were exposed after tasting his favorite rum. His lifetime buddies in their mid-50s, the black guys of his boyhood. They cackled and hooted with him as they viewed the Chicago Blackhawks against the New York Rangers. The bartender, Tony, loved the company of fellows and positioned his RCA Radio television at the rear mirror wall from where they sat at the counter, gusting down their drinks.\nMarshall's merriment halted when two silhouetted figures moved in the shadows of the bar lights, a man and woman. Hadrian and Evendella came into his view, and no one else noted them except Mister Tuck. He alerted their attention. For some odd reason, the guys forgot Marshall was with them.\n\"Guys, do you see the lassie with the pink eyes next to the young gent?\" Tuck jabbed his fingers at her.\n\"What did you do to your daughter as a reason to destroy another life?\" Evendella demanded, \"Answered me, you drunken deviant.\"\n\"I don't know who you are or how you knew about me. I didn't do anything wrong but removed a little problem.\" Said, Marshall. \"Now, get away from me.\"\n\"Don't speak to womenfolk that way, sir.\" Hadrian rebutted.\nMarshall waved them goodbye and turned away. He jokingly shook a friend's shoulder for attention, but the man was unresponsive.\nShe drew near to the heavyset Tuck and twisted him on his stool to her. \"Was 'it' your problem, Marshall Tuck? That it is a man who is my friend.\"\n\"It does not matter what or who they were; I won't be the daddy for my daughter's child. I have a reputation.\"\n\"You monster,\" Hadrian yelled.\n\"Shut up, boy. You'll take what you can get when you reach my age.\" Tuck leered at him.\n\"Disgusting, shame on you,\" said the taxi driver.\n\"Enough.\" Said the woman; she reversed from Tuck and withdrew a tinted metallic, decorative circle with tiny holes. \n\"What's your toy,\" teased Tuck, \"one of your black magic sorcery charms?\"\nEvendella swayed Hadrian behind her. She pointed the ring at Marshall, and three thread-like light beams shot at Tuck's chest.\n\"Your daughter and anyone else will never know you existed. And that's the way it should be.\" She spoke.\nMarshall screamed as he lit up in a purplish glow and exploded into trillions of illuminated micro-specks disappearing mid-air. Hadrian's skin vibrated over his tingling nerves, and he gasped. Then again, the other people inside the saloon had not detected what had happened. It was as if Tuck was never present. On the black and white small screen, right winger Bill Mosienko scored through the legs of the goalie, and the men cheered.\n\"What did you do to him?\" Hadrian spoke in increased desperation.\n\"It was necessary. After tonight, you won't remember it.\" Evendella pocketed the circular weapon.\n\"Who are you? Tell me, what kind of craziness have you got me involved in? This is insane.\" The sweat bejeweled on Hadrian's forehead, and anxiety kicked in.\nEvendella faced him at eye level, raised her hands to rub his cheeks, and stroked tenderly underneath, lining his chin. He peered into her hypnotizing iris; the cones and rods brightened as neuron synapses.\n\"The coolness of the weather shall calm you.\" She spoke. \"We must rescue my companion; let us go, and I'll explain on the way.\"\n\n......\n\n\"If I have it correct, Miss Adele was a carrier for your friend to be born in my world. And things got complicated when her father violated her.\" Hadrian gripped the steering as he coasted the street, observing in the rearview mirror for her acknowledgment.\n\"You sum it appropriately; thank you for listening.\" She said with a smirk and wink.\n\"Of all the flying saucers flicks I've seen, never in my imagination would an alien from a distant galaxy be my passenger.\"\n\"I wish humans stop calling us aliens as if we are instinctive like earth's creatures.\" \n\"Okay, what should I consider your existence?\" Hadrian asked Evendella.\n\"Is there anything wrong with viewing us as individuals? Are we not people but from another habitation, an organized and functional society?\" She explained.\n\"Maybe,\" Hadrian tried acknowledging, \"maybe you're more than what we ought to be.\"\nShe paused in quietness, sitting in her thoughts with her eyes close. Evendella beamed, her lips reflecting a shine from the streetlights. \"If this is a compliment, I'll accept it.\"\nAn immense cargo ship passed through Calumet River, and the Ewing Avenue drawbridge lowered to permit Hadrian's yellow checker box steamliner and other autos to pass through to South Lake Shore Drive. \n\"After I head east on route 41, how far do you want me to go? Is it beyond East 85th Street?\" He inquired.\n\"Do you sight the Chevrolet Bel Air a few cars ahead of you? Please follow it.\" She responded.\nHadrian asked, \"are we tailing a rich, white person? I can get in trouble like tarred and feathered big time.\"\n\"Don't worry; her skin is non-Caucasian. And her heart isn't pure.\"\n\n......