Split (1)

train · 6.57k rows

messages listlengths 3 3
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Coralynn\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1446\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a technophobe who’s been given a device to solve a problem they’ve struggled with for years, but isn't sure how they feel about it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Closing my locker, I watch Willow walk past, strutting her hips as if there's music playing. On me, it would have looked ridiculous. But on her, it's the total opposite.\nWillow is that girl. You know, the girl who makes boys swoon, and the girl who every girl wishes to be. And......then there's me. The red-haired freak who everyone stays away from. The closest person I can call a friend at this school is probably the librarian, who is the only one who understands my fear of technology.....sheesh I got shivers just from saying the word.\nThe bell rings, and everyone rushes to their class. I look at my schedule: BIOLOGY, MS. ANDERSON\nI groan, mumbling about my luck. Ms. Anderson is rumored to be about 86 years old.......you get what i'm talking about.\nI walk inside the class, and notice that everyone is already there.\n\"Nice of you to join us, Coralynn. Can you explain to us why you are late?\"\nI flush, and nod my head shyly.\n\"That's what I thought. Now, go to your seat.\"\nI walk to my seat, not daring to look around knowing all eyes are on me. The class begins, and I begin to daydream, not even aware of what's happening in class.\n\"Coralynn....Coralynn!\" Ms. Anderson screams in my ear. I quickly come back to the surface, and see that she is looking at me with ferocious eyes. \"Stay after class.\" She says, with a hardness in her voice. We continue with class, and then she comes in. Besides being 32 minutes late, Ms. Anderson greets Willow with a warm smile.\n\"Why, hello Willow! You're just in time, we were about to start our experiment! Just make your way to your seat and we can get started.\"\nI wish she could talk to me like that.\nThe bell rings after a while, and we all get up. \"Coralynn. Come here.\" Damn, I thought she would have forgotten by now.\nI walk to her desk, and she watches the student leave, until the very last one closes the door.\n\"So, we need to talk about your grades. Pull up a chair, if you may.\" I do as she says, already knowing why she wants to talk about my grades.\n\"I understand you go through....some issues with technology, but you need to become flexible. You know that almost 70% percent of our work is online. Get over your fears, or you aren't going to pass.\"\n\"But-\"\n\"No buts. I'll see you tomorrow.\"\nI walk out of the classroom, feeling nauseous. I go to the bathroom, and overhear....Willow?\n\"Girl, you're failing? Damn, I have straight A's, and if they fall from that I'm dead at home. Haha, yea.\"\nI feel bad for eavesdropping, but why should I? Miss Little Perfect has everything she could wish for, why should I care.\nI wish I was as pretty as her.\nI wish I was as liked as her.\nI wish my grades were as good as hers.\nOnce I hear that she's gone, I make my way to the library, which is like my \"safe spot.\" I greet Mrs. Delia, a middle aged woman who is as sweet as honey.\n\"Hey darlin! I got a book for you, Kathryn Colby, your favorite!\n\"Thanks Mrs. Delia, put it aside for me! She does, and I look at the humongous library. Ahh, I love this place.\nI straight into it, and turn left to my favorite part of the library, the thrillers. I find my book, and make my way to \"the lounge\" which is basically this little area in the library, that not a lot of people know of. It's pretty limited, me and a few other people. But when I get there, it's....already occupied?\nTo my surprise, Willow, the girl who is intrigued by Chanel and Louie Vuitton, is sitting...in the library?!?!?\n\"Are you going to stand their staring at me, or are you gonna come sit down and start reading?\" She asks.\n\"Oh, er, i'm gonna sit.\"\nI sit down and dive into my book until Willow starts talking.\n\"I know your failing Biology. I heard what Ms. Anderson said.\"\nI was suddenly angry for her eavesdropping, but didn't I eavesdrop on her?\n\"I wasn't eavesdropping, if that's what you think. I volunteer for a shelter nearby, and was just passing by to see if she wanted to donate anything.\"\nGreat, she volunteers too.\n\"You seem like a nice gal, Coradynn?\"\n\"Coralynn.\" I say, cracking a small smile.\n\"So, why are you always alone?\"\n\"Er..I don't think thats up to me. No one else wants to talk to me.\"\nShe goes quiet, as if she's thinking about something.\n\"I pity you, to be honest. I was like you once before. How about this, come over to my house at 5, K?\n\"Uhm....ok?\"\n\"See you later, Loser.\" She winks, her blond hair flowing behind her.\n\nHours after, school ends, but I still have Willow on my mind. What did she want from me? Why did she want me to go to her house? I walk inside my house, greeting my mom and walking to my room. I drop my backpack on the floor, and go to the mirror. I pose, looking at myself deeply.I sigh, giving up. I look at the time again, 3:59 PM.\nI go downstairs, and make myself a bowl of cereal.\n\"How was school, dear?\"\n\"It was good mom, how was work?\"\n\"Fine, boring as always.\" My mom says, laughing.\n\"I'm going to a, er, friends house later. Is that ok?\"\nHer face visually brightens, hearing that.\n\"Of course! I've been waiting for this ever since I had you, the day you would ask me to go out!\"\nI wince, but laugh with her. I chat with her for another thirty minutes until I see the time on the antique clock that my aunt Rebecca got us last Christmas.\n\"Oh shoot, I gotta get going mom! See you later!\" I get my backpack, and run out of the door. I'm so curious of what Willow wants me to come over for.\nI don't know where she lives, but my mom goes to her mom's club, so I think I have an idea.\nI go to what I think is her house, and score! She opens the door, and seems happy to see me.\n\"Coralynnie! Come in, I was waiting for you.\" She says, ignoring the sudden nickname she gave me.\nShe guides me to her room, giving me a chocolate and sea salt granola bar with her.\nWe sit, and she gets down to business.\n\"So, before I came to Fillian High, I was just like you. I was like, a nerd, if you know what I mean. Like, no offense, but I was just like how you are now, not appreciated. \"\n\"But, I had this friend, and she recommended me this app. It's an app that basically takes over you and makes you, an \"it\" girl. Like me, for instance. That app changed my life. Now, I know fashion, how to get good grades, and how to get everyone to like me! You should get it, give me your phone.\"\nI look at her weirdly.\n\"Uhm, I don't have a phone....and don't seem to be wanting one any time soon. \"\nShe returns the weird look.\n\"Now I get why people don't hangout with you, no offense! But you don't have a phone?!?\"\n\"Yea. I don't want one either.\"\n\"Ok. Well, what about your laptop or ipad?\"\n\"Don't have those either..?\" I say sheepishly.\nShe scoffs.\n\"Then what the hell do you do in your free time?\"\n\"Er, read?\"\nShe looks at me like i'm crazy.\n\"Girl, you need some help, and I don't think I'm the one able to help you. Sorry boo!\"\nIt's like her personality flipped in a second. One second ago, she was this innocent girl and the next, a total phony. Oh well, they all go crazy when I tell them that I don't electronics. I know my welcome has now ended, so I get up and leave, not saying another word to her.\nMost people think i'm a lunatic when I tell them i'm a telephobe, but they don't understand it. Electronics hypnotize you, make you scared of yourself. You scroll through photos of models and feel bad about yourself. You read dark humor and laugh at the sadness of the joke. I don't want to be like that.\nWalking back home, I feel I made the right decision, leaving her house. I'm perfect the way I am, liked or disliked, beautiful or not, eduactionally perfect or not.\n\nI'm Coralynn, the telephobe." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Worlds Apart\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2965\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character, by chance or habit, peers through a telescope. They see something unusual — what is it?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "M. Francois-Marie, \nI hope to satisfy your gracious inquiries about my Uncle Isaac. Of course, all the world is coming to know him in a sense, well beyond the shores of our Great Britain, but I do perhaps have the unique perspective of being the only such person to sit upon his lap, look through his scope, listen to his debates with great men in Woolsthorpe Manor, and perhaps even contribute to his lore. He is rapidly ascending into the clouds like Elijah, and few are left who can tell the real biography. Whether or not that’s what I sincerely do, you will have to wonder!\nMy oldest memory, when I was perhaps four or five, is from an Easter Sunday at St. John Church in Colsterworth, where his parents are buried. We went to service, and I remember little except how unaccommodating a hardwood pew is to a little girl’s spine, as if it were carved by an Inquisitor, and she was withholding information. I remember I stood upon it to stare out the window, and perhaps only received sympathetic forgiveness for such behavior because of my age and my curls. Mother went to pull me back to my seat, and placed me to her left, further away from the window, between her and Uncle. I remember him grinning at me rather than shushing. I pointed at the glass, at a thin crack like a captured lightning bolt, and asked him why a rainbow shone through the crack. “Yes!” he whispered loudly. He was suddenly as fascinated as I and stared at it, hardly hearing another word from the droning priest, at least until the priest slipped and spilled the chalice. It was a sacrilegious horror, what with the Lord’s blood pooling around his shoes and his own pooling in his cheeks. Only the audible gasping in the room masked what Uncle Isaac leaned over and whispered to me, grinning again: “That must be a good omen. The grapes will be juicy this year.” \nDon’t misunderstand; he loved the God of Abraham. The church…not so much.\nAfterwards we went to the graveside, and his demeanor became more somber and sad. His mother had passed the year I was born. I plopped down in the dirt to play, unconscious of how ill-suited a context it was for such behavior. For children, death is a far-away city, a name with no memories attached to it.\nI traced in the dirt an outline of the shadow of St. John’s steeple cross, right where the sun painted it. Uncle Isaac talked a long time to Mum, so in a while, I noticed that the shadow had moved a bit to the left. I traced it again right next to the first, and then called to him, “Uncle! I made a clock!” I had crafted a haphazard sundial.\nThere is a gleam that at rare moments appears in an adult’s eye which can make a child feel something deep and inarticulable, a resounding validation and affection. That day, I saw him seeing me.\nI also remember what he said. “If only you knew the wheels that turned your clock.”\n✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴\nIt was perhaps two years later that I remember him sitting in his favorite reading chair in the large room of the manor. His furniture was more ornate than that of our own house, and the back of the chair was made of such interlaced woodwork that I thought King George might sit on it himself. I signaled him to pick me up, which he did, placing me upright on his lap, facing him. I stood on his thighs, one foot upon each, like skis.\nNow that I could see clearly the top of his head, I told him, “Confidentially, Uncle,” a word far too large for such a small mouth, “you have one gray hair.” \nHe laughed like a bear, something, I suspect you’ve heard, he rarely did. “Well, confidentially, Catherine dear, I hope they all turn gray one day!”\n“In that case,” I continued matter-of-factly, a pint-sized professor, “you have more than one.”\nTo the very end of his life, he repeated that story at every family gathering as if no one had ever heard it before.\nThe laughter then brought Mum into the room, who told me it was time for bed. She started to collect me, but Uncle, who knew less of the manners of British society than mechanics of the solar system, yelled, “Stop!”\n“I want her to see something after dark.”\nThere was a mild contest, but she surrendered to him, and I was elated to stay up for some mystery adventure. A bit later he went to the sleeping quarters and came back with his telescope, the one he had built, the first of its kind. Of course you know this, as did the whole Royal Society by that time. We went outside into the chilly night and he perched it on the center beam of a pull plow. Uncle owned over fifteen acres, and the moon, nearly full, illuminated furlongs in every direction, like it had thrown open the roof on a birdhouse and surprised the inhabitants of the dark nest.\nM. Francois-Marie, I know the significance of my next sentence. I have looked through the telescope of Isaac Newton. In doing so, I looked through his eyes.\nI touched my cheek to the chilly eyepiece. The moon showed us its pimples and spots, and I imagined it a bare planet, like ours, but small and covered in snow that made it white and cold.\nHe said something you would think to be too much for a girl, but which, in fact, landed just right, because a child has not yet been notified of their contractual obligation to normalcy. I still believed in magic, as did he.\n“The heavens are in reach,” he whispered to me.\n✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴\nIn the next memory, I recall him fighting about his magic. Unlike the previous two events, which I remember for their charm, this one stuck with me because it frightened me. I don’t think I had yet reached my tenth birthday, and while everyone knew Uncle to be distant and aloof, I had not yet realized as much, from my seat in the prized office of favored niece. I had only fond thoughts of him. His science always seemed to me a form of play. However, he had attracted crowds, which he didn’t particularly like. The Principia had appeared in print, and students would sometimes run alongside his carriage in the street just to stare at him. A painter once set up an easel smack in front of the house and began to paint us, if you can imagine. So because I had always felt that warm hospitality from him, I had no sense for how it felt to be everyone else around him. And I had never heard him yell before.\nHe slammed his fist down on the table so hard that the snuff box popped up like a startled rabbit, flipped, and dumped its brown contents in a brief rainshower on the floor. I was upstairs, but I ran to the bedroom doorway. Downstairs, he and a German man sat beside one another at the corner of the long table. That corner seemed to be the only thing keeping them from a physical brawl. The German’s English was perfect, save for the distinct accent, but he had an odd look to him. His nose sat too large on his face, and his head sat too large on his body. It was as if he was always coming at you longways, nose first!\nWhen I had gone to bed, they were discussing mathematics, but they awakened me in a fight over other matters.\n“Eet’s absurd!” the German balked. “You can’t have zee planets pulling on each other from far away. Is zere some wizard out zere casting spells?”\n“I’m telling you that’s what is happening!” Uncle answered.\n“Maybe zee billiard balls can stop bumping into one another and zey can just pull one another across zee table!”\n“Everything is drawn at a constant force, and it can be measured, Gottfried. I’m not wrong.”\n“You’d better read Aristotle and zee Scriptures togezer and sink about how Galileo stood against zem both,” the German humphed at him.\nMy young mind couldn’t follow and capture that important talk. Those conversations have been lost like dandelion seeds in the wind, though not the crops they’ve planted.\nI must have lingered too long, because Uncle turned in my direction, and immediately stopped talking. They both converted to a seemly posture so quickly that you would think I were a nun.\n“Vell, child,” the guest said in a much gentler tone, “your Uncle has zee strangest ideas.”\nHere, I had the upper hand, because I had enjoyed his tutelage and knew the basics. “He only thinks the planets attract things because he was sitting under the apple tree outside and a big one fell on his head.”\nIt was, of course, a lie, one that I made up on the spot. The memory of that moment is so firmly implanted in my mind now because the giddiness that came from being able to make two grown men laugh was like a first taste of honey. Furthermore, I saw how quickly it calmed their demeanors, and I felt I had brokered some peace accord.\nI told you they were arguing about magic. That’s certainly the accusation Leibniz leveled against my Uncle. But for Uncle Isaac, it was no point of shame. Science is not the end of magic, so much as magic is the beginning of science. The latter doesn’t negate the former any more than a new birth negates a mother. As a man you may not understand this, but the shift from being a childless young woman to becoming a parent does not make one mourn the loss of former life, though certain things are forever left behind. In the same way, the magic that still sees spirits in trees and finds morals in holy books has every reason to be proud of the scientific curiosity to which it has given birth. I would watch Uncle go from memorizing catechism to mathematical calculations without inconsistency. It’s when we refuse to explore new worlds that magic dies.\n✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴\nPerhaps four years later, when I was thirteen, Uncle went through his dark year. Mum brought us for a visit, but she was bothered the whole way. I asked her to sing with me in the carriage and she shook her head.\nThe manor was disheveled. Nothing had been dusted and all the curtains were pulled closed. Whereas before there were thoughtfully organized shelves, most everything - chair seats, tables, even piles of books - was a surface for piling up stillborn projects and half-written notes. He now wrote in a secret code. The table was scalded with burns from failed mixtures of chemicals and candles, where he had tried to make gold.\nUncle’s eyes were sunken and encircled with dark rings. I won’t recount to you the specifics of what things he said, because I’d just assume the history books not remember, but everything was prophecy and alchemy. He had gone from fascination with the orbs revolving over our heads to the smallest ones he believed circled inside of every physical thing. He suspected that if he separated and mixed them in the right ways, he might produce gold. Mother scolded him, that alchemy was frowned upon by the church, but he no longer attended church. His study of the Scriptures, though, had intensified, and he was talking about the end of the world.\nOne cannot imagine what the growing storm clouds of old age do to the green heart of an adolescent, akin to that moment in between the one in which a glass slips from your hand and the one in which it hits the floor. I feared a coming erosion of the man that I had adored.\nThough he would apparently rebound without explanation the following year, it wasn’t long before Mum suggested I move in with him. In my nineteenth year, I did.\n✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴\nI’ll tell you one more, and you can reply with further questions if my storytelling is anything more than meanderings. You may be looking for something more substantial than these familial recollections.\nIt was another conversation at that dinner table in Woolsthorpe. This time, the chairs were full of bodies and the plates were full of smokey partridge, snipes, and roast beef, plump artichokes and crisp French beans that had been rolled in flour and fried, ripe fruit in the center of the table and fermented fruit in every glass. The cows had blessed us with butter that ran down the potatoes and blocks of cheese. Soon the plates would be empty and the bodies would be full.\nIt was mother and me, Uncle Isaac, of course, Sir Godfrey Copley, a statesman, several men from the Royal Society, and two very quiet and out of place students from Cambridge whom Uncle had selected and then regretted inviting.\nConversation covered tensions between Russia and Sweden, the boiling controversy about whether Uncle or Leibniz first developed the new calculus, and Uncle’s new job at the Royal Mint.\nIt was well into dinner, when the Mint came up, that I decided to share news of my own. I realize now how audacious it must have seemed for a young woman to interject in such esteemed company, but I lived under the umbrella of Isaac’s prominence.\n“I have news as well,” I told them. Everyone turned to me. “I’ve been asked to go to work as the housekeeper for Earl Charles Montagu.” They all knew him as a member of the House of Commons, but I had read his poetry, and saw something of the gentle man behind the weighty status, just like I had with Uncle Isaac.\nAt this, Isaac grimaced and dropped his silverware.\n“No!” he insisted. \nI was flabbergasted. He declared it in front of everyone, without any recognition of what the offer meant. “You’re well provided for here, you don’t need to work, and there’s no reason….”\n“Uncle,” I said, extending courtesy in ways that he was not, “it’s a good job, and I’m not married. I should keep myself busy serving in the house of an honorable man.”\nHe smacked his knuckles down on the table repeatedly as he spoke, like it was a front door and no one was answering. “A young woman alone in another man’s house! Drawing attention to herself in such a public forum! No!”\nI didn’t dare to respond. Nor did anyone else. Until one of the men from the Society tenderly shifted the conversation, asking, “Montagu was appointed to the Commission of the Treasury, wasn’t he?” And then, in the way that the nobility, who have disciplined themselves away from the passions, do, they carried on as if nothing had happened.\nIt lasted only a second, and then it was over, and I later took the position anyway. I remember this scene because, as you might imagine, it was the moment that a creeping disappointment took root in me, disappointment with Uncle Isaac, which thereafter would never quite leave. I remember this as the moment that the milk started to sour.\nUncle Isaac spent his life exploring the heavens, calculating the hidden formulas that God has encoded in the universe, and seeking to rework subterranean chemical compounds in search of powers about which men have only fantasized. He was, in every way, a magician. But I told you, magic dies when we refuse to explore new worlds. Isaac was so enamored with the heavens above him that he forgot the most important element of the world in front of him - the people that crossed his path. He saw nothing so interesting in his fellow man to be worth his curiosity. That was a world he never bothered to explore, and so that was the place that the magic for him died. Not only did he never marry, he never loved.\nThere are stories about myself and Montagu that have reached the papers. Let them wonder. I married. I’m a mother. Isaac never wrote a poem; I have inspired a poet. Isaac has left formulas that students will be made to learn; I have learned time and again to make rooms of older, wiser, and more dignified people laugh out loud, enjoy my stories, and calm down. Isaac could have told you how the world is and told you that he was not wrong. But Isaac could not have told you what makes a child proud or a woman blush.\nI was with him until the very end. He went quietly, reading the Bible one night and then falling asleep. Aside from me, he was alone.\nAs I said, this isn’t what you were asking for, and I am senselessly mailing you wasted ink. If anyone in the future should read this letter, they’re unlikely to have any knowledge of the events I’m recalling, and while I suspect they will know my Uncle’s name, they are unlikely to know mine. And just as well. I have contributed little other than some small stories and faithful support to the life of a man who was one of a kind. I was an enamored niece who lived to witness the changing of the history of the world. But as close as we were to one another, I know that in the end, we were worlds apart.\nYours,\nCatherine Barton" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Songbird\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2647\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character looking out on a new horizon." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger warning: War, Death, loss of loved one, slight gore\nFebruary twenty-second, oh, how I remember that bittersweet day. It was the day where we made a promise over the glistering sea. How long has it been since you died? Five years? Eight? No, I think it’s been ten years since year since you passed. Still, I remember that night as though it were yesterday. It was my birthday, you and I both baked chocolate muffins, my favorite sweet. I remember how we partied until midnight. It was an enthusiastic celebration, but eventually, I went upstairs to rest. You offered to clean up. When I woke, it was early morning, I the scent of muffins still tinted the air. The sun also woke up from his own rest, peeking shyly over the horizon. Your red hair gleamed under the hopeful sunrise as if they were strands of shimmering gold. I remember being cuddled with you under the red blanket I had knitted a long time ago when you were but a child. Together we admired the rising sun, and your hums harmonized with the birds singing in the treetops. oh, my dear child, how you truly grew up so fast. \nThe squeaks of the mailslot echoed throughout the house. It was an odd occurrence seeing how we rarely ever got mail. Innocently, you and I went to the door. I went first and then my son followed. Both of us wondered what could have been delivered. Our steps froze upon seeing the white letter on the ground. My son, confidently, grabbed the white letter off the ground. His skinny hands tore it open with anticipation. I was, too, curious. So I leaned onto you and looked at the letter. For a second, it felt as if the world stopped. The loud ticks of the grandfather clock prove that to be false. Both of us went silent. I reached for the letter then, creasing it at the edges with my firm grasp. I can still recall the words I read. They haunt me to this very day.\n“You are hereby ordered for induction into…”\n “... The military,” you finished. I don’t think I had ever seen that look on your face before. It was… sad. Sadder than I’d ever seen you. I couldn't continue. Nor could you. Your frail numb hands reached over and grabbed the paper. Pulling it away from my numb hands. Without another word, you quickly stumbled into your room. Cold breaths left my mouth as I sat down on the rocking chair. I could see the small white clouds that left my mouth. Not even the red blanket could offer me comfort. Not even the chocolate chip muffins. \nClouds covered the large blue skies. It was a dreary day. The air was warm, yet I was still chilled to the bone. In front of me stood you. Your hair was hidden by a black hat. An auburn-colored suit was what you worse; your fragile body was puffed up by layers of fabric. It was the best suit you had. Passed down by your father. In your hand was a worn briefcase. Although your sorrow was evident, you still twisted your face into a pained smile as to spare me any of the hurt. Though it couldn't help but make my tears flow even more. My heart wrenched seeing you smile. How could he think of me at a time like this? You were so young, but already so mature. At that moment, you reminded me so much of your father. I heaved another sob. I couldn't help but believe I failed as a parent. I couldn't protect you, I couldn't save you. I hated how you still felt as though you couldn’t reveal your true feelings to me.\n“I’ll see you soon, mom.”\nYou opened your arms, and I fell into them. I held you so tightly, tighter than I had ever held you before. My hands cramped up as they refused to let you go. Like the gentle boy you were, you slid my hands off of you. Then turning away, you settled into the low black car waiting on the curb. \nAnd then you were gone. My handkerchief was soaked through with tears, damp and heavy. I found myself unable to raise my hand to wave, so I said as loudly as I could muster.\n“Goodbye, my darling”\nDespite you being absent due to war, I maintained an orderly routine. The house was as clean as ever. Every month I would bake chocolate cookies for you so that when you return, you’d be able to feast on your favorite food. I ended up adopting a dog. I found him on death’s door whimpering in the streets. Something told me to take him in. Something about him seemed so familiar when I first saw him in the alley. I realized then that his red coat was so similar to your own hair. Or his fragile body that seemed so similar to yours. Anyway, you always wanted a dog. I figured you’d be glad to see him when you came back. I believe, with all my heart, that you will come back home again safe. You were a smart boy. Talented, too. You were so strong and determined. Such a boy wouldn’t be able to die on the battlefield, I frequently reasoned with myself. My hands clasped together as I looked out the window. The wind chimes with a ruby dangling in the middle twinkled back to the birds. Yes, you would return. I was sure of it. \n“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be. thy name. Please protect my son”\nSilence engulfed the house, though I didn’t mind it. I had grown used to such silence shortly after you left. Nuzzling my leg was our little dog with red fur. Soft whines left his body. Occasionally, my knitting needles would click together, breaking the silence. At the same time breaking an invisible grasp around me. I was making a sweater for you. Red, to match the blanket you loved so dearly. I sighed contentedly at the thought of your smiling face when you see this sweater. I imagine you’d never want to take it off. Frantic yelps then filled the air, blocking out all sound. The red dog almost never barked. Hence why it threw me off guard. At that moment, I'm not sure how I was able to hear it. I was waiting for it, I guess. I had been waiting for months. Waiting for that knock on the door. It was you, my dear son. It had to be. No one ever stopped by our house for a visit. It was too secluded, I suppose. Even delivery men find trouble in locating this house. Hence why we got our letters at the mailing station. Only you knew it, only you. So when I caught the rapping on the front door, I knew immediately that you had come home. I nearly cried with relief. You were home at last. While stumbling, I ran to the door. Past the picture frames who lost their pictures, the now clean rug, the untouched coat-hanger. Quickly throwing open the wooden plank to see my dear son. A bright smile overtook the rest of my features. I looked up to meet your eyes, but…..\nIt wasn’t you.\nHow could that be? You had been gone for so long surely it was time for you to be back now. My mind spun, trying to piece together why this stranger was standing on the porch in your place. No, it was another young boy. In the man in front of me, was, well, not even a man at all. He looked to be about your age, 18, maybe? 19? It hardly mattered. His hair was brown and unkempt as if he had run his hands through it just seconds before. He held the wide, intimidating stance of a powerful individual, however, it lacked its luster as the young man was so obviously distraught. In his hand was a picture. A picture of you and I back when you were but a young lad. The male had a sorrowful expression plastered onto his face. As if he wanted to speak but the blanket of shame stopped him. No, no, no. This can’t be true. It just can’t. Though before my mind could react my heart let out an overwhelming wave of emotions. As if a dam finally broke. \n“Who are you? Where is my son?” \nMy shaky voice was growing frantic, I could tell. The soldier struggled to get an answer together, stuttering.\n“WHERE IS HE?” I was loud, my voice piercing.\nThe soldier held his head low and softly said, “Ma’am, your son, he’s… dead. Three days ago we got the news, but if it’s any consolation—”\n“No, NO, he can’t be dead! How can you say that? Is this a prank? You’re pranking a woman who has spent MONTHS of her life waiting for her son to come back home? He’s not dead, I know it. He’s coming back, he’s going to come back, I—”\n“Ma’am, I promise I would never joke about something like this. I understand it’s hard to hear but your son—”\n“NO. WHATEVER IT WAS YOU WERE GOING TO SAY, DON’T. LEAVE. GET OFF OF MY PROPERTY. MY SON ISN’T DEAD!” I was crying by that point, shaking and screaming with grief. I tasted salt where my tears reached the corners of my mouth. “He– He can’t be dead, he promised. He promised me. Tell me where he is, please. Tell me the truth. Where is he? Where is my son? PLEASE, TELL ME WHERE HE IS! I NEED TO SEE HIM! PLEASE!”\nThe soldier in front of me reached out, steadying me. I brushed his arm off. “Ma’am, I apologize, but it’s out of our power now. You will be able to see him soon, but—”\n“No, NO! PLEASE! I’ll give you anything for him! PLEASE, JUST GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!” My throat ached. Badly. “Please. He did nothing wrong, he was innocent. I’ll give you anything, I’ll give you my life, just, please… let him return home to me, safe.” I raised my wet eyes to the ones across from me. “Please.”\nWith every croak of my voice, my throat burned harder. Why did it hurt? I realized I had been screaming. My legs gave out. I dropped to the ground. I was weak, so weak. My lungs failed to provide me with enough air. It was as if a ghost was sucking the oxygen from around me. The soldier tried to help again, still, I swatted him away. His expression softened and tears began to fill his eyes. At the same time, looking at me with these crystal-like eyes. Looking at my pathetic figure crouched helplessly on the floor. But as I looked up at the boy soldier, it hit me. He was no more than the age you were. He was still but a child. I forced myself to stand up, to wipe away my tears. \n“Wait here.” I couldn't say much more than that. I prayed he would still listen.\nI'm sure I sounded dead on my feet, broken. Still, the young soldier startled at my voice. He stood firmly, waiting for punishment, I concluded, but that wasn't what I had to offer. Slowly, one foot at a time, I treaded back through the house. I grabbed the plate of cookies on the kitchen counter I had originally baked for my son. I stacked them neatly into a box, securing it tightly with a red ribbon. I was about to head back to the soldier when I stopped. I scribbled a hasty note and tucked it in with the cookies: My son loved these cookies. I hope you will too. Then, I made my way outside again. \nI walked out and gave the box to the boy. His surprised face made me chuckle slightly. It reminded me so much of you it was almost painful to look at. He had tried to protest, but I hushed him and pushed the cookies into his hands. I stuttered a “Thank you,” as he admired the cookies inside.\n“It’s late,” I smiled kindly at the man. I was still numb, still hurting, and smiling was almost more than I could bear. I manage to shake his hand politely and wave to him goodnight.\nHe took off his military cap and bowed. Afterward, he walked back to his parked car and drove away.\nI was exhausted. Constantly. My body felt as if it was tied to the ground. Knowing I’d never see you again was too much for one body to handle. Everything I lost played over in my mind. I would never see your smile, the one that makes your eyes squint into crescent moons, again. I would never get the chance to hear your laugh, the one that always harmonized with my own, again. The crystal tears that left your eyes when you were sad, I would never see them. Your fiery red strands of hair that appeared crimson-gold in the sunlight, the very same hair that would never again get to cut every other month like I used to, I would never see it or touch it again. Your stunning green eyes that had hints of brown dispersed in them… weren’t emeralds. Not quite. Rather, they looked like dark forests tinted with brown stumps and dirt. I would never see those again either. You would never bake your best chocolate muffins again, you would never taste my chocolate cookies again. You would never clean the house or meet our little red fur dog. Those days when you helped me in my kitchen, those days when you played in the ocean, they would never be the same again. \nSorrowful music played in the church that day. You had a small funeral. Only me, a few of your old classmates, and your fellow soldiers joined. I knew it’s what you would have wanted. Before you were buried, I made sure to see you. One last time.\n“Well, darling. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” \nThere was no answer.\n“I’ve missed you in ways you couldn’t imagine. How have you been?” \nThere was no answer.\n“I made you favorite, here!”\nI pulled out a small bag of chocolate chip cookies. Wrapped with the red blanket that you and I huddled under so long ago. I glanced at your wound-covered body. Cuts scattered across your limbs, scars of all kinds, everywhere, a large bullet wound dark on your neck. Your battered body was an obvious handicap. But I noticed, your face was still filled with kindness, even in death. Even when you were forced into fighting by those above, I recalled, you still smiled as bright as ever. I wanted so badly to do the same for you.\nSo, with a smile, I pressed your gift carefully into your hands. With a quick goodbye, I shut the casket. I watched as the casket was lowered to the ground. I watched as dirt fluttered down, covering the hole, and buried my son. Slight sniffing was heard all around. The loudest ones were heard from me. \nNow, rocking back and forth on the rocking chair, I hummed. It’s nighttime, and are no birds to reply to my song. My hands stroke the dog on my lap. His sickly figure fell asleep no too long ago. I sat, contemplating, for who knows how long. When I looked up, I was greeted by the rising sun. The limp red dog on my lap holding an expression of satisfaction. The same sight of the beautiful water glistening from the sun, how beautiful it was. I heard the first chirps from away in the leaves. \n“Goodmorning my songbirds.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: What I Learned in English Class and How It's All Horribly Wrong\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1150\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone asking out an old crush, only to realize their crush doesn’t remember they’ve ever met before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Well, I don’t know if it’s fair, exactly, to say I learned. I never paid (or even borrowed or stole) attention, because, in my mind, as an already fourteen-year-old prodigy, I’d learned everything there was to know. Right? \nLiterature-wise, I suppose. I’d read all the books we were reading—never made any of the grammar mistakes the other kids were making—analyzed what we were fated to be analyzing in my prepubescent time by the river, stuffing the chinks between the log bridge with moss and pondering the meanings behind Austen and Orwell and Lee (Harper, not Bruce). \nMy parents left me alone a lot. \nI knew, from the first hour spent in that class, that I was above it. I probably could’ve gotten out of it, if I wanted to, or made Mrs. Wellston notice (like teachers are supposed to) that it was “below my level,” and I might’ve done those things, too, if not for the variable of Toby. \nOur only interaction was on the first day of class, when I was rushing into the room in an attempt to be early, to make a good impression. (I was already late.) In an oh-so-shocking twist of fate, the doorknob decided, right at that moment, to jam; and so I was left, already out of breath from running with a backpack much heavier than it needed to be, futilely rattling the handle, sweat smearing across the slippery surface. Someone from the inside probably would’ve gotten the door in a few seconds anyway, but just then a boy reached from behind me and, as if he’d practiced all his life, deftly turned the handle, revealing a room half-full of slouching students, only a few of them turned to see who’d been frantic enough to seemingly try to wrench the door handle off. I slipped quietly into my seat, pink prickling across my cheeks in warm embarrassment. As the boy casually sat at a desk next to the wall, he whispered in my direction, “I’m Toby.” \nI could only imagine the pink blush deepening to a red. “I’m Julia,” I said, even more quietly than he, and busied myself by kicking my backpack with the toe of my sneaker. That was our sole exchange for the entirety of first semester. \nFrom then on, every minute stuck in that class was spent studying him.\nToby, as so many other people are, was from Canada, though I never learned where, so I just assumed (which, I believe, I cannot be faulted for doing) that it was Ontario. His full name was October, which was weird and pretty shocking to learn, but it helped me stop thinking of him as Tobey Maguire, so I really can’t fault him for it. Interracial relationships always fascinated me—I had a friend from sixth grade, Kadi, whose mom was Black and whose dad was Asian and she was, quite possibly, the most good-looking girl in the entirety of middle school—so, as one of the whitest people to ever have glowed under the light of the sun, I had aspirations that somewhere along the line of my teenage journey, I’d find a boy who helped balance that out; and hey, maybe we’d produce some kids half as good-looking as Kadi was. \nAlas, Toby ensured that those dreams were not to be. His mom was a millennial, and she wore fedoras and named Toby’s twin sister Amberose (one word—to this day, I’m still not sure how it’s pronounced or what the heckity heck it means). His dad was, I don’t know, a pharmacist or something. \nToby—the boy who sat to my left every day in lit class—was somewhat of an invisible man. (He was probably bisexual; I never once saw him with uncuffed jeans.) He had that kind of blond hair that seems as though it could whisk away any second, dull and—dare I say it—somewhat similar in color to Tr*mp’s. He had green eyes that seemed to drift whenever he wasn’t paying attention (always), and I was at least 97% sure he had a little curved scar to the side of his upper lip. Toby was, in appearance, no one of importance, to every classmate but me. \nMaybe I liked him because we seemed somewhat similar—at least, I thought it was pretty obvious that neither of us had dated before. He was always quiet in class, slumped against the wall, sleeping half the time; that just left me more chances to observe him. Toby gave me really good vibes, caramel and cream-colored pompoms and fairy lights and wavy ferns and autumn sort of vibes. (You have to admit, he kind of handed that last one to me—his first name was October. I take no blame.) Of course, I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to base any of this information off of, but ninth-grade-me liked to think I was good at reading people. (I wasn’t.) \nI told myself that this was love, that someday we’d blossom into the kind of romance you read about in books. Really, all I learned in that class—all I taught myself—was how to see without being seen, how to deceive your mind into fantasies you were sure would one day be real. \nSometimes I’d slink around the halls, shadowing Toby or the guys he hung out with, straining my ears for any mention of him as I tried to pretend like I was listening to music. These pastimes—staring at him out of the corner of my eye in lit class, eavesdropping to hear what kind of backstory he might have, stalking him on social media, determined to find some scrap of new information—they were all well and good, until I got caught. \nI remember it distinctly; it was January fifteenth, after lunch period, and I was lurking by a locker that was most definitely not mine, scrolling through the settings app on my phone. Pro tip: If you want to pretend like you’re doing something important when, in fact, you’re really doing absolutely nothing at all, keep your screen’s brightness low so no one can call you out. \nAnyways, I was just standing there, coexisting as Toby and a few of his friends convened in the hall, when suddenly one of them asked, “Dude, you ever notice that chick follows you around all the time?” \nOh, crap. Crap crap crap. \nToby slowly turned to look at me. Amusement flitted across his emerald eyes. “Her?” Without waiting for a response, he added, “Well, there’s only one thing for it.” He called to me, “What’s up?” \nFrozen in sheer terror, I could only stare. \nToby laughed and walked a few steps in my direction. “Hey, you okay?” \nNow’s your chance, you idiot. You’ve been wanting to do this for months. Just—just get it out. \n“Uh,” I stuttered, my throat somehow choked with air, “um—it’s—it’s Julia—would—would you ever want to go out sometime?” \nToby cocked his head, smiling. “Have we met?”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dakota Bound\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2456\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character looking out on a new horizon." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "-Dakota Bound-\nChicago, July of 1875 -\nClutching my valise to my body tightly, I cautiously stepped forward to board the railroad car along with the many others gathered on the wooden platform. The humid air gave me cause to wipe my forehead of sweat and then place the handkerchief in front of my nose to block the chocking fumes. This smoking monster, the Chicago and Northwestern train, would be taking its passengers away from this hot Midwestern city today. Traveling west from my Chicago home to unknown Fort Abraham Lincoln in the Dakota Territory should be a great adventure I told myself many times. If that was true, why couldn't I feel the excitement that many around me seemed to harbor?\nI had agreed to take a post with a family at the Fort. It was a bold step for me at age 19. Very bold - yet very necessary. The governess position here in my hometown, I had high hopes of obtaining, had been given to another. In my childhood home, my new stepmother had become someone I simply couldn't stand to be near another day and the thought of living in the house with her and my infatuated father was nauseating. The chance to leave and travel west was thrust upon me by a childhood friend, Rebecca,who had recently taken a similar position at the Dakota fort and urged me by letter to join her. Rebecca had nothing but praise for the handsome soldiers there, the cavalry family she had come to love now as companion and tutor and of course, the many new adventures she had experienced. I had accepted the post. I was on my way west. Lifting my head high to fool my psyche into believing I was the adventuress also, I boarded the train.\nSettling myself near a small window, I watched the remaining passengers board and remembered fondly my childhood home before Emeline Thatcher had stolen my father's heart. How I would miss the place I had grown up in! How I did miss my mother who had only left this earth a mere ten months ago! Father would miss me I suppose, when he wasn't drooling over his new, young wife. She would occupy the place I had loved so dearly. I felt the motion of the train now – it was too late to change my mind. I was headed west. The city I loved, the only home I had ever known was becoming a blur as the train picked up speed. Good- bye Chicago.\nI looked around me at the other passengers settling themselves in their chosen seats. I breathed a sigh of relief, no one had chosen the seats across from me. This gave me plenty of leg room and I tried to relax. I felt my eyes grow heavy and closed them, the motion of the train now lulling me to sleep. It must of only been minutes that I dozed before I heard a child's laughter and slowly opened my eyes to see the wide blue ones of a pint size person staring at me. Her pixie mouth smiled, and I now saw clearly I did not have the compartment to myself. This little girl and a woman I supposed to be her mother, had settled across from me, the child still staring.\nI straightened my back from the sleep slouch it had conformed to and saw the child whisper in her mother's ear. The mother was a hefty woman with a drab dress and hat and told her child to hush for the pretty lady was sleeping. Realizing I was the pretty lady she had been talking about, I quietly introduced myself. “Nice to make your acquaintance, my name is Katherine. Katherine Trent.”\nGiggling ensued then and the little girl buried her head in her mother's ample bosom. The woman turned a bright shade of red and spoke finally, “Pleased to meet ya, we are. Mary and Lettie O'Connor.”\nNodding to them both, I realized I should attempt to make some conversation. These two would probably be my traveling companions for awhile. I was getting off the train in Fort Pierre and then traveling by steamboat as far as Bismarck where I would be met by the head of the family who would now be my employer. I had a curiosity where this woman and her child were traveling to. I knew my stop would not be the only destination of the many passengers.“May I ask your destination?” I inquired, leaning forward in my seat.\nThe woman had a prominent dimple which increased as she smiled, and I noticed her hat now sat crooked on her head. She reached to straighten it as she replied in a clear Irish brogue. “Fort Abraham Lincoln, we are headed to, we are. Laundresses are needed and me and my little one are startin a new life, so we are. ”\nSurprised we were heading to the same destination, I felt encouraged. Well, it looked like we would be traveling companions all the way west. “Laundress you say? Well, I have taken a position there also as companion and tutor to a family of two children. I must say, I am a bit nervous about the whole thing, yet you two look fairly excited!”\nMary O'Connor hugged her little Lettie to her chest and shrugged her shoulders. “Me sister Eileen is already in service there. She urged me to come join her, she did. Well, since me Patrick passed recently, it will be new life for the two of us.”\nI swallowed nervously. Oh, the poor woman had lost her husband, and she too was also starting a new life. One she had to begin with the child beside her. The little girl was staring at me again quite unabashedly. I reached my hand out to her and replied in a soft voice, “Well, Miss Lettie, looks like we will be friends. What do you think?”\nLettie O'Connor looked up at her mother and then back at me. Mary urged her to reply and I was quite surprised to hear her speak so clearly and firmly, “I's gonna help Ma. We gotta new home, so we do. Maybe I'll be your friend if I can find the time.”\nLaughing to myself, I leaned back in my seat and kept a straight face. These two traveling companions would certainly make the trip interesting. “We will be friends Lettie, I just know it.”\nThe next morning the three of us again sat in our compartments, watching the scenery fly before our eyes as the train moved west. I had slept surprisingly well last night in my small sleeping berth, for I must have been exhausted. This morning upon awakening, I had taken my turn in the ladies dressing car trying to arrange my chignon and finally determined it was too difficult with the train movement to get it to perfection. Now fingering the strands that had escaped, I sighed and opened my book. I would pass the time reading. This didn't happen easily though, for now the little tike before me had lost her shyness. Her first words took me aback.\n“Miss Katherine, ma said we have to look out for wild Indians at the fort, she did.”\nMy eyes grew large and Mary replied as she looked sternly at her daughter, “Not another word, Lettie, I say.”\nMy face too solemn I realized, I questioned Mary. “What have you heard about Fort Lincoln from your sister? Will we be in any danger?”\nMary blew out her breath and looked steadily at me. “Me sister, Eileen, says there is unrest there, she does. I'm sure shes just talking without thinking, she is. Soldiers at Fort Lincoln will keep the peace. I couldn't travel this far, I couldn't, if I thought it was dangerous.”\n“What else does Eileen tell you, Mary?” I was now wondering what this new adventure would bring. I felt a strange fluttering in my stomach, a sign I had become slightly nervous. My question opened up Mary to share with me all her sister Eileen's cautions and experiences.\n“Well, Miss Katherine, there is safety there with the many soldiers, there is. Eileen has written, that rumor has it, old yellow hair, that is what they all call General Custer, they do, is planning a big campaign. We should be safe within the fort walls I would imagine. My Lettie overheard me talking to my neighbor before we left, she did. I might have been more careful with her around. I'm sorry if she scared you, I am. But also, Eileen told me of my duties there as a laundress. I do think, I do, that I will be very, very, busy. And now I might shut my gob, for you look a bit frightened, you do.”\nBut Mary continued talking, while I observed through the tiny train window a scenery, strangely beautiful. The miles and miles of green plain, lush with prairie flowers portraying their summer finery, displayed itself clearly through my window. I would not be afraid I told myself. There were Indians in the west, of course I knew that. Native peoples of whom I had read about in the newspapers had resented the white man coming to their lands and taking over. It was something I hadn't thought much about before now. I realized I was joining a cavalryman's family, one who was trained to fight these natives. I would be in new territory that had many dangers compared to Chicago. Why hadn't Rebecca mentioned this in her letters when urging to me to come? Had she come to grips with it and was perfectly happy in her new surroundings? Or, did she just purposely leave out any fears she had to not frighten me and convince me to join her? I sighed heavily and realized Mary was still talking about laundress duties. I looked at her and realized she did not know I hadn't been listening carefully. I had learned Mary could talk a blue streak. I sat back in my seat, my hands folded and listened. Certainly, she thought she knew a good bit about our destination. Much more than I had. The train moved on. There was no turning back, Indians, danger or whatever, I had committed to this new life and I was on my way, for this fast moving train was unstoppable.