\n\nThe snow stopped to a few flurries; a winter fog descended like a theater curtain. The Bel Air driver parked near a closed seafood eatery popular with dock workers; the taxi driver knew as he watched with his customer outside the cab.\n\"There's no such contraption as flying saucers.\" Whispered Evendella, \"our vessels are much more sophisticated than what earth residents envisaged.\"\nThe driver is a middle-aged, brown-skinned woman who must have relished mink coats with her Russian-styled hat. She removed a bowling bag size baggage from her trunk; it was dripping a kind of crimson liquid from the bottom - blood. \nThe woman cursed and said, \"they stained my liner. I must bleach it, wasted work, worthless scrapes.\"\nThe drippings led to the west side of the north slip, deserted of eyewitnesses as this fancy winter coat woman was well-aware. She looked around her to check. Then she held the bag over the edge, about to release her fingers.\n\"Hold it,\" a male issued, stalling the woman's movement. \"What are you throwing in the water, madam? Dumping is illegal.\"\n\"Come, take a look; I'll open it,\" she invited the uniformed man running to her.\nFrom a distance, the taxi driver and his passenger observed a security guard approaching the grinning woman unzipping her bag. \nHe peered inside, and his face registered disgust and horror. With her sharp hand movement, a carrot length edge metal flashed in the dim lighting and lurched into the guard in an audible ripping thrust; his throat was gurgling. She then allowed the man's fall into the ice-surfaced bay.\n\"I don't like interruptions,\" she said with a rancorous stare.\nHadrian exclaimed in the hurt of his heart, \"the world gone mad. A 'sister' murdered a 'brother.' We against each other, what madness.\"\nThe woman in the mink shouted, \"who said that?\"\nEvendella's fingers graced his face, \"Stay behind me, and remember her sort exemplifies the wicked of humanity, never the good folks.\"\nThe young woman marched into her view with her hands pocketed, targeting her eyes at the individual holding the bottom-punctured bag.\n\"Mrs. Vaximum, my brother is inside your bag. Leave it there.\" Evendella commanded. \"Go home and wait for law enforcement to arrest you.\"\nHadrian came behind his patron; they were a couple feet from Mrs. Vaximum.\n\"Unfortunately, I shall not eliminate you. Your blood money is funding your son's medical education. Go home.\"\nMrs. Vaximum scuffed, \"little girl, I'm old enough to be your grand momma and great-godmother in one. Don't be fresh. Get lost.\"\nRepositioning her hand over the edge, Vaximum was about to drop the bag.\n\"Don't do it, lady,\" urged Hadrian.\n\"Fasten your mouth, boy, and get a handle on your girlfriend.\" Mrs. Vaximum spread her fingers wide, releasing in her jollies the bag.\nThe sound of ice breaking and the lake splashing disturbed Evendella's emotions.\n\"Oh, what a bother, stupid hellion.\" The taxi patron displayed her metallic ring, aimed the woman in mink, and blasted her into trillions of evaporating, blue-illuminated bits. \nVaximum screeched a loudness, scattering glass bottles littered in the snow. Evendella removed her hat and gave it to her taxi driver. She takes two ping-pong-sized balls in both hands that instantly enlarge and open like Venus Fly plants with little sparkles inside. \n\"I'll be back in a jiffy, friend.\" She spoke. Evendella dived into the bay.\n\"Evendella, no.\" He yelled and stared for minutes, the waters relaxing from her plunge. He cried for her name repeatedly.\n\"Are you becoming hopeless again, as you have been cynical against the parents who forsaken you?\" Expressed the speech of a youthful female behind him.\nExcitement filled Hadrian. Utterly dried as if she didn't dip in was Evendella smiling happily at him. He leaped and embraced her.\n\"I told you I'll be back. Learn to trust the right people.\" \n\"Here's your hat.\"\n\"Hold it for a moment. Lay it flat in your hand like a cushion,\" she instructed. Evendella removed one of the balls from her pocket, which reduced its size; it's closed, enlarging again. She placed it on the hat Hadrian was holding. The ball glowed lavender.\"\n\"You can touch it.\" She encouraged.\nHe did, a pleasant sensation funneled his Sympathetic and Parasympathetic Nervous System, and his heart sedated. The ball swiftly flew into the atmosphere.\n\"Where is it going?\" He saw it vanish in the sky.\nEvendella revealed the second ball that reacted the same, brightening to a sunny yellow. It flanged from her cupped hands into space. She shouted joyfully.\n\"What is happening?\" He questioned.\nBut she danced in the snow, skipping about contained in glee. \"I saved them.\"\n\"The yellow one was my friend. I sent him to a loving female to be born in Brazil. I recovered the security guard, healed him, and left him where an ambulance would transport him. You didn't notice?\"\n\"Woman, I do not have the sight of God. How did you do it?\"\nEvendella extended her hand to where they came from, suggesting a walk to the taxi. He proceeded with her.