\nThe coach that had met us in Bismarck was rapidly taking us across rough terrain to Fort Lincoln. We bounced around inside, my new employer, myself, Mary, Lettie and a stern looking cowboy type who refused to smile despite Lettie's funny remarks about our journey. I sat quietly, trying to assess my fears. The man beside me dressed in a cavalry captain's uniform would be my guardian and employer. I hoped I had made a good first impression. Unfortunately, I felt sweaty, dirty and couldn't wait to take a bath when we reached our destination and got settled. The train ride, the steamboat and now this jarring coach had all left their trail of debris upon my person. I took a deep breath. Why had I decided this would be a better life for me? The journey was taking its toll I knew and the uncertainties abounded in my tired head. Right now, all I wished to do was lay my head back in my comfortable bed in my old bedroom in Chicago, whether or not Emeline occupied the same house as I, and sleep. This decision had been made too rapidly. How could I have listened to Rebecca tell me the tales of how she loved her new life and so quickly succumbed?\nAs we entered the gates of Fort Lincoln, I saw the sentry posts with their carbines wave us through and their curious smiles flash at seeing a well known captain's unknown lady friend. Mary and Lettie giggled in their excitement while the unknown cowboy kept his stoic facial features tight. Stiff after the jarring journey from the steamboat, I took my employers hand as he helped me out of the coach. Waving my good-byes to Mary and Lettie as Eileen led them away chattering nonstop from the officer's housing to their homes on the other end of the fort, I almost wished I could stay with my newly found friends. My employer took my valise in one hand and small carpetbag in another and led me to his home. I skipped to keep up with his long strides and noticed I was being observed by many a passing cavalryman's eyes. “A new woman in the fort”, the captain muttered to me and whomever was listening, “You're causing quite a stir.”\nThat evening after the long day's journey, a warm bath and a short nap before being served dinner with the family, I sat on the porch of the small house with my new friend, the captain's wife. I had been made welcome by her immediately, for as she explained to me happily, “It will be so nice to have some help around here. The children and I are so excited for your arrival.” We sat in two porch chairs, the dusty summer turf dried up before us. It was late July and there had been little rain. Holding two small fans, we kept the air stirring as we talked together. My new friend did not seem like an employer, she was so cordial. I was given an overview of the children, ages six and seven, and their needs, along with how I might help her run the household. Quietly I listened, nodding my head now and then, trying to remember all she was telling me about this new life I would lead. I had to admit I had relaxed some, now that I had met the captain's wife and children and became accustomed to the small house's layout. The captain's wife was called in by one of the children and she urged me to stay seated and enjoy the view as the sun was setting slowly in the western sky.\nAs I watched, soon I could not look away. The skyline was on fire as brilliant red streaks shot across the once blue sky. As the scene displayed its glory before me, I prayed this was a sign of a bright future here in this unfamiliar place. Hope swelled within my chest as my eyes continued to view the vast beauty before me. A confidence that I had made the right decision calmed me now and I took a deep breath. Fort Abraham Lincoln would now be my home. I was confident I had a shining new horizon before 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: Wrong person, wrong time\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1035\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a first date that surprises both people, but in different ways." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It all started when I was flipping through the pages of my favorite novel 'Pride and Prejudice' while sitting in a library with stacks of books lined sequentially. I was fully focused on the novel. Darcy and Elizabeth's love story almost made me forget the real world. While I was so into the book, I heard someone approaching from behind.\n\"Hi! Are you Joseph?\" a girl in her brown turtleneck and short skirt asked me.\nI turned down the book and replied \"Yeah! Do I know you?\"\n\"I'm Kayla. We both went to the music class together in the 5th grade.\"\n\"Ohh.. Kayla. I totally didn't recognize you\" I was so happy to meet an old friend and I offered her a seat.\n\"How did you get here?\" I asked.\n\"My Dad is working here. So we had to shift. And guess what? I got admitted into this school.\"\n\"That's great.\" I said.\n\"Okay then. I've to go. How about having a cup of coffee at 6?\" she asked.\n\"Sure. I'm free.\" I replied instantly.\n\"Well then, Tom's Cafe at 6\" she notified and disappeared in a nick of time.\nWhat just happened?? Did a girl ask me out? I was eager for the time to pass 6. I could no longer concentrate on the book I was reading. I packed my bag and went home.\nHome\nI entered the hall and mom was watching for the 100th time, her favorite show \"F.r.i.e.n.d.s\". No wonder she named me Joseph. My mom is an innocent woman. She believes everyone. After she got divorced from my Dad, I am her only hope. I didn't want to disturb my mom so I thought of telling her about Kayla some other time.\nI set my foot into my room and refreshed myself. I picked the novel from my bag and continued my reading. I'm a Bibliophile. Hours later I realized that I had to get ready to meet her.\nI donned my jacket and took off.\nTom's Cafe\nI reached there at 5.55 p.m and was waiting for her. 10 mins later, she was there. She pulled the entrance door and waved me a hand.\n\"I'm sorry. I got stuck with some work.\" she said.\n\"That's okay. What would you like to have?\" I asked.\n\"I'll have a Cafe Latte\"\n\"Two Cafe latte please\" I ordered from the waiter.\nWe talked about many things. Our childhood days, my school days and everything.\n\"So, how's your mom and dad? ``I asked.\n\"It's been 5 years since Mom died. She met with an accident and she left me and dad alone. Dad was too depressed for almost 2 years and then we moved on.\"\nI felt sorry for her. I know the pain of losing a parent.\nOur latte was received and taking sips at them she said,\" I'm so glad to meet you here. I knew no one in this city because it's been more than 5 years since I left. \"\nNo problem. I can help you with anything.\"\nI had a great time with her. I admired her personality. Every evening, after school we met near the park and had some time together. We liked each other. Gradually, we fell in love with even knowing it. I was the happiest person on earth when I had her beside me.\nA week later..\nI and Mom were having breakfast at home. Taking bites at her sandwich she said, \"Joe, I want to tell you something. Recently, at the copy place I met a guy and I think I like him. What do you say?\"\nI was happy for her. Mom was all alone after Dad left her and I had never seen her so happy after she met the guy.\n\"Mom, I'm happy for you.\"\n\"Thank God. I was worried if you wouldn't like it. He's a great man. You would surely like him.\"\n\"Mom, I believe you. You would surely choose the right man.\" I said.\nTaking the right moment, I told her about Kayla. She asked me to bring her home and introduce her.\nI was excited to introduce Kayla to Mom. Because they are the two most important people in my life. As usual, I met Kayla in the evening and invited her to come home someday. She was too excited.\n\"Joe, I was thinking the same. I told Dad about you. He wants to meet you too. Why don't we all meet at your home?\"\n\"Yeah. That would do. Save the date for the weekend! \"\nI got a call from Mom. She asked me to meet her at a restaurant without giving me the reason. I immediately started my way saying goodbye to Kayla.\nI reached the restaurant and found Mom sitting with a man.\n\"Come on, Joe. This is Frank. The man I told you about. He wanted to meet you.\"\nFrank was a white, tall guy with a nice figure. He had a cheerful character. I observed the way he treated Mom with care and love. I had never seen her so happy before. After an hour of fun and happy talks, we reached home.\nI knew that Mom was expecting to say something about him. I told her that I really liked him and he's fun. Deep down my heart, I didn't want to ruin her the happiness she deserved. Frank is nice. All these years, Mom struggled a lot to raise me. And now it's time that I should give her happiness.\nI also told her about the weekend plan.\nIt was Sunday and the dinner was ready at the table.\n\"Mom, Kayla and her Dad could be here any minute\" I said tensed.\nFew minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door. Kayla stood before me dressed up in blue frock looking angelic. I invited her in.\n\"Where's your Dad?\"\n\"He's parking the car.\" She said.\nMom and Kayla started talking and you know what happens when you leave two girls together! I heard footsteps and Frank was at the doorstep.\n\"Frank, what are you doing here?\", Mom asked.\n\"Joe, He's my Dad.\" Kayla replied which was according to me, the most unimaginable situation I was caught in." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Queenie\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2516\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character looking out on a new horizon." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Queenie’s stockings were smudged with coal dust as she trudged home with a bag of old newspapers. It wasn’t too far from the Ovenden’s; just a ten minute bus ride but she had to walk today. The snow was thick in drifts and the ice was black in places. She stopped every hundred yards or so to straighten out her back and breathe warm air into her red raw hands. Her little road was quiet except for the concerned faces appearing at the windows and the shuffle of her boots.\n\nShe forced the door to her little terraced house with her shoulder; on the second barge it scraped open on the swollen frames. Once inside she twisted and crammed some newspapers into the gaps in the skirting boards and the windows then looked blankly at her fireplace full of ash. She dumped the bag in the corner.\n“Billy! Fire”. She shouted.\nShe put the wireless on to listen to the world service and collapsed in the armchair. They were talking about rationing again. She groaned and rubbed her feet.\n“His bloody Highness, I’ll swing for ‘im I’m sure I will. Fred are you listening, you won’t believe what his Lordship said this morning”.\n\nShe rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. The conversation had started harmlessly enough with their eldest son Johnny who was anxiously talking about some playground chat where he’d heard that they’d discovered canals on Mars and giant man-made pyramids.\n“Pluto is the furthest planet father, but the closest is Mars. There’s a whole civilisation watching us through giant telescopes. Studying us; waiting for their chance to invade!” he said.\n“Preposterous claptrap. Its the Russians we need to watch not the bloody Martians.” His father interrupted.\n“Stop talking about the war Colin, you’ll upset Queenie” said mother.\n“If I want to talk about the bloody war in my own house I bloody well will”. Colin’s moustache twitched and he slapped the table top. “Now what’s this nonsense about the bloody war Queenie?”. Mother glowered at him.\n“Its Fred your lordship...your gardener. My husband. We buried him last week. We...”. Queenie’s voice halted in her throat.\n“There there dear…”. Mrs Ovenden rubbed her arm.\n\nQueenie took a deep breath to stop the tray from trembling then in silence calmly served Mr and Mrs Ovenden an egg each. Then Alice and Johnny. She laid out their toast soldiers as they liked them on side plates with butter and jam for everybody except Mrs Ovenden who preferred honey. Mother shook one of the glass pots over her egg and looked at it curiously.\n“Can you top up the cruet Queenie”.\n“Yes ma’am”. She curtsied.\n“Will there be anything else ma’am?”.\n“Why are you in a rush?”.\n“Well you see the boys had to fend for themselves this morning. I‘ve been worried sick about them”.\n“Oh Queenie, can’t you ask your mother to look after them? isn't she nearby?” she asked.\n“She’s in Chartham ma’am like what I told you when I started here. On account of my father.”\n“What about your father, can he not help you?”.\n“He didn’t come back from the first one you see and it sent my poor mother round the bend. Me and the girls were sent to the workhouse ‘cept for Lil”. Queenie smiled crookedly. “My uncle took care of her. “But I’ve got Billy. I don’t know what I’d do without ‘im. I asked Billy to make sure the boys get off to school. He’s really stepped up has my Billy but I have nothing for their lunch except stale bread again and they’ll be home soon. I…“.\n“Yes, Yes dear don’t go upsetting yourself. Now why isn’t Billy at work? He was at the local newspaper wasn’t he?”.\n“Yes ma’am, delivering in the morning and typesetting in the evening. He wanted to work his way up to be a reporter, you know he loves to write does Billy but he got laid off last month. Never mind; he’s looking for an apprenticeship at a big paper in town though. He's expecting a reply any day”.\n\n“Billy ! Fire”. Queenie felt her rage surge briefly. The clock chimed one on the mantel piece. She looked up and was reminded that the rent was due by the brown envelope behind it. She sighed deeply. She walked over to the yellowed net curtains where the open casket had been on display just a few days before. For the wake. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked like a bag of bones in a faded dress; she was barely thirty five but she’d been losing her looks quickly. Her once lustrous raven hair had been falling out recently and her reflection showed that she’d lost another tooth.\n“I’ll ‘ave to keep me mouth shut Fred. Apart from what I can nick off her ladyship’s breakfast table I’m hardly eating”. She checked her purse and palmed a few pennies. “All my money goes to feeding and clothing those boys. Billy needs to get that job so we can get some bloody coal again”.\n\nShe impersonated the voice of Mrs Ovenden and paraded around the settee in a falsetto voice. “Yes of course dear but before you go please remember to make up the fires in all the downstairs rooms as its going to be bitterly cold today. Oh, and make sure you put out Johnny’s fresh P.T. kit, extra woolen socks for the children, jumpers, skirts and long trousers”.\n“Yes Ma’am, thank you ma’am. Three bloody bags full ma’am”. She punched the settee and shrieked.\n\nBefore she left the breakfast room she’d overheard his lordship. “Now who’s going to cut my bloody hedges? That gardener said he got caught by the S.S. in Northern France, he was trying to steal a boat and get back home?”.\n“Yes dear” said mother in a hushed voice “he was in a POW camp for years. He got TB so they finally sent him home in 1943”.\nColin picked up his paper and cleared his throat. “Bloody coward”.\n\nQueenie leaned back against the sideboard. She picked up a cushion and screamed into it.\n\nA photo of Fred in infantry uniform caught her eye; she’d taken it in the front garden with a Kodak Brownie. They next day he was crossing the channel on the way to war in Europe. She remembered roses were blooming in the garden that day and he had looked so handsome. She picked it up.\n“Chas has been like an uncle to those boys Fred. He bought them a pet rabbit round yesterday but I reckon I’ll be taking it up old Grainger in a few weeks, won’t I? I’ll ask him to show me how to gut it and skin it proper. I promise we won’t be wasting nothing. Old Grainger is a dirty old bugger mind; he keeps offering to pop round with some chops and off-cuts. I don’t think his wife knows. With you barely cold in your box. Bloody cheek. I’ll crack soon enough at this rate though”.\n\nQueenie is disturbed by the front door being barged open. Jack the youngest is the first to come home. He’s red faced and looks agitated.\n“Jack love, why are you wearing my shoes?”. Queenie pats her dress down and composes herself.\nHe burst into tears when he saw his mother but wouldn’t let her hug him. He was angry. Stamping his feet to get them warm.\n“I told you my shoes are too small and have got big ‘oles in ‘em from football”.\n“Why are you crying duck?”.\n“The Bennetts teased me on the way to school this morning then they ganged up on me and pelted me with snow on the way ‘ome. Why haven’t I got a coat mum?”.\n“Because Its Michaels turn today. He needs it”.\n“Mickey ‘ad it yesterday.”\n“Don’t worry; when Billy gets that job we’ll buy you new shoes duck”.\n\nThe door opened again and Michael walked in with the long coat and a grin as always. He was blonder and a little older than Jack.\n“Hello mum” he kissed Queenie on the cheek and emptied his pockets. A few potatoes and assorted vegetables fell out.\n“You’re a good boy” she said and cradled his cheeks. “I won’t ask you where you got ‘em I’ll get these on the boil for pottage”.\nMichael held up a muddy carrot.\n“This is for Flossy” and ran through to the dining room.\n“Awww Where’d that rabbit come from?” asked Jack following behind.\n“Uncle Chas”.\n“Who’s uncle Chas?”\n“Chas was dad’s best pal” said Michael. “They both signed up and went to the front line...remember?”\n“Nope”.\n“You know, its the story where they both got lost and split from their division and then tried to nick a fishing boat in France” said Michael as though he was discussing a film he’d seen at the picture house.\n“Oh Yeah”. They took Flossy out of the cage and stroked it together.\n\nFrom the kitchen Queenie felt the cold and shivered. She dreaded going to bed these days; her bedsheets had been the coldest she could ever remember. She stirred the pot. Looking into the bathroom she could see him coughing up blood into the sink. It was heartbreaking to watch and worse to listen to. There was nothing anybody could do for him since the Germans sent him home. He had lasted a few years God bless him; they had enough time to get their little house and family started but she was glad to get his open casket out of the living room and finally lay him to rest in the cemetery.\n\nThe wake had been a typically rowdy affair and she did her best with the spread for his family and army pals; they had chipped in with what they could but she wouldn’t get her widows pension for another month or two and she knew she’d be scrimping for a while.\n\nShe took a postcard from a dresser drawer, turning it over she gently kissed the photograph on the front; a black and white image of her perfect new born baby. She looked at the familiar message on the back. She remembered what it said because she had written it herself with a fountain pen that she’d borrowed from Mrs Ovenden. The words were shaky and scrawled in blue ink\n‘My dearest Fred. Here’s your little Billy. With love from both of us’.\n“It cost me a week’s pay to get his eyes coloured in blue for you my darling”. She whispered.\nThe postcard was addressed ‘Stalag Luft XV, Germany’. She’d gotten that address from the home office who’d contacted her with the official news that Fred had been captured. She was heavily pregnant with Billy at the time.\n\n“Fred. I don’t know if I can cope no more..its so hard”.\n\nBilly came down the stairs in his pyjamas and a long dressing gown with a newspaper tucked under his arm.\n“Were you calling me? Why are you crying mum?”. He held her gently and noticed the postcard. He was taller than his mum now. But was still short for his age. Queenie recognised her husband’s gown and smoothed the lapels.\n\n“Yes darling, never forget that your dad was desperate to get home to see you”. She held up the postcard for him to see. \"He just wanted to come home”. Queenie smothered him in kisses.\n\n“I know mum”. Billy took a hanky from his sleeve and dabbed some tears from his mother’s cheek. “He was our war hero”.\n“I’m surprised I have any left to cry love. Thank you so much Billy; you are a godsend. You’re my angel”.\n\nThey went through to the little dining room and Queenie served the meagre soup for her family. She cut some bread into thin slices.\n“Get that rabbit of the table and wash your hands boys”.\n“Do we have any butter or jam?” asked Jack expectantly sitting down.\n“No poppet. Maybe next month. We have to make do… did that letter come love?”.\n“Yes mum…. I err have some news“. Billy looked down at his shoes and paused.\n“What news duck?” She looked up from the saucepan. “Do you want another potato and a slice of carrot? Here have mine”. She transferred some vegetables from her dish to his. “Cup of tea love? the pots still warm look”.\n“Mum!”\n“Never mind duck. We can manage...sit yourself down”. She looked at Billy with doting eyes but tears were welling up in them when she saw the tension in his face.\n\nHe sat down. “I don’t know how to tell you this mum… I got the job”. He cried as well. Michael looked up from his lunch. He’d been drinking from the bowl, wolfing it down like there was no tomorrow.\n“What’s going on Bill?” he asked. “Are you ill?”.\n“But that’s wonderful darling” says Queenie. She started pouring the tea. “So why the long face? You are funny”. Her voice cracked.\n\nBilly put the newspaper down on the table and pointed at some writing. “Look at this advert for New Horizons mum”.\n“You know I cant read well, you’ll have to read it to me duck”.\n“It says here. The government are offering assisted emigration, they’re saying there are apprenticeships for all sorts of professions, printers, typesetters and reporters… I really want to do this mum\".\n“What’s emigration?” asked Jack.\n\"Oh don't get your hopes up love. They probably want rich folk who went to posh schools\"\n\"They replied to me today. I’ve been accepted mum\". Billy flashed the envelope.\nQueenie didn’t speak. The tea ran over the table cloth in a steady stream.\n“Its in New Zealand mum. The boat leaves in two weeks from Portsmouth”.\nAgain, Queenie didn’t respond.\n“What’s emigration?” asked Jack again.\n“Where the bloody hell is New Zealand?” asked Michael.\n“Might as well be bloody Pluto”. Queenie sobbed into Billy’s hanky.\n“Mum”. Billy composed himself and stood tall.\n“Mum… I’ve got to go. This is my chance to follow my dream of becoming a journalist and getting out of here...”.\n“But this is your home Billy. Our home. Excuse me”. Still sobbing she stood up, then stumbled forwards. Composed herself and drifted silently upstairs to her bedroom in complete silence.\nBilly went to the foot of the stairs. “I didn’t mean it like that...mum!”.\n\nNew Zealand wasn’t mentioned again that day or the next. In fact it took a full two months before the topic was brought up again and for the war pension to arrive. One evening, the boys came home from school. Jack was delighted with his new hand-me-down shoes and Michael with Billy’s old duffle coat. They were greeted by a bright blue budgie chirruping in a cage next to a very fat rabbit. Queenie was kissing a light blue letter and a postcard that had arrived that morning from Pluto via air mail.\n\"Pretty boy Billy\" she cooed into the cage. \"Pretty boy\".\nThat’s why from that day forwards every budgie that Queenie ever owned was called Billy." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Taylor's Version\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2616\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story about an older couple who’ve been together since they were teenagers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Note: Inspired by a true story that happened merely last Valentine's Day\n\"Have you listened to it yet?\"\n\nCassandra blurted excitedly, handing me her cell phone which almost fell out of my hands in her haste. Her yellow hair was a huge mess like she hasn’t combed in days. I almost laughed at the sight, my best friend since high school hasn’t aged a day, well… mentally. I shook my head in response and that only made her even more animated to make me listen to it now. We have been waiting for this song to come out for almost a year now but those days felt like a full journey through eternity. And now here we are, listening to it at last.\n\nYouTube flashed into view as I finally took her phone and exhaled heavily. This was it. I have never felt this way before since I left high school and received my acceptance letter to Oxford. It was terrifying as it was enthralling. I closed my eyes for a moment before I looked at Cassandra who was biting her nails in anticipation. \"All right,\" I said.\n\nA strange yet familiar wave of nostalgia struck me to the core the moment I pressed the play button. I almost felt like I was sent back in time to meet my 13-year-old awkward-self singing that same song. I can still hear Ms Young’s stern voice scolding us to stop singing like concert queens during her lecture. Not to mention when James and I danced together like forbidden lovers pining for each other during one of those fall formals in high school.\n\n\"It's too perfect, isn't it?\" Cassandra squealed, bringing me back to the present. I only grunted in response, and she looked at me apologetically. She must have thought that she interrupted the song which made me annoyed. Little did she know that she had interrupted something more precious. The best part of the song was finally playing, and so I decided to remove the earbuds from the phone and increased its volume to the fullest bar. I can’t let the song continue playing without our signature freaky dance and screaming session while listening to it aloud.\n\nWe sang at the top of our lungs like we had no care in the world, forgetting that we are already 26-year-old serious law students and that this is my parents' house we are staying in. All we know was we were still wearing those dyed jeans and nerdy glasses in that old classroom like we used to.\n\nWe could not help but sing and dance like clumsy teenagers because that's what it felt like listening to this song. It held too many memories.\n\n“Ahem…”\n\n\"I see you're still obsessed with that song after all these years\", I straightened up quickly when I heard that voice. Now this feels more memorable. My mum’s eyebrow was raised at us like we were underage girls doing our noisy games all over again. She had been watching us for quite some time since she arrived from the General Store. I smiled at her and watched her as she took the groceries to the kitchen. It was a relief to see her not carrying too many bags this time because she had been panic buying ever since the pandemic started.\n\nThe moment she reappeared from the kitchen I quickly spoke, \"Uhm, Cassie and I are just listening to Taylor’s new re-released song. It was just so fun feeling like a kid again. I haven’t done this in years.”\n“You mean your flopped live performances as a teen?” my mum chuckled at her own joke.\n“Mrs Braden you have to listen to this. This is Taylor’s re-recorded song. It’s been like 13 years but she still sounds the same” Cassie was basically marketing Taylor Swift to my mother. I couldn’t be more surprised. We were Swifties ever since the world began, and let me tell you, that is not an exaggeration.\nCassie’s cheeks turned red when she received no reply from my mother who was just sitting there amazed at her enthusiasm. To quickly lighten up the mood, Cassie began her chatter yet again.\n“I think the reason why this song is so popular because of its reference to Shakespeare as well as the catchy melody that knocks anyone’s socks off,\" she said dreamily while she closed her eyes as if she was in a middle of a woodland fairy tale reverie. \"She also changed the ending of the story to a happy one. Romeo and Juliet is truly the greatest love story of all time” she added.\n\n“No, I beg to disagree.”\n\nI did not expect to hear that. Did my mum really just say that?\n“What?”, Cassie asked dumbfounded, “of course Love Story is a beautiful song, it’s the -”\n\nBefore Cassie could finish her speech my mother interrupted her, “No, that’s not what I meant. It is a perfect song. What I said was about the last words you said. Romeo and Juliet is truly the greatest love story of all time.”\nIt was my turn to argue this time. I wasn’t just a Swiftie, I was an avid fan of both Shakespeare and Jane Austen. “I don’t understand, Mum. Is there any other story out there much better than Romeo and Juliet?”\n“Perhaps there is…” she briefly answered which only made me even more curious. Cassie was simply watching me now, she was content with my mother’s words about the song, and she wasn’t going to make any more comment on that.\n“Then which is it? And if this story really exists, why haven’t I heard of it?’\nMy mum smiled at me and said “Because I haven’t shared that story with anyone.”\nCassie and I looked at each other. Did she mean their love story? My parents’ love story? Then it hit me, I don’t know their story or how they met. After all this time, they never took the time to tell me that. They were both so secretive and silent as they had always been. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to know, but then I decided I want to know. Not because I really want to, it's because I deserve to know.\n\nBefore I could even say a word, it was Cassie who popped the million-dollar question of the day:\n“Won’t you tell us that story, Mrs Braden? I’d like to know how you and Ann’s dad met. That would be like the best story ever!”\nAll I could do was nod in agreement with my best friend’s notion and urge my mum to finally share this story, with us. I felt a little jittery inside for a moment, especially when she finally whispered the word “Okay”.\n\n\"It was one of the worst days of my entire life, I can still recall, the day I met your dad, Ann\", she began. \"I can still feel my trembling body when I left the party of my best friend’s house, Miles. I had a boyfriend you see, Charles his name was, and he was that one guy whom I thought would change my life forever. He was the only one for me. I loved him so much it hurt. It hurt to find out that he had discarded me from his plans when he decided he wanted to go to a different city. College was different he said. He had to find himself and somehow I was the one who had been impeding his way.\"\n\nI walked out a little foxed from Miles' birthday party when I told myself I wanted to take a stroll to the old Lover’s Lane. I didn’t know what I was up to back then, maybe I was just going to make myself reminisce every memory he and I had. I was crying profusely like some stupid kid in a romance movie when suddenly the rain poured down. I was stumped and couldn’t help myself from feeling angrier.\n\nWhat the hell? Does the rain know exactly when to pour just when I was in the middle of crying? Were the skies sympathizing with me or were they just simply mocking me? I didn’t really know. I felt helpless and stupid standing on a deserted street drenched in water and sadness.\n\n“Are you all right?”, a voice called. I felt the rain stop pouring on me but I can still see the rain falling, so what just happened? That’s when I noticed him, the owner of the voice. He was carrying an umbrella to cover me from the rain. I was silent for a moment, trying to figure out what to say.\n\nInstead of talking and humiliating myself even further, I merely watched his face and examined his features. He was slightly taller than me, he had blue eyes and dark brown hair. I soon realized I haven’t seen him before. I shivered at the idea of being alone with a stranger 23 minutes after my boyfriend dumped me for college.\n\nHe must have sensed my discomfort that’s why he stretched out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m John, John Braden. I’m new in town.”\n\nIf I had met him in a different circumstance I would’ve shaken his hand and given him a warm welcome. But no one in my position could ever do that. “Carmen, Carmen Rutherford.”\n\nI wasn’t sure if he laughed because I looked stupid and ridiculous but that’s when he spoke again. “You mean like the renowned physicist?”\n\nI was surprised by his words. “Excuse me?” He was looking more bemused than I was like I said something so incredibly bizarre to his ears.\n\n“The one who discovered the atomic nucleus, the…” he stopped his sentence when he noticed I was clearly clueless about the things he had been talking about.\n\nHe smiled for a second and finally explained to me what he was up to earlier. “Your last name, it’s the same with the guy who made great breakthroughs in science. He’s actually famous”. I didn’t know what to say after that. All I know was, he was smart. He knew that Rutherford physicist and I didn’t.\n\n“Can I walk you home?” he asked, “it’s getting dark and I don’t think the rain is going to stop any time soon”.\n\nI nodded my head in response and we perambulated the streets of Fenderwood in silence. I went home that night safely, thanks to that kind stranger I met.\n\nI thought I was never going to see him again when I crossed paths with him again a couple of months later in my English Literature class. We were of the same age but I knew he was wiser beyond his years. Even wiser than Charles, I thought. We saw each other every time we joined that class but we never spoke until we had that debate between the Dashwood sisters from Jane Austen’s work.\"\n\nI was a little surprised when she mentioned that story because I remember them fighting over it back when I was in high school. We were discussing the same novel right after we had discussed P and P (Pride and Prejudice) but they failed to mention this part of the story? Wait, whaaat?\n\nI always hated the fact that Marianne only married Colonel Brandon out of pity and friendship. I was under the impression that she never truly loved him. It was a happy ending for Elinor and Edward but what about Marianne, especially the poor Colonel who only loved someone so dearly but ended up receiving no affection from his wife? I was trying to prove my point to the professor and I knew I was going to emerge victoriously.\n\nThat’s when your father chimed in and said, “No. I think not. It was stated in the book that Marianne eventually fell in love with the Colonel and couldn’t even bear losing him when he decided to eschew the Dashwood family for a moment because he felt like he was flocking his presence too much. It does not need to be written in great detail how much Marianne has changed through the course of the story. Besides, I believe that even though Marianne never learned to love her husband, he would never stop trying and hoping to make her see how much he loved her. Forcing her to love him is never the answer. He never forced her to marry him. She did it on her own accord. If you think that the Colonel and Marianne were unhappy, I strongly disagree. Love isn’t just about personal happiness, it is about how much you can sacrifice and offer to a person.”\n\nI felt defeated by his words. But, he was right. I couldn’t disagree with that. I only gave him a small smile before I sat back in my seat. He wasn’t just smart and kind, I thought. There was so much more about him that needed discovering.\n\nWeeks had passed and we started talking and slowly getting to know each other. It felt good not to think about Charles every once in a while. Soon, I realized I have forgotten him much quicker than I believed I could. I’m not sure whether it was John’s doing but I didn’t want to answer those questions just yet.\n\nOne day, we were heading to the school library when I asked him a question. “We’ve been talking to each other but you’re still such a mystery to me. Won’t you tell me more about yourself?”\n\nHe was obviously taken aback by this and just stared at me, his blue eyes sparkling with interest. “Why?” he inquired.\n\n“I don’t know, perhaps it’s that scientist’s blood running through my veins that makes me want to discover not just science stuff but someone I know, like you for example.” He chortled a little bit and then we started hanging out for real, I guess.\n\n\n“Of course, and the rest is history, awwwwww”, Cassie broke the story and I knew that there was nothing I could do to make the storytelling continue. I was gaping at my mum for a second imagining how those beautiful memories of her and my dad came to be, 32 years ago now. I have seen them argue and face problems as all married couples do but they still loved each other.\n\n“Okay, okay, the story is a very good one but I think I’ll have to go with Romeo and Juliet” I winked playfully at my mum. She sighed and merely shook her head smiling. I know she understood that I loved their story even more than Shakespeare’s but I won’t admit it openly.\n\n“Ann, don’t say that. It’s romantic and beautiful, plus, this story is real. It really happened. It’s not some fictional narrative created by a dead poet” Cassie intervened, her eyes glowing in shock and excitement.\n\nI was about to throw the cushion on her head when the gate opened. We all looked outside the window to check who it was.\n\n“Mr Smart Braden is here, Mrs Braden!” Cassie was looking at me rather than my mother and she burst out laughing. I had no idea what to do or think after my mother’s tale but when I saw my dad come in and kissed my mum on the cheek, I realized I do know what to think or say.\n\n“A love story isn’t great because of its genius plot or impeccable characters; the presence of love and how it came to be, is what makes it great…”\n\n\nBut hey, I’m not saying I’m not going to enjoy Taylor’s Version of Shakespeare’s most prized work, it’s still my favourite though, song and story." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Not Something For Us\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2683\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who finds Valentine’s Day sickly sweet." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Johnny clambered down the drainpipe, gripping it for dear life as the rough clay surface tore at his hands, the red bricks scraping the skin from his knees below his trousers. This was not how he had planned on spending his Valentine’s Day getaway, but since when did his plans ever work out for him? He had no time to take this descent from the open window of the hotel room with care. They only had seconds. The echo of running footsteps in the alley below distracted him from his task of escaping, whilst avoiding a painful fall. Charlie had left him behind but only because Johnny had told him to. This had been their emergency plan for a situation like this. They had always been lucky before, but the coppers were in the building. Maybe the police received a tip off? Or were Charlie and him getting careless? They had given fake names of course, but what if they missed something else? The weak wooden door to their cheap room rattled. Johnny knew that if he did not get down the pipe and out of sight, before they inevitably broke it down, that he’d be done for.\nJohnny peered down into the darkness below. The fog made it hard to estimate how much further he had to climb. He could just make out the grey silhouette of a huge crane towering over the buildings at Plymouth docks. The fog was always worst here, rolling up the River Tamar from the English Channel out to sea. He had spent many nights in the area several years before, when on leave during the war. It was always easy to find company amongst the sailors and the dock labourers, and he continued to visit after 1918 brought about the end of those years of fighting.\n‘Open up!’ The impatient bangs on the door accompanied by the shouts of the police officers grew louder. ‘Forget it, break it down!’ Johnny now knew how a rabbit felt when cornered by a pack of dogs. His legs shook, his hands fumbled on the pipe that served as his only lifeline. The chilling air bit at his face, gnawed at his fingers, his heart raced nineteen to the dozen as he tasted the sickening bile in his throat. The consequences should he be caught were enough to spur him onwards as a wave of heat flushed through him. He had to vanish into the night. He jolted with fear as another loud bang on the door shook the window frame above him. He wouldn’t make it in time if he carried on like this and so, with one last look at the window above, Johnny jumped.\n*\nJohnny thanked Charlie in his mind that he’d thrust his coat and hat into his hands before they made their escape. For one thing it was freezing, quite literally he reckoned. Also, hidden under his long overcoat and wide brimmed hat, he remained anonymous. He reckoned they had got away just in time but dared not look behind him in case he was wrong. ‘Just keep walking, don’t run. Look normal,’ Johnny mumbled to himself as his leg muscles tightened with the urge to run. He made it to the main street, void of people at this hour apart from a young couple, who passed him arm in arm, the woman giggling as the man whispered some term of endearment in her ear. Johnny clenched his teeth. The war over a decade ago had given people a desire to live with more freedom, and therefore open displays of affection had become more common. But not for people like him. No, people preferred it if they didn’t exist. Johnny pulled up the collar of his coat further, a drop of sweat falling onto his shirt, despite the chill in the air. As he turned into another street, taking the quickest route to the train station, he risked a glance behind him. Nothing. He hoped Charlie had the same lack of company too as he headed back towards the docks.\n\nIt wasn’t far now, despite his efforts to blend in, he must have been walking at a frantic pace to have covered a couple of miles on foot in this time. Heavy boots heading his way stopped him in his tracks. Appearing from the gloom, illuminated only by a single streetlamp, two patrolling police officers approached. Johnny’s heart tripped, his eyes darting all over his surroundings looking for an escape route, or some place to hide. Perhaps he didn’t need to? They never saw his or Charlie’s faces. Could he be sure? He knew the cost of a mistake. Prison at best, at worst… his breath shuddered at the thought. He darted into a shop doorway and fumbled in his pocket for a lighter and a cigarette, his hands shaking so much it took him several attempts to strike a flame. He waited; cigarette gripped in his fingers as it brushed his lips. Each breath took an eternity to leave his body. His neck strained with desire to peer around the corner of the wall, but he stayed pinned to the spot. Only when the police officers passed him by without a second glance, did he dare to breathe again.\nIt was now, the immediate danger having passed, that he noticed the bright blooms of various shades of reds and pinks on display as part of an elaborate arrangement in the window behind him. Johnny bit the inside of his cheek and exhaled slowly, his hand clenching around his lighter. ‘Of course, a florist. Oh, and look, they’ve even decorated the window with hearts.’ He rolled his eyes before turning his back and stepping out onto the street once more, his mind searching for any other thought. He didn’t see the point in giving flowers as a gift. Sure, they looked pretty for a few days, but they fade, curl and shrivel at the petals, wither from green to brown in the leaves. What started as something beautiful, always ends up fading into ugliness no matter how much care they receive. Flowers were part of the reason for his visit to meet with Charlie tonight. He had sent him a note using words only Charlie would understand, telling him he had to get away from all the unbridled joy of the upcoming Valentine’s Day celebrations. It was hard to escape working in a big house full of valets, footmen, maids and cooks, who all for some unknown reason act completely irrational on the days leading up to February 14th. Johnny’s job at Longbrook House, a grand English country estate in the heart of the Devonshire countryside, had been his for about a decade and a half, give or take the few years he spent in France fighting for king and country. He had started as a footman and had recently been promoted to valet. It was ideal for him. No one expected him to be married, no one questioned why he was not, most people working in service weren’t. But being surrounded by young women and men who acted like dogs under a full moon on a few days each year, having to put up with the constant giggles and whispers, the secrets, the gifts, the silly little pink heart shaped cards decorated in ribbon…he sometimes wished he had chosen another occupation. That was not to say Johnny didn’t want to feel the giddy joy of romance, he longed for it more than anything. Charlie had made him feel the closest he could imagine to feeling loved. They had been seeing each other every so often, whenever they could get away from their work, for about five months now. If he was more of a fool then he would send him a card, but that would mean asking for trouble. No, an evening, or even a few hours tucked away in a shady hotel in the rougher part of Plymouth, was the best either of them could hope for.\n**\nA day and a half had passed by the time Valentine’s Day morning came around with as much subtlety as a flirtatious male peacock, displaying his bright array of blue and green feathers to potential mates. Johnny sat where he always did, in the far corner of the large wooden table in the servants’ hall downstairs, in the drabber parts of Longbrook House reserved for them. He smoothed his neat combed blonde hair with one long slow stroke of his hand, as he yawned with disinterest at the newspaper, propped up on the edge of the table that he pretended to read. The scullery maid, Molly, who had been working alongside him at Longbrook House for almost two years now, giggled as one of the footmen, Paul, smiled at her from across the table as they ate their breakfast. Paul, who’s innocence showed his youthful age, seemed to be liked by everyone else. Johnny didn’t see why. ‘Don’t get your hopes up Molly, he isn’t interested in you,’ Johnny grumbled, gluing his eyes to the newspaper.\n‘I might be Mr Pascoe,’ Paul retorted whilst looking down at his plate of half eaten buttered toast.\n‘Leave him alone Mr Pascoe, no need for your sour mood on such a day like this,’ Mrs Perkins, the housekeeper, scolded him. Mrs Perkins was technically in charge of the female servants, with the men answering to the house’s butler Mr Hayes, but her formidable personality put them all in their place, most of the time.\nJohnny tried to ignore them, but once he started, he found it hard to stop. ‘What day might that be? Its only another Monday Mrs Perkins.’\n‘Valentine’s Day of course!’ Molly gleamed with her uncontainable excitement.\n‘Right, well it makes no difference to me.’ He pulled the newspaper up to hide his face, and the sinking feeling in his heart that he was trying not to show.\n‘The postman will be here any minute—’\n‘Morning post, Mr Hayes,’ the young hall boy, James announced handing a larger than usual pile of envelopes to the butler.\n‘Thank you, James,’ Mr Hayes creased his brow, which caused his grey eyebrows to almost meet each other in the middle, as he flicked through the envelopes, putting any aside that were to do with the running of the house. ‘Hmm, more than usual. Pass them around would you Mrs Perkins?’\nJohnny tried to shut out the whispers of anticipation from around the table, and the squeal of delight coming from Molly as she was handed two envelopes. ‘Look I’ve got two! One will be from my mum; she always sends one but who is the other from?’\nJohnny folded down the top of his newspaper, ‘Well most likely it is from your grandmother if the other is from your mother.’ Molly’s smile fell and Johnny at once regretted his unnecessarily harsh words. He couldn’t help it though because no matter how hard he tried, all he could do was feel worried. He had managed to escape on Saturday night, and he reckoned that if the police were going to come for him, they would have done so by now. But what of Charlie? All this joyful emotion around him, every smile of delight drove the knife of jealousy deeper into his heart. They had it so easy, a little harmless flirtation between a footman and a maid gave them nothing to fear. It wasn’t a move either of them had to calculate the risk of. Johnny didn’t mind that he received nothing as all he wanted now, as his foot tapped on the floor whilst his mouth parched with worry, was to know Charlie was safe. He didn’t care for a silly card that would be thrown away a few days later, or chocolates that would be consumed and forgotten about not long after. All he wanted was one sentence, or even just a couple of words to know Charlie was okay. He wanted to love and be loved, but he had given in to the fact long ago that anything on the scale of typical Valentine’s Day celebrations was no more than a fairy-tale for him and Charlie. They had to make do with their hidden lives. It was the best he would ever get and pushing for more would throw them headfirst into ruin.\n‘Mr Pascoe. Are you still with us? You look miles away,’ Mrs Perkins asked as she raised an eyebrow.\nJohnny looked at her baffled for a moment. ‘What?’\n‘This is for you.’ She handed him a thin envelope with a sympathetic smile.\n‘Ah. Right. Thank you.’ Johnny took the envelope unable to look her in the eye.\n‘Oh, who’s that from Mr Pascoe?’ Molly chirped.\n‘None of your business.’ Johnny turned the envelope over, looking for signs to show it might have been tampered with.\n‘You got a sweetheart as well?’ she persisted.\n‘Sorry to disappoint you, just from my father, that’s all.’ Johnny stood up and pushed his chair in.\n‘Where do you think you’re going Mr Pascoe?’ Mr Hayes narrowed his eyes at him. ‘We’ve not got long until you’ll be needed upstairs with his Lordship.’\n‘Don’t trouble yourself Mr Hayes. My father never has much to say, I’ll only be a couple of minutes. I can’t concentrate down here.’\nJohnny left before anyone could delay him further. He bolted up the many flights of stairs, taking them two at a time, to the top of the house and the narrow plain corridors belonging to the male servants’ quarters. He pushed open the door to his room and slammed it shut in his impatience to get at the contents of the envelope. He ripped the top with his finger, tearing it with no grace. Shards of paper fluttered to the ground in his haste. It had been an easy lie to tell them all. This was never from his father. He hadn’t spoken to any member of his family since he left home when he was just fifteen. The last words he had heard from his father had been ones of scorn and shame as he tossed his few belongings out into the mud, with as much care as one would throw away a load of rubbish onto a tip. This letter, he hoped, was the news he had been yearning for over the past day or so. His eyes skimmed over the words, over an over so he was sure he read them right.\nHad to scarper from the lilly, but the weather is fine, I’m glad to say. How’s the weather at your end?\n‘Thank you. Oh, thank you.’ Johnny said to no one in particular, his words mixed in with a shaking exhale as he sunk to the floor and collapsed back against the side of his bed. A small smile of relief covered his lips, the first real smile he’d felt since he had kissed Charlie on Saturday not long after arriving in their little hotel room. The words wouldn’t mean much to anyone else and that was the point. It was an idea Charlie had once, that they communicate with questions about the weather. Everyone always talked about the weather, but no one really paid any attention to those sorts of conversations. They had agreed that fine weather showed all was well, and storms meant the opposite. Johnny pushed himself up on his hands and reached for a small draw in the tiny table next to his bed, rummaging until he found paper and ink. His reply couldn’t wait. He knew Charlie would feel the same anguish he had felt today. He would write it down now and send it later after the fuss from all the cards and gifts received by all except him, had died down.\nGood to know. All sunshine and blue skies here.\nJohnny folded the note, pushed it into an envelope, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his uniform. He should be allowed to enjoy today, but at least with this news he could breathe 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: Dearest Monnie\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2415\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone making a gift (chocolate or otherwise) for a loved one." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There had to have been over a hundred photographs strewn across the floor, all of which were enveloped in memories with varying emotions. They were destined for a large and thick album Sergeant Plundell was holding on his lap while he sat with his back to the desk in Commandant Westheimer’s office. He felt like a child again, putting together an album of pictures he found interesting or delightful. Ever since he knew he was in love with a young lady named Monnie Abberton, he had wanted to give that album to her.\nSadly, that album was back in Britain, and he was stuck in Germany for the foreseeable future. With Valentine’s Day around the corner, he felt obliged to make something for her, and it would take too long to write his parents and ask them to send the album to Monnie. Mail was only collected and sent once a week. That, and Plundell wanted to feel like the gift was coming from him. It needed to be special. So he went around taking pictures of things and people around Stalag V C that he found interesting or delightful. Little things, like the miniature oak tree Private Liebermann grew for him, and big things, like the recreation hall. His friends among the other prisoners, and the guards.\nPlundell was pulled from his thoughts when he heard the slight scratching of a pen on the desk behind him. He turned and got into a kneeling position to rest his arms on Westheimer’s desk. The older German warlock was signing something in a folder. “Am I interrupting anything, sir?” Plundell asked.\n“Just the ever-present joy of paperwork,” Westheimer replied. “Do you need something?”\n“I was thinking . . . do you do anything for Valentine’s Day?”\n“Not exactly. That has never been much of a holiday here.”\n“Even among witches?”\nWestheimer gave Plundell a look. “I have already told you that love is not exactly . . . widespread among witches. Otherwise, I would not have fled my home.”\n“Sorry, sir.”\n“Frankly, I find it a strange holiday. Why limit showering your dearest with love and gifts to only one day?”\nPlundell shrugged. “It’s a fun thing to do, I suppose, but it doesn’t mean I love Monnie less any other day of the year.”\n“I still find it pointless. Just like New Year’s.”\n“It’s probably the only thing to look forward to the first two months of the year. It’s a spot of happiness amidst the gray dreariness of waiting for winter to end.” Plundell glanced at Westheimer’s wedding band. “So, when do you take the time to just do something fun for Anneli?”