\n\"You did not ask me about the lilac ball. Don't you want to know about her?\"\n\"About her?\"\nShe paused him with her hand. \"Your oil-tycoon papa impregnated another girl. He coerced her to eject your sister by the hand of Mrs. Vaximum. I preserved her for the taxi driver I love, a friend who held his sis on my beret.\"\nHadrian broke down, kneeling, and salty fluid spat on his watch at 11:58 pm. \n\"It's unfair for a woman to cause a man to cry.\"\n\"Tears of joy, mister,\" Evendella said. \"I transmitted her to the hospital to melt into her mother recovering from the crude abortion. Wait for her. In a couple of decades, your sibling will find you.\"\nHadrian stood and embraced her, \"Thank you for all the money in the world. Your fare is paid.\"\nShe wrapped her arms around him, \"We're not finished yet.\"\nHe released her gently, stepping from her, \"what else has to be done?\"\n\"My brother and I are students. He's researching his thesis on earth childhood to experience it first-hand. I require a capable father to care for him with the woman I selected.\" Evendella explained. \"Guess who.\"\nHadrian rotated from her. \"Lady, let's conclude the night.\"\nShe made him reverse, a potent magmatism. \"Kiss me; it's your way there.\"\nEvendella impelled him closer to her. She reached and removed his cap, then pressed it to her heart. And as their lips depressed, a silvery radiance swamped Hadrian as if he was engulfed in the teal blue ocean.\n\n......\n\nThe light dispelled as rainfall ceased pouring; Hadrian deemed his lips unsealing with a female. She is not Evendella. After the kiss, a lovely, golden bronze complexion Latino woman embraced him in her stunning wedding dress. He saw himself attired in a groom's suit. A roar of ovation hails, and jovial hollers surrounded them. \nThe minister presented the couple. \"I announce to you, Mr. and Mrs. Hadrian and Keila Buhler.\"\nHe realized the summery exterior breeze wasn't Chicago. The locality appeared to be a vibrant and tropical Brazilian community. \n\"Am I still a taxi driver in the modern 1950s?\" He spoke.\n\"What did you say? They are loud and happy for us.\" Said his wife.\nShe saw a bulge inside his tux. Spotting a nip of forest green wool peeping, her curiosity stirred. Keila slipped her hand slightly and withdrew Evendella's beret from his jacket.\n\"Sweetheart, why do you have a lady's hat with you?\" The bride asked.\nHe would later confine in her. It reminded him of his affection for his sister." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Yuletide\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2343\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a family (biological or found) coming together for Christmas." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was cold, the mountains capped in snow and the sprawling forest pines covered in it; as a mother would lay a blanket on her child. Between the steep cliffs going down into the valley, the waters of the fjord lay still and quiet; as though the world had simply stopped. Snow had a way of deafening things, sound stopped. Everything was quiet.\nDawn hadn’t even broken…\nI had been sitting a long while, nestled with my back to a lichen (and now snow) covered rock. I knew this rock well and it knew me; I had been coming to sit here for many years now. The snow had fallen in the night not long after my arrival on the cliff. It surrounded me in a cold fortress. I didn’t feel it though, the cold. My thick heavy cloak of deer furs was more than long enough for me to sit on and wrap the excess tightly about my shoulders. Not even the chilled air (which had turned my nose pink) could reach me inside my pelted, encasement. It was a fortress of solitude, made by that of myself and nature.\nMy breath fogged the air before me but this was the only movement in the motionlessness of predawn. The sky wasn’t showing signs of lightening so maybe I hadn’t been sat here for as long as I thought? Down below the village was sleeping. Families all gathered together curled up and slumbering. Yet here I sat. Alone.\nI couldn’t face it, the solitude down there. In my home; my small but very empty home it was icy, dead. It started when my father and brother passed on the battle field, felled by enemies not of their choosing. All warmth and life had ceased completely with the death of my mother ravaged by fever which had taken half the village with it.\nI remember the fire, the ale, the singing of this time in years gone by. Yule was a time for celebration; time for endings and beginnings. There would be many families waking, drinking dancing, singing this morrow. But I would not be one of them. I contemplated remaining here; on this cliff which had been a constant unwavering ally. I would be sitting vigil as I had been since I was old enough to understand what that meant. I had waited with my father for the morning birdsong. I had waited with my brother for the ships bearing our father into harbour. I had waited alone for my brother when he was old enough to sail and I was not. I waited in this very same spot. I shall now wait for the sun to rise on this silent white world.