\n“Whenever I feel like it. Granted, I cannot do that now because I have a prisoner-of-war camp to run, but before I took this job, I would do something special for Anneli at least once a week. It is basically a habit for us to surprise each other with special things. However, a truly loving relationship is about supporting, respecting, and caring deeply for your partner. Anneli has pulled me through some particularly dark times, and I have done the same for her.”\nPlundell nodded. “I haven’t had the chance to do that for Monnie. It . . . Sometimes, it feels like we’ve only just met. I mean, I met her on leave, and we’ve only met up a few times. It doesn’t feel like I should care this much, or that it’s nothing more than an infatuation, a lust.”\n“The way you talk about her does not sound like lust or infatuation. I have not once heard you talk about physical intimacy with her, nor have I seen you in the recreation hall when some of the others are showing off their—” Westheimer cleared his throat, “photographs sent from their women back home.”\n“I’ve asked for pictures, but none like that. Actually, the last photo I asked for was this one—” Plundell held up a picture of a young woman with dark hair that was curled at the ends. She was standing in front of a wide Christmas tree that was covered from top to bottom in decorations. She wore a somewhat embarrassed smile on her rounded face, and was wearing a dark-colored sweater and ankle-length skirt. Underneath the picture were the words “Merry Christmas, Elliot.” “That was from the Christmas party with her family. She’s not too fond of having her picture taken.”\n“Neither is my wife,” Westheimer said. “She was a nightmare when it came to family pictures as a child, because she would always make a face at the camera.”\nPlundell smirked. “I’ve always had a slight interest in photography. I doubt I could’ve been a war photographer or something similar, though.”\n“You did a good job at capturing daily life in the camp.” Westheimer fell silent, then stood to get a better look at the photos spread across the floor. “I still do not understand why you think this would make a good gift for Monnie specifically, aside from the pictures of you.”\n“It’s hard to explain. I came to Stalag Five C thinking I was going to be trapped in a barracks for months on end. Instead . . . I’ve made friends, learned new things about myself.”\n“You got lucky. No other place in Germany could have given you that.”\n“Yeah. I think . . . I think Monnie will appreciate your compassion. Showing her you and Liebermann and the others will let her know I’m safe. I’ve told her a lot about you, but I haven’t yet shown her.”\n------------\nThe completed album was about as large as a single-volume encyclopedia. Proud of his creation, Plundell tenderly slid it into a cardboard box, silently praying it didn’t get damaged.\nNaturally, Westheimer had been concerned about some of the pictures falling into the wrong hands, so the album would be sent to Switzerland first and then covertly delivered to Britain.\n“You’re sure it’ll arrive before Valentine’s Day?” Plundell asked, carrying the box over to where Westheimer was waiting for Major Kersting’s car to show up.\n“Positive,” Westheimer replied.\nPlundell hugged the box to his chest, and let out a breath. “You know, you didn’t have to do this for me. I . . . I know you probably have more important things to do.”\n“Your comfort and safety are my top priorities. If sending this to your girlfriend will make you happy, I will do it.”\nThe camp gates opened to let Kersting’s staff car in. As the vehicle came to a halt, Kersting was already halfway out the door, giving his driver a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. “Good morning, gentlemen!” he called. “I was told I have a package to deliver.”\n“It’s for my girlfriend back in Britain, sir,” Plundell said, holding up the box. “It’s a collection of photographs from here.” He handed it to Kersting, who nearly dropped it.\n“Good gracious, this is heavy!” Kersting grunted. “What else is in here?”\n“A very large album and some letters.”\n“Sure doesn’t feel like it. Feels like there’s a brick in here.”\nPlundell resisted a smile. “Sorry, sir.”\n“Oh, don’t worry about me. I need the exercise anyway.” Kersting put the box in the trunk of his car, then switched his gaze between Plundell and Westheimer. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”\n“Just make sure you are not caught with that,” Westheimer said.\n“I’ll do my best. Besides, if I wasn’t caught with the Christmas tree, I probably won’t be caught with a photo album.”\n“Still. Be careful.”\n------------\nWithin a few days, a young man in a dark-blue cloak was strolling up a street in Leicester, a large package tucked under his arm. He glanced around cautiously when he approached a house, then knocked on the door.\nA woman with a round face and dark, curly hair answered, and gave the man a confused look. “Can I help you, sir?”\n“Is this the residence of a Miss Monnie Abberton?” the man asked.\n“This is. What is this about? I’m not expecting any visitors.”\n“I have a package from Sergeant Elliot Plundell.”\nA gleeful smile crossed Monnie’s face. “This is quite unusual. He typically sends things through the mail.”\n“I was only told it is something incredibly special, and for your eyes only, madam.” After handing Monnie the package, the man tipped his hat. As he lowered his arm, Monnie caught a glimpse of a polished stick up his sleeve. Yes. Quite unusual.\nClosing the door, she carried the heavy package back into the house, and set it on the kitchen table before cutting the brown paper off. Underneath was a plain cardboard box. Heart racing with excitement, Monnie took the lid off the box, and covered her mouth upon seeing the cover of an album, embossed with the words Dearest Monnie in a beautiful cursive script.\nUnable to contain her excitement, Monnie took the album into the living room, sitting and gently opening it. A piece of paper greeted her.\n“Dearest Monnie, I hope this gift finds you well. This is our first Valentine’s Day apart, so I wanted to do my best in making it special. I put together this album with photographs from Stalag V C. Remember how I’ve been writing that I’ve been treated very well here? I wanted to show you the people who have been making this time much more bearable, the people who have changed my life for the better.\n“To be honest, I didn’t think magic existed outside of fiction. This past October, I encountered something of the supernatural sort, and I probably wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for Commandant Westheimer—yes, he’s a wizard. He can cast spells and make potions and all that. This may sound strange, but it’s true. Wizard or not, he’s a good man, something I wasn’t expecting when I was sent to this camp back in September. He’s not the only one. Several of the guards are wizards as well, and while many of them just want this war to be over so they can return home to their loved ones, some have embraced their new life here. Namely, Private Liebermann. I think it’s safe to say that he’s become my best friend, and a brother. After losing my unit in Italy, I didn’t think I would find anyone that I felt I could call a brother again. You knew how much those men meant to me, after everything we went through together in North Africa. At the same time, I don’t feel like I’m replacing them. They still have a place in my heart.\n“It is always wondrous to find small joys in a place where joy seemingly cannot exist. I took pictures of the landscape around the camp, and inside the camp. Did I tell you we have our own greenhouse? I’ve been trying to grow lilies for you. There’s a lot to do in the recreation hall, and we mostly make our own things. A couple of our men who were woodworkers before the war made a chess set, and that sees a lot of use. We’ve made card sets and it’s not unusual to see spirited games of bridge or Oh Hell at night. The tournaments are probably the best—the only time Westheimer will let us leave the lights on for an extra hour, and the only time where we can truly forget about everything around us and enjoy each other’s companionship.\n“That being said, this is still a POW camp. Despite Westheimer’s best efforts, homesickness and feelings of being cut off from the world persist. We’re only a few kilometers north of Augsburg, a sizable city, but it feels like we are in a remote part of the world, completely alone. Frankly, what goes on in my head is the most frightening part. Arguments will break out over the smallest things. Sometimes, people will wake up angry and sad after having a dream that they finally went home. Depression is rampant, so much so that you can feel it deep inside. I haven’t been here that long, and I can only hope I don’t become like the men who have been here since the camp’s creation three years ago. There are some, like Sergeant Angove, who are wonderful people making the best of a bad situation, but there are others who look like shells of their former selves.\n“At times, the camp feels like home, which is definitely a strange thing to say. Other times, I feel like running back to my real home. I miss Mum and Dad. I miss you most of all. When I’m at my saddest, I try to turn my thoughts to you. When I return to England, I hope to see you waiting for me at the airport. Or, perhaps, you’ll come to me. I would love for you to meet everyone. I’ve told them so much about you, about how beautiful you are, about how you make me laugh and smile, about how you make the perfect cup of tea—oh, did you know Corporal Fossey and his wife have a tea place in Birmingham? I would appreciate if you paid his missus a visit to help them out, but I understand if you’re busy. Anyway, please enjoy the album. I’ve written captions under every photo, and I do hope this gives you endless amounts of joy—I certainly enjoyed making it.\n“Words alone cannot express how much I love you. All the best—Elliot Plundell.”\nMonnie’s hands were shaking as she put down the paper. She felt more joy at knowing her Elliot was safe and healthy. Once her relief subsided, she whispered, “Magic?” to herself as she opened to the first page of the album. On that page was a large photograph showing the members of Elliot’s barracks, along with some of the camp guards and staff. She found Elliot off to the right side of the group, standing in front of a tall and thin German officer, who she assumed was Commandant Westheimer. It was confirmed on the back of the photo, along with a guide to who was who.\nTears ran down her face as she looked at Elliot’s smiling face. It was the first time she had seen him in almost a year. The photo was only a few weeks old, and for her, it was good enough as seeing him in person. For now, it would have to do." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: I remember.\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1097\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story about an older couple who’ve been together since they were teenagers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I remember it all.\n\"I remember seeing you at school, every day for four years. You were the only reason I actually came to that crappy high school. I was never a good student, but you were always there, so always went just to stare at you. I remember making eye contact with you during algebra. The feeling of your eyes on mine burned deep inside me with passion. Those eyes ripped me open and exposed the person that I truly was, that person that I hated. But I always imagined that those eyes loved me so much more than I did myself. Your eyes were deep, and beautiful; the kind of eyes that you couldn't look away from even if you tried.\nI remember our hands brushing in the hallways between classes. Your soft hands stroking mine made me think of the way the grass grazed my little feet in the springtime when I was a child. You remind me of springtime. Those few seconds that I got to feel you, out in the open were exhilarating. Every second that we could touch in public thrilled me, and terrified me all at once. You were like a drug- incredible, but risky. \nI remember gazing at you from across the cafeteria. I longed to sit next to you. All I wanted was to place my hand on your thigh under the table, and to wear your letterman jacket without fear or shame. I yearned to rest my head on your strong shoulder, and run my hands through your thick brown hair. I was so desperate to be yours. Back then, I didn't know that you yearned for me too. Of course, back then, all of that was a mere fantasy, made to suppress, until you are rid of it.\nI most vividly remember those few minutes, when we were alone together in the bathroom, that sublime day. I could feel the tension between us, aching to be released. Every second that we spent alone together was like inhaling just a little more each moment, until the air was finally begging to be exhaled. I remember pushing you into the stall wall and grasping you into a fiery embrace. It was a euphoric feeling. It was glorious, and relieving, and terrifying. I can still feel your hands on my back and your soft lips on mine. That first kiss was the most beautiful experience I have ever had. I had no idea that kiss was the beginning of the rest of my life.\nUnfortunately, I also still remember the guilt. I remember the fear that someone would find out, and I remember the twinge of shame that I felt every time I thought about you. I truly hope that you don’t remember that now. Every touch was illicit, and every kiss was an abomination. Sometimes I think that maybe a part of us died, after keeping our feelings suppressed for so long. Those secrets took their toll on both of us. With every kiss, I heard the crack of my father’s belt. Loving you was always some kind of cruelly addictive torture. \nOur teenage years were the most beautiful and unbearable years of our lives. But we had each other, and although it needed to be behind closed doors, we made our relationship work. We were foolish, despite our carefulness though, and looking back on it, I’m not sure if we were really very good at faking our indifference towards each other. You always encouraged me to be myself, but when it came down to it, that wouldn’t have benefited either of us. But I always loved how brave you were. After school, we would lay under the bleachers and you would tell stories about being able to be who we are without fear, and being accepted. You had dreams that we would live together, and get a dog, and maybe even get married. I always called you crazy and laughed it off, but you were right! You were always right.\nWe continued on our relationship like that for two years, but in 12th grade, we started to have some fallouts. Relationships were hard in highschool anyways, but they were especially difficult when they had to be behind closed doors. Another problem was that we didn’t really have closed doors to hide behind. Neither of our parents were ever kind or accepting, so we couldn’t even be together in our own homes. We stumbled a lot on our journey, but you always said that “stumbling is okay- there will always be rocks in our path because of who we are.” \nYou were always an optimist. You made me a better person for loving you. I changed quite a lot throughout our relationship. I learned to be more open, and unique. You gave me hope that one day everything would fall into place and our life together would be perfect. I learned to see through your eyes, and you could see through mine. I began to see myself the way you saw me. I learned to appreciate life. You drove me to bridges and held my hand while we jumped into the deep water together. You took me on bike rides, and hikes, and you introduced me to your grandma, who passed away when you were 11. You broke me out of my shell, and molded me into someone that I love. You, Christopher, were the greatest love of my life. I would be nothing without you.”\n“Christopher? Do you remember?”\nHe stares at me blankly. I can tell that he doesn’t.\n“That’s okay baby. You just sit.”\nAnd so we sit, on the porch of the Cape Cod assisted living home, rocking in our chairs, looking out at the grey, cloudy sky. \nI clutch his hand, desperately trying to cling on to whatever is left of the man I once loved. The funny thing is, though, when you get old, you realize just how long life really is, and you start to realize that every day has been an adventure. Every day of my life has been a gift, and I have truly lived.\nWe have truly lived. \nI know that the man I fell in love with isn’t here right now, but sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I can see a twinge of hope. I see flashbacks of our beautiful, full life in his eyes and I know that he still remembers that day in the bathroom. \nI’ll be okay, even if he forgets about me forever- I remember enough for the both of us." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Search for a specific Brand of Chocolate\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1508\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone going on a search for a specific type (or brand) of chocolate." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A SEARCH FOR HERSHEY CHOCOLATE’S BRAND\nCharlie Warner Kenney “Charlie” O’Brien, the world-famous PI (Private Eye), was hot on a mission. It was a life and death mission, as far as he was concerned, anyway. He was in search of the where abouts of the ‘Hershey Chocolates.’\nIt is one of the most delicious and taste tantalizing sweets, that can be found anywhere on this crazy old planet, with the exception of ‘Swiss Chocolates,’ made at various Candy Factories located in Switzerland.\n Most Chocolate lovers, would agree that you cannot beat Swiss candies, and Charlie would agree, albeit, just in part. He got his sweet tooth from his beloved Mama, Vivian, she loved chocolates even more than he did, if that were possible, of course.\nOur favorite Private Investigator, Charlie traverses the Globe looking for the Bad guys, and while his is traveling ‘to and fro,’ on his cases, he always takes some time ‘off the clock,’ to sample those local countries, ‘sweets for sweets.’\nFor you see, Charlie, is what is called: a Chocolate Connoisseur, a chocolate expert, a chocolate taster, a chocolate addict, in a good sense, and of course, an adamant chocolate lover, indeed. When he sampled the chocolates from other foreign countries, he also bought some extra ones to bring home to his mama.\n Well, Charlie, heard a rumor, ‘Through the Grapevine,’ (do you recall the late, great, Mr. Marvin Gay?), that there was a whole city made of chocolate, as well as all kinds of other quite tasty little treats.\n This, perhaps fantasy chocolate city, was said to be located somewhere in the great state of Pennsylvania, in our own Ole US of A. Charlie lives in Hollywood, in the land of glitz and glamour.\n Also called, “The city of Angels,” and/or, the so called ‘La, La Land.’\n Charlie mounted his trusty white mare, or some might say, his brand spanking new BMW i860, and she was fast, she was hot, she was very pretty, and she also had lots, and lots of good ‘mojo’ working for her.\nShe set Charlie back $110,000.00, but he said that she was worth every penny. She could beat a new Italian Stallion Ferrari (Red, of course) in a foot race without ever breaking a sweat, and also, she could run circles around most race Porsche’s and Audi’s. He loved he really did.\n Her name was ‘Black Beauty’ and Charlie just loved his Ultimate Driving Machine to death. She had a V-12 engine, which was Twin-Turbo charged, with fuel injection, and all the ‘bells and whistles’ that any man and/or woman, could ever wish for.\n Charlie got into Black beauty, jumped on the San Bernardino, (10) Freeway and headed west out of L.A. (Los Angeles, California). He was going slow, real slow, and Beauty hated it, she hated it with a passion. She was ‘Born to be Wild,’ not be a slow poke, like some old worn-out mare.\n He then, finally, seemed like it took forever, headed north on the 15 Freeway and then onto the very famous ‘Route 66’ headed for Francis ‘Frank’ Sinatra’s, “Chicago, Chicago you’re my kind of town.”\n Beauty kicked up ‘her heals,’ and let ‘her horses run wild,’ when she finally got some open-road to play on. Charlie looked down at his speedometer and he was going 120 miles per hour, and she was not even staring to breath heavy.\nTach was 8,000 R.P. M.’s., and she had already long surpassed 7,000 Red Line, a long time ago. Lord have mercy, then Charlie started to sing one of his favorite new songs, “Babies got her blue-jeans on.”\nHold on to your Hats folks, ‘she is deep down and trucking,’ just like Jerry Reed and Burt Reynolds in the great and very funny ‘Convoy’ movies, back in the day. \nThen all of a sudden, the twin-turbos kicked in, black beauty screamed, and lurched full force ahead, and put Charlie way, way back into his racing style driver seat, and beauty was doing 150 miles per hour, O.M.G.!\n Charlie then heard a car horn beep, and when he looked to his right, he saw a brand-new Corvette (with plates that read, CMIYC meaning, “Catch Me If You Can”) Z-08 Gold in color, and it looked like it was real gold paint. The driver, a lovely very lovely, young show girl, judging by her outfit.\n She motioned for Charlie to roll down his window, and he head her say, “Go Chevy V-8, or go Home.” And then she hastily added, “Want to race big guy?” Charlie not being easily intimidated, by anyone, or anything, or any make of auto, replied, “Yes, young lady, I do, and would you like to race for pink slips?”\n She blinked her real long fake eye lashes, she had real long and pretty locks, blonde, of course, with big oval stary blue eyes, and stared at Charlie for a few seconds, she was thinking his offer over.\nThen she responded to him saying, “I would love to handsome, however, this ride belongs to the casino owner, and he is connected if you know what I mean? So, I do not have a pink slip, well I do, actually, however, it is in my suitcase.”\n She smiled, sweety, and very seductively, and said, “Maybe, I will see you in Vegas at the Golden Horse Shoe Casino?” And with that, she smiled again, blinked her big black lashes, just in case I missed them the first time, and then she punched her Vette, and went sailing off ‘into the Sunset,’ doing about 180 m.p.g.’s.\nCharlie thought that he heard a noise, Beauty seemed to be saying, “Charlie old man, she is half you age, and also she has a boyfriend who is a made member of the Mafia. Do you want to arrive in the ‘Land’ of Hershey Chocolate Company all in one piece, or in several little neatly diced up pieces?”\n Charlie shook his head, and said to himself, “Cars can’t talk, you dummy, or can they?” Maybe when he got back to La, La Land, he should have his hearing checked, and maybe, his brain as well, while he is at it.\nWithin about 10 hours, more or less, Charlie, and his faithful and very trusted mayor, were close to the Pennsylvania state border. He told Beauty so slow her horses down, just a little.\n It was a good thing that she did, because just after he pulled up on her reigns, five (5) PHP (Pennsylvania Highway Patrol black and white cruisers, jumped on the highway right on beauties lovely tail.\n They all went around him, real fast, and gave him a four-finger salute, and yelled, “Get you next time, buddy, we love to write tickets on California plated vehicles.”\nCharlie smelled something ‘in the air tonight,’ what was it he pondered, and then he kept sniffing, and also, he pondered some more. Oh, he finally said to himself, it is the ‘sweet smell of success,’ that is to say, Chocolate, hooray!\n At that same point in time, he spotted a Big, sign off to the side of the very busy highway, by the way he was only going 80 m.p.h. by now, and it said, “Hershey, Pennsylvania.”\n Wow, Charlie said, out loud this time, but only Beauty could hear him, and she whinnied in agreement, there is a whole City made out of Chocolates (and sweets).\nCharlie tuned-off his turbos, and coasted down to about 65 m.p.h. and that was the speed limit on that little road, apply named, “Hershey Chocolate Highway.” How cool was that, he said to Beauty.\n ‘Every breath he took,’ just got sweeter and sweeter the closer he got to the center of town. By the way this was not just a little factory enclave. It was a gigantic, and very lovely landscaped, city.\n It had a Hershey Chocolate ‘Medical Center,’ a Hershey Chocolate ‘Public Library and computer center,’ it had a quite lovely ‘Community Center,’ and a ‘Motion Picture Theater,’ and it also had all of the stores and shops, you could even imagine. Plus, it had a very large ‘Wal-Mart,’ naturally!\nCharlie stopped at the park in the center of town, and took a little breather after the long but speedy ‘road trip’ for Los Angeles, California. There was some history on plaques around the park.\nOne said, that Mr. Milton S. Hershey, founded his ‘Hershey Chocolate Company’ in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in 1873. Then in 1903, he purchased the lovely little town of, ‘Derry Church,’ where he had grown up, and changed its name to ‘Hershey, Pennsylvania.’\nHershey also founded one of the first public schools in the country, as well as a very large Orphanage, for poor and parentless, and all alone, young boys. Also, he was one of first very Philanthropy minded rich people in America.\nYes, my dear readers, good ole Charlie, the Private Eye, found exactly what he was Searching for, and that was; A Specific Brand of Chocolate, and that being, the marvelous “Hershey Chocolate Company.”\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: Grandpa Gideon's Heart Shaped Box\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2645\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character finding an old heart-shaped box in their house." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was at work when I got the call that my Grandpa Gideon Grachalmeyer had passed away. The news came as no surprise since he was in his eighties and had a bad bout of pneumonia that he never really got over. What came as a surprise is that he named me as executor of his estate in his will. \nSuddenly the life of this little man from Belarus, a country in Eastern Europe bordering Russia, became an open door to me as I began to go through his things while the rest of the family sat shiva. I was in the attic discovering secrets about his life that he kept hidden. I felt as if I was Aladdin with the lamp, because concealed behind a steamer trunk, was a heart shaped box filled with keepsakes and memories. Once I removed the string from the box it was as if a genie of the past appeared from a cloud of dust. \nSo I sat with my back against the steamer trunk as if I had summoned that genie with each letter I read or diary page I read. The letters were yellow and brittle, but the handwriting was meticulous and quite legible after all this time. \nEveryone knew he had come from a tiny village in Belarus after the war when he wandered into a Red Cross camp with a horde of displaced persons. It was no secret he was just one of many scrawny twenty something resistance fighters who had miraculously survived the war. \nHe came out of the woods and marshlands with just his name which was pronounced Gratch-al-may-er, but he never talked about it, only to say, \"I did what I knew I had to do. God led me every step of the way.\"\nHe came to Ellis Island after receiving a clean bill of health from the Red Cross and within a year married Grandma Martha the summer of 1947. They had six children of which Jacob, my father, would be their first. \nMoving to Long Island with a clear view of the Sound, he enjoyed his new life in suburban America. Never once did any of us think to look back as grandpa changed his name before my father was born to Meyers. He said it sounded more American and Meyers fit in better with the rest of his neighbors. \nHe took pride in his children and his lawn which was completely free of crabgrass. Grandma Martha was a great cook and I remembered warm summer days gathered around their table with a Sunday feast set before us. He insisted on saying a traditional Jewish prayer in Hebrew before the feast.\nWhen Grandma Martha passed away ten years ago, there would be no more family feasts, but I used to go visit grandpa once a week to look after him even though he was always melancholy and morose until he passed away last week.\nWhen I first ventured to the attic, a place I was told was full of ghosts when I was a boy, I was filled with dread. I knew from eavesdropping on the adult gossip, grandpa kept secrets buried up there and now here I was immersed in them. it was not as bad as I was led to believe until I found the heart shaped box wrapped in heavy twine.\nThe heart shaped box was an old Valentine's Day box that had one been full of chocolates. Even after all these years, the strong aroma of chocolate still lingered, flavoring the contents of the box with that sweet, enticing scent of the candy that once originally occupied the box.\nInside the box were letters and pages torn from a diary. I would read everything that was inside that heart shaped box of Grandpa Gideon Grachalmeyer. Placed carefully in chronological order, it read like a book. Every word was written in Hebrew, but having studied Hebrew for years, I was very fluent as I read from right to left. As I read each page, his voice seemed to grow stronger and stronger.\nTranslated:\nJune 1940 A Forest about 40 Km from Mir\nWhen the Germans arrived, they came in trucks. Their soldiers carried guns and their uniforms were as black as night with SS embroidered on their collars. We knew in an instant that this was our enemy. Living in a primitive camp in the woods, we were able to conceal ourselves and keep an eye on them. Not long after they arrived, we blew up one of their storage buildings. They were quick in their retribution as they hung fifteen villagers from Mir. It turned my stomach seeing these innocent victims become feed for the crows.\nDearest Gideon,\nTonight was thrilling killing those Germans and taking their guns. I feel so alive when I am with you.\nLove Bellah\nWho was Bellah? When I asked the rest of the family, no one could recall Gideon ever mentioning her name before. I showed my father the letter, but he said it was probably some other person named Gideon. \nIt was a lie and my father would tell them when he could not directly answer the question. I had learned that as a child. \nSome of the diaries written on the headings told of cold winter days and near starvation and how the Germans would take what little they had including the livestock and grain hidden in dark places. There were accounts of those working with the Germans to capture the Jews and ship them off to camps.\nTheir leaders were two men, Sergey Azerenka and Igor Rybak. According to the account, Sergey was cruel and ruthless while Igor was much more level headed and humane. There were a number of times when Sergey would order the execution of the captured Germans while Igor wasn’t so quick to dispatch them. It seemed Bellah had sided with Sergey while Gideon was more compassionate, but as I read on, I saw that Bellah was only fourteen when she had seen her mother and father executed by the SS officer. Forgiveness does not come easy to someone who has been harmed. \nMy Dearest Gideon,\nYou must understand that these Germans are animals who deserve to be slaughtered. Each of them who wears a skull on their uniform collar, have killed our people for no reason, like my parents Dmitry and Dasha. He laughed when he pulled the trigger.\nLove,\nBellah\nReading this made me shiver. Such cold blooded sentiments were not in my nature and it was hard for me to imagine that he was capable of such impulses. \nI read more of his journal when he and seven others ambushed a convoy leaving over two dozen lying dead in the snow turning the pure white into a deep dark read. From the trucks they helped themselves to munitions and weapons to carry on their war against the Germans.\nA few times, I came to my feet, rubbing the back of my neck with my hands trying to get the harsh images out of my mind. I had no idea of what his life was like before he came to this country, but now I was reading about it and I found it quite unsettling. \nNone of the relatives sitting downstairs solemnly praying for his soul, had any idea of the secrets I was uncovering with each piece of paper such as the arrest and deportation of his father and mother that he would never see again. Perhaps the part that filled me with the most grief was the arrest of his brother Mikilai who was just five years old at the time. He expresses hope that he will be reunited with him one day, but this would never happen. My tears fell onto the dust on the floor. \nSeptember 28, 1942\nI feel there is a traitor in our company. Last week we had a raid planned, but when we appeared, they were ready. They killed seven when they opened fire. We had a cremation of our seven fallen brothers and sisters. Rabbi Travalola performed the ceremony, but we kept it brief so the Germans would not see the pyre against the black of the night. When morning came we buried the remains, but as we did we heard their armed vehicles approaching. We cleared out in the nick of time, but they could feel that our fires were still warm. \n I have my suspicions on who is the traitor, but I will keep my silence until I am certain of who it is. Meanwhile we move through the forest along the river. The ground is marshy making every step a major effort, especially the weaker like Bellah. She has dark circles under her eyes and she has lost a lot of weight since we started. \nMany of the farmers are sympathetic toward our cause, but they have little left since the Germans have rationed their provisions. Sometimes we ask where some of our relatives and friends are, but they just shake their heads and wave us off. They know if they tell us what they know, it will cause grief among our ranks, but we are not idiots or naïve. We know. We know.\nI was tempted to put all of these papers in the fireplace downstairs, but there are plenty of eyes to see what I am doing and I am not that good of a good liar. \n\"Grandpa, why didn't you tell us?\" I repeated it over and over again as I held the unread letters in my hand. \nSomething like this heart shaped box was supposed to contain sediments of love and devotion, not these. Not letters and diaries of war and suffering.\nMy grandfather was a good man who loved his wife and family with all his heart. How was he capable of doing such things. I know it was a war. I know millions of our people were exterminated, but the more I read, the more I was convinced that he was not the gentle, calm man I thought he was. \nJanuary 22, 1943\nI put my pistol to Sergey's head and pulled the trigger when we were alone in the woods stalking a deer. The loud pop startled me, but not as much as watching the top of his head come completely off. Later Bellah sat next to me with her head on my shoulder, in a soft whisper, she said, \"You had no choice, Gideon, you had to do it. If you didn't we might all be dead.\" \nHis German buddies stumbled upon his body the next day. Peering at them through my binoculars, I could see the grimace on the officer's face. Bellah put him in her sights, but I told her it would be better if we didn't do it. Nodding, she shouldered her rifle and we disappeared into the woods.\n\"Are you doing alright?\" Kate, my wife, nearly startled out of my skin.\n\"Fine. I'm just fine.\" I lied stashing the heart shaped box behind the steamer.\n\"Dear, you've been up here for hours. I was starting to get worried.\" Her hand gently stroked my face.\n\"There's a lot to go through.\" I shrugged, but she saw everything was still in place and a look of doubt crossed her face.\n\"I see.\" She smiled in an effort of support to my apparent fib, \"I know you loved him very much and this must be extremely difficult for you.\"\n\"I'm fine.\" I tried to assure her as she kissed me on the top of my head. She turned on her heel and stood on the top step of the stairs.\n\"The kids are getting restless. You can finish the job later.\" She assumed me before disappearing. \nLooking at the remaining letters, I saw I was only about half through the stack and it felt as though I had been on an emotional roller coaster. Perhaps Kate was right, I could do the rest later after a good night's sleep.\nMarch 3, 1944\nEveryone was excited. The Russian army was advancing and the Germans were in full retreat. Igor had made contact with Colonel Charovich, the Russian field commander. With our bunch pushing from the west and the Russian armored division pulling from the east, we would put the Panzer division in a vice that would eventually bring them to surrender. \nWe would begin the attack after sunset when the darkness of the woods would conceal us. Once engaged with us on their western flank, Charovich would bring his armor division in from the east and crush the division. \n\"We will drive these bastards out of our country once and for all.\" Bellah was excited as she checked her rifle for the fifth time.\nThe headlights of the Panzer vehicles appeared across the river. Bellah took aim along with the rest of the Freedom Fighters.\nSomeone fired a shot as he was anxious for action. It was then over a hundred .50 millimeter guns opened fire, creating an apocalyptic landscape as trees were splintered into tinder acting as shrapnel to those holding a position by the river.\n\"Where the hell are the Russians?\" Peter wondered aloud just as a tree crushed him in an avalanche of lumber.\n\"We need to abandon our position before their guns cut us to pieces.\" Igor ordered his men to abandon their position, but for many it was already too late. In I saw Bellah with a large piece of wood protruding from her abdomen.\n\"Holy God, this hurts.\" She groaned as she tried to get to her feet, but she impaled into the ground. I put my hands on it, but she cried out, \"Leave me here .\"\n\"I can't do that.\" I shook my head as tears covered my charged cheeks.\n\"They will be here any minute.\" She took a deep breath and with everything she had left in her, she yelled, \"Go!\"\nThere was nothing I could do for her.\n\"I will always love you Gideon...\" It would be her final words in this life.\nI was sobbing like a baby. My tears fell on the paper making the ink smear a bit.\n\"Victor!\" I heard Kate's voice call to me from the bottom of the stairs, \"We have to go. The kids are fighting. It is past their bedtime.\"\nI glanced at my watch and saw that she was right.\n\"You can come back tomorrow, dear, but we need to get home.\" Her voice was calm, but contained a note of urgency. Carefully, I put the box back where I had found it. I wiped my watery eyes and blew my nose in my handkerchief\n\"Coming, dear.\" I called out. With a final glance at all the forgotten items in the dusty attic that included a variety of cast off things from their life together after raising five children that included my father.\n\"Where have you been, sport?\" My father asked me as he embraced me.\n\"You know, going through grandpa's stuff.\" I answered meekly.\n\"I do not envy you, that's for sure.\" He laughed with a final loving pat on my shoulder as we departed. \nI embraced and gave a peck on the their of my aunts.\nNo one was teary eyed. His passing was the final pages of a life well lived, but as I waved goodbye, I knew it was more than that. My head bobbed as I made my way out the front door now carrying my daughter who was falling asleep in my arms.\n\"Daddy, I'm gonna miss papa.\" She said in a voice heavy with sleep.\n\"Me too, sweetheart, me too.\" I kissed her on the forehead as I thought about the young freedom fighter who said farewell to the woman he had loved and had kept her memory alive in that heart shaped box.\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: Frozen Yogurt After A Year\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1901\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people reconnecting after a rough patch in their relationship." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I am so stupid. So incredibly stupid. How could I ever fall for this? When I finally was getting over this play boy, he pops out of nowhere. Well, I guess not nowhere. I probably should have thought of the possibility that Emma would set me up with my ex. \nI have been on plenty of blind dates before, and I can admit I like them. The element of surprise is fun, and I honestly think that blind dates are good for you. Let you get out there. I, myself, don’t really need to get out there though. \nMy mother always told me to date around when I was in school so I knew exactly what type of man I like. I still haven’t figure that out. And I’m a senior. \nBut isn’t college supposed to be for irresponsible drinking and “dating?” \nI sure hope so. \nMy name is Olivia Turner. I’m 17 years old and I really like ballet. That’s pretty much it. Oh, I also really like boys. A little too much. \nBut, to be honest, all of the girls are like that.\nI have been on, estimating, 57 dates. That’s only since I was sixteen, which makes me pretty sick now that I sit here and think about it. \nI’ve never really had a serious boyfriend. Not until Robin Meyer showed up. \nI met Robin at a hangout a year ago. We were playing night games, and we just happened to be paired up in a group of cops and robbers. Although, I have a theory all of my friends purposefully grouped us; even though Robin was currently dating Alice at the time. \nAlice was a sweet girl, but had no comedy in her. I know she had mediocre grades and would only really talk to Robin. We were all jealous of her, naturally, since Robin was one of the biggest hotties in school. \nHis deep blue eyes and poofy brown hair, that reached up at least three feet above his head, made all of the girls want him. \nDuring the game, me and him connected pretty well and I had fun. \nA few weeks later, we got the “awful” news that Alice was moving, and she would no longer see Robin again. It took all of us by surprise, for sure, but what made all of us jump was that the next day Alice came to talk about it. \nShe said the she was really moving, but she had wanted to break up with Robin for a really long time now, but just didn’t have the guts to break his heart. \nShe was glad, and laughing with us. All of my besties were legitimately freaked out. \nAfter that, it was like a pack of wolves, all fighting for one guy. \nI, however, did not find that he was single a chance to jump at him. Instead we just had friendly chit chat over the phone, just like friends. At least, that’s what I thought. \nWhen I heard the Robin told almost everyone in the entire school that we were dating, my first reaction was to scream. \nLiterally. Not out of happiness, no, but because I was so pissed at him. \nWhat had my text, “I hope you have a good day at school,” made him think we were together? We hadn’t even gone on a date, ever! \nI confronted him about while we were doing laps outside during gym, alone. \n“What?!” He said, when I told him. “I told them that we were talking, and I had a crush on you.” He said, sighing out loud. “I can’t believe them. They must have spread all of these rumors.” He decreased his pace, breathing heavily. \n“So, you do have a think for me?” I say, confused. \n“Well, yeah. But your not supposed to know.” \n“You did just kinda tell me.” I say, chuckling. \n“Yeah. I did.” His tone was nothing but serious. \nWe didn’t talk after that. Instead we would spend our time in and out of parties and kissing. We were never really together, until we were. Two months after out parading he actually asked me out. \n“The fair?” \n“And by ourselves?” I question, just to make sure he said the right thing. \n“Yep.” It’s all he said. \n“Okay, pick me up at seven.” And just like that, we were dating. Boyfriend and girlfriend. \nThe first think I noticed after it was official was the death notes. By just so many girls. So, so many. In my locker, backpack, desk, and somehow even my shoes. \n“Give us back out hottie!”\n“You don’t deserve him!”\nThe list went on and on. At on point I started just emptying my backpack out by the trash can. My vision on how Alice wanted to break up with him was starting to get clear. It was exhausting. \nRobin wasn’t that popular. He had friends, sure. But he really was just known for being a dork and hot. \nBut I had to deal with so many people asking questions about him, most of them being girls, and also being a girlfriend. \nI had never really been a girlfriend before. Robin gave me chocolate, said incredible things about me, and I was just sitting there. \nIt made me feel pretty bad about myself, but sooner or later I started acting just like him. \nAfter one more month, people started to calm down and we were the “perfect couple” in school. \nWhen dances came around, we were the best couple. \nWhen parties came around, we were the best couple. \nWhen hangouts came around, we were the best couple. \nI liked it, a lot.\nThen it happened. Just the right thing to make out relationship come to a crashing halt. \nRobin wouldn’t come to school anymore. He skipped, hanging out with his new friends. He was popular now, and it wasn’t a good thing. When at school, he would just prank me. When we were alone on dates, he would look at his phone the entire time. Is this why Alice wanted to leave? I don’t think so, but now I’m curious to why she wanted to. \nIt was him, who broke up with me. He did it over text, the cliche of all rom-coms. It was awkward between us, and I really missed him. The old him. \nI know it was for the best, but it was hard. \nReally hard.\nThat’s when I started to binge eat ice cream and tacos. Another cliche. Turns out, I can’t be a professional model like the girls in those movies, because I ended up gaining tons of weight. \nWell, not actual tons but my face is all fat and bloated now, and I kinda look like a fish. I’m still really pretty, at least I hope, but it still sucks.\nA freaking year went by, and I’m now just starting to go to the gym. Still working off the fat and such, and I have no idea where the location of Robin is. \nUntil now. \nEmma, one of my best friends, who has stayed with me though all of this, set me up on a blind date. I agreed, wanting to get away from my past. I’m sounding very dramatic, but it was a pretty hard for me. First boyfriends aren’t supposed to be hard. But they are apparently, because Emma set me up with Robin. \nI doubt she wanted us to date again, but more settle some rough history. \nAnd I feel really, really stupid because I am all dolled up for fro-yo, and I know I put way too much makeup on, and he is here. He is here. \nAt least he isn’t on his phone. \nHe gives me a warm smile and slight wave as I enter through the door, still processing whatever the heck this is. \nPissed, I go up and ask, “What do you want? Your gray hoodie back? I already sold it to charity.” \nThat stupid jerk understands my feelings. “I know your mad about what’s going on. But, instead of yelling at each other about a hoodie a completely forgot about, I think we should just talk it out.” \nI budge in front of him, and order my yogurt. Strawberry with golden Oreo crumbs. \nI sit down after getting my tiny spoon and gesture for him to sit by me. \n“I’m really sorry.” He says. \n“Okay…” I sigh. “It’s been a year. Now, you want to say sorry? That’s it?” I roll my eyes, and dig through the ice cream. Looking for a big chunk of Oreo. \n“I know I was a jerk to you, but it was different for me. Being popular, a part of the group. I never had that. And you were struggling too. I know you’d never really have a real boyfriend before..and well...it was..” He glances at his hands, a sign that he is nervous. \n“Hard. It was really hard.” \n“It was hard for me too, when you broke up with me, over text I might add, I gained all this weight and stopped taking care of myself. So, all you wanted was to apologize?” I ask again. Where is he getting at? \n“The guys told me to do it. As a dare. Break up with you.” He said, shoving his hands in his face. \n“And you listened to them?” Of course he did. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. Spit got caught in my throat and I felt like I was going to cry. \n“I’m not proud of it. After, I was just so depressed. I regretted it so much. And you avoided my calls and I didn’t know what to do.”\n“Do about what?” \n“I still have feelings for you.”\nIn that moment, it didn’t feel like I was in an anime, or a romantic comedy. It felt like I was underwater, I was drowning. After a year, this boy comes back and admits his love for me? It felt like my own personal hell. \nAll I could do was sit there. Listening to the birds chirp outside and the fro-yo machine crank. \nAfter a couple of seconds, that felt like years, I spoke. \n“It’s been a year.” I only mutter this. \n“That’s how strong my feelings are.” \nA year. An entire year, and he just decides now? I’m sure if I ask him he will come up with a lame excuse like, “It was so hard to reach you,” or “I’ve been busy myself getting away from being popular.” Like it’s that bad to be popular. He just didn’t manage it well, and you know what? That tells something about his character. \nI have been getting over him. But, I still love the guy. It’s frustrating and uneasy to see him like this. To see me like this. \nRight now, I think I just need some love. \n“Okay.” Deja vu, eh? \n“Really?” He asks. \n“Yeah.” \nRight there and then he kissed me in font of all of the fifteen year old kids, trying there best to get some money in this stupid fro-yo shop. \nHis mouth tasted like chocolate ice cream and sprinkles. Of course he got ice cream before I got here. \nYou could say I was happy. Really happy. \nWith the sun shining through the window, the snow on the ground outside of the shop that glittered so brightly, his mouth against mine, things didn’t seem so bad anymore." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Root of All Love\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2529\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone going on a search for a specific type (or brand) of chocolate." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Philippines, 1879\nMy papa loved his town. He loved his family. He loved my mama. He loved me. I never doubted it—ever. He did not seem to love his own father. I never understood what made him so bitter and sour towards my Lolo, or why he never worked the fields with him like their ancestors before them. Papa would say that they were complete opposites. It was almost like he was allergic to my Lolo. Since he was 17 and moved out from Lolo’s house to live with my mama’s family, my papa took up many jobs around the village.\n He built my schoolhouse, the new church, the bridge to the big city, the telegraph wire, and even the house I grew up in. Once he married my mama and my sister was born, he shaved people at Mr. Mallonga’s barber shop and sold feed at the Roxas’ store. That kept us fed and all three of us in school. At my confirmation, the photographer, a city man with a curled mustache half my parents’ age, mentioned something that would change my family forever.\n “Now, hold still, all of you! No smiling!” he reminded, “Ten more seconds!”\n My little brother Benito kept pinching my back thigh to make me ruin the photograph. My sister Francesca noticed his assault and flicked her finger at the nip of his neck.\n The photographer capped his wooden box.\n“All done, Ramoses!”\nOnce the 15-minute agony was done, she’d started chasing him back home.\n“How much do I owe you?” Papa had asked the man, counting the bills in his billfold.\n“Twenty pesos,”\n“TWENTY! Do I look like the King?”\n“Santiago, pay the man!” Mama urged, “A good memory is worth more than money,”\nMy papa counted out twenty with anger beneath his breath. “Who’s next after this? The Governor-General?” he quipped.\n“No, a bunch of Americans and other foreigners up in Laoag,”\n“Foreigners in that town? Impossible,”\n“They want me to take pictures of their huge beans to send back home,”\n“What beans?” Papa cackled.\n“Cocoa, I think. One of those groups want to take me with them when they sail down south to find more. That’s why they’re visiting our lonely corner of the world, I guess,”\n“Down south? Manila? Sounds like a waste of time to go cocoa-hunting in the big city,”\n“No, all the way to the deep south. Cebu—”\n“CEBU? How much are they paying you?”\n“Fifty American dollars. They promised half at the beginning and half at the end. The guides and translators they hired only got fifteen,”\nPapa couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had to look at me to see if he were going crazy.\n“Do they even speak Spanish?”\n“A few, but one of them already knows Tagalog. Some American named ‘Parter,’ ‘Per-er,’… ‘Porter,’ I think. Wears glasses. He’s coming down here with his group next week,”\nI could see the gold coins in Papa’s eyes. He was already counting the dollars in his head. He spent the next few days talking about it with us every meal. He would meet them when they arrived and would try to get them to hire him as a translator. Mama would try quashing his schemes with the reminder that a new face in town would bait conmen and tricksters to compete with Papa.\nI got home from school one day to the smell of my mama’s fresh pan de sal baking from my kitchen. It wasn’t my birthday, nor was my Lolo’s cart waiting outside. It was a much larger, newer buggy with a young, white steed yoked on. My papa was sitting on the porch with the palest people I’d ever seen.\nOne had yellow, golden hair and was about my sister’s age. His papa was starting to go bald and wore a set of glasses like my Lolo. Another, fatter man carried a pistol on his hip like our neighbor, a policeman. He had black hair like us, but with sky-blue eyes. The adults were sipping rum and sharing pan de sal with the boy. The American father handed a piece of what looked like a brown, thin polboron sweet wrapped in foil and paper.\n“Pedro!” Papa called from the porch, “Come try this chocolate!”\nI slowly approached. Papa broke off and handed me a piece of the bitterest food I’d ever tasted. I barely swallowed the bite. The foreigners didn’t look at me very closely and continued discussing their business. Only the younger one seemed to pay any attention to me.\n“My boy speaks excellent Spanish, Mr. Porter,”\n“He’s an Indio, Porter,” the fat man said, “Not so common among them,”\nThe golden-haired boy said something to me in English.\n“My name is Samuel Q. Porter. You must be Pedro,” his father greeted me in Tagalog, “My son’s name is Allister,”\nI tried pronouncing it back to him while shaking his hand, but my stumbling only caused light laughter. I grinned along with them, seeing this as the only relief from the most confusing and condescending conversation of my life so far.\n“Did you like that chocolate, Pedro?\nI nodded.\n“Don’t worry. We brought more samples for the stores out here. You’ll find them on the shelves one day,”\n The older men spoke more about business until sunset, when the American shook Papa’s hand, said his goodbyes in Tagalog, and headed for our guest house. They slept in my Lolo’s room to the ire of Mama.\nThe conversation over dinner was even more animated from Papa’s end.\n“He shook my hand, Isabel!” he exclaimed.\n“Did he pay you?” she asked, annoyed than ever.\n“Well, not—”\n“Then, I don’t want to hear it. Unless they pay us for room and board, and the food I had to serve them, this isn’t exactly something worth celebrating,”\n“I showed them around my father’s fields,”\n“You haven’t been there in years. You guided them around there?”\n“Not around there exactly. There’s some forest behind the irrigation ditch and river. I used to play there around Benito’s age. I know it like the back of my hand!”\n“The crocodile watering hole? What were they after?”\n“They want cocoa beans. My great-grandfather grew some there before, but they got diseased and he decided to focus on rice and sugarcane like the rest of town,”\n“I bet the old man was happy to see you,”\n“He was, but I wasn’t,”\nShe rolled her eyes. “Francesca. Pedro,” she called to us, “I think their dinner has cooled down. Go and deliver it to them in the baskets, please,”\nI managed to waddle my way with an ungodly amount of food down the dirt path to the guest house after her. My ears could overhear their exchanges.\n“Mr. Porter, I could pull some strings with the Governor-General. We don’t have to pay that old Indio a cent!” the fat man offered.\n“I don’t want to buy a field and have to run it surrounded by enemies, Señor Cruz,”\n“Well, you’re already surely surrounded by competitors. Do you think those teams from Fry or Stollwerck, or Favarger would hesitate? If not us pulling strings, it’ll be them! You don’t understand how things are done here. There’s no need to pay the geezer or his kid who owns this dump if we just let the government take it from them,”\n“I don’t want to have to pay for perpetual security when they snap. The company sent us out here to find new breeds of cocoa, and to dig our heels and to have a reliable operation in the Far East to service Hong Kong, Singapore, and our partners in Japan. I think a bit of caution is needed, especially when this seems to be the only field that grows this bean,”\n“This is giving me a headache. I’m headed to bed!”\n“Cruz, I know we have different methods, but I can do this: We will give him sugar prices before we give him cocoa prices,”\nDespite this, the fat man stormed off upstairs.\nMy sister’s giggling by the stable broke my concentration. I had wondered where she’d run off to. I’d handed over the food to the grateful man and headed over to investigate her laughter.\n“‘Allister’,” she said perfectly to the boy.\n“Francesca, let’s go!” I reminded her.\n“In a minute!”\n“Buenas ‘Nochees,’ Fran-cesca,” the boy tried to pronounce back to her, fixing the baskets in his arms.\nShe giggled away and kept laughing all the way back home.\n“You like him?” I asked.\n“Yes. Don’t tell Papa or Mama,”\n“You don’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t even know what you’re saying!”\n“He’s learning Spanish for me,”\n“I think he’s learning Spanish for his father’s job,”\n“You’re too young to understand, Pedro,”\nI found it hard to sleep that night with my sister’s repetition of that boy’s name. It was almost like she was praying to him. The next day, I could barely stay up in school to pay attention. In the window, I could see Papa and the guests riding their buggy down the road. Allister waved at me while his father counted Papa’s pay.\nBefore dismissal, I could hear two cracks that echoed across town. The hurried buggy soon followed. I rushed home, not five minutes’ walk from school. A trail of blood led from the buggy into my house. Groans and shouting could be heard outside from the kitchen. The fat man was seated on the dinner table with his gun resting on the other side. The boy was hovering over my Mama and his own father. My sister snugly locked her arms with his. Benito followed right behind me and rushed into Papa’s bloodied arms.\nPapa’s wounded foot rested on Mama’s seated lap. She washed his bleeding foot while tightening a rope around his ankle.\n“Francesca, run to Dr. Paul!” she ordered, shooing away the new couple.\nBenito began to look nauseous and ran upstairs soon after.\n“We run on his property,” the fat man began, “We trespass with his son. He shoots at us from nowhere. We shoot one shot back. Yes, Mr. Porter, I’m sure this Indio will accept sugar prices!”\n“Lorenzo,” Porter gently asked, “Have we angered him?”\n“No, Mr. Porter,” Papa answered, “That’s just the way he is. Shoot first and find out what he shot after,”\n“My Spanish friend is much the same, you see. He wants the government to seize that land from your kin. I don’t approve of such methods myself, but I think he’ll convince the company to back him up if I report back emptyhanded. So, you think we can talk to your father to even things out?”\nThe fat man stormed off to the guest house in anger.\n“Mr. Porter, I cannot walk. Even if I did, I wouldn’t spit in his direction!”\n“What? Why?”\n“We’re complete opposites. It would take forever to explain,”\nMama said in Ilocano, “We need the money. To pay for the doctor. To pay for-”\n“I can go!” I said to Porter.\n“Young Pedro, I don’t think this would be a good idea,” he explained, “I don’t think you know very much about what we have to discuss,”\n“The boy can do it!” Papa told Porter, “He speaks Ilocano like me and can fulfill the agreement. He gets along with the old fool anyway,”\nWe departed for Lolo’s farm almost immediately. We’d planned our approach very carefully. I would walk up to him and make peaceful introductions for Porter first. Porter would follow with his apologies and his offer for me to translate.\nWalking up the path to the house, Lolo ran up and embraced me tight with three kisses on the forehead. “How are you? How are you? How are you?” he greeted.\n“Good, Lolo. Good, Lolo. Good, Lolo,” I would always greet back.\n“Who’s the suit?”\n“He’s an American. He said he was ‘exploring’ your land today,” I explained.\n“Good God, I thought he was a robber or something. Well, nobody got hit. No harm done so far. What’s he doing out here anyway?”\n“He wants to see the cocoa growing in the back and buy the land from you,”\n“Why would I deal with a trespasser and why would he ask you to help him?”\n“Papa asked me,”\n“And why’s that?”\n“Because the American hired him and he got shot in the foot,”\nLolo’s face turned pale. He almost looked like he was going to vomit like Benito.\n“Where is he?” he gasped.\nWe rushed back home where the two made formal introductions, but nothing more. The shock and horror gripped Lolo from any conversation. Once we made it to the kitchen, Lolo jumped on and began to hug and kiss Papa on the forehead like me. Papa wasn’t in any mood for his affection.\nPorter nudged me to translate. “Mr. Ramos,” he began, “I want to apologize for trespassing on your property. Your son was guiding me, and said you wouldn’t mind,”\n“I accept your apology, Mr. Porter, but I don’t want to sell my land while my son is in danger,”\nI began to explain everything I overheard—the fat man’s plan, the cocoa breeds, the money involved. He shook his head.\n“How can my children, and even your Lola above, looking down at us, love me if I just give up their home for money?”\n“I do love you!” Papa shouted.\nMama’s face and mine couldn’t believe what we were hearing.\n“I do love you, Papa! You never loved me. Every time I came up with a new way to sustain our entire family, you would never appreciate what I do! Never a word about any of my accomplishments to anyone. It was always about yours and Mama’s! It was almost like living as a shame to my own family name. I couldn’t take it,”\nThe tears began to release out of my Lolo’s eyes. “Lorenzo, we’re different. You love to talk about your greatest accomplishments. I don’t. Anything I ever bragged about was not my greatest accomplishment. Having a son as talented and with such a beautiful family as yours is my greatest ever accomplishment. It is all I ever wanted,”\nPapa’s eye began to water as our neighbor, the policeman, his colleagues, and the fat man entered our home with the doctor. Lolo was pointed out and walked away with the officers and out of our lives. He had fired a shot in anger against a Spaniard, a Peninsular. For that, he would die in prison not too long after. His land was divvied up between the Crown, Porter’s company, and Papa who would keep the big house and end up selling it for a song. The fat man would be assigned to govern the fields with his new crop. The war would come and see to it he wouldn’t profit much from his plunder. Allister would take the reigns after the war and would try to make amends with us as he did with my sister before they departed that first visit. He handed her a sample box of chocolates as the buggy was packed and he and his father headed back home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Cave\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1021\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Are you there, God? It’s me…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Are you there, God? It’s me… Josh. I know you’re probably busy and I don’t want to bother you too much, but, uh, I’m still stuck in this cave. Remember when we talked the other day, you said after it was over that I would ascend to Heaven. You know, or something like that. Well, I don’t mean to bug you, but it’s been like two days. I can’t say for sure because it’s as black as the pharaoh’s heart in here, but judging by how bored and hungry I am, I would say it's been two days. Which kind of puts me in a bind because I told everyone I would rise in three-days’ time to heaven. I think they’re coming back to check soon.\nI don’t blame you, of course… It was probably my fault. I know you’re great and infallible, and have a divine plan for everything. Did you go over that plan with me before I came down? It was so long ago I can’t remember, but I definitely don’t recall the whole ‘being stuck in a cave indefinitely' thing. Anyway, even though I told them I’d be back, they threw me in here with a dirty shroud and then blocked the only exit with this huge boulder thing. Actually, yeah, exactly a boulder. \nWell… as bad as I feel right now, I bet it’s nothing compared to whatever you did to Judas after I was gone. I mean, you killed people for spilling their seed on the ground, and turned that one lady into salt (am I remembering that correctly?), so I’d really hate to see what you do to the guy that betrayed your only son. But, I mean, you can give me a hint or something if you feel like it. \nSo, anyway… I was thinking about what we could do when I finally get up to Heaven, you know, and I’m seated at your right hand and all that. Maybe you could take a week off and we can finally spend some time together. I feel like I hardly know you. I mean, Joseph spent way more time talking to me and teaching me things than you ever did. I’m not saying that he was a better father or anything; you definitely did the best you could from all the way up there. And I don’t love him more than you, of course, you're my real dad. And we are actually one God, kind of. Me and you… and the holy ghost. \nI’ve been meaning to ask you, how does that whole ‘holy ghost’ guy fit into all this. You’re my dad, and we are also one. Is he your dad? Is the holy ghost a he? I’m sorry for all the questions, but no one down here really knew what the heck I was talking about. They are actually pretty scared of ghosts. Is a ghost dead? Aren’t all ghosts technically dead? I don’t know, maybe not. I just remember those spooky stories that people tell around the village where dead people haunt the world as ghosts. \n…Maybe that’s the answer!\nWhen they move the boulder to see if I really left this Earth and ascended to Heaven, I can pretend to be a ghost. That shouldn’t be too hard to convince them of, right? I mean, they did see me die (for all the sins of mankind, but that’s no big deal). Oh! I could say that I’m the holy ghost. That’s not really a lie because we are all one, right? I’ll just say, “I have arisen. I am the holy ghost, turn your gaze from me and flee now or face unimaginable wrath.” Yeah, that should do the trick.\nWell, maybe I could hang out with some of the disciples for a few days while you get everything ready for me up there. Again, no rush, I’m just excited is all. I could see the four guys who were writing their account of what’s going on. I hear they want to put our adventures together into a new testament. Can you believe that? I’m not only going to be in the new bible, but I’m going to be the main character. How cool is that! I mean, other than you of course. But I mean, you—me, what’s the difference, right? \nI actually had this really neat idea about it that I mentioned to them, I hope they don’t forget. Anytime they are quoting me and writing down something really awesome I said, they could put it in red ink instead of black. So, if someone is flipping through the bible and they want to skip all the boring stuff (no offense), they could look for the red letters and be like, “Hey, I bet that’s important.”\nSpeaking of the bible, I’ve been meaning to ask you a few things… So, you know how I’ve been told to come to your people and preach tolerance, and kindness, and selfness and stuff. Well, I was just reading some of the things that—No, nevermind. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sorry I brought it up. We can talk about it later if you want. I just. We’re the good guys… right? Not just your favored people, but like, actually good and noble? \nI don’t know, ignore my ramblings. It’s just the maddening darkness of the cave and the lack of food and water. I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining or anything. Again, just really anxious to get out of this cave and enter your (our?) eternal kingdom. It’s been a bit of a rough month, with the whole crown of thorns, and dragging my own cross up a hill so they could nail me to it. And waiting on the cross and getting poked with spears (mostly the one spear). Ugh, that image of me up there on the cross, I hope that’s not how people remember me…\nAnyway, sorry for talking your ear off (You have ears, right?). Hope to see you soon. I love and honor and respect you, and all that. So… anyway, uh, amen (Please come soon)." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: So Many\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1518\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Are you there, God? It’s me…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Are you there, God? It’s me, Susie.” \n“Hi Elmer, she said, as she hugged its enormous trunk.” “Yes, I know, I’m back again.” A large orange, yellow, and green leaf landed gently on her head. She held the leaf gently as she sat her dingy yellow backpack down on the grass at the base of the huge elm. She sat down next to Elmer and crossed her legs, Indian style. Rubbing her small back against the bark of the huge elm, she tried to get comfortable. Fingering Elmer’s leaf seemed to settle her. “Elmer, I haven’t seen you since I was ten. I’m eleven now, she said. I came to talk to God. Do you think he’s listening? Does he listen to kids like me?”\n “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I am pretty confused. The mom at the home I just came from said I’m a sinner. She said I’m unclean and that need to be saved. Their last name was Olsen, and they were Baptist. They said I had to be a genuine believer and dunked underwater to be saved. They did dunk me, but I still don’t know what I believe in or what it saved me from.”\nShe grabbed her backpack and pulled it to her lap. The yellow fabric was dirty and faded. The smeared text was hard to read. She called it her memory keeper. Every time she left a home, she wrote the number of the move it was. They had had just removed her from number nine. The starting and ending dates she lived there, and the name of the family. Sometimes she wrote a little more if there was something special she wanted to remember. She marked those words with a star. She ran her fingers over the ink marks, searching for number eight.\n“Here it is God. The eighth family I lived with. They were the Marshalls. They were Presbyterian. They said I had to have faith in Christ. They baptized me and said it would deliver me from sin through Christ’s blood. How do you go through Christ’s blood, God? They also dunked me underwater in a freezing river. I was sick for a week after that.”\nShe paused again, searching for number seven on the bag. “The Orwells were my seventh family. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses. They believe God’s name is Jehovah, and that he is the only God. They would not give me a birthday party because they said Jehovah would not like it. They did not baptize me. They said I needed to pray to Jehovah and tell him I wanted to belong to him and wanted to serve him forever. The trouble is, I don’t know who he is. Is he the same as God? And also, I don’t stay anywhere forever. Just ask Elmer. I wasn’t really that sad to leave because I do like birthdays.”\nIn purple ink, she found the next name.\n“The Cerillos were my sixth family. They were Christians. They said their hearts were just like Jesus Christ. They said that above all was God, then his son, Jesus Christ, and then the Holy Spirit. They said God sent Jesus to save the world. What is he saving the world from? Who is the Holy Spirit? Is he your grandson? The Cerillos also baptized me, but in a fountain, at the front of the church while everyone watched.” She stopped for a moment, looking at the dog she had drawn by their names. “I hope you’re watching out for Buddy. He was a good dog.”\n“My fifth family was the Lemoores. They were atheists. They don’t believe in any God. They said it was something uneducated people made up. Although I heard Mr. Lemoore say, God damn, and Jesus H Christ. And Mrs. Lemoore shouted, Oh for God’s sake, a lot. I said it once and got my mouth washed out with soap. It was awful. I had to leave there because they were getting a divorce. They didn’t last long. Neither did I.”\nSusie stopped, pulled her long braid over her shoulder, stretching her skirt over her knees. She flipped the bag over, searching for number four. \n“Here they are, the Barbels. They were Mormon. They also believe that God is the father, Christ is his son, and in the Holy Spirit, whoever he is. Hey, maybe it’s a girl. They said Mormons can’t have any coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs. I did like that part. I’m sure my parents were not Mormons. My mother was always smoking and drinking. My dad too. The Mormons don’t use a bible, they have a Book of Mormon. They said it was more correct than the bible. Mrs. Barbels said I should never cut my hair if I wanted to become a Mormon. They baptized me when I turned eight because that’s when I could sin. I wore a white dress and Mr. Barbel laid me back under the water, washing me free of sin. The next day, they sent me back.”\nLooking at the bag, Susie smiled as she found a pink heart drawn next to a star.\n“My third family were the Jacksons. They were Protestants. They were, what you call, a mixed-race family. He was black, and she was white. Sorry, I’m supposed to say African American, aren’t I? Anyway, they went to my favorite church. I liked it because they sang a lot. They got up off their seats, singing loud and raising their arms. Saying hallelujah and amen. They had beautiful voices. They baptized me by pouring cold water on my head. It got my new white dress all wet. They said God would now welcome me into his kingdom. I liked them very much.” \nSusie stretched her legs out and searched for number two. After she found it, she reached into the backpack, pulling out a small pouch. She put it to her nose and took a deep whiff before clutching it in her hand. \n“My second family was the Raines. They were Catholic. At their church, they baptized me by pouring water over my head as I leaned over a fountain. They gave me a rosary. It’s like a necklace, only you don’t wear it all the time. You just take it to church with you. They said to say my prayers while holding it. See, I’m holding it now. You stood up and sat down a lot. I remember that, but I can’t remember much more than that. I wasn’t there very long, either.”\nShe knew exactly where the next name was. It was there at the top of the bag, in a small child’s printing. Misspelled and barely legible.\n“Here they are, my first family. Their name was Newhouse. They were Christians. I was so small that I don’t remember too much from when I lived there. I had a photo that they gave me when I left. They tucked it inside a little bible. It was my baptism gift. I think I lost it when they came to remove me from the Cerillos, number six. I think I was crying in the photo, but my dress was cute.”\nAnother leaf fell in her lap, landing in the stretched-out folds of her shirt. A beautiful yellow-orange. She saw it then, the big heart she had drawn in the center of the dingy canvas, right under the side zipper. In the center of the heart, she had written Mom and dad. In little letters around the edge of the heart, Mikey, Ronnie, and Susie. She had circled a zero above it. She pulled the heart to her and held it to her chest. \n“God, So I guess what I’m asking is, exactly how many gods are there? Why am I dirty, and how many times do I have to be baptized to be clean? Am I clean now? Am I still a sinner? Who is the Holy Spirit? Is he your grandson? Can you, your son, or your grandson just fix my real mom and dad? Can you please make them better, so they can get us back? I am eleven now, and I have lived in nine homes. Well, that’s just foster homes. If you count this group home, I’ve moved twenty times. They bring me back here between moves. I stay here until they find me a new home. I am really, really, really, tired of moving. Do you think you could find me a home where I could stay, and not move until my mom and dad get better? I miss my brothers, too. God, could my brothers please live with me next time? I know it’s a lot, but I promise I’ll be good. I’ll try not to sin, and I’ll say my prayers.”\n“Oh yes, God, can you please take care of Elmer? Isn’t he wonderful? He’s a magnificent tree and a great listener. He never tells anyone my secrets.”\nAs Susie rose and picked up her backpack, she wondered if she should say one more thing.\nShe turned and hugged Elmer tightly, whispering, AMEN." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Meghan and Noah II\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2047\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with one character setting up a romantic dinner, and end it with them looking at a framed wedding photo." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Noah’s POV\nToday’s 14th of September and it has been exactly eight years since Meghan and I started dating. We didn’t have a perfect relationship for all those six years and there were countless times we both wanted to call quits. But somehow, one way or another we always found the way back to each other. If Meghan didn’t become someone so important to me, with my personality back then I might have actually killed someone. That’s why I wanted to do something special for her tonight. Dating me wouldn’t have been an easy task at all. When we first started dating, I still had a pretty bad temper and whenever I get angry, I used to avoid her at all costs. I swear I have changed a lot now. I have a stable job and I can provide for her though she keeps telling she can provide for herself. Once I got into a big accident while I was driving my motorbike and I couldn’t walk properly for almost six months. If it wasn’t for her who stayed by my side every single day I would have gave up on my life and ended it without a doubt.\n“Hey babe, Happy Anniversary! Did you receive my present?” I asked keeping my phone in my ear and searching for a special place to take her tonight.\n“Gosh Noah! You didn’t have to send it so early in the morning,” she said yawning and it made me smile. I could imagine she waking up in the morning cursing the entire world while opening the door to the deliveryman. Meghan has never been a morning person unlike me.\n“c’mon you should receive flowers first thing in the morning on your anniversary.”\n“Noahhhhhhhh.. happy anniversaryyyyy!!!” I pushed the phone away from my ear as she was screaming. If there is anyone who could make me smile for nothing, it was Meghan and only her.\n“I will pick you up at exactly 7pm near your office, is that time alright for you?” I asked looking at the big clock in the room.\n“Oh shit! I’m late. That time is fine babe. I will call you back, I love you!” she hung the call before I could even say I love you back to her. Sometimes she is definitely unbearable. She always ends up sleeping until late and then dramatically curses everyone while running to the office.\nI placed the phone on the table and went on to searching for a good place. More than the anniversary, I’m going to propose to her tonight. I stared at the ring box on the far end of the table and the key ring next to it. We once went to look for couple rings and Meghan was looking at a specific ring every single time I look away. But unknowing to her I saw that she was eyeing it. It wasn’t that costly but at that time I didn’t have money to buy it or the riverside small cottage she always wanted to buy someday whenever she saw it when we are going on a vacation. But now, I’m ready to give the ring and the cottage she wanted. I finally saved up enough to buy both of them. Meghan is someone irreplaceable to me. I have dated many girls but, Meghan is the only one who understood me and who really saw me for who I am. That was what I was looking for all my life. A connection that makes me want to open up and finally let go of everything that was bottled up in my heart.\nI finally found a place called Marina Place. It is a beach side luxurious place and I can get a private suite just for ourselves. I contacted the place and asked if they can decorate the suite and the balcony so we could have dinner outside looking at the waves and they said it can be done but I would have to come and specifically tell them what I want. I looked at the big clock in the living room and it was already 10 a.m. I have to stop at the office to sign some documents and attend a meeting. By the time I finish the office work it’ll probably be around 5pm and I won’t have enough time to go to the place and come back to pick Meghan. I called my secretary and told I will be late for an hour or so, so that I have enough time to go there and then get into the office.\n……………..\nMeghan’s POV\nIt was already 7p.m and I was dead tired. I can’t believe I have been dating Noah for eight years and ten years ago if you tell me that I would be dating Noah, the bad boy, I would laugh at you and shake it off. We belonged to two different leagues. I was the typical nerd girl though my best friend, Kat was a cheerleader. I always hid behind a big hoodie and I walked looking down at the floor. Kat dated Taylor, Noah’s step brother and only because of them I got to meet Noah.\nOur relationship is a roller-coaster ride. There were so many times that we used to fight and some days Noah used to ignore me for days and sometimes weeks. I would have called it quits if I didn’t realise I loved him even after all the fights we had. Noah may not know it but he is my biggest support. If it’s not for him, I would have given up on everything and gone somewhere faraway. it wasn’t easy dating Noah more so because he had a gang but if it wasn’t Noah, I wouldn’t even wait patiently for him.\nBefore going out, I changed into the red dress Noah had sent me in the morning. It was a beautiful short off-shoulder red dress. I quickly did my make up and let down my hair. I had to comb it as the whole day I had put it on a bun and it had curled up in a mess. Back when we first started dating, when Noah was the hot-tempered guy you don’t want to mess up with, he would start calling if I’m late more than 10 mins. Now he just waits until I come even it takes more than one hour (I mean girls need to dress up right?) changing my flats to heels I ran out not wanting to make Noah stay longer. He was standing outside and was leaning to the car checking his phone. Have I ever told you that my boyfriend is frigging handsome?? He’s like the perfect male protagonist of a drama. In high school he was way more popular than Taylor, the star quarterback. He always had that aura around him and the same aura attracted women to him. Girls would follow him everywhere until Noah gets mad and scolds them. Even now, my fellow office workers were goggling at him. Some were trying to make their friends go to him. But what surprised me was my boss and her secretary were also there looking at him. I don’t have a good relationship with my boss as she always picks on me for everything I didn’t do even when things are completely not fault.\nNoah being the person he is, was completely oblivious to what’s happening around him and was focused on his phone. He was scowling and I could clearly see that all the attention is getting under his skin. I stood there admiring him and wondering how could I ever got lucky to get such a handsome and kind man in my life. He must’ve sensed my presence as he looked up and scanned the surrounding until his eyes met mine. His scowling slowly turned to her smile and he put the phone and his hands on to his pockets and smiled at me. I tucked my head and gave him a big smile before running to him and hugging him tightly.\nOn the whole way to the place, Noah refused to tell me where we are going. The only thing he said was it’s a surprise. He took me to a place that I couldn’t describe with words. It was called Marina Place and it was a luxurious hotel. It was one of the places that I dreamed of having a wedding when I was small and I couldn’t believe Noah took me there for our eighth anniversary of being a couple. He showed me the way and I was further taken back when he took me to the private suite. In Marina Place, the private suite is quite similar to the Presidential suite in other hotels. But before I could enter, he closed my eyes with bare hands and took me inside. When he finally let go of my eyes, I almost screamed in wonder. It was a perfect romantic dinner anyone could ever ask for, with all the balloons, decorations, and everything. I was mesmerized to a whole new level and I couldn’t believe Noah went so hard for our anniversary.\n“Meghan” Noah called me and I turned around to thank him for everything as this a girl’s dream come true. But he wasn’t done surprising me and I could feel tears running down from my eyes. He was kneeling and in his hand was a ring. I covered my mouth with my hands to stop myself from screaming loudly. “Meghan, will you marry me?” when Noah finally asked me, the amount of happiness I felt inside my whole body is indescribable. I felt butterflies in my stomach the same way I felt when he asked me to be his girlfriend. Before Noah could take back his words, I said yes and that was the first time I heard Noah letting out a sigh and right after his face lightened up.\n……………………….\nNoah’s POV\nIf you told me in middle school that I would date a nerd girl, who always hides behind a big hoodie I would have laughed at you. If you ever told me back then that such a girl would become my wife, I would’ve definitely thought you crazy. But now, sitting outside the hospital room, clutching and looking at our wedding photo, I saw how Meghan changed my life from the first day we met itself. That day, I was glad that I gave her a ride to the convenience store. I’m glad that she couldn’t hear her phone ringing under the books otherwise, I would have simply ignored her like I always did before that day, even when she was my tablemate at first.\nMy hands and legs were shivering. I could feel my heartbeat rising with every second. Every time I hear Meghan screaming, my heart breaks and I feel like breaking through the door and shouting. I wanted to go in, but I knew I don’t have the strength to see her suffering. She was everything to me. She is my whole world and sometimes I just can’t believe that I was so lucky to have a wife like her in my life. I won’t say our wedding life is perfect. There are countless days that we get mad at each other. But we always, no matter how busy we are, talk with each other and solve whatever problem we have. One thing she always used to tell me is that whenever a problem arises, it’s not me against her, but both of us against the problem. I used to make fun of her for it but that is one of the wisest things Meghan has ever told as if she didn’t say it, I would have avoided her whenever a problem arises.\nI was so concentrated on my thoughts that I didn’t hear the sound of a baby crying until meghan’s father came to call.\n“go in. she’s waiting for you to hold the baby first. It’s a girl.”\ni ran into the room and i saw Meghan lying in the bed and our little girl sleeping beside her. i went on to her and kissed her forehead slowly whispering, \"you made me a happy man yet again, Meghan. I love you!\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Pinioning\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2031\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a couple with fundamentally different beliefs." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Pinioning\nAbby Reiter\n\nSeptember 13, 1929 \nDear Timothy,\nFrom my 2nd story window, I am watching the autumn gusts kick up litter and throw it about in sporadic spirals. I can’t help feeling that my heart and brain are spinning around in much the same way.\nI have been here just a week now.\nMy grief for you, for us, for what we could have been, has coated me in a thick sticky syrup of despair. I do the things I need to do – finding the landlord to fix the leaking faucet, buying a new pair of oxfords for my position that starts Monday – but it’s all done as if I am covered in a gluey tar that traps every step I take and every thought I have within the pain of no longer belonging to the world we shared together.\nI don’t know how I can live without you, but I fear if I don’t try to, I will die anyway.\nOn Monday, I will start out shelving books. Mrs. Watters says I can move up to cataloguer by the end of March if I live up to my efforts.\nLove Always,\nMindy\nYour Goose\np.s. The address for this place, for emergency:\n3224 ½ N. Lawndale Ave.\nChicago, IL 60647\n September 17, 1929\nDear Mindy,\nI hate hearing of your despair. I never want you to feel in those ways. You know I feel just as badly, if not more so because you left me so abruptly. After four years together, suddenly my Goose is no longer my Goose. I can’t stand the idea of you with another man. Just the idea of you without me, without you even being with another, makes my blood boil.\nBut we live in different universes now, I’m certain. And I don’t mean just Dubuque and Chicago. It’s now down to the question of whether or not either of us really wants to continue in the other’s orbit.\nAre these Virginia Woolf-esque ideas that you’ve been crooning on about for the last few months the only reason for your departure from our beautiful life together? These “women don’t need men” and “woman is equal to man in every moral, spiritual, and intellectual capacity” ideas? If so, then let me ask you a question. Do you not think the devil may be coercing you? Do you not feel this sadness and confusion you feel may be the result of faulty reasoning? Of the poor logic that is has been attributed to the female throughout history? That God is willing you towards me, towards a life of love with me? Towards bearing our children? And that anything pulling you in any opposing direction is the result of something sinister? Do you not feel that in your bones? Because I do. You belong with me.\nAll My Love,\nT\n September 19, 1929\nDear Tim,\nI know. I have apologized profusely for my abruptness in leaving, and I can’t express it enough. I am truly sorry I devastated you so. Please know even though I did the leaving, it brought me a plunging desperate grief that I have never known before. The longing for you is so great it feels, in every new moment, that it overtakes me and sends me plunging again, deeper than the moment before.\nI understand, from your end, that this has felt abrupt. However, for me, it has been a gradual separation of our story over time that just simply culminating in my absence. Maybe most was in my head and was never verbalized properly. But then I think back, and no, I expressed to you my concerns, willfully, many times over. I am wondering if you remember the conversations we had at dead man’s curve, on many nights, regarding my feelings of unrest? I remember them well. That was ages ago and yet you tell me you knew nothing of my feelings of restlessness. I find that odd.\nIf I look deep, down to my soul, I do not feel something sinister at work. But then again, maybe if evil was at work, I wouldn’t know it. Perhaps the devil disguises things. But I am not even sure if I believe in the devil anymore. And given that, I do wonder about how we would exit in one another’s orbit.\nLet me ask you a question of my own. Do you really feel that a woman belongs to a man? Because I feel I was born the same as you, from a woman’s womb, a whole person, in full body and mind. But to you, it seems I am merely a fragment – a smaller piece of a whole and you are the whole to which I belong. But I don’t see how that could be. Could it be that the Greeks were all wrong? Did the goddess not ever deserve her worship? I have so many questions.\nLove,\nMindy\n September 24, 1929\nDear Goose,\nYou seem lost. I can help you. But not if you run from me and from the world. Your questions are good ones but can only can be answered by God and the laws of the universe. And I think, if you look deep enough, you’ll find the answers are there already. This situation, this system, for which we have all been a part of for eons now – the ways things are from which you so desperately run – is one of divine origin and therefore, flawless. God, Jesus, Man, Woman, Children, Animal, Plants. In that order. And while your new ideas may seem as if they put that order up for debate, it’s actually just not possible. For this is how things have been and always will be ordained. How would children be born otherwise? How would man achieve such greatness? The role of a woman is of the utmost importance. And the household is of the utmost importance. And raising family is of the utmost importance. Wouldn’t you say so? Your role on this earth is divinely ordained and one that God thinks highly of.\nI can be there in a day’s time to pick you up. Get your case packed. I’ll come and get you. And we’ll be finally out of this mess and back to our lives together. I need you Goose.\nLove,\nT\n\nSeptember 26, 1929\nDear T,\nI understand you need me. I’m not dead. I’m not gone. I am still here. Just because there is not a tether on my hip holding me to your side does not mean I have vanished from the earth. I pray for you every night that your pain will be less and that you are okay.\nSometimes if feels like it’s as if you’ve read an entirely different letter than the one I’ve sent to you.\nIt sometimes seems like you don’t speak to what I’ve asked or said. But I suppose you’re just passionate about things and that takes up most of your letter’s space.\nFor instance, I thought I wrote you about my job that started Monday? You didn’t ask about it at all.\nI am not questioning God. And I’m not questioning the role of women. I think children and the home are incredibly important. We agree there. But what I have been thinking about lately is the question of whether it’s the only role women can play. Are there some women just not cut out to be in the home? Not cut out to be mothers? What about those women? Why are men afforded the ability to choose where they spend one’s hours of the day? When women don’t seem to have much choice at all?\nI am not ready to be picked up just yet. I have some more things I need to think on first. Can we keep talking?\nLove,\nM\n September 26, 1929\nDear Goose,\nI’m coming for you on Saturday. See you then.\nLove,\nMe\n September 27, 1929\nDear T,\nLet me write you in a week? After I’ve had time to think some more on my own? All these letters back and forth so quickly, my thoughts need space to spin on their own and sort things out.\nLove,\nMe\n October 4, 1929\nDear T,\nIt’s been a week since I wrote you. I was surprised I didn’t hear from you after my last letter.\nAre you okay? I worry about you. I want to ease your pain.\nLove,\nYour Goose\n October 6, 1929\nM,\nYou are surprised you haven’t heard from me? When you so eloquently blew me to the wind in your last letter? I hope your happy with how things have turned out. I can’t take this ridiculous feminine confusion any longer – the chaos that is the emotional female brain is too much for me sometimes. Please let me do what I do best and make sense of things for you. It doesn’t have to be this hard.\nTim\n October 8, 1929\nTim,\nI am so confused by your letter. I reread our last few notes to one another and I can’t figure out where I blew you to the wind. When you told me you were coming on Saturday, that was just too soon for me. I needed more time. That wasn’t a rejection of you. I hope you didn’t think it such.\nI wish you would ask me things instead of telling me them. If you did that, I am sure that I can make sense of them myself. I just need time to do it. You say I cannot make sense of things myself but I think I can. My brain works much the same as yours I feel. It may favor emotion over the logic of the male brain, but I like emotions – they gives me all the good things in life. I wouldn’t want to give that up I don’t think.\nI love you deeply. But talking only through the written word has made me see some things that I haven’t seen before. It seems without the physical affection between us fogging up the lens, I can more clearly see the true energy in our union and, at this moment, it doesn’t ring of love for me. At least from your side. More of possession and control. And that scares me. Because it used to be love. It used to be good. I remember the good. I always will. But now I must stay here for a while. Please understand. Please keep writing, don’t forget me like you can sometimes, I love you.\nM\n October 12, 1929\nDear Mindy,\nYou are right, it was good. And it still can be good. We are perfect together. We are all that can ever be. I need space from you and this encumbering situation. Please don’t write to me again unless it’s to let me know to come and get you. Please understand.\nTim\n\nOctober 28, 1929\nDear Tim,\nIt has been three weeks since you showed up at my door, expecting me to get directly into the Chevrolet without a conversation. I am sorry we fought so. I was surprised that’s all. I feel terrible for the things I said. I am so sorry I said you were controlling and cruel. I didn’t mean those things, it was just the upset of the fight. Because I know you mean well and want what’s best for me. I really understand that. I just find the way you express what is best for me to be unsettling at times. I love you so much.\nGoose\n November 11, 1929\nT,\nHow are you? I miss you so. And I still love you so. I always will.\nPlease don’t forget me. I will figure things out. Maybe we will meet again in a different lifetime under different circumstances. And there, all will be right with everything and we can be together well. I long for that day.\nLove Always,\nGoose\n November 21, 1929\nM,\nI’m doing well. God is good. I miss you too. And I will always love you too, very much. Maybe, Goose - I like to think so. Only God knows.\nLove Always,\nTim" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Basta! A New Beginning\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1089\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a teenager whose family is moving." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The boat swayed back and forth as it pulled into the harbor. It would have felt like a peaceful rocking, but nothing about Louie felt at peace, and no movement of a boat – no matter how peaceful – could change that.\nWhile most of the boat, and even his cabin mates, were likely on deck, watching their arrival to this new county, this new place, Louie sat on his top bunk, in the cramped, dark, and smelly cabin, and thought back over the last month of his life. The choices that he made four weeks ago had led him here – on a boat, to a strange new land, to this dank, windowless (porthole-less?) cabin. The three other men – boys, really – who shared his cabin had all spent the last hour working to make themselves as presentable as possible for the American immigration authorities.\nLouie lay in the dark, on his top bunk, making no effort. In spite of the fact that he hadn’t showered in three weeks, that he likely stank, that he had lost some of the muscle that he built working on his father’s farm, he was still handsome – beautiful, even. And that was part of the problem, part of the reason why he was thousands of miles away from his beloved Italy, from his hometown in Naples. He opened his eyes and the deep, brilliant blue of his eyes seemed to shine even through the darkness of the room. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair and sighed. Even though he hadn’t washed it in three weeks, it still looked perfect – maybe better than usual, even. As if it was reverting to its natural state and glorifying in the way it was meant to be.\nAt 17 years old, Louie looked 25. He certainly felt as though he had aged that span in the last four weeks. He felt no joy of youth; he held no idealistic thoughts of what the future may have in store for him. The future he thought he knew was no longer a reality for him.\nThe door opened, and in walked Carmine, his cousin, a short, stocky 18-year-old, who moved with the authority of a man twice his age. “Let’s go – get ready. And maybe wash your face.” And while he lacked the natural beauty of Louie, the way he moved, the way he seemed to own any room he walked into, endeared him to nearly everyone he met. Carmine was the reason that Louie was still alive, why he lay breathing on the manky cot, in the dark room, in the boat now on the other side of the world. He owed him his life, even if it was a life he no longer recognized.\nThe boat stopped rocking, and Louie sighed again and sat up. He would do what Carmine said and wash his face – he would always do what Carmine said, he owed him that, at least. Apparently, the immigration officers were strict – the stories that were whipping around the ship about them seemed to get bigger and more exaggerated every telling. He wasn’t sure if it would be a good thing or a bad thing if he got kicked out of the line. He missed Italy. He missed his mother. He missed the Italian sun on his face and the blue green of the ocean and the smell of his father’s farm. It was his fault he had to leave – he knew that. He was a different person than the boy who left Italy – who ran, was chased, really from Naples. And ended up on this boat with Carmine, heading to a new world and new life, no matter how reluctantly.\nCarmine always had dreams of America, of New York City. He always said he was going to end up there, and here he was, living his dream, with Louie tagging along. He had plans to live with cousins on Mott Street, to open his own restaurant, to bring the people of America the food of Italy. He could spend hours and days obsessing over a recipe, fiddling with an ingredient, always asking Louie to help him gather ingredients, bring fresh lemons from the farm, help him pound out bread and dry out pasta. Louie always did, he loved feeling needed and helpful to Carmine. He was the youngest of 10, his closest sibling in age six years older than him, which may as well have been a different generation all together.\nCarmine had always been like an older brother to him, had always had such strong ideals. He never had to think about the right thing to do – he just knew what it was, and he did it, no matter the effect. He had always looked out for Louie, which he appreciated. Naples wasn’t the easiest place to grow up. And when you are young, and beautiful, and your natural inclination is to float towards risk and danger like a moth floats towards flame – well, you end up on a boat, running for your life. Louie floated too close to danger, his natural pull towards it in stark contrast with Carmine’s pull to the truth. And even though he floated too close to his flame, he wasn’t yet dead. Because of Carmine.\nCarmine had always talked about New York, described it in such detail that Louie was surprised he had never been there. He was always listening to radio programs about it and scouring letters from family who had made it there before him. So, he thought he had an idea, of sorts, of what he was in for, when he was forced to join him at the last minute, to run to New York and away from the danger he had so longed for.\nBut nothing prepared him for what stood before him as he shuffled up the deck, bumping shoulders with what felt like the entirety of Italy, squished onto this boat. And when he finally turned the corner, and saw the giant statue, of the woman with the flame, standing sentinel above them, he felt his breath hitch in his throat. The city of New York steamed behind her, just over the harbor. Carmine clasped a meaty hand on his shoulder.\n“Basta!” he said, and they shuffled on, Louie knocked speechless by the scenes in front of him. And for the first time since he got on that boat three weeks ago, Louie felt a glimmer of hope." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Butterflies and Bubblegum Pink Hair\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1032\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people reconnecting after a rough patch in their relationship." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I hadn't seen her in months. The last I said to her was terrible and she left in tears. I spent endless nights sitting in bed, trying to sleep, but my mind would drift off and think about her.\nHer beautiful ice blue eyes, her soft blonde hair, and the way our hands fit perfectly together while walking down the halls together at school.\nHow could I have been so stupid? I thought.\nI stood up off my bed and looked at myself in the mirror. I spent hours putting together the perfect outfit. A short black skirt, one she’d given to me on my birthday last year, tights, and a long sleeve red blouse. Looking at myself in the mirror, I began to doubt if I’d chosen the right outfit. I felt like I needed to change, but I didn’t have enough time. Hopefully my fashion sense wouldn’t impact our meeting. \nI double checked my hair, my make-up, and made sure I had everything in my backpack before heading to the car. I pulled out of the driveway, and onto the street. \nWhile driving, my mind drifted off to the first day we met. It was our sophomore year of highschool, and I had my nose in a book like usual. Since I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, I bumped into her. I made her drop her notes, I quickly apologized and helped her pick everything up; and just like any typical love story, our hands touched. \nI thought that would be the end of it, but she ended up being in half my classes that year. It didn’t take long for us to become good friends. We started hanging out all the time, going to the mall, studying, gossiping, and just being with each other. \nOver the time we spent together, I found myself thinking about her more and more. I’d had a few silly little crushes before, but this felt different. She was the first person I wanted to talk to when I woke up, and the last person I thought about before falling asleep at night. \nProm night was coming, and fast. It was a week before the dance, and everyone had a date. Somehow, I got up the courage to ask her. I didn’t have the time to ask her in some big, fancy way. I went to her house late one night, and asked her right then and there. She paused for a moment, with a soft smile on her face. I shut my eyes and waited for the rejection, but to my surprise, she said yes.\nI was ecstatic. I started planning our date the second I got home, and when the day came, nothing went the way I had hoped. We didn’t even make it to the dance. I wanted to give up, but as we stood outside the school in the pouring rain, she started to laugh. She laughed and she couldn’t stop, eventually she had me laughing too. We locked eyes, I held her hands in mine, and her lips pressed against mine. \nDespite how badly the day had gone, I still look back at it and think of it as the best day of my life. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. \nLooking back at the fight, everything's a blur. My memory of the night is full of tears and regret. Things that I desperately wish I could take back had been said. I had never been so angry, but not at her, at myself. She was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I screwed up. \nNervousness among other things flooded my body as I pulled into the parking lot. I turned off the car and fidgeted with my keys while deciding whether or not I could actually do this, if I could actually face her. \nI wondered what she would do. If she would cry, or yell at me, or if she wanted to move on. I prayed to God it was the third one. \nI hoped she knew how sorry I felt, the pain that I put myself through just by knowing I hurt her. I had only felt that much once before, and I didn’t think I could handle it again. \nI looked through the window of the cafe she asked to meet me at. I hesitated before pulling the door open. School started in a few days, I'd have to face her sooner or later. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach as I stepped inside and looked around.\nInstantly, I found her. Sitting at a table. A soft smile sitting on her face. She had changed so much over the summer. For one thing, her hair was shorter, and instead blonde, her hair was bubblegum pink. My favorite color. She also looked older, more mature. \nI slowly walked over to the table and shakily said, \"Hey stranger.\"\n\"Lucy, I'm glad you agreed to meet me.\" She stood up and pulled me into a hug.\n\"Honestly, Sam, I'm surprised you wanted to see me again after what I said to you.\"\n\"You were going through a loss, and I should've been there for you.\"\n\"But you didn't deserve to have anyone say that to you.\"\n\"No, I didn't.\" Sam agreed.\n\"I'm so sorry for everything that happened that day.\"\n\"I spent my half my summer mad at you, but I realized I was making myself miserable. I wanted to forgive you, I didn't feel ready to forgive you just yet, but I wanted to do it in person.\"\n\"Is that why we're here?\"\n\"Not yet, I still don't think I'm ready, but I hope when I am ready to forgive you, we can try our relationship again.\"\n\"So why are we here?\" I asked.\n\"Because I missed you and you're the first person I wanted to talk to!\" Sam said with a laugh.