\nIsn’t it funny; how when everything muffled by the snow, the sudden laughter of a child was carried so easily to my ears over the air from the village below. They were waking up.\nI remained, sat solitary; always isolated. In the village I hardly expected anyone to notice my absence. Bjorn might. But no, he was with his family, his wife, and his children. The friend I was once inseparable from had, over time (yet in no time at all it seemed) drifted away from me. Or I from him.\nIt was painful, to see them so… happy, so together, him his wife and children. So… exactly what it should be. His wife was kind, gentle, everything I was not. But sometimes, just sometimes when I’m sat alone in the silence I wish I could be those things. I wish… oh how I wish… but no, he was gone from me. I’d done that myself, I shouldn’t wallow in it. What was done was done. Bjorn was happy and I was not finished. There were still places I needed to see, things left unfinished, people left unpunished. Revenge was a lonely path. I don’t recommend it. Nevertheless it was the one I had chosen, chosen that day I walked from my house, plucked up my mother’s sword and murdered the Earl for sending my father to his death.\nThe sky turned slowly from purple night to dawning grey, the clouds still heavy and threatening more snow. Let it fall, I thought. Let it fall and bury me here, in the quiet where I can stop pretending.\nI didn’t doze but my mind must have wandered enough for my attention to slip. Soft but loud crunching approached behind me as snow was crushed underfoot. My ear twitched, I didn’t turn, I knew those footfalls. Of course, I really should have known he would hunt me down.\nBjorn stopped beside me, didn’t utter a word just stood there looking out over the fjord with me. Then abruptly, after a moment, he plopped down into the foot of snow at my side.\n“You look like a troll, all covered in white,” he spoke.\n“I came here to be alone,” I replied.\n“I know, dangerous that,” he shuffled into a more comfortable position knees tucked up into his chest. “You always do silly things when you’re alone.”\nI scoffed and for the first time in hours shifted my weight.\n“Bjorn, why are you not with your family?” why did he always come? The pain, the pull it was always harder to resist with proximity.\n“I am with my family,” he defended. I scoffed. “I am Ragna; you should know this by now.” He sounded hurt. How many years had he been chasing me? Pulling me back? Too many, perhaps he was finally getting tired of my resistance. When he stopped maybe I would be free? Free to be reckless. My last ties to this mortal realm of Midgard severed and I could at last focus on my passing, on my entrance to Valhalla. To where my father and brother were. We’d sing and dance and drink, our own eternal yuletide.\n“Go home Bjorn,” I spoke, “your wife is waiting.\"\n“My wife knows where I am,” Bjorn was stubborn. “My children have children to play with and soon the log will be lit and they with have everyone to be with.” I felt more than saw his eyes staring at me. “But you are alone. I am tired of you being alone.”\n“I wish to be alone,” I snapped “can you not understand that?!”\n“Oh I do,” he sounded unaffected by my venom. “But I refuse to abide by it.”\n“Bjorn-,“\n“GODS RANGA!” his voice lashed out like the crack of a horse whip, sharp in the silence of the cliffside. It shocked me honestly, he never yelled, not even when he bashed his knees into low tables. Obviously, he was near the end of his endurance of me. “For the sake of my love for you will you not just let me sit here? For once! Let me be here where I want to be beside you?! That is all I ever wanted.” His voice retreated into himself as though he was attempting to take the words back before I heard them.\nI swallowed, suddenly aware I had not brought anything to drink and I was thirsty. A deer skin materialized under my nose, a strong broad hand holding it steadily for me to take. I took it; feeling the cold on my hands for the first time as I created a gap in my small tent. The warm ale was strong, the smallest sip rushed through my body and fought the cold which had entered, banishing it from the confines of my cloak. I held it, swirling the contents inside. Mute and searching for something to say.\n“You’ve never said that before,” I took another sip before handing it back to him “that, you love me, I’ve never heard you say that,” my voice did the same retreating act his had done.\n“I’ve come to realize subtlety doesn’t work with you Ragna,” Bjorn took a long fortifying gulp of ale. “But I do, love you that is.”