\nGod how I missed hearing her laugh. It was impossible not to smile when you heard her laugh. Then again, that's how it was with her whole personality. Sam had such a bubbly and uplifting personality that everyone at school adored her.\n\"I missed you too.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dew Drops on Peonies\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2737\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character is exploring their religious or spiritual identity." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Warning: Contains Death related to Holocaust)\n“Our Father…who…which art in Heaven…hallowed be thy name—”\n “Start again, without stuttering.”\n Ruth could feel the tears welling up in her eyes as her mother’s lack of patience thinned.\n “Our Father which art in Heaven…hallowed be thy name….”\n Her tongue tried to grasp the slippery words but they kept escaping her, crawling down the depths of her throat and churning in her knotted stomach. More and more Jewish families disappeared each day, and Ruth feared each day she woke up would be her last in the comforts of her Berlin home with her mother and father.\n At eleven years old, she couldn’t ignore the reality that surrounded her. She was no longer a girl of blissful ignorance. The German officer who ripped Caleb—an elderly Jewish man—from the corner store he owned and hit him in the head with the butt of his rifle after he refused to leave made sure of that. Ruth watched the unconscious man bleed to death on the cobblestone walkway as others—with heads bowed—walked quicky around him like nothing was wrong. When Ruth closed her eyes at night, her dreams were coated in his crimson blood.\n Even before that, whole families disappeared at a time. Ruth could not picture where they were taken or what the Nazis did with them. Did they give them new homes in the countryside? Were they sent off to Israel to freely practice in the synagogues that were taken from them? After Ruth saw Caleb’s cracked and bleeding skull and the hushed murmurs of a camp called Auschwitz, she knew. The families were collected, separated, and led somewhere to bleed to death. She stopped questioning her mother and father about why she has to pretend she’s not Jewish, that her name is now Rebecca, and the importance of memorizing the Lord’s Prayer. She’s seen uniformed men pull people at random off the street into the shadows where trucks waited if they couldn’t answer their questions fast enough.\n “Okay,” her father said, his deep voice barely audible in the hushed tone he was speaking, “what is your name and where do you go to church?”\n “Rebecca Meyer. I attend St. Nikolas’ Church.”\n “And the priests name?”\n “Father…Bernhard Lichtenberg.”\n Her mother pulled at a thread on her coat, unraveling it with trembling fingers. Crisp and freshly printed papers slid out, and Ruth felt her heart race as her mother drew her daughter close, jamming it into the inside of her own coat.\n “What’s happening?”\n “You are going to Father Lichtenberg. He can keep you safe.”\n “No!” She yelled, hot tears burning down her cheeks, “you can keep me safe! All three of us are safe if we stay together!” She flung the precious documents from her jacket and onto the floor. She had spent many nights laying in her bed, thanking Yahweh for another day spent with her family together. She knew it was only a matter of time, but the words that escaped her mother’s lips still stung. Her new identity glared up at her from the floorboards. \n “I take it back! My name is Ruth Abrams. My synagogue was burned down, and the rabbi taken! I don’t know the Lord’s Prayer because I am a Jew!”\n Ruth fell to the ground stunned, her cheek stinging with the swift slap her mother delivered. She stared up at her in disbelief.\n Her mother hissed through tears, “we have sacrificed everything for these papers, and you will honor your mother and father. You will go. Your father and I will be safe.”\n Ruth knew this was a lie. If they were safe, they wouldn’t be sending her off alone to some strange man. It was especially dangerous now on the streets. Jews weren’t allowed out unless it was between the hours of two and three in the afternoon to scavenge for food.\n Ruth felt a surge of confliction rise in her. She had learned that Jews were put under trial all throughout history…how was this any different than the slaves of Egypt before Moses came to save them? Wouldn’t Yahweh be pleased with those who stayed true and look down on those who didn’t?\n “Lying is a sin,” Ruth combatted her mother.\n “It is simply a precaution,” her father reassured, “just last night our neighbors disappeared. Who knows when we will get that same knock on our door? You will come back when things simmer down.”\n Another lie. Nothing will simmer down. Each day, the street grows quieter and the world a shade darker. If she left her parents, she knew they may never see each other again.\n “I cannot lie about who I am,” Ruth said, “I cannot lie about my beliefs!”\n Her mother now pulled her in as Ruth stood up from the floor and squeezed her tightly. She could feel her nose nuzzle into her long brown hair, breathing her in as if for the last time.\n “It isn’t a lie. Yahweh knows who we are.”\n “So do the soldiers patrolling the town. How would I make it to the church without being pulled from the street?”\n “You will go at night with me,” her father said, “And we will cut and bleach your hair.”\n Ruth gasped, clutching at her long, chestnut brown hair.\n “You must believe who you are. A French girl named Rebecca Meyer. Your very life depends on it.”\n Ruth cried quietly as she heard the shears crudely cut the hair by her ears, long brown tendrils floating to the floor. She ran her fingers through it, feeling it stop bluntly at her chin. She wouldn’t dare look at herself in the mirror, especially after the bleach set in. She decided she would never look at herself in the mirror again or succumb to the false persona her parents created for her. In the safe confines of her mind, she would stay Ruth.\n Her mother pulled at the threads of her blouse and coat, pulling off the yellow stars that she wished so desperately to keep now. As the dark night set in, her father looked out the windows and squinted up and down the street, taking a firm hold of her hand. Ruth didn’t ask about her things. She knew nobody had time to carefully pack their possessions in a suitcase. No Jew in Berlin had that luxury.\n “We are taking the backroads, so keep up and stay silent,” her father whispered as they left the house. Ruth didn’t dare look back at her mother. She couldn’t stand to see her face crumpled and tear streaked. That’s not how she wanted to remember her, for deep down she knew this was the last time they would be a family.\n She obediently followed her father with her head down. Her heart raced wildly, and she wondered if it was loud enough for him to hear. The cold wind nipped sharply on the back of her bare neck, the jagged ends of hair tickling behind her ears as if to make fun of her.\n I am Ruth Abrams. My synagogue was burnt, and my rabbi taken. I do not know the Lord’s Prayer, for I am a Jew.\n They rounded a final corner where she saw St. Nikolas’ Church tower chillingly before them. Two sharp roof peaks like spears pierced the moon hanging in the black sky, proudly asserting, Can a synagogue catch the moon? Ruth squinted as they approached, the dark silhouette of a man standing still as a statue on the stoop of the moonlit doorway. There was no time to waste.\n “Come, Rebecca,” he spoke quietly to her as they approached, “we must get you inside.”\n I am Ruth Abrams. My synagogue was burnt, and my rabbi taken. I do not know the Lord’s Prayer, for I am a Jew.\n Ruth panicked as she felt the grip of her father’s warm hand break away from hers. She swirled around to look at him, to hug him around the waist and beg him to stay with her but he was already gliding down the street, head bent behind hunched shoulders. Panic choked her as tears spewed from her eyes and down her cheeks.\n “Come,” the man spoke patiently, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder and ushering her inside. She wept quietly, keeping her eyes cast down on the stone flooring as she followed the priests’ soundless steps through the cathedral.\n---\n The nuns were stern with all the girls, but Ruth grew to like the busy schedule they laid out for her. She wore a crisp dark blue dress uniform with stockings. A quiet girl named Sarah would fix her hair in the mornings since she refused to look in the mirror and fix it herself. She went to classes and sat in a pew three times a day for prayer with the other students, then she helped prepare dinner of cabbage soup and bread in the kitchen and scrubbed the dishes after. She was only meant to do this two days a week, but the other students gladly let her take their chores. The busier Ruth was the less time her mind had to wonder about her parents. The Cathedral seemed daunting to her at first, but she began to find peace within the walls and the smell of old hymnals.\n Ruth hadn’t spoken a single word after a month, but Father Lichtenberg and the nuns never pressured her. She felt confliction stopping the words behind her teeth, barring them from escape. She wanted to speak, but she couldn’t talk as Ruth or Rebecca. She was lost somewhere between Jew and Catholic, floating in a grey lukewarm pool where nothing took shape or form. \n Who is Ruth? Her synagogue was burnt, and a rabbi was taken, but she is now in a church with a priest and nuns. She knows the Lord’s Prayer like the back of her hand. Is she still a Jew?\n She woke from her troubled thoughts early in the morning and tiptoed quietly out the convent and into the garden. The sky was turning from black to deep blue, the first whisper of light gleaming across the frosted earth like a sea of diamonds. Most of the garden had turned brown and sunk back into the earth, waiting for spring to thaw them out. As Ruth sat on a cement bench, she felt her heart thud painfully at the sight of bright yellow peonies shining through the dim blue dusk, not at all bothered by the frost that coated it like sugar.\n A memory of her mother’s garden flooded back to her so fast, she was momentarily lightheaded. Her mother had planted yellow peonies and she would sit out in the morning as the sun rose and began its journey across the light blue sky. Morning was her favorite time of day. It was peaceful, she was left with her thoughts as the world slept. The morning brought new promises, new hope, new adventures. She would stay long enough to witness the dew drops on the peonies slide from the delicate petals and absorb into the soil. Even in these dark times, when whole families disappeared—before she came to this church and wondered where her parents were and if they were alive—she would sit in her mother’s garden and look at the beautiful peonies, hopeful for the new day.\n As she looked at these frosted peonies, she thought of them as ignorant. They were bright, cheery, and happy because they were unaware of the destruction the frost had havocked on the rest of the garden. They didn’t know any better. If somebody were to tell a peony that it was coated in frost, would it wither away into the ground? Would it bashfully hide its face from the cold like the pansies and coral bells?\n Perhaps it knew it was a flower, and it simply convinced the winter it was a wild shrub, indifferent to what the day brings. Maybe this was how it survived the frost that claimed everything else.\n As the sun breeched the sky, she felt a new wave of hope wash over her. The frost warmed, turning into dew drops on the peonies.\n The day began much like all the others. She rushed upstairs and dressed in her uniform. Sarah combed her hair and pulled it back from her face with a plain barrette. She attended morning prayers followed by classes, but by midafternoon as she made her way to the kitchen, Sister Mary’s face was filled with concern.\n “The delivery never came,” she spoke in hushed tones to Sister Elizabeth, “We have no wheat, and will be out of cabbage by the end of this week, even. What would we feed them?”\n “I will go.”\n Ruth’s voice cracked as she spoke the first words since she arrived. The nuns looked at her, stunned. Either dumbfounded at the boldness of her words or to hear her finally speak, she did not know.\n “It is too risky,” Sister Mary whispered.\n “I am eleven, and small enough to escape the eye of the soldiers and blend into the crowd, but if they were to seize me what do I have to fear? I am a French born Catholic.”\n The Sisters glanced nervously at each other. There was no other solution. The Sisters could not leave the convent, for gossip had spread that the church was protecting Jewish children. Even if they changed from their habits, their faces were known by all. When Sister Catherine left the convent two weeks ago, soldiers had beaten and tortured her for information. She never spoke to them, and as a result she lay bed-ridden with broken legs and ribs from the severe beating. She was lucky to even be alive. Father Lichtenberg was expecting a raid of officers any day now.\n Ruth walked down the street and felt strange doing so. It took considerable effort for her to keep her head up and walk upright without shame, like she used to walk before being a Jew was a crime. She wasn’t fearful of seeing anybody she knew, because it was three-thirty in the evening and no Jew was permitted to be out at this hour. Did her mother and father walk by the cathedral ever, hoping to catch a glimpse of her?\n She found herself at the market, walking past the sign in the window saying, No Jews. She bought wheat and cabbage as instructed, tossing over the francs to the clerk and strolling back out into the street. Her heart thudded in her chest as she felt a pair of eyes following her.\n “Halt!”\n A tall man in a sharply creased grey uniform and red arm band paced quickly toward her. She felt her legs tremble under her, but she clenched her jaw and stared back at the officer.\n He eyed her curiously, a sickly smile creeping across his sharp features as he spoke in German, “What is your name?”\n I am Ruth Abrams.\n “I am Rebecca Meyer.” She was surprised by how her voice didn’t tremble.\n He took a step closer, but she did not budge. “And where are you going, Rebecca Meyer?”\n “Back home to my convent. I attend St. Nikolas’.”\n My synagogue has been burnt down and my rabbi taken. I return to my refuge.\n “I see,” he smirked, eyeing her up and down. She wasn’t in her blue uniform. She had changed out of it to better blend in.\n “And, Rebecca Meyer, where is it you originate?”\n “France,” she answered without hesitation. She spoke to him in fluent French, “My family has sent me to follow my calling of becoming a nun. The convent is my home where Father Lichtenberg and Sister Mary and Sister Elizabeth are my teachers.”\n “And can you recite to me the Lord’s Prayer?”\n Ruth did so without hesitation, for she knew the Lord’s Prayer just as Yahweh knows her.\n She showed proof of the identification as the sisters taught her to keep her documents on her always and he finally let her go, watching her walk down the street with her head up.\n Berlin was crawling with the frost of Nazi’s, but Ruth was a peony, and the frost could not bite her. Winter does not last forever, and she spoke a silent prayer that her parents were somewhere safe, for there was still hope they can all be together again one Spring day." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: An Unsuspected Love\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1723\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people reconnecting after a rough patch in their relationship." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“She texted me? Oh my God, she texted me!” I announced out loud, although no one was listening. \nI got up from my bed and paced back and forth, scared to open the text. We hadn’t spoken in almost a year, what could she possibly have to say? I sit back down, my sweaty hands shaking out of nervousness, as I open my messages. \nI tap the screen and quickly pull my finger away as the text opens reading, “I know we haven’t talked in a while but I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened that night at the Christmas party.”\n What do I say back, do I even respond, what if I don’t accept her apology? But I do, of course I do, I miss her so much. She was my best friend, it was always Sydney and Bella. The fight was stupid and my fault. I got jealous and she had no reason to say sorry, I should be the one to apologize. I look around my room contemplating what I should say back to her, as I notice the fake white rose she gave me that night as a gift, before our friendship ended. \nI stare at it remembering every vivid detail of that night, and it’s like I was there again. We’re sitting together, I can feel my heartbeat racing again like it was Christmas night, my hands hot, as I clench them turning my knuckles white. Our screams pierced the silence, created by everyone else at the party after they stopped their conversations and listened to ours in disbelief. \n“The only reason you guys are friends is because of me,” I denounced. \n“Well, she’s a better friend to me than you ever were!” She argued.\n“She’s ruining your life, you’re not even the same person anymore. You’ve changed so much, I don’t even know who you are anymore. And if I’m such a terrible friend then drop me, Ryleigh can be your new best friend,” I snapped. \n“Fine,” she threatened, “Maybe I will, and if I’m so different why are you even my friend anymore?”\nSo it was settled, we weren’t friends anymore. It was completely silent now, no one dared to talk, or it was just that they were speechless because everyone thought us two were best friends until the end. \nI snap back into reality, I’m in tears now, after remembering and reliving one of the worst nights of my life. I look down at my phone, it’s turned off now. I set it down on my bed and stand up to go look in my mirror at myself, as I always do when I cry. I watch a few silent tears fall down my cheeks like two small streams in a forest. I look down and see the shaking in my hands has spread to my legs like a horrible disease. All of this because of a stupid text? At that moment, I decided not to text her back, yet. \nI’ll sleep on it and decide then what I should do. \nI wake up the next morning ready to text her back, almost excited. I grabbed my phone knowing exactly what to say because I had dreamed about it all of last night. I often dreamed about her because I obviously missed her but I was too petty to apologize first, thank God she did. I pressed onto the messages app and swiftly opened her text. \nI wrote back, “No, the fight was my fault and I’m sorry you should have to apologize, but I appreciate it.” \nI gaze at the two lonely messages as if she would text me back immediately, half way hoping she would. \nAfter seconds surprisingly, she replied saying, ”How are you?”\nWith no thought at all I replied, “I’m good but I miss you, how are you?”\nWhy would I say that? “I miss you?” What?\n“I miss you too,” she typed, “and I’m good, update me on your life.” \nSo I did, I told her about my new girlfriend and that I really liked her and everything else that was new in my life. I then asked her the same. She gave me a full detailed run down of her life and just like that it was like no time had passed at all and we were best friends again. We texted all day, for days. Then, one night she asked to facetime me, and I of course said yes. We then began to facetime every night and play Minecraft, share our memories of each other, or just talk until the sun came up. We facetimed so much my girlfriend started to get jealous of her. \nOne night when we were facetiming she asked, “Do you want to come over tomorrow?”\nI replied yes and the next day I got dressed in one of my favorite outfits. I found myself wanting to impress her and look good for her, why? \nThe next day after I finished my online classes in school I headed to her house as soon as I could. We played Minecraft and for some reason I wanted her close to me and I think she did too, it must be because we missed each other. I laid on her chest and listened to her heart beat rapidly while we played Minecraft. I went home and called her and we fell asleep on facetime. \nWe started to hang out everyday going back and forth from each other's house each day. Then, my birthday came up and I didn’t want to have a party, I’ve never liked celebrating my birthday so I didn’t want to do anything big. My family wanted to have a party so my parents invited family members to the house, my sister invited some of her friends, and I invited one person, Bella. My sister, Sarah, told me that she invited some of my friends over too. I was distraught, I just wanted it to be me and Bella. I asked her to stay the night so it could be just me and her. \nThe day of the party arrived and I got dressed, with the help of Sarah who picked my outfit out with me. She always had better style than me, it was almost like tradition for her to assist me when picking out my birthday outfits. I asked Bella to come early and she did, but she had to take one of our friends, Kennedy, to my party so Kennedy came early too. \nAs soon as they showed up Bella was acting different, why? She wouldn’t sit near me, instead of my bed she sat on the floor. When more people started showing up she wouldn’t even talk to me. She only would talk to Kennedy. What if we end up in a big fight again like last time? Her and Kennedy have a history of talking bad about me behind my back when we weren’t friends. Immediately that is what my mind went to. \nI sat by myself in my living room clearly bothered and that’s when I got a text from Bella, “What’s wrong,” she asked. \n“You’re acting different.” I stated. \n“I’m sorry,” she wrote back “come into your room and hang out with me.”\nSo I did, I walked down my hallway into my room where she was, sitting on the floor at the end of my bed. I sat next to her and put my head on her chest while she wrapped her arms around me.\n After just seconds, Kennedy came up to us and told us to come with her. We followed her until we were apart from the rest of the group whispered, “Mariah just asked me if you guys liked each other.”\nBella and I looked at each other in surprise then we looked back at Kennedy. \n“What?” I demanded, “I have a girlfriend!” \n“And I’m straight!” Bella stammered.\nKennedy laughed and said she knew but she thought it was so strange and that she should probably tell us. The rest of the party we distanced ourselves from each other. \nOnce everyone had left but Bella she grabbed her bag and pulled something out of it. “Here” she smiled “I brought you one of my shirts.” \nMy face was beaming when I thanked her and went into my closet to give her one of mine in return. We put each other's shirt on and sat on my bed together. We were still distanced but we sat together and I started to play with her bracelet getting ready to build up the courage to ask her why she was being distant. \nFinally, I muttered the words, “Why are you being weird again?” \n“You are too,” she replied, “but I’m sorry”\nI told her I was sorry too and she scooted closer to me. My wrist was hurting so I layed down, so she did too. I put my head on her chest again, (it was my favorite place to be lately.) Then I looked up at her and our faces were as close as they possibly could be. Our lips touched lightly together, but neither of us said anything. We stayed there for what felt like forever but also only seconds at the same time. \n“Bella?” I said quietly. \n“Yes?” She questioned. \n“I think you know what I’m going to ask.” I answered. \nShe whined, “Just say it.” \nI hesitated, “Can I kiss you?”\n“Yes.” She grinned \nHer soft, delicate lips touched mine while I moved my hand onto her cheek and felt the warmth on her skin. At that moment the world stopped and there was no one else but us. It was perfect, she was perfect.\nI checked my phone to see multiple missed calls from my girlfriend. I knew what I needed to do. I texted her telling her that we needed to break up and I was sorry. I set my phone down and decided to worry about that later, I can’t ruin this magical night. \nWe stayed up exploring the feelings we had just discovered we had for each other, until we fell asleep in each other's arms, holding on so tightly to each other as if someone was trying to pull us apart. As she drifted off, I kissed her forehead and drifted off with her." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The CheKa\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2131\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with a character saying “Thank you, God. Thanks an awful lot.” (sarcastically or not)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "T\nhe frightening news arrives that Lenin's dreaded secret police, the CheKa are in the area, searching for the Dyachenko family. For Bohdan Dyachenko to know that the CheKa is now hunting specifically for him, not just any bourgeois, is terrifying. It is equally worrying for the villagers, who realise that their risk is greater than before, as the CheKa must have information that the Dyachenko family is hidden close by. So far the villagers have avoided their village being trashed, by accepting the Red revolutionary demands. Now they realise they are harbouring a living, walking death-threat. \nThere are murmurs, \"Why should we get ourselves killed for hiding rich strangers?\"\nBut the head of the village is firm. \"We have a duty to save our Ukrainian countrymen, rich or poor.\"\nHe creates a hiding place, a small broom-store in his own house on the village square. He and two friends arrange a large, heavy cupboard so it can quickly be pushed into place to hide the door of the broom-store. To conceal the small window of the broom-store, he asks others to increase the height of the firewood pile stacked against the outside wall. Food, water and rugs are put inside, also a bucket. All is done very quickly. Bohdan is surprised and overwhelmed by the firmness of the headman in persuading the surprisingly few reluctant villagers, also to agree.\nLook-outs are sent to warn of the approach of the CheKa search party. Already, in the middle of the following day, two boys of not more than ten or eleven years old, rush into the square, out of breath and seeking out the village head.\n \"Kracnie idut,[1]\" they gasp. \nThe CheKa search party is already well on its way from Mayaki on the River Dniester to the north. Had the unit continued in their truck, they would have beaten the boy messengers to the village. Fortunately, when the boys saw them, the CheKa had halted under a tree to eat.\nThe refugee family is hustled into the cramped hiding place. It becomes totally dark as the door is shut. There are grunts as the large cupboard is dragged into place. Outside there is chattering and activity, and Bohdan works out that dust is being scattered over the floor to disguise the scrape marks that the cupboard has left.\nThe family settles. Bohdan sits in the dark on the rough wooden floorboards with wife, Katerina, who has daughter Lavra on her knees. On the other side, he places an arm around hi solder girl, Iona. The burden of responsibility for the care and future of his family weighs heavily. He is not comfortable having to wait for events to happen. He must do something. But what? He should be out fighting. But for whom? The Tsar is already assassinated. \nThere is hushed intermittent whispering, mostly to comfort the children. But there is also a silence in the darkness with both parents and children sitting quietly with their thoughts. Then Lavra complains she can't wait any longer and wants to use the bucket. Bohdan lights a match to allow her to see the way and then kindly blows it out so she can perform without embarrassment. The expected tinkle-on-tin echoes around the confined space. The faint characteristic smell penetrates the air. Even in the dark, it remains a public performance. She has set the example, and Iona follows. They continue to wait, and as their eyes get accustomed to the dark, they can see the small splashes of daylight filtering through the outside woodpile onto the little high window. The normal sounds of the village continue, dogs barking, cows lowing, cockerels crowing, wood being chopped, and children playing.\nEventually, wife Katerina gives a nudge and somewhat embarrassingly indicates to Bohdan she too, needs to ’go,’ but just as he lights a match and she struggles to stand, there is a sharp bang on the cupboard door and a gruff whisper, 'Oni zdec’[2]' \nKaterina collapses down again, and her needs are forgotten. All listen. Then comes the sound of a truck drawing up. It becomes ominously silent. \nA small open troop carrier arrives and parks outside the headman's house. It is very similar to the one that had entered the last village where the family had hidden only a month before. The driver jumps out, runs around the front of the truck, and opens the door. The commissar steps out wearing a long black leather topcoat with a sabre at his side. As his men clamber out of the rear of the carrier, he stands tall and looks commandingly round the village square, his right hand placed, with elbow out, on the large pistol holster hanging at his front. His men are also in black leather with jackets strapped at the waist, black boots and motorbike jodhpurs. They too have pistols, no sabres but each carries a rifle with long bayonet attached. \nThe commissar orders the headman to summon all villagers into the square. He waits impatiently for them to collect, pacing around his troop carrier and to and fro across the small village square. He is closely watched by the villagers. His men observe the villagers, content that they are subdued and appear suitably frightened. When the headman indicates that all except those working in the outer fields are present, the commissar demands, in a voice heard clearly by those in hiding,\n \"Have you seen the capitalist and bourgeois land-owner Dyachenko and his family?\" \nBoth Bohdan and Katerina, draw a sharp breath as they hear the headman say, \"Yes.\"\nIt seems he is about to expose them. They gasp together but immediately breathe more freely, when he goes on to explain that the villagers would not let the refugees stay, as they know it is not allowed to harbour bourgeoisie. He continues that the refugees had gone off downriver to look for a way to get across and escape to Romania.\nThe commissar refuses to believe this invention and orders his men to ransack the village and make a thorough search. The CheKa militia follow this instruction with perverse enthusiasm. They crash into the village houses, knocking over furniture, breaking open doors, smashing china and windows and shooting into the air; all to frighten the villagers. They search under beds, sometimes firing a shot or two into the covers. They thrust their bayonets deep into the straw bales being kept dry in the barns. Cupboard doors are slammed open, and as they do this to the cupboard that conceals the family, all jump and hug close, as it feels as if their refuge has been discovered. Katerina holds her hand softly over Lavra's mouth to make sure she does not cry out. But Lavra cannot breathe, pulls the hand slowly away, stretches up to her mother's ear, promising in a whisper that she will not cry. \nWhen his men find nothing, the commissar becomes angry and desperate. \nHe warns slowly and deliberately, \"I will order my men to shoot the lot of you, one by one, starting with the children, then the women and then the rest, unless you tell me where you have hidden those filthy bourgeoisie. And each of you, do not forget there is a generous reward of 40,000[3] roubles for any individual who provides information leading to the capture of this blood-sucking Dyachenko. I give you three minutes\"\nListening in the dark to these words Bohdan is convinced they will now be exposed. Who can stand up to such an awful threat? The commissar goes further. He orders three of his men to raise their guns and to aim them at a four-year-old standing at the front of the village group. The little girl shrinks in fear and clasps her arms around her mother's legs. The mother lets out a muffled scream and bends to protect her. There is a dumb silence both inside the cramped storeroom and among the huddle of villagers outside. Only the scrape of the commissar's boot, as he impatiently taps it on the ground, deciding when to give the order, breaks the silence. He looks at his watch. The villagers huddle closer together. The militia become very tense and alert.\nA young farmer moves out of the group, nudging his little boy in front with hands on the youngsters’ shoulders. Ignoring the commissar, he steps towards the three gunmen, so his boy is less than a metre away from the points of their bayonets.\n\"Go on then, shoot us if you must,\" His little boy looks back and up at him in fear and disbelief, \"but do not call yourselves our comrade revolutionaries and the makers of a new Russia. You are no comrades of ours if you do this terrible thing. You are no revolutionaries if you murder your own kind. Our masters may have underpaid and overworked us, or worse, but they would never shoot us.\" \nThe three men become confused and look questioningly at each other and at their other comrades. They slowly lower their weapons and turn sheepishly towards the commissar for guidance. He is raging inside but dare not give an order that will very probably be disobeyed. \nAfter a pause, the commissar says to the headman, while pointedly ignoring the brave young farmer, \"Alright, we will go and search in the direction you have indicated but if we don’t find them and come back to discover you are sheltering these enemies of the state, we will burn down the whole village and shoot the lot of you.\" \nThe commissar then marches to the troop-carrier and, before his driver can assist, gets in, pulling the door closed loudly behind him. \nHe shouts, \"Move-on\" in a high-pitched tone of anger. \nHis men must throw in their weapons and scramble into the back of the moving vehicle.\nThe family has survived yet again. But sitting on the floor in that small dark storeroom with his family around him, Bohdan has lost all heart. He feels the noose closing. Until now, in their flight, the danger has been general. They were just one among many sad, frightened members of the bourgeoisie that the Reds were hunting down. But now the CheKa is searching specifically for him, and they know he is somewhere close. How long before someone, either by mistake, or intentionally and naturally to save their own life, reveals where he is?\nThere are voices and a scraping sound as the headman and friends push the cupboard away. They edge the narrow store-room door open, and inside the light expands from a strip up the wall to a beam of bright sunlight, revealing scattered bags, blankets and eating utensils. The girls are already half-standing, trying not to trip over these obstacles. They rub their eyes against the light and look around as if newly woken and not quite sure where they are. Their parents grunt and complain stiff-jointedly as they rise. Bohdan is closest to the door and stoops under its low lintel as he leaves, accompanied by his impatient daughters trying to exit past his legs. Bohdan effusively thanks the headman and the two other villagers who had pushed the cupboard aside. \nThe four emerge from their cell and then from the house into the square. The villagers are gathered there, watching. There is no big cheer at the success of the subterfuge. Most seem happy that their guests have survived and there are many relieved but sad smiles. But there are some, one can tell from their faces, who realising how very close they had been to sharing death with their unwelcome visitors, are thinking, \"What do we do when the CheKa returns?\"\nBohdan and Katerina, freed from their hiding place, go into the square and thank anyone who will listen - mostly man to man and woman to woman. No one is openly hostile, and the villagers receive the gratitude quietly. Bohdan seeks out the brave young farmer who had risked everything with his inspired speech. His modest reply is that he could have done nothing else. The girls go to their village friends and are quickly chatting and comparing their inside and outside experiences. Bohdan is impressed by how they have adapted to the situation. They are every bit as competent as their elders in playing this macabre game of hide-and-seek with the CheKa. He then goes and sits dejectedly on a bench at the edge of the square, with elbows on knees and hands ruffling through his hair. How will this all end? He worries. \n Katerina settles beside him, places an arm around his shoulders and whispers for them both, “Thank you, God. Thanks an awful lot.” \n2128 words\n[1] The Reds are coming\n[2] They’re here.\n[3] About a year's wages for a farm worker" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Memories down the lane\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1356\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with one character setting up a romantic dinner, and end it with them looking at a framed wedding photo." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I nervously paced the dining room. My heart was pounding the way it does when I am anxious. Today, Jordan Bell, captain of the football team, honor student, class president, long-time crush, and the most popular kid in the 12th grade is coming to my house for dinner. My house. I could hardly believe it. I met him during my freshman year of high school but we have never officially hung out. He was one of the SCPs ( Smart, Cool, and Popular), and I was nowhere near that popular. Today is the first day he would come to my house, and I was beyond nervous. What if he thought I was weird? What if he never talked to me again and gossiped about me? I would be the laughing stock of the school, and being a senior in high school is stressful enough. I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down. He may be one of the SCPs, but he is pretty nice compared to the other kids. He would never do something that harsh. Right?\n\n\nI was straightening the utensils when I heard the doorbell ring like a siren. I jumped and ran towards the door, nervous. I swung open the door and Jordan was standing in front of me. His sandy blonde hair was falling into his ocean blue eyes. He was wearing a black shirt with a green lightning bolt in the middle with matching pants. He was holding a huge bouquet of pure white roses. They were so beautiful, they took my breath away. I could feel red creeping onto my cheeks. We just stood there, staring at each other. He smiled his lopsided smile and handed me the roses. I took them and looked at them. They were the most beautiful roses I have ever seen. I ran my fingers over them, inhaling their sweet scent. I took a deep breath and told Jordan to come in. I took him to the dining room and offered him a seat. He sat down and smiled at me. His eyes sparkled as he looked at me. Then he said three words that I would never forget:\n\n“ You look gorgeous.”\n\nI could feel my cheeks turning tomato red. I was wearing a simple white lace dress that draped over my knees and had a red ribbon hugging my waist. I had put my blonde hair with brown highlights in a french braid. Looking at him, I felt overdressed, but that didn't matter. Jordan Bell told me, Kimberly Amanda Hart, that I look gorgeous. I could hardly breathe. I smiled shyly at him and asked,\n\n“ Thanks. Well, shall we eat?”\n\nAt first, I was nervous to talk with him, but he had this vibe that could put anyone at ease. The nervousness melted away, and we started talking like we were best buds. We talked about school, his football team, and how I was trying out for the new play in school, Stars in New York City. Then we just sat there, staring at each other, a comfortable silence settling over us like a blanket. His face was dimly lit by the candles decorating the table. God, he looked like an angel. All of a sudden, my dog Caramel came bursting into the room. The mood instantly left the room, but Jordan didn't seem to mind. He laughed and started petting Caramel. She rolled over and let Jordan rub her belly. Her tongue was sticking out and she looked deliriously happy. I was upset, but I couldn't stay mad at Caramel. When Jordan was done petting her, he looked at me and grinned.\n“ I have always wanted a dog, but my mom and dad hate them,” he said wistfully. “ You are so lucky.”\n\nI blushed and nodded. We started talking about dogs. He said he used to volunteer at an animal shelter, but his parents made him quit because they didn't like how he smelled like dogs all the time. I laughed, and he laughed, and we laughed so hard we could barely breathe. I was so happy, and I was so disappointed when he had to leave. \n\nHe was standing on my front porch, getting ready to leave. I was sad but happy that we had a nice, romantic dinner, and I got to learn so much about him. Even though he is an SCP, he doesn't act all stuck up. He just seems like the cute boy next door. Before he left, he said,\n\n“ I had a great time, Kim. I hope I will see you in school on Monday.”\n\nI blushed and smiled at him.\n\n“ Same, Jordan. I had a great time.”\n\nHe smiled at me and waved goodbye. I waited until he left, and I closed the door and sighed loudly. Today has gone great.\n\nAt first, I thought he was being nice when he said he had a great time, but he just kept on being nice. On Monday, he sat with me at lunch. On Tuesday, he asked if I wanted to go see a movie. He just kept on doing nice things, and I knew he liked me. I was so happy all of the time. I even woke up on a Monday morning with a huge smile stuck on my face instead of my grumpy, tired face. Even my parents were confused, but they didn't pry for info. Finally, a month after dinner, Jordan and I were walking together at a park. There was a soft breeze whispering in our ears, playing with our clothes. It was fall, and the leaves danced from the trees to the ground. The sun was setting, and the sky was a mix of purple and red. It was gorgeous. We were walking, and suddenly Jordan stopped. I looked at him, and he took a deep breath and said,\n\n“ Kim, I have to tell you something. Ever since that dinner at your house, I’ve been thinking. Is it okay if we become something more than friends?”\n\nMy heart stopped. I stared at him, and his eyes twinkled. I could tell he was nervous.\n\n“ Yes. Yes, yes, yes!” I screamed in happiness.\n\nHe grinned and gave me a bear hug. I was so happy, I thought I was going to explode. We walked together, fingers entwined, and a new beginning ahead of us. \n\nEver since then, my life has kept on getting better and better. When I told my friends and family, they nearly exploded with happiness. Even my friend Emily, who has had a crush on Jordan forever, was happy for me. Jordan was always so sweet. We would go to places together, have picnics, and get gifts for each other. I even got offered to be in the SCP group, but I declined. I didn't want Jordan to think I agreed to be his girlfriend just so that I could be an SCP. The years went on, and my life was perfect. I could not be more grateful.\n\n10 years later\n\nI am so happy. Jordan proposed to me at the same spot where he first asked me to be his girlfriend ten years ago. We got married five years ago, and we welcomed our first child, a girl named Sarah, 9 months later. Today is her first day of kindergarten, and we couldn't be more excited. Jordan and I ran upstairs to help get Sarah ready for kindergarten. Sarah excitedly ran down the stairs. Jordan and I were following her, but we stopped when we saw our wedding photo framed on the wall. It was a picture of me and Jordan on our wedding day. I was wearing a beautiful white dress, with a bouquet of white roses. Jordan was wearing a handsome suit. We were both laughing in the photo, and we had cake on our faces. I smiled at Jordan, and he smiled at me. His blue eyes are more beautiful than ever. I remember the day ten years ago, when my life changed forever, and I couldn't be more excited for what the future held." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Begin Again\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1011\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people reconnecting after a rough patch in their relationship." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "12.12.2020\n“And where’s there?” \n“Where’s what?” I answered. \n“Where does the road end? What are we driving to?” He inquired, curious, and reasonably so. I hadn’t told Ben anything yet. How strange it was, to have him here beside me, in the passenger seat of my small, dark blue honda civic. He looked so different from the 18-year-old boy who left me at Homecoming. \nBut right now, I didn’t want to answer him yet. To be honest, I was surprised that he already didn't know. Years ago, we took the school bus here, together. Well, almost together. We were in different grades and had different instruments, so we sat in different sections of the bus. But technically, we had come here together. If I can bring him to the place our story began, then maybe he would remember us. \nI answered him quietly and suddenly. \n“Arcadia.” \n* \n5.23.2016\nFinally, the pop music ends, and a slow song plays. I scan the room for Ben, and find him by the exit, getting ready to leave. I run over to him, as fast as my heels will take me, and collide into him. Ben stammers back, but then holds me up by the shoulders, and asks, “What are you doing?” I hesitate answering him, nervous, locked in place by his green eyes. \nI find my courage, and quietly say, “Can I have this dance?” He doesn't smile at first, and I can tell he’s still guarded. But then, after a few beats, he holds out his hand and I place mine in his. I love the feel of his hands, familiar, strong, and calloused from working in the field. I let him pull me close, and he places one hand on the small of my back. We pivot in a small, slow circle, and I rest my head on my chest, breathing in his scent. I’ve missed him. How do I tell him all of the things I feel, all of the apologies he deserves? \nThe song is halfway over, and still I haven’t said sorry. I reach up, my mouth searching for his neck. Finding it, I press my lips gently, feeling his warmth. Ben holds me tighter, and I know he wants this too. I pull my head back and look up at him again. He’s staring at me intensely, as if searching for something in my eyes. An answer, a promise? I don’t know what to say, and begin to look away when he catches my face in both his hands and kisses me full on the lips. It takes all of me to keep standing upright, and I melt into his arms. He pulls back first, and I open my eyes. \nHe whispers, “I’ve missed you.” Then the song ends, and punk rock blares on, too loud for us to hear each other. I’ve missed my chance, again. I don’t know what to say, or what to do to make this right. \nI feel my cheeks start to burn, and wanting to save myself from complete embarrassment, I tell him, “Hey, I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.” \nWithout another word, I turn away from him fast and make a beeline for the bathroom. Not wanting to trip in my heels, I never take my eyes off the floor and bump right into Angel. He catches me in his arms, smiling. \n“Going somewhere?” Without a warning he places my hands around his shoulders and holds onto my waist, pulling me close towards him. \n“Angel, stop. Where even is Chantal?” I try and push away from him but he holds onto me tighter. \nHe raises an eyebrow and answers, “Jealous?” \nIrritated, I glare up at him and hiss, “I just think that’s the polite thing to do, when one has a girlfriend.” He mulls that over and then nods, agreeing with me. \n“Yes, that would be the right thing, if one had a girlfriend. But I don’t.” I must have looked surprised because he lets out a laugh and gives me his crooked smile, saying “Look, she’s just---” but I cut him off. \n“Your girlfriend.” \nAngel lets out a sigh and looks away. My face softens, and I whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear, “You didn’t have to tell Chantal yes.” I look up and meet his eyes. \nThey look pained, and he fires back, “You didn’t have to tell Ben yes. I don’t like you with, him.” Anger rushes through me, and I throw his arms off of me. \n“You didn’t choose me. You chose her. And I choose him. What we had, it was just a one time thing. Bye, Angel.” I push past him, and head straight to the bathroom, not worried anymore of falling and making a fool of myself. I just needed to get away from him, and sort through what I’ll say to Ben.\nI didn’t know it then, but Ben was watching me dance with Angel. He was so hurt, that he left the dance. \nI never got the chance to make things right. \n*\n12.12.2020\nI don’t remember that much more of Homecoming. I bawled my eyes out in the bathroom, then called my mom and asked her to come pick me up. \nBen was my first love. I know that now, looking back at all of the havoc he wrecked on my life. I never stopped thinking about him, and what could have been. If he'd just give me a chance, then maybe...\nBut if Ben wasn’t interested in me, then why did he say yes to this road trip? He was here, now, sitting next to me in my car, after all these years. \n“Arcadia? What do you want to do there?” he asks. It takes everything in me not to blurt out, that I'm sorry. That I should have never cheated on you. That you trusted me with everything. I just want to be there for you and I’m so sorry I wasn’t.\nInstead, I pause, wanting to choose my words carefully. \n“Begin 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: God, It's Me, Francisco Rodriguez\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2807\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Are you there, God? It’s me…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s my last day at the 9th Precinct in Manhattan where I have served faithfully for over thirty years since 1982. There are things I like to talk about like my grandkids Romana and Dalby who love coming over to grandpa and grandma’s house after church on Sunday. I also like to talk about my daughter Francesca and her very fair skinned Irish husband Shawn McGuiness who is a hulk of a man with a great career at Colby’s Electronic Design Firm. Yeah, he’s a real computer geek who earns a pretty hefty salary, but he talks about things I don’t a thing about. I won’t stop him from telling me, though. I love talking about my wife of almost forty years, Maria. You can believe this or not, but on our first date we went to see West Side Story where I just “Met a Girl Named Maria.” \nFate is a funny thing, but it can bring about events that I don’t much care to talk about. I know someone will bring it up at my retirement ceremony, but I sure don’t like talking about it, that’s for sure. \nIn my long tenure at the 9th, I did take a lot of guff. Some of it was a bit racist as some of those know-it-all guys like to whisper “wetback” when they think I can’t hear, but I do and I just quit letting it get to me. I let it quit getting to me, because I know the truth.\nMy grandfather came to this country during the troubles down in Guatemala and he heard about Caesar Chavez and the National Farm Workers Association. During a rally, Pedro Rodriguez, my grandfather, met Dolores Huerta who was working alongside Caesar. He went to work in the San Joaquin Valley in California. He took his son Roberto out into the fields when he was just fifteen to help him, but my father did not care for the labor under the hot California sun, so he bid his father and mother goodbye and traveled across country on the train until he reached New York City where he managed to get a job as a sanitation worker. Both me and my sister Rosaria managed to get into Columbia University. I would like to tell you that I graduated with honors, but that was Rosaria's story, not mine. After dropping out in my junior year, I became a beat officer with the 9th. After a lot of sweat and strain, I managed to become a detective in the homicide unit.\nI cannot say the ride was smooth and flawless, but I had no complaints until one morning. It was a Tuesday morning in late summer, but I do not like to talk about it. I really don’t. When I talk about it, the nightmares start all over again. So please forgive me for my discretion. \n“Detective Francisco.” I hear the intercom blare out my name, “Please come to the chief’s office.”\nNormally that would mean trouble, but I know better. He will ask me for my gun and badge. Then we will walk into the conference room where there will be reporters and the entire precinct gathered to hear the chief speak about my career. And then I will say a few words while someone cuts the big cake in the center of the room. I will talk to a few reporters so I will be able to see myself on the evening news. After a few handshakes and pats on the back, I will get in my car and drive away for the last time.\nI am getting a lump in my throat already.\n“Hey buddy.” Don Parcinni shakes my hand. He was there that day I don’t like talking about. He was a rookie back then, a tough kid off the streets of Brooklyn. “Last day. Must be excited.” \n“Sure, sure.” I say with my fake smile. I can feel an uneasy settling of my stomach.\n“Dunno know how we are gonna get along withoutcha.” He grins some more, but what he means is that I was the one they always called when they needed a translator for some of the Spanish speaking people who needed to make a statement. Most of them were from Puerto Rico trying to earn some money to send home and became drug mules in the process. Most of them had no idea what they were being asked to do. Just carry this bag from here to over there on the bus. It was always like a punch in the gut to hear them talk about it. \n“Come on in, Lieutenant Rodriguez.” The Chief was all smiles as he shook my hand. “We got a lot of folks to come.”\n“That’s great.” I smiled back as he led me down the hall to the conference room. I had no idea of the shock that awaited me.\nShe was there. Sheila McAllister still looking quite stunning after all these years with her hair still auburn and those piercing green eyes.\n“Cisco.” She hugged me.\n“Sheila.” I muttered. “So much time.” \n“Yes and a day doesn’t go by when I don’t miss him.” She said with a slight catch in her throat. \n“Nor I.” I was being truthful as I held her hand.\nSeptember 11, 2001\nI remember getting into the office around eight just like I had done every morning since I became a detective. Ian was my assistant who used to play a game with me to see who showed up at the office first. On this particular day, he was the winner. We used to take a tally and whomever lost had to buy the doughnuts. \nIan was a big strapping young man with golden hair and bright blue eyes. He was a gym rat after work, so he was solid everywhere it counted while I, with my muffin top, appeared a bit dumpy even wearing a suit jacket and tie. Rumor was that he had played semi-pro football at quarterback and safety since you had to play both ways in semi-pro ball. \n“Gotcha two and oh.” He picked up one of the tally cards.\n“I get sick of paying for the doughnuts all the time.” I shook my head.\n“Hey, we got a red alert. We are sending all units on this one.” Sergeant Warner announced over the intercom.\n“Us, too?” Ian shook his head with an expression of bewilderment on his boyish face.\n“Yeah, you too.” The Chief stuck his head in the door.\n“What gives?” I asked.\n“World Trade Center. Big fire. We may need to evacuate the building.” He coughed, “I heard the North Tower is on fire.”\n“No kidding?” Ian asked since the Chief was known to pull pranks from time to time. \n“Fraid not this time. It’s real as far as I know…so get a move on.” He ordered.\nWe were assigned to drive one of the precinct unmarked cars parked in the garage under the main part of the precinct building. Within minutes, Ian was behind the wheel while I manned the electronic equipment.\n“What’s it saying?” He asked as he pulled onto the street. There were sirens wailing everywhere.\n“North Tower is on fire.” I confirm, “Chrissake, there are people trapped in the tower.” \n“They’ll get ‘em off with choppers.” Ian sniffed.\n“Sure as hell hope so.” I could see a plume of smoke billowing up from the general direction of lower Manhattan where the North Tower stood. I put our siren on so they would know we were coming.\nWhen we got there the area was cordoned off and there was pandemonium everywhere. I looked at Ian and he looked back at me.\n“Whadda think?” He asked, checking to make sure his badge and gun were in place.\n“I have no idea.” I checked as well and then craned my neck to see, but with one hundred and ten stories, it was hard to see anything. \n“We got quite a bunch of firemen inside.” The uniformed policeman informed us as we came to the police tape where he was standing.\nIan and I flashed our badges.\n“The ninth? My brother is stationed there.” He smiled when he checked our badges. \n“What’s his name?” I asked.\n“Donnie Jacobee.” He said waving us across the line.\n“Yeah, I know him.” We both said at once.\n“Here’s the situation as I know it.” The officer said, “It appears that an airplane has crashed into the ninety something floor. From what I have it was American Airlines Flight 11 out of Boston.”\n“A big plane?” Ian took a step back, but he still could not see anything.\n“Big enough.” The policeman shook his head. “No elevator. Stairs only.” \nIan was in the building before I could even move.\nSomething exploded and it took me a minute to realize it was the body of a human being exploding on impact with the ground. Blood splattered everywhere. And it was followed by another. It was raining people from the upper floors. I made my way into the doors where I vomited into a trash can. I knew there were others falling and that thought made me sick to my stomach.\nI could hear screaming coming from the stairwell where I managed to climb a few stories knowing that Ian was well on his way to the area where there was trouble. It would take me and my muffin top a little bit longer to get there. My heart was already trying to pound its way out of my chest. I was gasping for air, but the smoke filled stairwell was not offering much oxygen at that moment. I heard a scream as someone went falling past the stairs. It was a woman and she was on fire.\nThere was a rumbling as the stairs moved beneath my feet. I grabbed the rails for stability, but the building began to shake and stability was slowly slipping away. Papers began to fall light rain, except this rain was ablaze as it floated down from above.\nMore screaming. Voices shouting that they were on fire. I started to vomit again, but this time there were tears in my eyes. I had no idea of the scope of this disaster. I closed my eyes, but that only shut off the visual hell I was in. I could still clearly hear the screams, the prayers, and the voices.\n“Dear God, it’s me, Francisco Rodriguez.” I kept climbing the stairs. “Please tell my wife that I love her.” \nA man faced me, his eyes were wide in terror and the right sleeve of his sports jacket was on fire. Without thinking, I grabbed his flaming arm and smothered it against my body and the wall. He screamed as his flesh was being consumed by the flames, but somehow I managed to put out the fire. Once he realized he was no longer on fire, he smiled at me.\n“Thank you so much.” He looked at his singed arm.\n“Get a move on.” I commanded as he ran down the stairs.\nThere were others who followed. Some were not on fire, but those who were, I continued to administer what I could to stop the fires. I was only about sixteen floors up. Ian no doubt was twice as far and the smoke kept getting thicker. It seemed that there were quite a few who were able to escape, but the farther I ascended the stairs, the more people were pushing forward in a complete panic.\n“I saw him jump.” One woman was crying as her companion held her.\n“He was on fire near the break room.” A man following told his buddies surrounding him, “I mean flames from head to toe.”\n“I was blown out of my chair at my desk.” A woman was in shock as she passed. “My boss got blown out the window…just his shoes was all that was left.”\nMore flames rained down on those trying to flee. Another rumble and the building seemed to move from its foundation. I felt if I went any farther, I would become a victim not a person sent to help.\nI never want to admit I was a coward, but when I looked up at the floors above me, there was nothing but smoke and flames. Anyone left was surely killed by the fire. I began to descend the stairs knowing there would be plenty of people on the ground who would need assistance. I wasn’t running from, I was running with people who needed help. Once I had managed to get out of the building, I realized Ian was still inside the burning building.\nThere was another loud explosion. I swore I heard a jet engine just before the explosion. Then it began to rain parts, parts of glass, cement, debris, and people.\n“The South Tower has been hit!” One of the policemen yelled pointing at the other tower. In horror, I looked and saw the South Tower was now on fire. \nI closed my eyes that were filled with tears.\nMany of those who had just escaped the North Tower, now saw that the other tower was now on fire.\n“Back inside.” One of the firefighters yelled to those gathered around the North Tower. \n“No…no…I can’t.” A man stood and sobbed.\nMore debris began to fall. Bigger pieces, all on fire.\n“We will die if we go back in there.” A woman pointed to the North Tower.\n“We will die out here if the debris falls on us.” A man with half his shirt burned from his body opened the door and went inside. As more debris fell, the more of the survivors went inside the burning North Tower. I went with them. \nFiremen ran up the stairs to retrieve any survivors they could find. I went with them, because I wanted to find my partner.\n“Detective, you are in danger.” One of the firefighters told me.\n“Sure, my partner is up there.” I pointed.\n“We will get him.” He promised as he ran up the stairs with other members of his unit.\nMore explosions. More debris falling inside the stairwell.\n“The building is going to collapse!” I heard some yell from above.\nThe building was indeed swaying. Some of the stairs began to pull away from the staircase. \nFrom the smoke appeared Ian. He was on fire. He was not screaming, but you could see him writhe in pain. \n“Ian!” I ran to him.\n“I’m on fire.” His whole back was ablaze. His sport jacket and skin were becoming melded together. He reached out to me with his black fingers and patted me where my holster was. He nodded.\n“Please…please.” His eyes were pleading for me to end his excruciating suffering. \n“No…anything but that.” I shook my head.\n“Please for the love of God, Cisco, do it for me.” His hair was now a blaze and I knew that the pain would only get worse. I removed my gun from my holster, put the barrel to his forehead and pulled the trigger. It was over. \nI wound up being transported to the hospital by ambulance to have my own burns treated. I spent a day there while they treated me for some superficial burns I had suffered.\n“God, it’s me, Francisco Rodriguez, thank you for saving me from that fire.” I closed my eyes and let the tears fall into the pillow where my head lay. \nWhen I awoke the next morning, Maria was sitting in a chair by my bed. When she saw me open my eyes, she buried her head in my chest and sobbed and sobbed.\nThe chief made a speech that went along with a PowerPoint highlighting all of the best moments of my career. Maria held my hand and Francesca and Shawn were there smiling and nodding at me with each point the Chief made about my sterling career, but I could not help glancing over at the table where Sheila sat with her two grown sons, Patrick and Neal and their wives and children. \nI will never understand how God chooses those he redeems and those who are doomed, but regardless of the outcome, He does hear our prayers. Our prayers may not seem as though they are answered, I do know they are heard in our moment of trial, when our lives hang in the balance and we are delivered to our fate, we must never take our time here for granted. \nAre you there God? It’s me, Francisco Rodriguez, and I want to thank you for all that you have given me in what I call my life. I have done it all in your name, the good and the bad and in those moments when I felt you reach out and touch 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: The Brilliance of Cowards\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2293\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes (or subverts) the enemies-to-lovers trope." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "If I had been a carpenter or stone mason’s daughter, my earthly life would probably be behind me, snuffed out most inelegantly by the noxious fumes of the monthly witch’s pyre held every Friday night after midnight Mass in the town square. Because my father was a notoriously rich and well connected pervert, I was spared death and disgrace by way of a wedding. \nWhen I was caught “fornicating with the devil,” my father gave me an ultimatum: burn in hell (literally and figuratively, as it turned out), or become a wife. When I asked if I could have some time to think about it, he struck me so hard I lost a tooth (it was the abscessed molar in the back, which I took as a sign that maybe God did have a sense of humor). \nI knew I should be grateful, but the only thing I hated more than being my father’s hostage was the thought of being a husband’s hostage.\nAfter an agonizing night of prayer and nightmares of demons, hell fire, and childbirth, I woke up with what felt like a divine solution that could only have come from God Himself. I’d offer to repent and devote myself to God and the family’s moral honor by entering a convent and becoming a nun. \nUnfortunately, nuns were just about worthless as a commodity for trade and material gain in the worldly realm that my father aspired to. (“What good are you to me as a fucking nun?” were his exact words.)\nAnd so I found myself engaged to a strapping young knight and hero of the kingdom, ordained by God to save Christianity and the Vatican’s land interests from Martin Luther's heretics. Despite my apprehension over marrying anyone, let alone a complete stranger, I did my best to hide my relief when my father announced his choice for my husband. Betray any sign of relief or excitement, and he might just change his mind and betroth me to one of his peers - a fate worse than the fire itself.\nAnd so the night of our engagement finally arrived, and our families arranged a lavish banquet to celebrate and gloat before the faithful. Still wary of my future husband’s casual haughtiness and disturbingly fine and handsome features, I tried to make light of the situation and see if we could at least be friends and find some common ground.\n“You must be very courageous and steadfast in your faith to risk your life to fight the heretics,” I said earnestly. \n“Save it Lady Fingers. I know you’re damaged goods. It’s the only reason your greedy little bastard of a father would choose to sell you to me instead of to the Bishop’s hit man, that old scaly pig the Marquis de Porcine. He knows that even a whiff of scandal or deceit on his part and your entire family would roast like a crate of pigs at Easter. You’re welcome, by the way.” \nHe took a long, gulping sip of wine from his ruby encrusted goblet without so much as turning his head or casting a sideways glance at me as he spoke. \nMy face burned so hot I thought I might actually be in hell. \n“You’re disgusting.”\n“Hey, I’m not the one who got caught plucking my own harp.” Laughter, followed by more gulping.\nSeriously, did the whole country know?\nI couldn’t tell if I hated him more for being so arrogant and artless, or for being right. I was also struck by the humiliating realization that the only thing worse than having to choose between being incinerated alive or sold to this infuriatingly beautiful arrogant bastard, was being incinerated alive or sold off to the aforementioned scaly old bastard. \nOne of the advantages of being betrothed to a “hero” about to ride off to war to save Christendom from their heretical neighbors was that we barely saw each other in the run up to the wedding. He spent most of his time in prayer, politicking, raising money, and the indulging in the type of shameless gluttony that made angry villagers pick up the torches and pitchforks in the first place.\nOur wedding night was the first time we were ever truly alone together, but had I been nervous about being alone and moving in with him, I needn’t have worried. When I walked into the parlor, he was sprawled out in front of the fire draped in layers of velvet robes like an ersatz Henry VIII.\n“Your chambers are down the hall and off to the right,” he said, barely looking up from his book and dismissing me with a bored flick of his bejeweled hand. “Oh and don’t worry, the doors lock from the inside, so you’ll have all the privacy you need Lady Fingers.”\nWhile I knew that I should be grateful for the secret freedom I’d enjoy married to a man that had no interest in me, I also found myself fighting an overwhelming urge to stab him with one of his swords. \nHis servants were no better. They had an odd sense of haughtiness and didn’t even pretend to hide their disdain for me, and confusion over their master and hero’s choice of bride. In the weeks and months after the wedding and leading up to his eventual departure to claim his glorious and bloody destiny, I spent most of my time blissfully reading and writing in the library and walking with the dogs (my only friends) across the massive grounds of his estate.\nThere were the obligatory banquets and grotesque displays of ego of course, some of which were more unbearable than others. But the Church’s coffers weren’t going to fill themselves, so his displays of prowess became more and more preposterous and embarrassing the closer the battle came. \nOn one occasion, he knocked his jousting partner off his horse, jumped up onto the back of his own, and proceeded to take control of both horses, riding with one long and lean leg on the back of each, to the delighted wails and screams of his adoring fans. I found myself panicking that he might fall and break his neck - would I be able to hide my relief and convincingly play the role of the hysterical widow?\nThis went on for what seemed like forty lifetimes in the midst of the hell fire, but the night of his farewell banquet finally arrived. I remembered our engagement party, and made no attempt to engage him whatsoever. I just tried to keep my eyes open and feign excitement at the speeches and toasts aimed at our beloved hero.\nLost in my thoughts, I was shocked to feel his face within inches of my own.\n“I’m getting the fuck out of here.”\n“What?”\n“You heard me.”\n“I know. It’s why we’re here. Obviously.” Now I was apparently also an idiot who couldn’t take a hint.\n“No, I mean I’m taking the money and running.”\n“What are you talking about?” \nPeople were noticing our heated whispers, but were thankfully stupid enough to attribute it to the dashing knight comforting his inconsolable bride on the eve of his heroic departure. \n“You can’t be serious. Why would you joke about something like that?”\n“I’m not joking,” he said without breaking eye contact or easing the psychotically perfect smile he had learned to weaponize against his adoring, meat and wine soaked minions.\n“I’m taking the Church’s blood money for myself and fleeing to Italy. You should come with me.” He threw the last sentence out as casually as if he’d suggested I try the goose liver.\n“This is crazy. And heresy, by the way. And I don’t understand. I thought you wanted to go and fight. The glory and the kingdom and the rivers of blood and manhood or whatever.”\n“Fuck it,” he said, clapping and nodding along solemnly with the sniveling speech giver. “Have you seen what happens to some of the poor bastards who actually manage to make it back alive? Mattias lost an eye, and Rafael came back a eunuch.”\n“What are you talking about? They died in battle!”\n“They were maimed and deemed too freakish to parade around the town square like stuffed peacocks, so they got a shovel to the back of the head and an eternal resting place under the rose bushes behind the cathedral. The Bishop and Vatican council rightly figured out that nobody would want to see that shit.” \nHe was still clapping and nodding along to the speeches perfectly on cue.\n“But what about the heretics?” I said dully, truly at a loss.\n“Fuck them too. Listen, you can come with me to Italy, where you’ll be safe from the scandal, and free to fornicate with the devil - or me - to your heart’s delight. Your choice.” \nAgain, as casual as if he’d simply asked me to pass a bowl of grapes.\nI tried to lie and convince myself that the sudden flush in my cheeks and under my skirt was from the shock of his words and the wine I’d started to down with hearty abandon. I could tell from the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth and the way his eyes danced as he pretended to watch the crowd that he’d noticed it too.\n“What’s in Italy?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as casual and steady as his.\n“A bunch of corrupt, gutless, old assholes mostly, just like here. But we'll be safer and have more fun.”\nI hated how my heart and pelvis pulsed with electricity when he said “we,” as if I’d already agreed. \nThis couldn’t be happening. \nThen it occurred to me with a sudden thud of alarm (and disappointment) that it was a trap. He could be setting me up for a charge of heresy or treason, in order to get rid of me for good. Or just for a laugh. Who could tell with a man this beautiful and crazy?\n“Why should I believe you? For all I know, you’re just trying to get rid of me so you can run off and be free with some tavern wench.”\n“I hate to be indelicate Lady Fingers, but if all I wanted was a tavern wench, I wouldn’t need to get rid of you for that.” \n“OK you really have to stop calling me that.”\n“I’ll call you anything you want. So what do you say?”\n“Well I never figured you for a coward, for starters.”\n“Why not?” he asked earnestly. “Cowards are the happiest and most free people you will ever meet. And most importantly, they’re alive and in one piece.”\n“OK fine, but we’ve been married for months, and you haven’t so much as thrown a desirous glance my way. We’ve been living like brother and sister, but suddenly you want me to go to Italy as your…what exactly?”\n“Well I couldn’t run the risk of you falling in love with me before we left,” he deadpanned. “I wanted you to make the choice freely, and with a clear head.”\n“How generous of you,” I said dryly. “But as you’ve pointed out before, I don’t really have the best of options available to me do I? At best, they’ll know you escaped and suspect that I was your accomplice and burn me at the stake. At worst, they’ll assume you died in battle and your family will just sell me off to some old pig, leaving me right back where I started.”\n“So you have nothing to lose by leaving with me, and everything to lose by staying,” he said triumphantly. “Look, the way I see it your dirty little self love habit set us both free. If you hadn’t been caught, you’d most likely have been married off to Porcine or worse, and most likely have thrown yourself in the river by now. I would have been pressured to marry and impregnate someone infinitely less interesting and liberated than you, making my own escape that much more complicated. You’ve saved us both Lady Fingers.”\nWe were obviously past propriety, so I got to the point. “And speaking of duties and burdens, what makes you think I want to be impregnated by you or anyone?”\n“I don’t,” he replied with a triumphant smile. “There are solutions to that little problem, and without the watchful eye of the Church and your creepy father, we’re free to live like Adam and Eve in the Garden, before the unfortunate fall.”\n“Well. Speaking of the Church, how exactly will we hide from the Church in Italy of all places?”\n“You can’t seriously think I’m the only soldier to wake up to the war racket? There’s an underground network with resources. We’ll be hiding right under the Vatican’s nose.”\n“Seriously? Does every knight feel this way?”\n“Not the stupid ones.”\n“And you’ve made up your mind then?”\n“I have. This was the plan all along my lady. There are only two questions remaining: are you coming with me, or can I trust you to keep my secret if you make the wrong choice and opt to stay behind?”\n“OK, suppose I agree. What will happen to me when we get to Italy? What will I do?”\n“What do you mean? You’re my woman.”\n“Oh please I am not your woman.”\n“OK look, I didn’t expect you to trust me blindly. So I’m prepared to split the purse with you whether you decide to stay with me when we get to Italy or not. I’ll even give you the money before we leave as a measure of good faith.”\n“Well had you opened with that, this would have been a much shorter conversation. So how, and more importantly when, do we leave?”\n*" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Duration of an Exchange\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1499\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people reconnecting after a rough patch in their relationship." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "For most of the time we were friends, and the period in between then and now, Marjory was never a favored student. I don’t mean that she wasn’t a good one, only that she wasn’t favored. Often regarded with some disdain, she had a quick tongue and a snappy attitude. Her demeanor was fueled by a number of reasons, all of which weren’t sufficient enough for me to care about. She used several things to make her life easier; traits that allowed her to keep treating people the way that she did and continue to function as if she were the angel she wanted to be seen as. The first was her looks. Perhaps the people around her hated to admit it, but she was a beauty. Being easy to look at helped her seem more approachable. It wasn’t the stunning radiance that broads aspire to attain, but a sweet disposition. She had blonde hair, dyed that way, but pretty and curled the majority of the time. She had brown eyes, but wore green contacts once spring came around. She dressed moderately, but fashionably, and she was scarcely seen without makeup, although it wasn’t layered on her face. She adopted a simple look that contrasted her personality in a most confusing, and becoming, way. \nThe second strongest reason that she wasn’t socially ostracized was that she was smart. Not only was she at the top of the sophomore class, but her familial connections helped her avoid punishment. Her friends--perhaps more her followers, to use a strange and cultist trope seen in the movies that are meant to represent the modern day high school student, though often completely inaccurate--took shit from her for the answers to homework and to get out of detention. Despite having one or two people that trailed her for an easy way to pass the semester, there weren’t many who acknowledged her existence unless absolutely necessary. If she hadn’t been blessed--or cursed with beauty depending on how you consider the situation--she would have been the side character in the high school movie for the rest of her lower educational career. \nOne afternoon, I was paired with the girl for an assignment in biology. She looked rather disinterested and didn’t pay attention for most of the class, which angered me to an entirely different degree. There I was, busting my ass for a B, and she was staring at the ceiling and popping her gum, insufferably, I might add. I did my best to ignore her. \nOnce the teacher was through speaking, my gaze shifted toward the girl, and what did I behold, but her mirroring stare.\n“You’re cute, Jamie.” \nI raised an eyebrow, partially because I was surprised she remembered my name, and also because she didn’t have her usual resting bitch face on, which was alarming. “I didn’t know you were capable of giving a compliment,” I said, smiling. \nShe looked me in the eyes and then shifted her gaze down to the floor. She was propping up her head and looking rather tired, and like she didn’t want to be there, which was understandable as well as a popular expression worn by the students of Southridge. \n“I’m capable of a lot, but I hear that I’m not well liked, you see.” \n“Did you not know that?” I asked, tapping my pencil on the desk. \nShe shrugged. “I suppose I did, but it’s quite disappointing hearing it out loud. I’m beginning to think I should become a more amicable person.” \nShe sat up straight and started typing rapidly on her computer, staring placidly into the screen. \nI licked my lips. I didn’t have many friends, and I sure as hell didn’t have much of a family, so socializing was not my strong suit. My grandmother was senile, I was more of a caretaker than she was, and my uncle, my legal guardian, was more concerned with his fix of Hennessy than with me. I didn’t have much experience trying to console people, mostly my efforts went toward not being a cynical ass. \n“Marjory...suck it up. Be a man--err, woman. You dug your own grave, now climb out of it,” I said with a nod. \n“You don’t have much experience with girls, do you?” \nI scoffed. “Nothing more than a distraction, right now.” \nShe laughed indifferently. “Are you not capable of having a platonic relationship with a member of the opposite sex?”\n“I’m barely capable of maintaining a relationship in the first place.” \n“Then why call us a distraction?” \nI rolled my eyes. “I meant in the romantic sense, obviously, don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that pretty.” \n“Did you just admit that you found me attractive in some capacity?” She said, slightly more engaged in conversation. I felt blood rush to my cheeks, and she faced me.\n“Oh, have I rendered you silent, young man?” \nI scoffed. “It appears you have, Ms. Winston, congratulations, I have said aloud what you wished to hear for the entire duration of this conversation.” \nShe smirked and licked her lips. “Just how little do you think of me, Jamie?” \nI shook my head and felt a flicker of annoyance at her familiarity, the ease with which she addressed me. I got the sense she wasn't going to acknowledge our previous friendship, but it was of no true consequence to me. People change, it is inevitable. “I don’t think that much of you because I do not know that much about you, but from an observation that any human is due, I have concluded rather hastily that you are not the sort to draw attention, show kindness, or carry compassion.” \nThe smile slipped off her face. She clasped her hands in front of her and bit her lip, pensively staring at nothing in particular. I didn’t say anything, for I felt that if I did, I would have pushed her to her limit. What I said was the truth, but there was another that rang louder: I shouldn’t have said it. \n“I have concluded,” Marjory began, “that you, Jamie, are a judgmental, self righteous loner who hasn’t even begun to scratch the surface being the reason behind my behavior, which you have seen little of. From this conversation, several things have come to light, and the one that glares brighter than the others is that we are not compatible--” \n“Ah, but Marjory,” I interrupted, “we are. How many people have you had a conversation like this with. Do you regularly speak this way while expressing your thoughts to the high halfwits that trail you for grades and pardons?” \n“Are you aware that you have just contradicted yourself?” She asked. \nI gave her a look that suggested she elaborate.\n“What I mean by this,” she started, “is that you have told me you have given me the cursory observation that everyone is due, but you know about the halfwits that trail me. You can claim that you haven’t noticed me all you want, but the fact of the matter is, your knowledge has doomed you. Your extensive opinions, although they may not seem that way, have not been in favor of your defense, but my persecution.” \n“And exactly, on what grounds are you persecuting? What point are you trying to make, and perhaps the more intriguing question, what could you possibly have to gain from proving it?” \nShe smiled, slowly and sweetly. “The point I am trying to make is that however much you want to write me off for engaging in actions that are less than honorable, your observations of me, the very things that have made you come to whatever conclusions that you have come to, are contradicting your previous claim that you have not noticed me. You can’t hate someone and not care about them at the same time, so obviously, you’ve lied about something. Your answer to this question can tell me whether or not I have to worry about being amicable or not...answer carefully.” \nNow, I must admit, I was at odds. I didn’t quite know what to say. I thought about it, considered each word, each answer. I decided to respond with the truth, no matter how much it would hurt. \n“Marjory,” I began, “you are correct...Obviously, the answer that I didn’t notice you cannot be true, however, I don’t hate you. I, at the very least, don’t dislike you as much as I would have you believe. So the truth is, I neither loathe you nor ignore you, and seeing that this small exchange has made me think more than any other exam in the past month, I would like to get to a place where I don’t dislike you, however that seems to require more interaction.” \nShe raised her brows. \nI didn’t feel my heart beating faster, I didn’t really feel anything different than I had been while I was talking to her before. “Do you want to go out?” \nHer eyes widened slightly, and she nodded.\nAnd to my imminent surprise, I smiled." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Clementines\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1199\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a group of sisters, or a group of brothers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I thought nobody lived on Sweetfeather Lane anymore. The man with deep lines in his face seemed just as surprised to see someone else, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Tattered briefcase in one hand, newspaper in the other, he made slow, heavy steps down the fractured sidewalk, until he came to the house. The tire swing was the only real thing that made it stand out from the rest of the run-down row of cookie cutter shacks. That, and the big, blackened patch that trailed down the chimney and around one of the upstairs windows. Where the white paint wasn’t peeling it was fading into grey steaks and splotches and the yard was littered with heaps of Spanish moss. It even hung from the porch like gnarled earth icicles. I shifted my gaze back at the man, who was bent down, plucking a thick cluster of weeds that were choking the rusted mailbox. What good does he think that’s gonna do? I thought. You could pick a whole barrel of weeds and it wouldn’t help this place any! The man paused and looked up to face me, about the time when I heard the chuckle that was supposed to stay behind my lips. I hated that I blushed, but I did, and turned away, fumbling to find my footing on my bike pedal again. \n“Evening, Miss,” he said. \nI froze. \n“Good evening,” was what I knew you were supposed to say back, but I made it stay stuck in my throat. He didn’t holler or tell me to move along. He didn’t even ask what I thought I was doing there. Instead, he just smiled tiredly and tipped a sweat stained hat. I sat, perched as ladylike as possible on my bike, and watched as the man turned to open the rickety gate. He walked across the unkept lawn, skipping the porch step that was cratered in, onto the weed-ridden porch of the old house. \nBefore he could open the door, a thunderstorm of six little feet burst onto the porch with hugs and giggles and he belly laughed as he swooped the littlest one up in his arms. I put my bike stand down. A mousy woman with soiled gardening gloves appeared quickly from behind the house. She seemed kind of flustered, stumbling across the yard, darting eyes scanning the street, and brushing right past me. Registering her face, he corralled the three girls back inside. He turned to the woman, who was stepping onto the porch with a pained look. \n“Did they take.. James, where is…how are we…” she stuttered. \nA rough hand laid around her frail shoulder.\n“The car?” she rasped.\nHe nodded.\nThe door shut behind them and the three girls came bounding into view in the front window, scrambling to mismatched chairs around a table. I bit my lip. I don't care who they are, I thought to myself. I’ve just got nothing better to do, that’s all. I took off my shoes, stuffing them with my lacey socks. Gathering my dress, I glanced around, ducking as I walked across the yard and crouched down in a bush near the window, just close enough to see. What was that smell? I plucked a small branch. Rosemary? \n“What are you doing?” \n I jerked my head up. \nThe oldest one, about my age I guessed, had disappeared. \n“Where did you go?” the littlest one called out again. \nThe oldest proudly returned a moment later with a faded lace-trimmed tablecloth. I cringed. She draped the ugly thing over the table with a dramatic flair, and the younger girls applauded and squirmed giddily in their seats. Their brown mess of curls splashed their face as they spun around to watch the man enter the room, glittering eyes fixed on the worn briefcase he set in the middle of the table. The woman slipped quietly behind him into the kitchen, gnawing at her nails. \n“Alright, alright, slow down, now”, the man said. \nI couldn’t quite make it out, but the woman shouted something from the kitchen, which made the girls shrink back reluctantly in their seats. She joined them at the table as they joined hands and bowed their heads. Except for the littlest one. She only squinted to keep her gaze on the strange new centerpiece. The man mumbled something about gratitude and blessings. They’re the praying type of people, I thought. We used to be, too. I couldn’t understand why he used up a whole prayer and didn’t ask God for anything. \n“Amen!!” the girls finished for him. \nWith a sparkle in his tired eyes, the man grabbed the briefcase and turned, playfully pretending to march away. Like cannons, the girls sprung from their seats to grab fistfuls of his untucked shirttail and drag him back to the table, giggling. Even from outside, I flinched at the eruption of squeals when the buckles were undone and the briefcase was finally opened. I squinted and shuffled a little closer. Tiny orange fruit spilled out, rolling and bouncing onto the floor faster than little hands could corral them. Clementines. For a reason I couldn’t put my finger on, I caught the smile cracking on my face. For a stranger reason, I let it stay there. The man glanced at the woman, who’s shadowed eyes deepened under the light, but she released her strained face with a chuckle.\n“How many you got? Hey, you got four, I only got three!” the littlest chirped, muffled by a mouthful of the sweet fruit. \n“Three? Well, that’s the luckiest number there is. Even luckier than four!”, the oldest piped back, peeling another clementine. The little one smiled and seemed satisfied with that answer.\nA short laugh escaped my lips. \nThe middle girl scurried off and returned with a small book and placed it shyly in front of the man, who smiled, taking his head from his hands. \n“Let's see here. Where are we going today, little ladies?”, he said, pulling his glasses from his collar. \nThe girls gave a squeal and after a fit of protest, all three somehow managed to fit on his lap, their sticky hands full with peeled clementines. The woman opened a drawer, took out a potato sack and sat, sewing, and listening contently. \nIt was then that the sticky summer breeze sprayed my hair ribbons into my face, reminding me I didn’t belong here. Suddenly embarrassed, I looked around, cheeks hot with shame of my nosiness. Nosiness about them, of all people, all things. I ducked, scampering back across the yard and grabbed my shoes, which looked extra shiny on the dirt. I kicked up my bike stand and shoved off quickly towards home. Home. It would be quiet at home. Father wouldn’t be home till Thursday. Nearly seven o’ clock, Mother would be reading in the study. She’d be wanting a good excuse for my having dirtied feet and my clothes smelling like… rosemary? Pedaling down the abandoned street, I blinked at the hot wind in my face and tried to smother the strange, feeling of envy that twisted in me. And for a brief, guilty moment, I wished that we weren’t rich." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Freud's Drawing Room\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1071\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a drawing room." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The frail-framed man lifted his legs and rested his back on the fainting couch. He folded his hands over his chest and sighed. The ceiling above was a spatter of blue and black. Its intricate pattern calmed his mind. Squinting to see the details through his round, wire-rimmed glasses proved to be a strain. He closed his eyes to relieve them. The faint smell of the cigar he had just snuffed out swirled about his head.\n\n“Tell me of your childhood, Sigmund.”\n\nFreud was surprised to hear the voice of his former colleague, Josef Breuer, but, he was always ready with an answer.\n\n“Well, my father was the son of a Rabbi and a wool merchant. My mother’s name was, well, is: Amalia.”\n\n“What more can you tell me of them?”\n\nSigmund squirmed on the couch, “They were both Slavic and Jewish, and we were all transports to Austria.”\n\n“Yes, yes, but, what effect did they have on your childhood?”\n\n“My father was twice widowed, and then he married my mother. She was the picture of beauty. Is that what you’re after?”\n\n“You seem uncomfortable.”\n\nFreud sat up on the edge of the tufted davenport.\n\n“You want me to assign myself a complex and admit my undying love for mother, Josef? We analyzed ourselves years ago. Why again now?”\n\nJosef’s eyes were gentle and unflinching. Freud’s were tense and probing. \n\nThe men took a break from the session to smoke their cigars. They strolled about the confines of the room- trying not to bump into one other or knock a thing off a shelf. After some time, Breuer fixated on the large collection of Freud’s works. He cricked his neck to read the titles.\n\n“How long did it take you to write On Cocaine?” \n\n“That undertaking sped by quickly.” Freud mused.\n\nJosef laughed. Freud scowled. \n\n“Ah, Studies on Hysteria our greatest accomplishment! I have not given up on the power of hypnosis.” He turned abruptly, addressing Freud’s pensive stare. “Are you game?” \n\nFreud rolled his eyes but gave in to curiosity. \n\nBack on the couch, Sigmund felt a strange sense of urgency to jump up and run out of the room, but, he couldn’t.\n\nJosef’s hands were warm on his temples. His voice was a soothing whisper.\n\n“When I remove my hands from your face, you will be in a fully relaxed state of being. You will be free to speak directly from the recesses of your soul. There will be no barrier between your unconscious and conscious mind. Any thought that rises may be conveyed without the burden of self-awareness.”\n\nJosef stepped back. He sat down in the chair beside the couch, just out of view. Quietly, he lit a cigar.\n\n“Tell me of your childhood, Sigmund.”\n\nFreud’s body felt like a part of the Persian rug that covered the sofa. He forgot about the complexities of the ceiling and the ache in his lower back.\n\n\"So, this is catharsis.\" Sigmund said to himself. He could see the full scope of his childhood before uttering a word.\n\n“My father was too kind, too optimistic. I wanted him to stand up for himself, but he only smiled. I wanted him to fight, but he would only laugh. Why? Why was he so powerless? Why was he so weak?”\n\n“Perhaps, laughter was his strength, Sigmund.”\n\n“Yes, yes, you could be right. Oh, I don’t know. I’ve hated him for so long. It’s like a cold blanket that won’t warm me, but I haven’t another. My mother was his third wife, and, due to this, I was an uncle at birth. For some reason, it strikes me with humor now.” Freud laughed and laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. “It wasn’t so funny then. This nephew of mine, John, was slightly older than me, but I was his uncle. Regardless, we were inseparable friends! How strange to consider this now as I’m rotting and rotten.”\n\nJosef waited and listened for the right moment to continue.\n\n“Your mother was an exceptional woman. What would you like to say of her?”\n\nFreud fell silent. His eyes welled with tears.\n\n“She died 9 years ago. 1930. She was 95. Forgive me. It is still hard to speak of her. She was nothing less than a perfect woman. Her guidance and care will never leave me.”\n\nJosef closed his eyes for a moment and then continued. \n\n“Do you feel that your mother idealized you to some degree? And you her?”\n\n“What do you mean?” Freud shuddered as he asked the question.\n\n“She referred to you as ‘Mein golderner Sigi’. It must be difficult to be the golden child.” He paused. “Your sister Anna has described your mother as ‘strict and domineering’. Was there a certain level of pressure involved in your relationship with your mother?”\n\nFreud’s body stiffened like a corpse. He squeezed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. When he could, he spoke loudly and rapidly.\n\n“What do you mean? No, no, no. I loved dear mother. She was never overbearing. She alone understood me. She knew I would achieve the greatness my father was too meek to pursue. She knew me better than I.” \n\n“Sigmund,” Josef interrupted, “you are allowed to connect with your true feelings. Human perfection is a myth which gives root to narcissism. Seeing the flaws of your mother will only endear her to you further.”\n\nThe curls of Josef’s cigar smoke drifted about the room. His words rested on Sigmund’s brow. \n\n“I think we have made sufficient progress. When I snap my fingers, you will return to a fully conscious state. I am proud of you, dear friend.”\n\nSigmund was so startled that he jumped up as if he weren’t a man of 83 years. He searched the room for Josef and found not even a trace of cigar smoke in the air. Josef had been dead for over a decade.\n\nAm I going mad? No, no, I drifted off. Of course, a dream! I must write it down.\n\nSigmund felt a new sort of calm. He lit his cigar and hunted around for pen and paper. After his notations- oddly- he could not get the image of Moses out of his mind's eye, so, he sat down at his desk to wait and listen. A title entered his thoughts: Moses and Monotheism. He set about putting pen to paper for his final piece of writing." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Daniel and Zachary\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2528\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a first date that surprises both people, but in different ways." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Daniel and Zachary\n\n\nDANIEL:\nI stare at Zach, and my stomach does hundreds and thousands of flips. I’m one-hundred percent certain I should NOT be feeling this way. He rubs his neck, water dripping down from the side of his face. My heart flutters. Ew, that shouldn’t be allowed. Can someone’s heart even flutter? I don’t know. Either way, this is not how I imagined my lunch break would go, watching Zach win swimming races.\n“Daniel! Hurry up mate, we gotta head to class!” Jakob yells, \n“Shoot, coming!” I jog after my friends, staring at Zach’s back. Which is wrong, I admit, but that dude is ripped. \n“Dude, you’re an absolute demon, you smashed the other swimmers!” Dylan exclaims, and Zach shrugs.\n“I’m not great at swimming, better at basketball. Thanks though,” Has he always been this modest? Probably.\n“What do we have now?” Dylan asks, \n“Science,” I reply automatically, and he chuckles.\n“Damn, Daniel. I don’t need a timetable, I have you,”\n“Yeah, I’ll remind you when you have to use your brain for classes.” Dylan gives me a thumbs up. \n“Sounds good!” Zach and Jakob laugh, and we all head to class.\n\nZACH:\nI am so gay for Daniel, it’s not even funny. That’s grammatically incorrect, but it’s the truth. He probably doesn’t feel the same way. He probably is heterosexual, he’s probably-\n“Zach! Get your ass into gear, man! Class started a few minutes ago.” Jakob nudges me, and I hurriedly pull my binders and books out of my locker. Daniel has already started walking to the labs, he might not play a lot of sports, but that boy can walk quickly. We take our seats in class, our teacher is late, thank goodness.\n“Hey, Daniel,” I poke his arm, and he turns around to face me. I freeze, can someone’s jawline be so sharp? His warm brown eyes stare back at mine, and I remember who I am and what I’m doing.\n“Yeah?” I panic, I just wanted him to face me, I don’t have a reason to talk to him.\n“Uh, are you- um, are you free tomorrow?” Smooth, Zach. Smooth. The ‘um’s’ and ‘uh’s’ were nice touches.\n“Yeah? It’s Saturday, why?”\n“I have a game tomorrow, I was wondering if you wanted to chill at my place after,”\n“Sure, I think my sister has her girlfriend over tomorrow anyway, they’re so cheesy. It’s probably better if I’m not there,”\n“Oh, your sister is-”\n“Gay? Yeah. I think it runs through the family,”\n“You’re-”\n“Yeah,” Huh, so he IS gay, score! What do I even say to that…? Congratulations? Have you come out?\n“Oh, cool. Me too,” I say quietly. Alright, Zach, ‘me too’ is a good answer too.\n“Huh, nice. Guess we’re two gay dudes then.” He jokes, and I really want to photograph his smile.\n“Yeah, I guess so.”\n\nDANIEL:\nI want to scream. It’s not every day your crush asks you to hang out with them, but then again, he’s my best friend. Still. I’M NOT READY FOR ANY OF THIS. The last two periods go by quickly, and before long it’s the end of the day, and we’re all giving each other fist bumps and saying goodbye.\n“Bye Danny boy!” Dylan shouts as he and Jakob exit.\n“Later!”\n“See you tomorrow, Daniel!” Zach winks, and I nearly die, right then and there.\n“Yep, see you.” I smile giddily, something I didn’t know I was capable of doing.\n\n“Well, someone looks happier than usual,” My twin sister, Asa, notices, as she leans on the gate, waiting for me.\n“Can’t a guy be happy?”\n“Sure, I’m just wondering, what’s made you more excited today?”\n“Hmm, nothing,”\n“Hah, you can’t lie to me, bubs,”\n“I’m not your baby brother! How many times have we been over this?” Asa starts laughing, as we walk home.\n“You will always be my little brother, Daniel. Now, tell me, is it a guy? A guy I know?”\n“Stop it, Asa!” I poke her sides repeatedly and she squeals; she’s very ticklish.\n“Come on, Daniel! I want to know!”\n“I know you do, and that’s why I’m not telling you,” She gasps, \n“You’re so mean!”\n“That’s my middle name,”\n“No, it’s not! It’s Daniel Lucas Childerstone,”\n“Wrong! It’s Daniel Lucas ‘I keep things to myself and don’t tell my sister, Asa’ Childerstone.” Asa looks ready to tackle me, so I start running, as she chases after me.\n“Get back here, you!” She yells, and we both run all the way home.\n\nZACH:\nSaturday’s basketball game can’t go any slower. ‘Sometimes,’ I think to myself, ‘Being the star player is the worst.’ At 7 am, we finish the match as winners, and I race back home, texting Daniel he can come over now. \n\nMe: U can come over now\nDanny boi: Sweet, coming now\nMe: Nice\n\nA few minutes later there is a knock on the door, and I rush over to get it, nearly tripping in the process. I scowl at myself, imagine opening the door and Daniel found me sprawled on the floor.\n“Hey!” I open the door and Daniel takes a step back, surprised.\n“Oh, wow, I didn’t think you’d open the door that quickly,” I laugh,\n“You can come in… unless you wanna go for a walk?” I propose the idea, and Daniel shrugs,\n“Sure,”\n“Gimme a second,” I go back into the house, grab my phone and keys and then lock the door.\n“Alright, cool, let’s go,” I say, flustered, and we both start walking to nowhere in particular.\n“Where should we go?” Daniel asks, and I grin, I was waiting for him to ask.\n“I like the idea of going wherever, with no place in mind,” He nods in approval, his hair shining in the sunlight.\n“So…”\n“Hey,” We both say at the same time, and Daniel gives me an adorable smirk.\n“You go first,”\n“No, you,” Daniel groans, a big smile on his face.\n“You go first, Daniel,”\n“Ugh, fine. I was going to ask, have you come out to your parents?” Oh, so we’re going here, okay.\n“I… no. I haven’t, have you?”\n“Yeah, they went crazy. Do you know what my mum said?”\n“Oh no, should I be scared?” His smile lingers, \n“No no, it’s good,”\n“Okay… hmm, what did she say?” I kick a lone pebble on the floor, and Daniel kicks it when it gets closer to him, then passes it to me. I kick it back to him.\n“She said, ‘You’re gay?’ And when I said yes, she said, ‘MY LITTLE TWINS ARE GAY AWWWW!’ Asa was laughing so hard, it was great,” I smile, \n“That sounds amazing, congrats dude,”\n“Do you need help conspiring a plan to come out?” I think about it for a second. \n“I was just thinking one day I’ll come home and show up with a boy. They can figure out the rest,” Daniel throws his head back when he laughs, and he looks so good I want to confess to him right here.\n“Okay, okay, what did you want to say earlier?”\n\nDANIEL:\nIs this a date? I hope it is. I’m pretty sure it isn’t though. I watch Zach rub his neck, a habit he has when he’s nervous. I bite my lip, what is he thinking?\n\nZACH:\nThis is my chance, I have to say it now when we’re alone.\n“I- This might sound really out of the blue but…”\n“But?” He prompts, and concern is written all over his good looking face.\n“I LIKE YOU DANIEL!” I blurt out in a rush, and the tension I didn’t realise that was hanging around us, is lifted. Daniel is laughing uncontrollably, and I’m confused as to what I did wrong.\n“That’s what you wanted to tell me?!” \n“Yes…?”\n“Oh my God, and here I was thinking you didn’t like me!” He screams and runs his hands through his hair, and I can’t help but stare.\n“Do you know what this means?” He asks, and I shrug. I’m just a simple gay basketballer. I have a simple life, and I do simple things and- Daniel takes a step closer to me,\n“I don’t know… It could mean a million things, Daniel,” I reply, and his eyes light up as he smiles.\n“It could mean a million things, but I’m only thinking of one.”\n“Hm? And what ‘one’ might that be?” He looks up at me, grinning before kissing me. \n\nDANIEL:\nIt’s like everything I’ve imagined, but better.\n\nZACH:\nI don’t want to ever pull away. \n\nDANIEL:\nHe’s.\n\nZACH:\nSo.\n\nDANIEL:\nPerfect.\n\n“Zach,” I pull away first, breathing heavily.\n“Daniel,” I take in everything about him, God, I’m actually in love with him.\n“Is this a date?” He asks jokingly, and I think about it for a minute.\n“Only if you want it to be,” He smiles, and I take that as a yes.\n“First date, and our first kiss. Wow, we’re starting off strong,” Zach teases and I take his hand.\n“Strong, just like the way I like my men.” Zach chokes, and I pat his back.\n“You really went there?” I don’t say anything, smiling. Zach ruffles my hair with his hand and drags me to a playground across the road.\n\nZACH:\n“What are your thoughts on swings?” I ask Daniel, an idea forming in my head.\n“I used to have competitions with Asa to see who could go higher,” He smiles fondly at the memory and my heart warms.\n“Okay, get on the swing, Daniel,” He follows my instructions, and grabbing the chains, I lift him and the swing as high as I can, before letting go. The momentum hits, and soon enough, Daniel is swinging.\n“How hard are you pushing me?!” He yells, “It’s so high, oh my God!” I laugh, sitting on the other swing, watching Daniel go up and go down. I swing a little but mainly watch Daniel. Not to be creepy or anything. After a little while, we get off the swings and walk back to my house.\n“Hey, Zach?”\n“Yeah?”\n“Are your parents home?”\n“Yes…” I reply, not sure where this is going.\n“Didn’t you say you haven’t come out yet…? And if you were to, it would be because you're bringing a boy home?” The gears in my brain start grinding together, clicking everything into place.\n“I have found a flaw in your plan,” He gives me a nod for me to continue. “My parents know you as Danny, one of my best friends.”\n“Hmm, perhaps we’ll have to change that.”\n\nDANIEL:\nWe make it back to Zach’s house, my plan already set in motion.\n“Ready?” Zach nods, and he quickly taps the window, before running over to me. From the corner of my eye, I see Zach’s mum, Nadine, looking out the window. I press my lips onto Zach’s and he holds my shirt, pulling me close. We hear the front door open violently, and Zach and I grin.\n“Zachary! What on Earth are you doing?!” Nadine shouts, \n“Saying goodbye,” He replies smugly, waiting for his mum’s reaction.\n“I… That’s how you say goodbye to your friend?!”\n“‘Boy’ friend, that is,” I almost feel sorry for Nadine, she looks so confused.\n“What…? Are you gay?” She asks, and Zach nods cheerfully,\n“Yep! This is my boyfriend, Daniel,” Nadine takes a good look at me,\n“Daniel Childerstone?”\n“That’s right, ma’am,”\n“Well…” She mutters, “I’m glad it was you, rather than Jakob,” Zach and I share a shocked glance, before bursting into laughter.\n“So… you’re okay with it?” Zach asks after we stop laughing.\n“Hm? Oh, of course. It was a bit of a shock, it was an… interesting way to come out, Zach. Your aunt Cecelia is a lesbian. You’re telling your father though, good luck with that one,”\n“Huh, okay,” Zach shrugs before linking his arm with mine.\n“I’m going to take Daniel home, we can talk more later.” He says, and Nadine waves us off, smiling.\n\nZACH:\n“That went well,” I announce, as we walk to Daniel’s house.\n“I’m just surprised it worked. A lot of things could’ve gone wrong,”\n“Agreed. I’m never going to get over what she said about Jakob,” I chuckle and a grin forms on Daniel’s face.