\nSomething in my chest squeezed as though choking me, as though I was thrown from my horse and the beast had landed atop me, crushing. I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know! He didn’t know what those words meant to me. How much it hurt. He couldn’t know. He was my oldest friend and nothing more. Something warm and wet fell down my cheek. A tear, singular and alone fell to my chin and dropped. I turned my head from him, shivering but not from the cold. I felt as though every single carefully stitched edge of me was about to wrench apart. I clamped my lips, biting harshly into them to lock any sound away. A hand, broad and strong came and took my chin in gentle fingers, turning me back. I resisted, I had to over wise he would see, see everything I had been hiding.\nOnce our eyes met he didn’t look away, nor could I. We remained frozen, his hand holding my chin, I felt small; I was a child again, captured and enamoured by this tall boy, who had taken himself as my friend, my protector (although I never truly needed it). Another tear fell but this time his thumb wiped it away.\n“You cannot mean that,” I forced out.\n“I do,” he held me firm “I love you.”\n“No, you don’t understand.”\n“I love you.”\n“Don’t say that to me!” I screamed pushing his arm away but he just changed his grip; his hand wrapped around my jaw, fingers grazing the neck of my neck. He crowded in close. I’d never been terrified of him but I was now. Preservation kicked in I thrashed against him. Snow dislodged from my cloak, from the rock behind me; melting against my skin. Bjorn had both hands on my face. He was over me now, holding me down, preventing my escape. I brought a knee up, aiming for the groin. His knee blocked and pinned my leg, then his other did the same. “Get off! Get off!” I was screaming, frantic.\n“No.”\n“Release me!”\n“no,” his voice was calm.\n“Please!” then I was sobbing. He just held me.\nWhen the wails died down to hitching sobs, gasping breathe I tried again. “Go back to your wife-,“\n“No!” he bit out shaking me. He was angry. He came down closer. I closed my eyes in cowardice; unable to bare his eyes seeing me any closer. “Look at me,” he commanded, I shook my head, teeth digging into my lip so hard I started to taste blood. There was a heavy sigh; I felt his weight change, the strength leaving him in a gust of hot air against my cheeks as he sagged down over me. Something soft, smoothing, warm and slightly dry brushed over my lips. I opened my eyes sharply as he pulled away, expression sad, tired and… hopeful. “Ragna,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “Let me love you.”\nIt was an old argument but maybe if I reminded him of his family he would leave? Then I could be alone to fall apart. Before my mouth even formed the words he hurriedly stopped me. “Before you bring her and my children into this again, let me remind you what I said before. She knows where I am.” He waited for it to sink in.\n“Do not do this if you do not mean it,” I pleaded. My hands were now gripping into the wool of his tunic, anchoring myself and maybe him too, if the tremor in his limbs meant anything.\n“I mean it, I swear on the gods. I mean it.” He came down pressing his forehead to mine, staying there.\n“I don’t- I – you?” my throat closed up stopping anything further from passing my lips.\n“From the start Ragna. From the beginning I have loved you but you wouldn’t let me, I beg you,” he lay fully over me then, covering me in his body and his warmth, arms wrapping over my head pulling me to his shoulder, holding me close, not letting go. “Just let me be here, don’t be alone anymore.”\n“You mean it? You-,“ I swallowed thickly “love me?”\n“Yes.”\n“I’m your family?”\n“Yes, you are, I want you to be my family. I want to be yours; I want us to be a family. I-,“ here he hesitated. “I want to hold you as a man. I want you to hold me as a woman. I want to know every part of you and you me. I want us to have children. A home, maybe even a goat or too so we can make cheese and goats-milk ale for next yuletide. So don’t leave me.” His voice quivered and something warm and wet touched the skin of my neck, and he began shaking in full, wrapping more tightly around me. “Do not go to Valhalla yet, I know you have planned to. I know you have. Please, stay with me.” He cried.\nMy hands wrapped around his head. How could I? How could I refuse him, I’d denied myself for so long and now I was tired. I supposed I should have been surprised by how quickly I surrendered. I couldn’t even summon a scathing thought; I was tired, bone tired. It felt good to let go.\nI hugged him back and he whimpered into my neck trying to crawl even closer. I held him tighter. I looked up at the white sky; flakes of snow were fluttering down once more. It was impossibly easy (unbelievably so) to say what I said next. It changed everything; I didn’t feel so assured of my innermost foundations now. Bjorn had come and taken an axe straight to them, then burned them down I felt them go as quickly as a hay barn went to flame. The rage, the familiar pain seemed to be seeping out of me, like the melting snow as it touched my skin. We were a small family but we would be together, for this yuletide and the next. \n“I shall stay.”\nEnd" } ]

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