\n“Don’t tell him a word,” He adds, as he unlocks his front door. \n“Fair warning that my sister is home,”\n“Oh, she is? Okay, no worries,” I check my watch.\n“I have some time to kill, I’ll let my mum comprehend everything,” I wink at Daniel, who flushes slightly. I greet his parents with a polite hello, who notices us holding hands, and gives us thumbs up.\nWe walk down the corridor to Daniel’s room, when suddenly his twin sister, Asa, and another girl, burst out of her room, nearly colliding with us.\n“Oh, hey,” Asa takes a good look at me, “Ohh, hi there you two,” She says slyly, what did Daniel tell her…? \n“Hi Asa,” I turn to the girl who’s standing behind her, hands on her Asa’s shoulders. “Hi, I’m Zachary, a pleasure to meet you,”\n“Ooh, he’s polite,” She snickers and I bow.\n“Heard you’re a basketballer, are you any good?” Asa asks me, pretending to act like she’s never met me in my life.\n“Eh, I’m not that great,” I admit,\n“He’s lying!” Daniel suddenly bursts out, “He’s terrific!” I feel my cheeks grow warm at his compliment. “We have to go!” Daniel cries out, taking my hand, and drags me away. \n“It was nice to meet you!” I add before Daniel takes me back downstairs.\n\nDANIEL:\n“We literally went upstairs, then back down,” Zach points out, as we trudge down the stairs.\n“I know, I know. Asa had Courtney stay the night, and whenever her girlfriend is around, she gets super hyper. So, I’m doing you a favour, we’re escaping to the clear zone,” He laughs, waving at my parents again, as I shut the front door. \n“Thanks for today,” I whisper in his ear, and he flashes me a dazzling pearly white grin.\n“So, we’re a thing now?” He asks, pretending he doesn’t know the answer.\n“Nah, we’re just friends,” I joke and he laughs, stretching his arms up, his t-shirt lifting up to reveal the bottom of his torso. \n“See you on Monday,” He quickly kisses me, before ruffling my hair, again. I think that’s going to become a habit of his, since I’m shorter than him, not that I mind. I stare at Zach, and my stomach does hundreds and thousands of flips.\n“Yeah, see you,” I breathe, still feeling the sensation of his lips. He turns around, holds up a peace sign, and gives me a goofy grin. God, he’s so cute.\n“I love you, Daniel!” He shouts to the sky, walking further away.\n“Love you more!” I yell back, I can’t believe I just said that. It feels so… right.\n“No, I do!”\n“Nope, I do!”\n“Alright, alright, we’ll call it a tie,” He looks back one last time, “Just kidding, love you more, Daniel!” He cries, and I’ve never seen him so ecstatic before. I don’t say anything, smiling, watching the boy I love run home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Price of Courage\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1756\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a group of sisters, or a group of brothers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Knocker stirred the pot with the concentration of a man seeking knowledge in the broth. He hummed softly as the ladle dipped, and the familiar smell of stale carrots made my stomach whine. The scar on my left leg complained against the cold as I shifted position on the bench. \n The trenches ran from the foot of the Alps, to the English Channel and I doubted I’d find a comfortable spot if I walked the entire crooked length. My bench was a broken crate leaning against the back of a dug-out hollow. Five of us squeezed into that earthy hole sharing the warmth of the pot and each other. \n“Hurry up Knocker, I’m fucking starving.” Mac said with a blast of sour breath. He was a weasel of a man, probably too small for the Army in peace time, but this wasn’t peace time and he had a mouth more than big enough to compensate. \n “Don’t rush him Mac” I said, “Last time we had carrots I nearly lost a tooth.” \n The men grumbled agreement.\n “Not my fault the rations are frozen.” Knocker didn’t look up from the pot. The man had been selected for the role of chef on the basis that he’d worked as a waiter ten years ago. He had two styles of cooking, raw or boiled into oblivion, but no-one else wanted the job and it kept the big man happy. \n “Everything’s fucking frozen” Mac spat out into the trench. His dark stained phlegm landed on top of an icy puddle.\n Jonesy tutted at the profanity from his spot to my left. He was a quiet man who kept a small, well-thumbed bible in his right breast pocket. He hated Mac's swearing and the small man knew it.\n “At least it’s better than the mud though, ey?” I said quickly to stop the two from squabbling. They nodded at that. Waking up to frozen boots was a luxury compared to months of sodden socks and wrinkled grey skin sloughing off your feet like thinly sliced cheese. \n The bitter weather had slowed the pace of fighting to a tense standoff. Daily machine-gun chatter had been replaced with the lone cracks of sniper rounds that cut through boredom and reminded you to keep your head down. Even the rats had fled for the winter, leaving us alone to wait for the madness to start. \n “You think there’ll be a push soon?” Peter ventured from the folds of his oversized jacket. We shared a blanket on the bench, he didn’t smell as bad as the others - he hadn’t been there as long - and his honest blue eyes had yet to show the hardness of one who’d been over the top. \n A thick silence descended; the young boy sat in Danny’s old spot. He was a good lad Danny. \n “Maybe” I said, taking care to avoid Peters eyes. “I heard one of the Engineers talking yesterday about a plan to use bridges to cross the wire.”\n “Well it would be better than just sitting around waiting for our bollocks to freeze off.” Mac was never quiet for long, “It’s time we took the fight to the Hun bastards. The quicker we kill those Sauerkraut fuckers - the quicker we’ll all be home in warm beds, with a pair of warm tits and I for one will never look at carrot broth again. No offence, Knocker.”\n “None taken” the big chef said. \n We listened to the pot bubble for a while, each man lost in his memories of home. I tried to picture Rosie in the canvas of my mind but her face blurred like the paint was too thin and the only part clear was her hands. Delicate and fragile and wrapped up in my own. \n “Whats it like though, to go over the top?” Peters words cut through the image and Rosies hands faded away. The men groaned in frustration at being torn from their homes and Mac opened his mouth for a curse. I stopped him with a raised hand. \n “It’s hell” I said, turning to Peter and watching the whites of his eyeballs grow. Poor lad couldn’t have been older than eighteen, he should be at school, getting senseless on drink and flirting with girls. “But it’s a hell where you have your brothers with you,” Mac banged his spoon against his mess tin in agreement. \n “We don’t fight for England or the crown” I said, “We fight for the man standing next to us. When the time comes, and come it shall, we will face it together, shoulder to shoulder and protect each other till the end.”\n A murmur of brotherly pride escaped the mens lips and even Jonesy took a moment to put down his bible. \n “Fucking right we will!” Mac surged to his feet and narrowly missed disturbing the pot. He scrambled to the edge of our hollow. \n“We are the mighty Lima Company and we ain’t scared of no German scum.” \n We all cheered and bashed our spoons to that. Knocker took the ladle in a meaty hand and hammered it hard enough to send a splash of hot broth onto the icy turf. Normally a grave sin, this time no-one complained. \n “You hear that you German pigs” Mac shouted at the parapet above the walkway, where rough, wooden planks pushed back against the earth.\n “We ain’t scared of youu!” He raised both arms as he turned the last syllable into a howl and I found myself howling with him.\n Along the trench the battle cry rose, as other groups of soldiers screamed their defiance across the half a mile of twisted, barbed wire strewn with the decaying bodies of our friends and towards the bastards that put them there. \n For those few brief seconds I felt alive again. Aches and fears poured from my lungs and into the frozen air. I felt the power of brotherhood in men next to me and I truly believed we could win.\n “Food’s ready.” Knockers low voice stopped the shouting faster than any sergeant majors growl. We gathered round the pot, shoving our mess tins forward and squabbling over the portions.\n I glanced at Peter, still a teenage boy drowning in a dead man’s jacket, but there was a fierce set to his jaw that wasn’t there before. I looked away and dipped my spoon in the steaming broth; it tasted more sour than usual. \n “Fuck me Knocker, did you dip your cock in this? It tastes like someone’s arsehole” Mac pulled a face that was somewhere between a gag and a grimace”\n “You’d know what that tastes like wouldn’t you” Knocker didn’t miss a beat as he poured the last portion for himself.”\n Jonesy gigged like a girl at this. Not to be outdone, a sly grin slid over Macs face. \n “You know what. It’s worse than arseholes, it tastes like your mum’s…”\n “Ahem.” A man coughed from the walkway. He was tall with gaunt cheeks and a well groomed moustache. Though he wore the uniform of an officer, his well worn jacket and boots spoke of hard time in the trenches. \n Mac reddened, he threw up a salute still holding his spoon flinging a soggy carrot at the wall. The rest of us bristled to attention. \n “Sorry to interrupt your supper gentlemen.” He stood with the composed air of man used to being listened to. “I’m Captain Wallbridge from the Rifles 7th battalion. We hold the line a mile east of here.” He pointed his arm down the direction he’d come from. \n “I don’t have long so I'll just get to it. Reports from our spies indicate a German high value target is visiting the trenches opposite my unit's position. The general wants us to strike, and strike now.” His moustache quivered as he spoke. “Unfortunately our earlier efforts have left us with mass casualties and what men we do have are weak and tired”\n He stood up a little straighter when he said, “I come here seeking volunteers for this mission. I’ve spoken to your colonel and he’s agreed to it.” \n I rubbed my temples and studied the other mens faces. Mac found something to poke at in his mess tin. Jonesy fiddled with a button on his jacket and Knocker stirred his ladle in an empty pot. \n “I have three brave men joining from Charlie company and two from the engineers, make no mistake, the General sees this as top priority and Colonel Howes will draw names if necessary.”\n Further down the trench a soldier coughed, a dry hawking sound that made you want to rub your chest. \n I closed my eyes and remembered our battle cry, the strength of our voices and pride in our hearts. The sound got louder until it started to change. Twisting into the high pitched animal screams of Danny, begging for his mother as he tried to stop his intestines from touching the mud. \n Then all I could see was Rosie, smiling from her golden curls as she reached to take my hand. I opened my eyes and kept my mouth shut.\n Peter shifted in his jacket. He poised his arm to lift, and pay the price of courage. Reflected in those young blue eyes was glory, medals, and victory parades and he opened his mouth to speak.\n My hand snaked out beneath the blanket and snatched his arm, preventing it from rising. He looked at me, I shook my head, and when he tried to pull away I only squeezed it tighter. I watched his face take a faltering step from disbelief to anger before it finally settled on the hard lines of hatred. \n “Nobody?” the Captain said. \n Peter remained silent. \n “Ok gentlemen thank you for your time.” There was no malice in the small smile he gave us, just the weary acceptance of a man who had heard the screams himself. \n We came to attention and he saluted smartly, turning on his heel. Then we watched him trudge away down the trench, towards the next cramped dug-out and the next group of soldiers, gathered round a pot. \n The men turned back and finished their meal. Jonesy reached for his bible and Mac for once, left him alone. Knocker went back to humming his soft tune as he turned off his cooker. \n I turned to Peter. He trembled at my touch and a slow tear rolled down his cheek. Underneath the blanket, I gave his arm a gentle pat. I hoped he would never get a chance to understand." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: What Love Is\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1537\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with one character setting up a romantic dinner, and end it with them looking at a framed wedding photo." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Lauren stepped back to survey the table, wondering briefly if the heart-shaped foil confetti was a bit too cheesy. She shook her head to dismiss the thought; questioning herself was becoming a habit, one she didn’t want to stick. She was hoping tonight would set things on a smoother path, help her unravel the knots her mind had kinked itself into lately. \nLauren tensed when the doorbell rang. Was that a normal reaction? She wasn’t sure what normal was anymore although her best friend, Cameron, told her she was certainly missing the mark. But tonight would be good: her parents were out of town, dinner smelled delicious, and she was a woman in a committed relationship. \nShe reached up to tighten the ponytail that flowed down her back in a mass of beachy curls and opened the door with a smile. \nAnd there he stood: Barrett Malin, with his dark tousled hair, hands resting lightly on his hips, and his mouth turned up on one side, the same expression he wore the first day he fixed his eyes on Lauren. She remembered that moment as magical even though Barrett had had his hands shoved into Arin Malone’s front pockets as she leaned back against him. But Barrett had ended things with Arin that day, and Lauren had been his ever since.\nShe reached out a hand to draw him inside. “Hey, there.” \nHe stepped forward, but frowned. “I thought you’d be wearing your hair down.”\n“Oh. I was just trying something--”\n“It looks best down.” Barrett reached out a hand to touch her face, his expression earnest.\n“So I’ll take it down.” Lauren reached up to pull the elastic free, allowing her hair to tumble around her shoulders and, in that moment, decided to veer off her planned course for the night. “I was actually thinking of cutting it. Might make it easier to deal with in the mornings and give me more time to practice before school.” \n“Bad idea. Leave it like it is.”\nLauren smiled tightly. “Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”\nThey moved toward the table, but before she could make it to her seat, Lauren felt Barrett come up behind her. His arms circled her waist, pulling her close. He spoke softly in her ear, “You know I only say that about your hair because I want you to look your best. Because I love you.”\nLauren felt a bit of the ice that had started to form in her heart thaw. She turned herself in Barrett’s arms. “I know.” He tangled his hands in her hair and drew her in for a kiss, only releasing Lauren when she was breathless. Barrett glanced toward the table and raised his eyebrows. \n“This looks amazing. How long are your parents out of town?” His smile spread slowly. \n“Until tomorrow evening. They take weekends like this every once in a while. Something they learned in a marriage retreat a long time ago.” Lauren took her seat, spreading a napkin across her lap. \nBarrett’s forehead creased. “Marriage retreat? What a crock. No offense. I mean, I’m glad your parents are out of town. But my dad said he and my mom went to a marriage retreat once, a long time ago, and he said it was like being brainwashed. Like they were trying to make him into a woman, all emotional and mushy.”\nA question wormed its way into Lauren’s mind. “Did your mom like it?”\n“Huh?”\n“Did your mom like the marriage retreat?”\nBarrett shrugged. “Oh. I don’t know. She never said.” \nFunny that in their time together, Lauren had seldom seen Barrett’s parents in the same room together. Their conversation was stilted, not unlike that of two strangers trying to find a bit of common ground while waiting for their turn in the doctor’s office. Come to think of it, Lauren mostly saw Mrs. Malin in the kitchen, always dressed beautifully in tailored suits, her hair styled to perfection, flowing down her back in long waves. Lauren had always wondered why she didn’t pull her hair back when cooking, and now she felt the beginning of an alarm bell in the back of her brain. \n“My parents loved their retreat.”\n“Okay. Great. Are we going to argue about pros and cons of marriage retreats?” Barrett furrowed his eyebrows.\nLauren gave herself a mental shake and took a moment to chew a bite of salad, her first of the evening. “No. That’s not what I want to do. Argue, I mean.” Barrett’s face relaxed at Lauren’s relinquishment. “I’ve actually got something really exciting I want to tell you.”\n“What’s up?” \n“Zeke and Cameron have asked me to come back to the band. To be their drummer again.” Lauren succumbed to the hope that bloomed in her chest. “We’ll have to practice hard, but there’s a competition coming up this summer and--”\n“And what?” Barrett snapped off the words, and Lauren sneaked a glance at his hardened face before glancing back down at her salad and continuing.\n“And. . .I want to do it. I’ve missed being part of a group.”\n“Would you miss me more?” \n“What?”\n“You heard me. Would you miss me more?”\n“I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”\n“We won’t survive you being back in the band, Lauren. Not with Zeke and Cameron. She’s always putting ideas in your head, and he’s always standing a little too close to you.”\nLauren decided to try a different tack. Barrett had always been more physical, and maybe she could work that to her advantage. \nShe stood and moved over to his seat, leaning back against the table and placing her hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I really want to do this, Barrett. Can you just be happy for me?” She hated that her words sounded like a plea for permission.\nBarrett sighed under her touch and lowered his head. It’ll all be okay, she thought. A brief image of double dating with Zeke and Cameron flashed through her mind. It might take a while, but they would get there. She began to relax until she felt Barrett shoot upward, heard the chair clatter to the floor behind him, saw her arm fall from his shoulder, and registered the grip of his hands on her upper arms. “If you do this, if you pick them over me, we’re over. You better think about what you’ll be giving up.” \nLauren gave herself a moment to absorb his words, to let the feel of his thumbs pressing into her flesh sink in, and then felt herself finally emerging as if from a fog.\n“I think you should go, Barrett.” Her words were quiet, but firm. “Now.”\nHe released Lauren and she took the opportunity to side step, putting some distance between them. She saw a muscle twitch in his neck.\n“Yeah, okay. Maybe I’ll give Arin a call. Heard she’s been asking around about me still.”\n“You do that, Barrett. I’ve got some phone calls to catch up on myself. And some practicing.” \nHe attempted to pin her with a glare, apparently decided she wasn’t worth the effort, and slung himself out the door, slamming it behind him. \nLauren allowed a few tears to fall as she fixed the deadbolt in place.\nWhen her phone rang a few moments later, she was relieved to see MOM lighting up the screen. She sniffed once and swiped at her eyes before answering.\n“Hey, Mom.”\n“Lauren! How’s it going, honey! Dad and I just wanted to check in on you. We’ve got dinner plans coming up shortly.”\nLauren heard her dad’s voice murmuring in the background and her mother’s effusive laughter. “Your father is finally taking me to that little family-owned Italian restaurant. Oh, and he had chocolate covered strawberries delivered to the room. I’ll save you some and bring them home.”\nLauren smiled in spite of the events of the evening. “I’m fine, Mom. You guys have fun. I think I’m actually going to stay at Cameron’s tonight. Did I tell you she and Zeke invited me back to drum?”\n“Lauren, that’s wonderful! Jack, Lauren’s going back to drumming! Your father is thrilled. You know we met in band class.”\n“I know, Mom. You’ve told me the story.” She paused and felt her heart lighten a bit. “But maybe you can tell it to me again when you guys get home, over the chocolate covered strawberries.”\n“Will do. See you tomorrow, sweetie.”\nLauren ended the call and headed to her bedroom to get some clothes together. She knew Cameron would be thrilled when she called. It had been a long time since she’d spent the night with her friend.\nShe passed the small table that stood against the wall in the hallway, her eyes instantly drawn to the framed wedding photo of her parents from so long ago, their hands clasped, smiles lighting their eyes. They hadn’t had just a happy moment; they were creating a happy lifetime.\nLauren ran her fingers lightly across the beloved faces in the photo: “This is what love is,” she quietly reminded herself, while at the same time taking a moment to mourn the fact that she had clearly seen what it wasn’t." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Home\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1662\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a drawing room." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The rectangular fire pit chiseled into the thick slate floor had witnessed decades of bartering, arguments settled, betrothals, rents paid, and fines levied; all of it happened here in this room. The Laird’s bench was the tallest and longest in the room, and if you weren’t there to see the Laird you waited by the fire until you were needed by someone. Always competing with the dogs, babies, or arguing neighbors, it was impossible to ever get close enough to actually feel the warmth of the fire in the stone floor, but you knew it was there. It always had done. This was the way they and theirs had done since anyone could remember. Covering this pit felt like a blaspheme of sorts. \nRegardless, the construction of the great double-sided brick monstrosity silently labored on; there was no great commotion, no fanfare. Dodd tipped a layer of the dun-colored mortar onto the bottom brick, laid down the next heavy brown brick, and scraped off the excess mortar in one fluid motion. He had carefully followed the instructions his cousin from the south gave him last spring, and spent months making the bricks to specification all summer. Having a fireplace with a chimney to draw out the smoke in the croft would improve their future much more than another milk cow. He was sure of it, even if Alfred was not. \nThe Laird, Dodd Kinchley, pulled a mud smeared rag from his belt and wiped his brow, leaving a trace of mortar on his cheek. He leaned back for a minute to evaluate his work. Putting in this walk-through fireplace would change their lives in so many unknowable ways, but he was willing to risk the ways of the old for this new instrument. With this process, the fire will be safe from draughts and spills and will warm the croft in it’s coldest corners, so that not even the smallest page boy in the village will be able work up a shiver here once he’d finished. His children would be healthy; the babes would not grow ill and die from the cold again. His brother’s children would forget the few truly cold nights of their youth, and will consider it necessary for every home to have a fireplace like this as they grow older. \nHe pulled his dark-coppered hair back into a braid and retied the leather thong, thinking of the few hours sleep he’d have once he’d finished here for the night. He’d need to have this finished by tomorrow so the mortar could have time to thoroughly cure before his wife’s Saturday bread baking. The anticipation of a Saturday was only tempered by the Sunday sermons chastising a man for gluttony, especially if the vicar didn’t get at least a muffin. She outshone them all with her breads, rolls, and cakes she and Albert’s wife put up on a Saturday. Dodd smiled in his entire being, his chest swelling with love for her once again. With a grunt, Dodd stood up straight, ran his broad knuckles over his mustache wiping away beads of sweat before bringing a mug of warm, frothy lager to his lips. Three hearty pulls later, Dodd holds the empty crockery out to his youngest child, Emmaline, to bring back to her mother for a refill. His shirtsleeves were sweat-soaked at the neck and stuck to his back, despite the croft’s only two glass windows raging with bitter cold through the late September night, and he would need another cider or two to keep his blood warm before he finished yet.\nAlfred was Wee Alfie when his parents died; his father in battle on another continent, and not long after, his mother and the babe inside her died in childbed. The midwife was from their village, and knew Dodd to be an honest, gentle, respectable young man, and she brought Wee Alfie to him to raise, as the villages numbers had recently been devastated by illness. There simply had been no one else. Dodd’s own parents had passed from this life long before, when he was a young man not yet twenty, but he had had the benefit of his mother’s embrace for most of those years and knew what it was to love a boy. Dodd was a thoughtful, considerate, good man every day of his life, but more so back then. There had been many a time when Wee Alfie tried his patience with argument, simply for the argument’s sake, or worse yet, take off fishing without telling him, leaving Dodd worried that he was in a ditch somewhere bleeding to death. Dodd loved Alfred, that was true enough; and Alfred loved Dodd. They may not have been born brothers, but were created as brothers by the Divine, and there was no arguing that. \nDodd considered that while his hands may have built the croft and it’s cookhouse, halls, stables, and gardens; it has been his younger brother Alfred’s love of love, life, and friendship that has made this croft truly their home. Because of Alfred’s natural enthusiasm for life which dragged Dodd out to the occasional dance, both men courted the woman they loved, married, and started families. Now it’s been almost twenty years since he drove his first corner post on this land, and Dodd believed that it was only right to make this first concession to the passage of time. They needed a cistern, but he’d go slow with the changes for Alfred’s sake. \nDodd had been careful to place the new firebox directly over the old one, although no one would ever know unless he told them. The thick slabbed oak mantel waited to be hung, and he’d hoped his brother would reconsider inscribing a bit of something wise for their families, for his carving skills were truly the best in the county. Dodd knew in his heart that this very fireplace, built with his two hands, would have far more impact on their lives than either brother could imagine, and he wanted his brother’s wisdom on display for all to see as well. \n\n“Grub!” bellowed the old man to the younger; both covered in plaster dust. The new owner wanted the walls rendered in a bright, reflective white plaster that would unite the “old croft” and the “Big House,” as they had invariably added on to the house over the years. \n“Grub!” He called again. \n“What’s got yer back up, Da?” Grub answered as he joined his father by the fireplace and saw what Pounds had discovered under the fireplace mantel. \n“I want you to witness a thing of beauty before it is filled in and covered up, son.” Pounds said. \n“Oh Da, you don’t think they’d cover that up, do you really now? No, not a thing such as that. No.” Grub whispered in silent disbelief. \n“I have been given clear instructions, boyo. I’m to sand this all down and paint it over with that white paint. The whole house is to be whitewashed inside and out, all the wood, in every room.” Pounds read from the sheet of paper in his hands. “This is the job that we were hired to do.” \n\n“So, what we have here is a superb example of a Victorian drawing room, with the croft’s original fireplace and mantel, which have been in continuous use for almost four hundred years. We’ve never let the fire go out of this old workhorse.” Tori used her very serious voice while explaining this to Dabney. “When the walk-through fireplace was built, the brothers were not in agreement, but Dodd persisted, and what you are leaning against at this very moment, was put there by his very hands. \n“There was no denying that this single fireplace turned an empty room with a few benches into two distinct spaces; the Hall and the kitchen. On top of those rooms, a new second floor boasted two bedrooms. There, Scotland’s Kinchley brothers and their descendants raised their families until the turn of the last century; in the simple croft with the huge fireplace. \n“An American branch of the family invested in the Kinchley estates through a tidy marriage in the nineteen-aughts, and made a few ghastly changes. Like whitewashing everything to make it appear austere and germ-free for my germ-phobic great, great, great grands.” Tori finished with an eye roll and a smile.\n“You really know your ancestral home’s history, sweetheart.” Dabney said.\n“Well, there are a few more things I’d like to know about this place.” Tori said, as she traced her fingertips lightly over the mantel’s whitewashed soft oak. \n“Like, hello, what is this?” Tori exclaimed as she bent over, her tiny flashlight exposing an inscription on the underside of the mantel: \n“Seasaidh fear eile leat gu bràth. Chan eil thu nad aonar.”\nThe quote was carved into a long, narrow wooden relief of stags, birds, trees, some buildings, and a river running the length of the mantel. It was beautiful. It was the estate, carved as it remains, but centuries before.\nThey both went for their cellphones to find a translation for what they were both certain was an old gaellic inscription. As she began to read the translation, the youngest surviving heir of the Kinchley family’s eyes welled with tears. “Another Will Always Stand By You. You are Not Alone.” \n“Is this an ominous thing, do you think Dabney? I mean, what exactly does that mean?”\n“Tori, quick question: is this place haunted?” Dabney asked. His eyebrows were up in his hairline and his eyes were as wide as a dinner plate. \n“What? No. Never once in all the history of this house has there ever been a haunting. Not once. Definitely not, I would have heard about it as a child!” Tori found her voice rising higher in pitch until she all but shrieked the last part. \n“And I’ve never seen this inscription before, either. Whoever put it there never told a soul it was there.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ryan\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1286\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone asking out an old crush, only to realize their crush doesn’t remember they’ve ever met before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Rina, when will you ask?”\n “Uh, ask what, Cynthia?” I asked dreamily. \n “For Ry-”\n “Don’t mention his name!” I hissed, getting up from my position with my face on my hands and elbows on the table. I lunged forward and smacked my hand over Cynthia’s mouth.\n “Mrf?” Cynthia’s voice was muffled as she spoke. “Feffe mo!” I translated that to: What? Lemme go! I slowly allowed my hand to drop to my side, as if I were talking to a giant and dangerous animal. “Why can’t I say, ‘The Name?’' Cynthia asked after taking a sharp inhale of breath. \n “Because he is right there!” I exclaimed in a hushed whisper. “If you say his name, he’s gonna look our way and-”\n “He’s looking at us right now.” Cynthia blurted. I whipped around and sure enough, there was Ryan with his group of friends, sitting on the grass, bit far away, but we could still hear them. Not close enough to pick out the words. Ryan picked up his hand, and waved. I waved back, and then immediately melted. I melted. I dropped to the floor, shaking all over. Feeling queasy. My heart grew wings and fluttered in my chest. \n “Rina, are you okay? Holly Jolly Ranchers!” Cynthia dropped to my side and secured me. “What’s wrong?”\n “H...He waved…I…Back…” I stammered. I meant to say: He waved back, and I waved back. But it all came out stuttered. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh.” I spoke quickly. “I waved back!” I got over my shock and jumped up, and squealed. The “Eeeeee!” Kind of squeal. I fanned my face with my hands. A few people casted weird looks at me. \n “Did ya eat a hot peppa?” A girl worriedly asked as she walked by. “Those thing are the worst.” \n “I did not eat a pig,” I retorted. \n “She means pepper.” Cynthia corrected. I felt myself turn red. \n “Right, er, sorry.” I apologized, and the girl smiled and accepted my apology before running off. \n “Back to what we were talking about; when will you ask him out?” Cynthia inquired. Man, she was really pushing it.\n“Never,” I replied simply. “I will never ask.”\n“Never?!” Cynthia exclaimed. “How come? I doubt you can just sit here all day and stare at him.” I sighed.\n“It’s not easy, Cynth. Plus, do girls even ask boys out?” \n“Uh, duh! You know Trisha?”\n“Uh-huh,” I replied. \n“She asked Aaron out, and now they’re a happy couple.” Cynthia explained. I huff.\n“Lucky her.” I throw out my lunch tray and headed up to Mrs. K’s classroom. Cynthia hastily finishes her chocolate milk and dunks it in the trash can, too. \n“Wait! Are you mad at me?” Cynthia pants-she is really not athletic. I glance behind my shoulder to spot Ryan talking with his friends, not looking at me. Perhaps he was looking at me but when he saw me turn he-\n“Rina? Earth to Rina?” Cynthia waved her hand in front of my face. “Rina? You alive there?” I grin.\n“Yeah, you just interupted my day dream. What if Ryan was looking at me but when I looked at him he turned away?” That thought sounded much better inside my head. Cynthia shrugged as we entered the school building.\n“Lunch is ending in two minutes, we’d better hurry if we wanna get there on time.” Cynthia reminded me, checking her apple watch. Just another reminder that Cynthia was rich. We assended the steps-two at a time and ran to Mrs. K’s classroom. The bell rang just before we opened the door.\n“Tik tok, ladies.” Mrs. K clicked her tongue. “Your late.” As if that couldn’t be more obvious, old lady. Mrs. K is old, she has gray hair pulled into a tight bun. She wears glasses that have those bead sort of things hanging off. Mrs. K was wearing a black button-up shirt with jeans, and a high-heel-ish shoe-it had that same click and that same thing under your heel, it was just more lower. Mrs. K is old-but at least her style can be a bit more...Pop-ish. You’d understand. Mrs. K is strict, too. Just you wait for it.\n“I want a 5-paaragraph essay about why you were late.” Mrs. K suddenly spoke-it was very quick. “And it must be done by the end of tomorrow!” Cynthia and I griminced. Strict, am I right? Mrs. K’s class is about Social Studies-boring. \nThe phone rang, and Mrs. K was there in a flash. “Hello?” At that moment, two boys began whispering to each other. The boys were so intact with their whispering, they didn’t notice Mrs. K drop the phone and click, click, click walk in her high-heely shoes to them. \n“Silence!” Mrs. K barked, slamming down her long ruler she always carried around. The two boys quieted. “Honestly, Steven, wherever I move you, your always talking!” \n“That’s because you always move me next to my friends!” Steven blurted. He covered his mouth with his hands right away. Mrs. K’s and Steven’s eyes both widend. Steven’s eyes grew big because he was in fear, Mrs. K’s eyes were wide because a student had never talked to her like that. \n“Middle-Schoolers like you should know better.” Mrs. K coldy said. “Detention for you, Mr. Peng for two months.” Mrs. K whipped around and walked back to the classroom, her back straight like a ruler. I hate social studies.\n ***\n\nI was now in collage. I’m still crushing on Ryan. For 6 years, I like him-and I still do. But now, he’s in my back of my head. I have more things to worry about, like tests for example. My pet bird, Trio, was part of my family. The collage I went to allowed pets-only birds and cats. No dogs, though. Dogs get slobber everywhere, did I mention they’re loud? Cynthia and I have the same dorm-just the two of us, Trio, and Pie. Oh, Cynthia got a bird too, her name is Pie. Pie is a creamy color, and the tips of her wings are yellow. Trio is quite colorful-from her head to her neck it’s yellow, from her neck to the stomach it’s a light green, and from the stomach to the tip of the tail it’s light blue. \n“I’m gonna go out on a walk with Trio,” I called to Cynthia as I walked out the door, Trio perched on my shoulder. Cynthia nodded, not even raising her head from her computer-Cynthia loves to study. She’s asian, so that explains most of it. \nI whistled, and Trio whistled back. I was strolling around fine, heading towards nowhere in particular. Trio sang “The London Bridge Is Falling Down,” while I listened. Then something made me stop on my tracks. I hushed Trio.\nSilence.\nThen…\n“Yo! Your m’man, Harry!” The familar voice greeted me. My blood turned cold as I stood rooted to the spot. I took a deep, shaky breath and peered around the corner. There he was. There he was. Oh my jumpin’ socks. There he was. Perfect as ever. Standing there, his brown hair messy, and his green eyes shining. \nThere was Ryan. \nI uttered a startled gasp and Ryan heard me. He looked at me and waved. \n“Hey, you okay?” He asked, coming over. “The color in your face…” My jaw gapped so wide it hit the floor. \n“R-ryan?” I stuttered. \n“Pardon?”\n“Ryan?” I repeated, more confident. \n“Uh-yes? Do I know you?”\n“Y-yes...It’s me...Rina Haryson.” I quietly whispered. Ryan stood there, thinking. His nose scrunched up a bit. \n“Nope, sorry Rina. I don’t remember you.”\n“I-I want to ask you something…” I contuinued as if Ryan hadn’t spoken. \n“Yes?” \n“W-would you like to go out on a date with 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: Cry Babies\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1053\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a group of sisters, or a group of brothers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Note: Contains violence toward children.\nCry Babies.\n‘You kids! Bloody wood box is empty. Whose turn is it to fill up the bloody kindling?’ As usual father’s shouts reverberate through a house sleep-warmed, closed off from soon-to-be new day. As a result, any remnant slumber is now shattered. Any time of the day or night might be a time for our father to shout, diminish our skills, or admonish for a job not done.\nThere are no turns in this house, no roster charts with lovely gold star rewards, nor an unwritten accord with child age-appropriate specific tasks; everyone does, every job. Any tasks can be considered a lot of children. More so with mum recovering from a stroke, plus recent departure of my two older brothers.\n‘Call it a working holiday driving right across Australia. Being bums, more like it.’ Our father’s response to Robin and Greg’s loading their possessions into a racing striped, orange Torana and heading east through wheat belts, then out across treeless spaces of Australia’s Nullabor Plain. Nothing like that for our father, he remained, ever present as a threat. More so now with mum in a hospital bed.\nEven before our three bedroom house, built by my father began to empty turns, jobs, selection of a scapegoat, were only mentioned in search of a victim. Part of Dad’s quest for an object to blame, rather than ply his strap on everyone. No-one ever admitted to anything being their turn.\n‘Get outta bed. Ya bloody, lazy, useless articles. Get some bloody wood for a man to get breakfast.’\nSo out into what felt like sub-arctic temperatures we stumble. Deathly afraid of our father’s wrath; A leather belt!\nWithout slippers, we trundle up dew-wet paths toward a woodshed. It’s still dark, and we haven’t brought torches. While we trip and tremble, chilled fingers attempt to find a few dry twigs. None seem to be available. Only moments pass before an ominous human cloud darkens an unlit shed even further.\n‘Yers can’t see a bloody thing, ya stupid idiots.’\nMy sister and I cower further under this new attack.\n‘Jeez! Ya thought yers had enough brains to bring torches.’\nA beam of light bites behind our retinas.\n‘Where’s the wood bucket? Back at the bloody house, of course. Empty as always. How was yers gunna carry kindling down?’\nThese questions are statements rather than requests for information. We remain silent, motionless, except for unstoppable shakes. I glance across at my sister and know we are both stunned into a stupor. My father’s presence can do such things. I remember once being shouted at, ‘ya think, being a carpenter’s daughter, you’d know what a 4 x 2 was.’\nWarm sparks of shared experiences arc across gaps in our consciousness. If only mum was present, she’d probably have made sure we filled the wood box yesterday, before todays rain and early morning dew.\n‘Here!’ he passes me the tomahawk. ‘Chop some.’\nFlat side of this little axe hits my chest, with enough force to knock warm breath into a cloud, but I dare not cringe away from his commands. Even a second’s delay, could cause a huge hand to follow tomahawk’s impact. Unless he removes his belt, and slices that through the air. He loads my younger sister’s arms with small, dry pieces of wood and sends her back through darkness, towards dull light of coming dawn. My arms will be loaded too, but not before Dad grabs the axe, mumbling ‘…bloody useless article…’ A title I will live with for all my years on earth. He shows me correct methods to chop kindling. Mine are too large and thick. His efforts produce paper thin, as tiny as match sticks specimens, something I cannot achieve, out of fear of having a finger amputated. As he keeps this tomahawk, plus his one-time competitive wood-chopper axes, and an enormous cross saw’s teeth all razor sharp.\nRain falls again while I return to our house.\n‘Hurry up. Bloody wood will get wet!’ He yells as long adult legs strode past me. Again an ominous shadow, meant to intimidate.\nI fall on wet cement, dropping my load in a vomit of sticks about our back door while he stands waiting straddling back steps, consuming light, and space. Blood fills my mouth, from a bitten lip. I won’t cry; I mustn’t cry. The strength of this conviction quickly vanishes, and I can feel tears dribbling down my face.\n‘Jeez, bloody Christ! Ya can’t do a bloody thing right.’\nTears spill out as his huge hand contacts my cheek.\nI pick up a few pieces of wood from enlarging puddles. But he has already gathered up most and gone inside, slamming the door, and only just missing my head.\nIn silence he builds a fire. When smoke hangs about, misting our giant stove, he begins to mumble. Complaining about wet wood…useless articles…stupid kids…can’t do anything right…who brought them into the world, who brought them up?\nDid his miss something, or my sister, and an older sister already left home, are his responsibility as we live under his guidance, and bear the wrath of his parenting style.\nMy sister has pieces of bark, dust and charcoal, debris from her load of wood, stuck to her nightie. She stands staring and shaking before embryonic flames. I felt my leg tremble from impacting path concrete, damp, and cold seeping, I sniff.\n‘Ya better not have snot on the wood, how’s it gunna burn if you do.’\nLittle flames leap, promising warmth, and hot food. Sustenance if not nurture.\nOur father turns to look at his two wretched offspring. ‘Get yer bloody selves cleaned up and stop ya stupid blubbering or I’ll give you something to really cry about.’\nOne day I will grow into a woman, and his aftermath will be present. Particularly when I learn the joys of endurance sport, a means to keep hurting myself like he did. All of us girls have failed marriages to look back on. Each has an obsession. Plus, our second brother winds up dead, after Dad won’t lend him any money and he decide to move north up into well paid areas and suffers an epileptic fit while working as a mechanic on a farm. Seems the parenting style blew our family apart." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Rose For Therese\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2124\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters whose first impressions of one another are wildly inaccurate." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Therese Malfatti hunched behind a tree amid the crackling leaves and pulled her dog, Gigons, against her chest. He whimpered and struggled to get free, but she held him tightly.\nHer mother called, \"Therese! It's time to go home!\"\n\"Hush, Gigons, don't let her hear us.\"\n \"Young lady, if you don't answer me in three minutes, you'll regret it.\"\nFootsteps crunched on the path and stopped near Therese's hiding place. Then her mother went further along the path and disappeared over a rise. Suddenly Gigons leaped from Therese's arms and sprinted away among the trees.\n\"Gigons! Wait, come back!\" Therese gathered up her heavy skirts and waded through the knee-deep leaves.\n \"Gigons! Oh, please come back, you mean dog,\" she panted. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She brushed her damp curls from her forehead. The woods were suddenly silent. Her dog seemed to have vanished entirely. She wondered where her mother had gone as well.\nShe stepped over a fallen branch and pushed through a stand of dry birches into a clearing. A man was sitting amid the fallen pine needles, his back against a tree with peeling bark. His shabby green coat was missing several buttons, and leaves clung to his baggy trousers. His shaggy black head was bent over a sheaf of papers as he scribbled rapidly with a thick red pencil, uttering strange noises that almost sounded like singing.\nTherese gasped. Suddenly a hairy form came hurtling past her, barking loudly.\n\"Gigons! Wait!\" But the dog headed straight for the man in the clearing, who looked up, startled, and leaped to his feet. Gigons barked and danced around him. The man shouted and tried to fend off the dog with his papers.\nTherese smothered a giggle. Gigons always chased after the fish peddler because he didn't like that individual's peculiar odor, and this peasant obviously reminded her dog of him. But what was a fish peddler doing out here in the Vienna woods, so far from town?\nThe man glanced up and saw Therese half-hiding behind her tree. \"Is this your dog?\" he yelled in a hoarse voice between Gigon's yelps. \"Schnell, schnell - get him off me at once!\"\n \"Come, Gigons! Come, boy!\"\nThe tramp waved his papers threateningly. Gigons growled, and his fuzzy ears went back on his head. He bared his teeth. Therese leaped forward and caught his leash, tugging with all her strength.\n\"Go away!\" she gasped at the man. \"Hurry, before he bites you.\" Much to her relief, the strange man hurried away, grumbling loudly that all dogs ought to be chained up in cages.\nTo her relief, she saw her mother waiting for her on the path, her hands on her hips. Frau Malfatti frowned. \"Honestly, Tesi, you're such a child! One would never know you're eighteen years old!\"\n\"Oh, Mama, we just met the strangest man. Gigons didn't like him at all.\" Leaves clung to Therese’s dark curls, and her face was smudged with dirt. \"Please, Mama, let's stay a little longer! I'm so tired of being cooped up in the house.\"\nHer mother clucked her tongue impatiently. \"Must we go through this every time we come here? I know you love nature, Tesi, but enough is enough. My feet are sore and we must hurry back to town. We're having company tonight.\"\nTherese perked up at once. \"Oh, who is it this time?\" She wrapped Gigons' leash around her wrist and they started back towards the carriage.\n\"A friend of your uncle's,\" said Frau Malfatti, reaching to pluck a stray leaf from Therese's hair.. \"I want you to be polite to our dinner guests tonight.\"\n\"Of course, Mama. I always am.\" Therese turned wide innocent eyes on her mother, who wasn’t fooled.\nThe Malfatti house stood on a quiet street with trees and spacious gardens between the houses.\nThe visitors arrived promptly at nine. Dr. Malfatti was a bachelor and often took his meals with Therese's family. He often brought his colleagues or students along, for there was always a bountiful spread.\nThe doctor introduced his companion. Therese gasped. It was the strange man from the woods! He was wearing a fairly neat black coat now, but his hair was just as wild. Therese lost her nerve and ran into the kitchen, nearly crashing into their cook\n“Mind yourself, Miss Tesi!” The cook set down her tray of dinner rolls and wiped her forehead with one broad arm.\nFrau Malfatti hurried into the kitchen. “Tesi, what are you doing in here?”\n\"Oh Mama, it’s the man from the woods. He has terrible manners, and now Uncle has brought him to dinner.”\n“Well, you can’t stay in here. Now stop being a child and go greet our guests.”\nTherese dragged herself out to the foyer. Her father turned and brought her forward.\n“Herr van Beethoven, this is my eldest daughter, Therese.” She forced herself to curtsy. “Therese, this is Herr van Beethoven, the distinguished composer.”\nThis unkempt clod was the great Beethoven? His ruddy face appeared unshaven, and she wondered if he ever bothered to comb his unruly hair. He was hardly any taller than she was. His small dark eyes gazed at her intently, seeming to pierce right through her, and she looked away. Suddenly he laughed loudly. Everyone jumped.\n \"I know you!\" he exclaimed, adding slyly, \"I hope you've tied up your dog.\" Therese blushed and didn't answer.\n\"What? You've met before?\" cried Anna, and Herr Malfatti chimed in, \"Yes, what's this about the dog?\"\n \"Oh, never mind,\" Therese muttered rudely. \n\"I hear you're very musical,\" the composer interrupted, as if he hadn't heard what they were saying.\n \"No, no, I'm - just a beginner,\" she stammered, desperately wishing the floor would swallow her up.\n \"Play for our guest, Tesi,\" urged Anna mischievously.\n “Yes, do, Therese,” urged her father.\nTherese sat down. \"I - I haven't practiced today,\" she said,\nBeethoven came over to turn pages for her. She edged away and plunged into the piece she'd chosen, Mozart's set of variations on \"Ah! Vous dirai-je Maman\", which we would recognize today as \"Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.\" It was the most difficult piece she knew.\nHer sister clapped wildly, and her parents smiled proudly, too dignified to applaud. They all looked towards Beethoven and waited for his opinion. \n\"You have talent,\" he said seriously to Therese. \"But the music must have feeling. Like so...\" and he took her place at the pianoforte, his burly shoulders hunched over the small keyboard as if it were a cobbler's bench. Under his touch, the lighthearted variations took on rich shades of sound and meaning, now wistful and delicate, now brilliant and full of fire. Therese stood watching him in astonishment.\n\"Your legato must be smooth, each note leading to the next,\" he shouted over the music. His thick stubby fingers flew over the keys, the notes falling like a string of pearls. \"And pay attention to dynamics,\" he went on, clearly enjoying himself. \"The fortes must be loud.\" Thunderous chords came crashing from the frail instrument. \"The softs must be - pianissimo...\" Now the notes were no more than a breath of sound.\nThe group sat spellbound as Beethoven began to improvise on the Mozart piece, embellishing it with bold countermelodies and dazzling changes of mood and color. The ungainly figure at the keyboard seemed larger than life, a wizard weaving magical spells and calling up dancing spirits. It baffled them that someone so strange and clumsy could produce such beautiful sounds.\nAt dinner, Therese found herself sitting next to Beethoven. He ate with great gusto, talked a lot, and when he smiled, they could see he had sparkling white teeth, a rare sight in those days. But his laugh! It was like a lion’s roar that hurt everyone’s ears.\nAnna asked him to name his favorite poets. Goethe, of course, he replied instantly, and Shakespeare in German. Therese looked up at him with new interest - she loved Shakespeare too.\nBeethoven glanced at her. \"Do you know why I call myself a tone poet?\" he asked abruptly. Before she could answer, he went on, \"Shakespeare holds the answer. 'But music for the time doth change his nature/the man that hath no music in himself...'\"\n \"Which play is that from?\" asked Frau Malfatti.\nTherese ventured a guess. “’Othello?’”\nBeethoven shook his shaggy head. “It's The Merchant of Venice,' act I, scene II.’ How about this one, Fraulein?\" 'And what love can do, that dares love attempt.- ' \"\n\"'Romeo and Juliet!'\" Therese clasped her hands to her heart and declaimed, \" 'Romeo! Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and hide thy name...'\"\n\"You are fond of poetry, then,\" said Beethoven. \"I will lend you some of my books, if you like.\"\n“Oh, we have lots of books in our library,” Therese said casually.\n\"What did you say?\"\n \"We have lots of poetry books in the...\" Her voice trailed off. Beethoven was leaning uncomfortably close to her. She edged away nervously. And then it dawned on her - she vaguely remembered her father mentioning that the composer was very hard of hearing, but too proud to admit it. So that was why he sounded so loud and angry all the time!\nTherese touched his arm timidly and offered him one of Pepi's honey-glazed pears. Beethoven gazed down at her warily for a long moment, then broke into one of his dazzling smiles and accepted her offering, his big white teeth biting into the fruit with gusto. When he asked for another, she laughed and passed him the whole dish. \nOne spring morning, the composer turned up at her home unannounced, strolling in their garden When she went up and touched his sleeve, Beethoven started violently.\n \"I was just admiring these roses,\" he explained hastily. \"Although wildflowers are my favorite. I can roam for hours in the country. Every tree, every rock, every flower gives me inspiration. No one can love the country as I do!\" He drew a deep breath and sniffed the fresh morning air.\nTherese had never seen him look so happy. She said, \"I can't wait to go to our country house. The woods there are very beautiful.\"\n \"You are fond of nature?\" he asked. \n \"Oh yes! Mother scolds me for running about in the sun like a wild animal. But nothing keeps me indoors in the summer.\" She went on cheerfully, \"I think that's why I love your Pastoral Symphony so much. It brings back my favorite sounds of the country - the brook and the birds, and the rainstorm.\"\n \"We are kindred souls, then,\" he exclaimed as they strolled along the path. \"Every summer I look forward to going away to the country. Without nature's uplifting beauty close at hand, I always feel as if I would go mad.\"\n \"Then you must come and visit us next month,\" Therese cried. \"I'll show you my favorite paths.\"\n\"I would like that very much.\"\nTherese could hardly believe that this pleasant, well-dressed gentleman was the loud, irritable, unkempt man in the woods from last fall. On their way back along the path, she stopped to pluck a bright pink rose. She gaily presented the flower to him, saying, \"You may have one of our first blossoms!\"\nBeethoven accepted the flower as if it were a rare jewel. \"'A rose by any other name...' he murmured. \"I will treasure it always, as a reminder of your beauty, Tesi.”\nInside the house, he offered to give Therese a lesson.. She said, \"My teacher said I must practice my scales every day.\"\n \"Bah! There's more to good playing than scales. Listen.\" Beethoven sat down and began to improvise a flowing melody in the key of A minor. It was very simple but beautiful. \"Remember what I have told you,\" he exclaimed as he played. \"It's the feeling that counts.\"\nHe began to embellish the short theme, turning it into a torrent of sound, now sad, now playful, now teasing, now lightly drifting back to the original melody like a leaf falling from a tree.\n \"What beautiful music!\" she exclaimed. \"It's such a shame it's lost forever.\"\n\"No,\" said Beethoven. \"It's not lost. I can recall every note.\" And he repeated the entire piece exactly, note for note.\n \"Oh, that was wonderful!\" cried Therese. \"Could you write it down for me?\"\nHe smiled at her indulgently. \"Certainly, Therese. This is my rose for you.\"\nNote: This piece is perhaps the most famous piano music ever written. Originally entitled \"For Therese,\" the copyist misread Beethoven's sloppy handwriting and it was published as \"Fur (For) Elise.\" Though it's the bane of nearly every piano recital, it shines with Beethoven's characteristic drama and beautiful melodies when played well." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Not the Type\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1555\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone asking out an old crush, only to realize their crush doesn’t remember they’ve ever met before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Please move.”\n\nThere are two types of people, the people you fall in love with. And the people you don’t. \n\nPeople you fall in love with are usually kind and humorous. Intelligent and good-looking. Good-natured. They had the boy/girl next door looks and were protective without being obsessive. They weren’t judgemental and dismissive, and they truly believed in humanity. They made you believe in humanity. \n\nYou don’t fall in love with selfish pricks. Self-absorbed moody assholes. You don’t fall in love with the brainiac in a leather jacket. Not truly. Only in the stories. \n\nOnly there did people really fall in love with the ‘grumpy jerk’.\n\nOr the ‘sensitive player’.\n\nOr whatever. At least as immediately as people do. \n\nPeople just don’t do that in real life.\n\nStill...all throughout high school, I had the biggest crush on Jeremy Winters.\n\nJeremy Winters, you guessed it, was not the boy people fell in love with. He is a loner in all black, always reading a thick book, in the corner of the library. He is living off of his pops’ money...he is incredibly rude.\n\nMany kids don’t bother to notice him because really… he never seemed to have anything to offer.\n\nNo winning personality.\n\nNo exceptional good looks.\n\nNo generosity.\n\nOnly a big brain. And not many knew that because he seemed to not care much for the plebes in school. \n\nBut I knew. I knew a lot from the 4 years of seeing him at the library. I knew because he read Kurt Vonnegut and Canon of Sherlock Holmes. I knew because he was in all advanced classes. I knew because the few classes he shared with me were the advanced ones.\n\nIt wasn’t an all-consuming crush. It was a passing crush. A tiny steady crush, the kind of crush that was inconsequential. The kind of thing that didn’t matter, didn’t change my way of living.\n\nExcept that before I would settle into my usual sofa spot at the library I’d check to make sure he was already reading. And I’d make a point to check what series he was reading and if I haven’t read it...well I would soon after he checks it in.\n\nI saw him rebuke all attempts of friendship made by the few kids who tried.\n\nGiving the friendly dude the cold shoulder.\n\nOr the sweet girl a glacial glare.\n\nHe was standoffish in a way that screamed ‘I’m better than you’.\n\nStill… my tiny crush lingered. 4 years through high school, even as I dated and fell in love with others. (Okay, I dated like one boy and flirted a bit with one girl but to me that was plenty.) My crush on him was not unlike the crush I had on my book heroes. Not unlike the way I would wish to be able to marry the protagonist in my stories.\n\nIt was a fun thing to have. A crush on someone so untouchable. \n\nAnd yet...here he was. Right in front of me, he matured a lot. His face was neutral instead of cold. His used to be shaggy hair cut in a professional haircut, square jaw well-muscled, and brown eyes alert. \n\nHe was wearing a nice crisp expensive-looking suit...of course, he was. He clearly just left the office and apparently was ...my boss’ business associate. \n\nIs it sad that I recognized him immediately?\n\nThe wind was rough and cold and blowing my short hair into my face. Jeremy stared at me, unimpressed. \n\nI’ve watched this boy from afar for 4 years...only talked to him once. On the last day of school. Never have I tried to befriend him. Always content to watch and admire from afar.\n\nBut he wasn’t far anymore, was he? He was right here.\n\n“Hi Jeremy,” I smiled at him, tucking my hair behind my ear.\n\nHis frown softens, that was enough to spur me onward, “It’s been a while...how have you been?”\n\nHe steps out of the elevator as I move aside, we walk to the stoplight together. Where we can cross the street to the parking lot.\n\n“We should catch up,” I babble excitedly, “there’s a coffee place across the street with-”\n\n“Do I know you?”\n\nAh.\n\nIt shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. It wasn’t a slap to the face...no, more like a punch to the gut. Like someone squeezed my lungs, making it hard to breathe.\n\nHe doesn’t remember me.\n\nMy eyes heat and my nose tingles. I duck my head to hide my tears, I think the tears surprised me more than my hurt.\n\nSo stupid.\n\nOf course, he doesn't. We shared the same high school but I was the one to notice him. I'm a stranger to him...and we only ever talked once. \n\nLast day of senior year. Where I asked him to sign my yearbook and asked if I could sign his...and of course he couldn't remember that. \n\nHe may have been an immortalized god in my head but to him...I was nothing. He didn’t know I existed. Duh...\n\nJeremy was fixing his scarf, clearly anxious for the walking sign to light up, clearing him from this conversation.\n\nIt’s not even a conversation.\n\n“Uhm, no one, I guess,” he looks at me sharply, clearly surprised that I was still talking, “but we used to go to the same library. At school. And we sort of talked on the last day.”\n\nHe looks at me flatly, clearly uninterested in what I'm saying.\n\nHe didn't even bother to pretend to look interested. \n\nBastard.\n\nBut, it doesn't matter, untouchable bastard or not...I was still talking to him, no?\n\nI press a cold hand to my hot left cheek, then the other one “I-if you still have your senior high school yearbook...I signed yours, on the last page, top, in purple pen. I signed it as ‘Veronica Heinz’. I don’t remember what I wrote. But you laughed, so I think it’s funny.”\n\nIt wasn't cold enough for my breath to take shape but I already felt my ears becoming cold. Uncomfortably so.\n\nThe streetlights changed, we should cross the street now. But we stood there. Just staring at each other as people rushed around us.\n\nHe still hasn't said anything.\n\n“If you find it and if you remember me then...if we see each other again. Let me treat you to some coffee. If only to apologize for hassling you.”\n\nHe opened his mouth but I was already stumbling on the street, head ducked down to avoid the wind. Cheeks burning and smile growing.\n\nI did it.\n\nI talked to him. \n\n..\n\nJeremy didn’t know the short hazel-eyed girl who talked to him.\n\nHe’d remember talking to someone. He barely did any of that in high school. Nevermind laughing.\n\nBut still, he asked his mom to dig around for his highschool yearbook and turn to the last page. Asked her to take a picture of the last page.\n\nHe thanked his mom, reassuring her he’ll be back for the holidays. \n\nZooms in on the top, there in neat handwriting was the name; Veronica Heinz, under there name she wrote in quotation marks;\n\n‘As stupid and vicious men are, this is a lovely day.’\nIf you recognize the book I wouldn't be surprised, this seems to be your life motto.\n\nHe chuckles, not quite getting what she meant by that. He looks at the rest of the signed names, most just initially some kids scribbled in. Then he finds something else, another note in the same ink as handwriting as Veronica’s. On the bottom corner of the page. Written so small it was hard to read, zooming in only made it blurry.\n\nJeremy rolled his eyes.\n\nWhatever.\n\nIt didn’t matter.\n\nYet still..he had his mom send him the yearbook. He got it a week later. \n\nThe tiny passage read.;\n\nMaybe I'm being bold, after all, I've only spoken to you once. And from afar you look like a dickwad, but I don’t think anyone who reads Little Women with such a giddy smile can be a true jerk. I think you gave up on humanity. But...I don’t think you gave up on good. That’s why you read, right? Because it’s so much better? Well… I think you can make the world a better place if you want to. Or not. I don’t know you. \n\nHe remembers. \n\nHer hair was longer back then.\n\n--\n\nShe looks up at him, wide-eyed “I didn't think you’d be back.”\n\nHe didn't either. \n\nHe was not the type. The type of girl people would stop in the street, to ask her for her number. Not the type of girl he thought he'd go to coffee with. Her hair was short and he liked long hair. Her eyes es were hazel green-brown and he liked blue.\n\nShe seemed timid but her note on the yearbook was anything but.\n\nContradictory.\n\nShe wasn't the type of girl people fell in love with. At least not immediately.\n\nBut what the hell did they know?\n\nNothing. \n\nAnd to be honest, neither did he.\n\nBut, for the first time in a very long time, he wanted to know more.\n\nHe averts his eyes, “I just wanna make it clear,” said Jeremy, following her into a coffee shop “I wasn’t smiling giddily.”\n\nShe raises an eyebrow, “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking 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: All's Fair in Jokes and War\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2946\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes (or subverts) the enemies-to-lovers trope." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Upon hearing that the Brandt farm had requested a work detail from Stalag V C again, Private Jahn didn’t hesitate to storm into Captain Westheimer’s office to say, “If you decide to take the prisoners to the Brandts, I am not coming with you.”\nWestheimer raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think that tone of voice will convince me to let you stay here, son?”\n“You know how much I hate Griselda, and she hates me. So much so that she’ll stop at nothing to make our stay a living hell for me.”\n“You are both adults. You can be around each other for a few hours without resorting to petty pranks and trickery.” Westheimer took a sip of his coffee.\n“I thought you made a point out of respecting our wishes.”\n“I do, but I do not appreciate when you attempt to abuse my compassion to get out of duties or acting more mature.”\n“How do you expect me to be more mature around Griselda? She’s nineteen, yes, but she acts like she’s nine!”\n“And who pulled her pigtails in grammar school and teased her for the littlest reasons?”\nJahn looked at the floor. “I did. I was a boy, sir, I didn’t know better.”\n“But you and her continue to heckle each other every single time we take a work detail up to the farm. Surely, you ‘know better’ now.” When Jahn didn’t answer, Westheimer added, “You will be coming with us, and you will do your best to ignore whatever Griselda throws at you.”\n“Even if she starts throwing enchanted eggs again?”\n“Yes.”\nWhen Westheimer wasn’t looking, Jahn rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath.\n------------\nJahn assisted with selecting a group of prisoners to take to the farm, keeping his head down and trying not to look disappointed. He and Griselda had a history since they were in school together, and their rivalry hadn’t ended since. They both came from witch families, and it seemed like much of their practice came from pranking each other, something neither of their parents were fond of. When Jahn was conscripted at the start of World War II, he thought it would be the end of dealing with Griselda. Upon being moved to Stalag V C, which was incredibly close to the Brandt farm, he quickly realized she was never going to truly leave his life.\nHe sat in the back of the truck, tightened his helmet chinstrap, and pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth, hoping he would be unrecognizable. From the corner of his eye, he noticed British Private Wraight grinning at him.\n“I take it you’re not looking forward to seeing the farmer’s daughter?” he asked.\nJahn didn’t respond, and instead glowered at him.\nWraight turned to face him. “I know I’m not the best at advice on women, but have you ever considered the idea that perhaps she likes you?”\n“I doubt it.”\n“Well, think about it—do you really, truly, genuinely hate her? I mean, hate her so much you wish you could shoot her?”\nJahn shook his head, and pulled his scarf down. “I dislike her, but I’d never want to hurt her.”\n“Why do you dislike her so much?”\nJahn shrugged. “We picked on each other as kids, and it evolved into a bit of a joke war. She pranks me, I prank her. We never do anything that could get the other hurt. It gets a bit heated at times, though.”\n“So, it’s more about trying to outdo the other person than about extreme hatred of each other.”\n“I guess you could put it that way. Doesn’t make her any less annoying. I’ve never really felt anything for her other than rivalry.”\nPrivate Liebermann smirked and shook his head. “Oh, I can tell you that’s not true.”\nJahn reached over to slap Liebermann’s helmet. “Are you incapable of minding your own business?”\n“I can mind my own business, but it’s not hard to see that you do care about Griselda.”\n“I care, but not in a romantic way.”\n“I’ll believe that when you don’t blush every time you talk about her.”\n“I’m with Fritz on this one,” Private Seiden chimed in. “You do blush when you talk about Griselda.”\nJahn sighed. “Why are my problems with Griselda anyone’s business? Are we all that bored that we have to intrude on everyone else’s personal life?”\n“We’re not intruding. We just want to help.”\n“Well, you’re not helping!” Jahn turned to face outside the truck, watching the snow-covered trees rush by.\n------------\nThere was hope that Griselda wouldn’t even see them that day as it was bitterly cold. Still, Jahn kept part of his face covered, just in case. He looked out over the vast expanse of the farm. The fields were a blanket of untouched snow, and everything was a very dull, lifeless color. The trees bore no green. The sky was gray. The ground was either covered in snow or brown with dead grass and frozen dirt. Typical January.\nJahn and the other guards simply had to pace and make sure none of the prisoners ran off. Liebermann and Seiden were off talking with other, leaving Jahn alone outside the barn, watching their charges fill the troughs of the pigs and cattle and horses. Some of the animals were delighted to see them again, though Sergeant Plundell didn’t seem thrilled about being tackled by the Brandts’ dog.\nMovement in the rafters above caught Jahn’s attention. He looked to see Griselda perched on the beams, bundled in a winter cloak and holding a broom. She was giving him a mischievous look. “Good morning, Jakob,” she said.\n“There’s nothing good about a morning where I get to see you,” Jahn replied.\n“Oh, you’d rather be back at a boring prisoner-of-war camp, doing nothing exciting?”\n“There’s plenty of excitement that goes on.”\n“Like what?”\nJahn struggling to think of anything noteworthy that happened over the last several weeks. “Well, we got a new prisoner who bit one of his escorts and tried attacking Westheimer. Major Kersting gave us a few crates of tea, which immediately led to fighting because the British take tea seriously. We accidentally received another prisoner by him parachuting a little too close to us, and . . . we tried making an ice-skating rink in the exercise yard but Seiden twisted his ankle and Westheimer ruined it for everyone else by getting rid of the ice.”\nGriselda laughed. “See, wouldn’t you rather come here and have fun?”\n“You call getting snow down your back ‘fun?’ You think having magical eggs being thrown at you is fun? Or a blueberry pie rigged to blow up in your face?”\n“You’ve done similar things to me and laugh about it.” Griselda sat on the broomstick, floating down to the hay-covered floor of the barn. “You’ve enchanted my braids to knot together. You made jack-o’-lanterns bounce all over the farm and make a horrible mess last Halloween, and I believe that was the same Halloween where you set bats loose in the barn!”\n“Admit it—the jack-o’-lanterns were much funnier and more effective than the blueberry pie.”\n“The pie was revenge for my braids.”\n“And the braids were revenge for the snowman you made come to life and put chunks of snow down my uniform—wipe that grin off your face! I could’ve caught pneumonia after that, and Wenzel would have blamed me for letting my clothes get wet!”\n“But you didn’t catch pneumonia, so it was funny.”\n“And what if I did? What if I was laid up sick for weeks? Or died? Then you wouldn’t have anyone on your level of cleverness and cunning to prank.”\n“That’s silly talk. I could have found someone else as smart and inventive as you.”\nJahn tilted his head. “What did you say?”\n“I said, I could have found someone else as smart and inventive as you.”\n“Smart and inventive? You really think that?”\n“Well, you did say I’m clever and cunning. I figured it was fair to compliment you back.”\n“It’s funny because I’ve only ever heard you call me ‘dumb.’”\n“I don’t actually think you’re dumb, Jakob. You think outside the box. Sometimes a little too far outside the box.”\n“I didn’t realize that was a thing.”\n“With you, it can be.”\nJahn managed a grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”\nBefore the conversation could continue, both Jahn and Griselda jumped when they heard a man screaming outside the barn, and turned to see Private Kesby trying outrun a bull that had broken out of his pen. Griselda jogged out, and looked at Jahn. “Do you speak English?”\n“I’ve been learning.”\n“Tell him to get over the fence.”\nNodding, Jahn cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Kesby! Get over the fence!”\nKesby didn’t even look to see who was talking to him as he vaulted himself over the fence. That did nothing to stop the bull, which charged through the fragile boards of the fence.\n“We have to stop that animal before it gores him,” Jahn said.\n“Do you know the sleeping spell?”\n“It’s been years since I was taught it. I’ve never used it.”\n“I’ll give you a quick lesson.” Griselda took Jahn’s hand to pull him along as they ran toward the broken fence. “The neighbors are not going to be happy if that bull gets on their property.”\nDrawing their wands, the two sprinted through the groves of trees that separated the two farms. It was easy to follow the tracks of the bull and Kesby through the snow. Hearing Kesby’s panicked screaming made Jahn feel sick. “Westheimer will kill me if something happens to any of the prisoners,” he breathed.\n“Oh, stop worrying so much and keep going if you want to save him!” Griselda snapped.\nThey finally found the bull pacing around a tree. Kesby was holding onto a thick branch, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the two approaching. “Bloody hell, I thought I was going to be stuck here awhile.”\n“Just don’t move and we’ll get you down,” Jahn ordered.\n“Not a problem.”\nJahn glanced at Griselda when the bull faced them. “Alright, show me what to do.”\n“Aim your wand, focus on the idea of your target being asleep, and then flick your wand toward your target,” Griselda instructed.\nThe bull lowered his head, angling his horns at the two. Griselda shouted, “Now!” and a puff of bluish dust flew from the tips of both their wands, scattering around the bull’s head. He looked confused for a moment, then lowered himself to the ground to sleep.\nJahn released his breath. “That could have gone so poorly.”\n“But it didn’t.” Griselda smiled at him. “That was pretty good for the first time you’ve done a spell in a long time.”\n“Perhaps it was the fact that I was afraid for my life.” Jahn looked up at Kesby. “You can come down now.”\n“I don’t know how to thank you,” Kesby said while climbing down.\n“Um . . . don’t tell Westheimer?”\n“I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage that. Liebermann probably already told him.”\nJahn sighed. “I oughtta glue Liebermann to his bed one day so no one has to deal with his nosiness for awhile.”\n“And I’m pretty sure everyone heard me screaming.” Kesby looked at Griselda, then at Jahn again. “Tell her I’m sorry about the fence. If her father wants me to fix it, I’ll do it, and you don’t have to pay me.”\nGriselda shook her head after Jahn translated Kesby’s words to German. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think my father will order you to fix this.”\nOnce Kesby headed back up to the farm, Jahn and Griselda stood in silence for a moment, then looked at each other.\n“I didn’t think we would be seen dead working together,” Jahn said.\n“Imagine what we could accomplish working together, though,” Griselda replied.\n“I imagine we could accomplish a load of chaos.”\nGriselda’s grin widened. “Exactly. I say we call a truce and begin a partnership.”\nJahn looked around to ensure they were alone. “Just a partnership?”\n“What else would you call it?”\n“Well . . .” Jahn closed his eyes, sighing. “This is going to sound bizarre, but despite everything you’ve done, I do like you.”\n“Is this a joke, Jakob?”\nJahn shook his head. “It’s the truth. I really do like you. If we’re going to be partners now, I hope we can be . . . friends, too.”\nGriselda gave him a lopsided smirk. “You don’t want to be friends, Jakob.”\nJahn frowned.\n“You want more than that, you silly. Don’t dance around it.”\n“I mean, I didn’t know if you felt the same.”\nGriselda’s smirk faded. “To tell you the truth, yes, I do feel the same. I’ve liked you ever since I started to understand what my feelings meant.”\n“We just never advanced past the stage of teasing, and it escalated.”\nShe nodded. “It became frustrating. I guess that’s why we never really sat down to talk about it.”\n“You’re probably right, and I know it takes a lot for both of us to admit we’re wrong.”\n“I don’t think this is a case of us being wrong, rather a case of us being unwilling to set aside our pride.”\nJahn gave a slight nod. “I’ve been told to be mindful of my pride, but not to eliminate altogether.”\n“I would say that’s sound advice.” Griselda put her wand back in her belt before putting her arms around Jahn’s neck.\n“I just hope the others don’t see this.” Jahn hugged her back. “I’ll never hear the end of it.” Gently, he reached into Griselda’s hood to touch one of her braids, grinning before he said, “They are very soft and pretty.”\nJahn felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The years of unending torment were finally over. Years of wondering if their rivalry would ever fade. Even though things would change between them, Griselda would always be the person Jahn thought of when he wanted to escape from the world and his duties for a time.\nWithout thinking much about it, Jahn felt himself leaning in slowly, then Griselda grabbed his helmet, pulling him in for a long and passionate kiss. His entire body trembled as he hugged her tightly. Goosebumps rose on his arms. He wanted nothing more than to stay in that moment. It was blissful. It was peaceful.\nIt was interrupted by Westheimer shouting, “Jahn! Get over here! Time to go!”\nDisappointment abruptly washed over him. “When can I see you again?”\n“You’ll see me again soon,” Griselda whispered. “That’s pretty much a guarantee at this point.”\n“At least now I’ll look forward to it.”\n------------\nThe ride back to the camp was quiet. Jahn kept glancing at Westheimer, hoping the captain didn’t say anything about what he saw. Everyone’s attention was more focused on Kesby and his adventure with the bull.\nWhen they returned to camp, Jahn found himself wanting to avoid everyone. It would be embarrassing if everyone found out he was now madly in love with someone he had considered his worst enemy, and he wished he could bury himself in the frozen soil when Corporal Viermitz walked over and said Westheimer wanted to see Jahn in his office.\n“Am I in trouble?” Jahn asked.\n“Considering Westheimer didn’t seem angry, I don’t think so. I think he wants to congratulate you on saving Kesby’s life,” Viermitz replied.\nNodding, Jahn headed to the commandant’s office. A nervous twinge gripped his stomach when he stepped in front of Westheimer’s desk. “You wanted to see me, sir?”\nWestheimer was lighting his pipe. “I did,” he said. “I want to commend you for your quick thinking and bravery when handling that bull.”\n“You should be commending Griselda. She refreshed me on the sleeping spell.”\n“Yes, but you showed maturity in letting her teach you, despite your rivalry.”\nJahn didn’t respond at first. “I guess.”\n“You do not need to be ashamed of your feelings for her.”\n“I just don’t want the others finding out.”\n“Would you jeopardize your relationship for the sake of your status with the other guards?”\n“That doesn’t sound like it would be right.”\n“Precisely. It may feel strange for awhile considering you and Griselda were at odds for as long as you can remember, but I am happy you and her are turning things around.”\n“I take it this is the part where you give me advice?”\n“Only if you ask. I trust you will not let your feelings get in the way of your duties.”\nJahn nodded. “I will ask, though . . . if something happened, would you be able to get her into Switzerland?”\n“I would do the best I can, and—” Westheimer gave Jahn a small grin, “I can make arrangements for you two to have time with each other. I was once young and in love. I know how you feel. That, and I don’t want you sneaking out of camp.”\n“Thanks, sir. You . . . You really don’t have to do that for us.”\n“No, but I choose to.”\nJahn finally smiled back. “No wonder you’re the only commanding officer I haven’t played any jokes on.”\n“Oh, I still worry I will find chickens in my quarters like you did to your commander in France.”\n“As long as Griselda doesn’t suggest making you our target, I can promise that won’t happen.”\nWestheimer dismissed Jahn, and started to wonder if it had been best he and Griselda were kept rivals." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Meghan and Noah\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2989\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story about an older couple who’ve been together since they were teenagers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "‘Rise and shine babe!’\nTurning around I covered my head with the pillow not being able to tolerate my best friend’s screaming on a Monday morning. I mean any sane person wouldn’t feel so alive on a frigging Monday morning. But, Kat short for Katlyn is insane. Even if she parties all Sunday night (which she does almost every week), she would still wake up Monday morning in high spirits. Me, on the other hand is the complete opposite of her. I can’t barely keep my eyes open on Mondays at all.\nOh! Waitttt!!!!! I forgot to introduce my stupid ass. I’m Meghan short for Meg. Well, you there, yes you, the one who’s reading this, you can call me Meg! You should be glad, ya know. I don’t usually let people call me Meg unless you’re my best friend. If my best friend is that typical famous blonde cheerleader in every high school (which she definitely is as she’s blonde, has a crush on the star quarterback and have more than two million followers on her Instagram and insanely famous), then I’m that nerd girl who wears hoodies everyday to school and glasses and who’s invisible to everyone until they see me with Kat. It’s unusual for that famous cheerleader to be friends with the nerd girl right? Well, our friendship is really unusual but I wouldn’t give up my friendship with Kat for anyone.\nKat’s relationship with the star quarterback, Tyler, is complicated. Sometimes I feel like they are dating other times it feels as if they are just using each other. Well, I’m not a dating expert as I have been single since birth. Kat parked her red mustang in a free spot in the car park. We were walking towards the school entrance when the football team got down from the team bus. I glanced at Kat who stopped mid-track and who was staring at Tyler. Tyler didn’t see her at first but when he saw, he turned to walk our way just when the motorbike gang came. Usually in high schools, the star quarterback is the typical bad boy of the school. But in Stein High, it’s different. It’s Tyler’s step brother, Noah, who is the famous bad boy. Kat had told me that compared to Tyler, Noah is way more handsome but dangerous. I don’t know what she meant by dangerous but she forbade me to even talk with him and to have anything to do with him at all. To be honest, we go to the same school and probably in the same class, except he’s known to miss school a lot, I haven’t actually seen him close. More like, I haven’t seen him face-to-face even. Kat only shows me him when he’s either turned around or riding his bike. I don’t know if he’s dangerous or not but his bike is definitely dangerous. For some reason, Kat who talks with everyone in school, doesn’t talk much with Noah, which was actually surprising as if it’s a hot guy, Kat would definitely try to get along with him.\nKat once told me that Tyler and Noah are not in good terms and there’s bad blood between them due to their family situation. Which, I don’t know so don’t ask me as I’m still trying to figure out that part. I’m not the type to keep my head up at school but for some reason I wanted to see who Noah is and if he’s actually dangerous. Noah and his friends (more hot dudes. I know I know.. you are dying to come to my school.) got down from their bikes and I was actually trying to recognize who the hell Noah is as like I said I haven’t seen him closely. But, it didn’t take me too long to figure who is with all the girls around the entrance squeaking when the guy wearing a thick black jacket removed his helmet shuffling his messy brown hair. He must be dangerous in some way for Kat to keep her distance from such a handsome guy.\nNoah didn’t even look at Tyler but glanced around. His eyes stopped for a second and then landed on mine. He had ocean blue eyes that could melt anyone’s heart and he his lips were curled at the corner. It took me a second to actually realise that he was smirking for god knows what. I didn’t dare to move my eyes. His glare glued me to the ground making me unable to move. His gaze was quickly focused on his step-brother who was in front of him. I didn’t utter a word but when he looked at me, I felt something inside me burning. It felt like he acknowledged my presence which no one ever did when I was with Kat. No let me correct myself. No one had ever acknowledged my presence. I was that invisible person, be it in school, road or even at the convenience store I’m working at.\nThe whole day I was occupied with doing my homework even during the lunch break that I didn’t realized the school has ended. I was in the library which is in the far right corner of the school and there’s no speaker there for me to hear the bell ringing. Kat already told me that she has practices today until late as the football team is back and so I need to find my own way back. Only after I finished my homework and an assignment that I realized it was already dark. Panicked I searched for my phone and found it under a pile of books. I had twenty missed calls from Shane who had to wait until I arrive to finish his shift. The shift change was at 3p.m and it’s already 6p.m. this is what happens when you put your phone on mute. I couldn’t believe I’m 3 hours late for work and I promised Shane that I will be on time today as he said he had to take his grandma to checkup today. I’m someone who never goes back on a promise and I can’t believe I made Shane overstay his shift for me. I called him and told him to give me exactly 5 minutes to get there and then he can go and promised that I will do the tomorrow morning shift too.\nIt takes more than 10 minutes to get into the place I work from school. I ran outside zipping my bag shut and just when I ran towards the bus stop my bus went leaving me all alone in the middle of the road. I clutched down to my knees and breathed hard as I was out of breath. I’m not an athletic person ok. I can’t even climb stairs without breathing hard. It was dark and another bus won’t come until another hour. ‘Just my luck!’ I was busy trying to catch my breath that I didn’t realise a motor bike was speeding towards me until it was so close to me. I turned around to the noise and unconsciously sat on the road and covered my face getting ready to be hit.\n‘Hey, are you alright?’ a guy’s voice spoke up. Realising that I wasn’t hit, I opened my eyes. The motor bike was only few centimeters away and if not for the driver I would’ve gotten into an accident. I looked up adjusting my hoodie, to thank the driver but when I saw who it was my words got stuck in my throat. Removing his helmet, Noah was looking at me with concerned eyes. I quickly added that I was fine and thanking him, I turned on my heels to walk away.\n‘Wait, you’re Katlyn’s friend right?’ he asked me suddenly making me stop on my tracks. Turning towards him I gave a slight nod and added, ‘sorry, but I’m in kind of a hurry. So, bye!’ but what he then said, made me look at his eyes, ‘it seems Katlyn has told you to stay away from me.’ With his helmet still on his hands he leaned on to the motor bike and looked at me. When I didn’t say anything he said, ‘where do you want to go? I can drop you. I’m also going on the 45 bus route.’ I was actually dumbfounded to say anything. When Kat told me he was dangerous, I imagined him to be the gangster type. But the way he spoke, it was sincere. It was as if the person I was warned about and the person in front of me are two different persons unless he’s good at acting.\n‘thanks for the offer but I can go on my own,’ I told him smiling. He seems to have been taken back when he saw me smiling so I quickly stopped smiling. He raised his right eyebrow and then started laughing loudly. I gave a quick glance at my watch just when my phone started ringing. It was shane and before he could say anything I blurted that I was on my way and ended the call. Noah asked me again if I wanted a ride, which of course I wouldn’t have refused if its some other form of vehicle and not a bike. ‘I’m not riding that hideous thing.’ Getting on the bike, Noah gave me his helmet and added, ‘well this hideous thing wouldn’t eat you.’\n……………..\nFirst time riding a bike with Noah was one of the first things I did with him. For some reason, since that day Noah kept coming to the convenience store whenever its my shift. At first I thought it was a pure coincidence but later it was obvious that he only came when its my shift. Whenever he came, he stayed until my lunch break and we would have lunch together and sometimes dinner. He turned out to be complete different person and not the bad boy I was warned out. With time I knew he was honest, sincere and most of all kind. For the first time, I didn’t tell Kat that I was talking with Noah or the fact that he’s visiting me. I was kind of glad when Kat told me she started dating Tyler as that gave me lot of free time to be with Noah.\nAt school, Noah ignored me the same way I ignored him but he kept texting with me. I knew I was slowly opening upto him and I could feel he was opening upto me too. We were polar opposites but some how I managed to get along with Noah better than with Kat sometimes. I ended up looking forward to see him and talk with him and whenever he didn’t come somewhere in my heart it was hurting. I didn’t realise that I was falling love with the bad boy of Stein high until Kat caught both of us when we were having lunch one weekend outside the convenience store.\nI was scared that Kat would be mad for lying to her but when she heard from me about all the times I spent with Noah, she asked me, ‘Meg, you love Noah don’t you?’ I didn’t realise that I was in love with him until Kat pointed out to me that I was. For me it was a sweet feeling but part of me was scared that he might not feel the same about me.\n…………………….\nOnce Noah came to my house to do homework with me as it was a day off for me. It wasn’t the first time he came to my house but I still felt self-conscious whenever he turn-up. I didn’t confess him to yet but I was dying to know his reply. We working nonstop and Noah was surprisingly good at algebra. I didn’t realise it was already 10p.m until I looked at my phone to see the time. When I told Noah the time, he started packing his things up getting ready to go as apparently he has curfew from 11p.m.\n“I’m sorry, I took too much of your time,” I said looking at him. Noah just shook his head and said, “no worries. It was quite amusing to see you so engrossed.” He stood up and stretched his arms and legs. I gave a slight nod and asked out of curiosity, “you won’t get scolded for being late right?” making his way towards the door he said shuffling my hair, “no idiot. It’s still 10p.m. I can get home in less than an hour” Saying bye, I opened him the door and held it for him. He stopped to say something but shaking his head he said goodnight and turned to leave just when there was a black out.\n‘No no no. this can’t be happening. I didn’t get any message saying there will be a black out today. I can’t have a panic attack. Not in front of him. Not again..’ I could feel my heartbeat racing. I kept clutching the door handle tightly not wanting him to see me fall. I could feel my breathing getting hard and my whole body shaking. Panic attacks are crazy. Sometimes they come without giving any notice. Sometimes you feel it upto the smallest bone of your body. You can feel your whole body breaking apart minute by minute making you hard to breath and making you want to scream out loud except the fact that you can’t even scream. Your body starts shaking until you can’t stand still. Some days it only lasts for few seconds but most days it takes more than 5 minutes for me to stop shaking just to drag myself and get my medicine from the shelf. You must think 5 minutes is nothing, but, that 5 minutes seems like a whole year for me. You can feel every little thing that’s happening to your body. You feel it but you can’t do anything about it except praying that someone will come and help or praying that it will be over soon.\nAnd my body gave in. I tightly curled my shirt up to a fist near my heart and started breathing hard. Not being able to stand anymore I fell to the floor. I tried not to think about it but it was all dark around me and I couldn’t do anything. I could see the door slowly getting closed and I couldn’t scream even when I wanted to so badly. I tried to concentrate my mind on something and not think about what was happening but it was of no use. I had to take my mind off otherwise I would be lying here until I could move and get my medicine. I could feel tears running down. More than anything feeling hopeless is something I don’t want to feel. With every bit of strength I had I cuddled myself and hid my head between myself. Just then the door opened with a loud bang and I heard someone calling my name.\n“Meghan. MEGHAN!!!”\nI slowly looked up and so Noah standing in the doorway looking at me worriedly. My legs were still shivering and my tears were falling nonstop. I didn’t want to see him like this. I was getting nervous and it was not a good sign at all. I clutched my shirt so tightly and bent to the floor trying to catch my breath in the dark like a hopeless animal. It was of no use. I couldn’t control my breathing nor my shivering and worst of all Noah was looking at me. Before I could find words to make him go, he suddenly bent down and held my face with both of his hands. His hands were so warm. In the dark I couldn’t see his face as the door had completely closed leaving us both in the dark. Then he kissed me. Slowly at first, barely touching my lips but then he kissed me so hard that I had to open my mouth. I didn’t have the strength to push him away. Even if I did I don’t think I would have pushed him. I could feel my whole body getting loosen up. My heart was still beating fast but the shivering had stopped and I definitely could breath properly except the fact that I was holding my breathe.\nWhen he let go of me, I said what I have been meaning to tell him for months, ‘Noah, I love you!’ he looked so surprised when I confessed to him but still holding my face with his left hand he said, ‘I love you too, Meghan. More than you would ever know,’ before kissing me hard.\n……………………………\nI was holding my husband’s hand tightly and tried so hard not to make my tears roll down my face. My children were all waiting around me patiently. He slowly and weakly opened his eyes and looked at me. He tried to tightly hold my hand back but it was too late. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t have the strength. Right now, he’s too weak and his whole body was dumb. We both knew it was his time to go and that nothing could be done. We were already in our 70s and can barely walk on our own. But his body gave away before mine.\nNot taking his eyes off from mine, he slowly spoke, barely audible, ‘Meghan, thank you so much for loving me and giving me good children. Thank you for spending your whole life with me,’ it was hard for him to speak and I could clearly feel him fighting for one last time against all odds, ‘I love you, Meghan. More than you would ever know.’ Before he could leave me forever, I kissed his feeble hand adding, ‘I love you too, Noah. Thank you for making me happy for so many years.’" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Push-Over\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2162\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a first date that surprises both people, but in different ways." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Feb. 14th, 1992\n\nIt's Valentine's day. Today, it's our day. Matthew and I both agreed that there shouldn't be a nation-wide holiday, for expressing love, but I like Valentine's Day and I've made him like it too.\n\nThe construction paper is this bright cherry red. The sides of it are lighter like a tide of water has scarred them over and over again, but this is the paper that I use every Valentine's Day. Since 3rd grade, where I proposed my love to Jonathan in the middle of the hallway, until now, Senior Year.\n\nI take out a pair of scissors and start cutting out a heart carefully on the side of the paper. I ponder over the objects in front of me. There are delicate paper roses, piles of shimmering glitter, thick fuzzy daisies, and patterned flowers that I made from old clothing material.\n\nThe hot glue machine makes a bunch of thin wires as I glue down watermelon paper roses on the border, then I carefully spread gold glitter in the center. It looks like me but a little confined. Less crazy and extra. Just perfect.\n\n---\n\n\"So who's gonna get that card?\" I point at the sparkly card in Macey's hand. She's tall and lean like a branch of a willow tree with sharp grey eyes and dark freckles dotting her nose.\n\n\"I don't know. Well, maybe I know. But I don't know.\"\n\nI stare at her for a bit and she finally cracks.\n\n\"Heath.\" she burrows her head under her jacket.\n\n\"He stole the contents of your locker yesterday and the day before!\" I half-shriek.\n\n\"He's been doing that for two weeks.\" Her grey eyes are so calm.\n\n\"Most kids call him Heathen, y'know?\" I grin.\n\nHer cheeks go red and splotchy. I never thought she'd like boys like Heath.\n\n\"So, you like him?\"\n\n\"I like the pleasure of his company. He walked me home yesterday.\"\n\n\"More like stalked you home.\" Macey likes him. Macey is that type of sweet girl. The one who makes her lunch instead of getting it at the cafeteria. She's the only one who diligently takes notes every single day in class. She keeps all her emotions in like a volcano, most kids think she's a dork, but once the volcano explodes, she's sweet and smart. Sweet girls like her don't deserve a heathen. They deserve Hercules for god's sake.\n\n\"Whatever, I like him okay?\" Macey snaps.\n\n\"Okay.\" If he does anything to her, I will kill him with my bare hands.\n\n---\n\nOur principal plays songs of our choice every year. Each couple writes down \"their\" song on the list and he'll play it. It was hard to choose. Matthew wanted Bed of Roses, but that's slower and more personal. I wanted To Be With You because it's a more \"in the moment\" song. We picked Bed of Roses.\n\nI walk out of science class and the slow electrical guitar starts to strum. Our song is playing. I smile, looking for him. My eyes dart around until I see him. He's standing with Beth. Her barbie blonde hair is sectioned and crimped. She's wearing a lavender cami top and a green floral skirt. They're a finger length apart. \n\nHe's blushing.\n\nShe's blushing. \n\nHe leans down, and their lips meet. \n\nWatching him kissing another girl, makes my chest hurt. My body pulsates with electricity and every part of me is hurting so much. I squeeze the card in my hand. Glitter flutters to the ground. My body turns rigid and stiff, like freezing water. Music is usually like medicine to me. But now, it's the opposite. It's the cause of the sickness. Every time another lyric meets my ears, I clench my teeth tighter.\n\nI try to make my presence strong. So Matthew knows that I'm standing behind him. He doesn't move. He keeps kissing her. He looks happy. In love. The same way he looked when he was with me.\n\n---\n\nThe bathroom stall is small. I feel like it's enclosing me. Left. Right. Rectangular grey stalls. Suddenly, it feels like a cage. Every part of me will not open the stall door and walk out. My face is wet and my hands are smudged with mascara and glitter. But I don't want to be that girl. The girl who makes her whole life about one boy. But I'm not. I love Guns n Roses and Sylvia Plath. I love swimming in the evening. I push the stall open and strut out the door. Then I turn around and go back in, hunching my back in the same position.\n\nThe bell is going to ring in 10 seconds. I muster all the courage I can inside of me. Then I push the stall open and strut outside. There are so many kids that I feel invisible like a small fish in the sea. \n\nI feel a pat on my back.\n\n\"Where were you, all day? I was looking for you!\" I turn around and see a tall body towering over me, curtain bangs cover his forehead. Matthew. I try to hide my anger and loosen my stiff body.\n\n\"I was busy.\" I watch my shoes. I want to confront him, but I don't want to at the same time.\n\n\"I got you something, it's in my car.\"\n\n\"Okayy-\"\n\nI hear a voice shout Matthew and look up. Beth is running against the parking lot, her body gets closer and closer like the other end of a magnifying glass.\n\n\"You didn't tell her?\" She reeks of strong rose perfume.\n\n\"Tell me what?\" I wipe my eyes, which feel swollen. Tell me about what they shared in the hallway? \n\n\"I haven't gotten to it yet,\" Matthew says, trying to make eye contact with me.\n\nShe puts her arm in his jean pocket. Then Matthew mutters \"We're together.\"\n\nI stare at him. Now, I'm angry. Not sad. Angry. I want to slap him. I hold it in. I'm clenching my fist so hard that it looks like a watermelon.\n\n\"No. No- How long have we been together, Matthew?\" she smiles at him.\n\n\"For three months.\" he scratches his neck. I thought I loved him.\n\n---\n\n1995 Feb.14th\n\n\"Do you want to go for coffee with me today?\" Richard asks.\n\nRichard's nice. He's smart. He's funny. He has a square jawline and round half-moon glasses.\n\n\"No.\" I think of Matthew with his dark blue eyes. I e-mailed him, hopefully, he'd reply today. I wrote about our past Valentine memories and our song. I wrote about how we first met and how I missed him.\n\n\"Oh-uhh. Is there someone else?\" His smile droops and his posture bends. I feel bad.\n\n\"Yes, I have something to do.\" I close the door.\n\nThen I run over to the computer. I stare at the inbox for a few hours. Not a single new message. Then I hear a beep and rub my bleary eyes.\n\nI click the email.\n\nThe first one is mine.\n\n5:04 PM\nHi Matthew, I've been missing you. A few days ago, I went to this restaurant that we used to go to and ordered our usual. Pancakes with strawberries and extra chocolate. It was hard to finish alone. Then, Bed of Roses played and I remembered all of our good memories. That day where you spilled ice cream over your white jeans and then your mom thought you had an \"accident\". And that day where we did karaoke and I had a voice-crack.\n\nThe day that we first met is my favourite memory. There was this deal on the big sundae and because I was standing behind you in the line, you asked me to share with you. We saved about 10 dollars and I met you. It was one of the best days of my life.\n\nFrom, me\n\n8:20 AM\nI don't really remember that. \n\nFrom, Matthew\n\nI scroll down to see if there's more on his email. It's all blank. I sigh.\n\n1995 Feb.14th\n\nI've never lived in a place where it's bright and sunny in February. When I graduated college, I had two options for apartments. One in New York, near the Empire State Building. It's a beautiful apartment with big square windows and a big balcony with a view of lights and buildings. My other choice was the townhome in Ohio. It's small and cramped and smells like overcooked asparagus. It's not central, but in a small unsafe town with a small population. I picked to live here because of Matthew. He said he was going to move here, so I bought the first plane ticket to Ohio.\n\nI walk to the mailbox. Every part of me is clammy and my shorts are lined with sweat. I open the mailbox and check inside. There is a shiny silk envelope. I pull it out and rip it open excitedly. On a floral heart, it says From Matthew. I feel myself blush and pull open the letter.\n\nIt's a picture of Matthew with Beth. In bright gold letters, it says that they're getting married. The wedding is in four months. I crouch down on the sidewalk and wrap my arms around myself like a shield. I don't care how hot it is. Tears run down my knees and onto my flip flops. Why am I not enough? Why did he cheat me back then? I'm not pretty enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not good enough.\n\n1997 Feb.14th\n\n\"Wanna meet me at Burger King today?\" Matthew's voice is deep and smooth. It's the first time he's called me - since 1991.\n\n\"Oh-\" I pause and clear my throat, \"Of course!\"\n\n---\n\nI stand in front of my closet, thinking. It's hot outside so I'll wear a tank top and shorts. But it can't be too casual, and not too fancy. What would Beth wear? She would wear a lace top and jean shorts. She would crimp her hair and wear blue eyeshadow.\n\nI show up at Burger King with a lace camisole that I got when I was 15 and jean shorts that my mom sent me in the mail a few days ago from when she was young. I want it to feel like it used to between Matthew and I. Carefree and natural. But it's weird. Like a good song that's over-aged.\n\n\"You look good.\" he's aged well. His jaw has sharpened and his eyes look sharp like two sapphires.\n\n\"Thank you.\" I'm nervous, my feet are hot and my cheeks feel like they're on fire. I rub my thumb against my palm.\n\n---\n\nI watch him eat his burger. It's a double-decker, with two patties of meat. His hands are covered in ketchup. My stomach growls and I feel its hollowness against my hand.\nThe tension hasn't thawed but hardened. It's turned into a monologue of his chewing noises.\n\n\"Are you sure you don't want anything? This is not like you, you're one of the only girls, I know that actually eats.\" Matthew asks.\n\n\"Is that a bad thing?\" Beth would never eat in front of a guy. She would sit and laugh and twirl her hair.\n\n\"No-well, I don't know.\"\n\nThere's a long pause between us and I think of things to ask him.\n\n\"So, I think we should get back together.\" Matthew snaps.\n\n\"What?\" I almost fall back on my chair.\n\n\"Well-Beth is divorcing me.\" There's no tension in his eyes. They are light and filled with ease. His face looks like he told a joke like there is no big deal about what he said.\n\n\"Why?\" My head is filled with a conglomeration of thoughts.\n\n\"I- was- uhh saw someone else. But it was once. She was on this diet and very snappy- so I got bored and had no one to spend time with.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" He got bored. My cheeks heat up and this time it's not from nervousness. It's anger. I wanted to slap him last time. And now I will.\n\nI get up from my seat. He raises his forehead in confusion.\n\nI feel every part of myself bubble. Like a coke with a mento thrown into it. It's about to explode. The lids about to pop off. The coke explodes.\n\nI slap him so hard that my hand hurts. It leaves a satisfying red spot on his face. I feel outside of my body like I'm witnessing the whole event outside of myself. I stand still, but strong. I look strong like there is no doubt in my head. His face like in a boxing ring.\n\n\"I'm over you! I deserve someone better! Better than you!\" I scream louder than I've ever screamed before.\n\nThen I stomp out of the restaurant. I feel eyes on me, like bullets pelting through my skin. But I also feel a weight off my shoulders. Like nothing is holding me back anymore. He watches me through the window and I smile a smug smile.\n\nI'm done with him." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mr. Pratt's Game\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2969\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a drawing room." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Author’s Note:\nThis is a true story. It is told as recounted to me by Mrs. Gladys White – who on this fateful night, danced unseen in the ballroom of the old Tudor Hall house depicted within. The author writes this story, solely in the pursuit of truth, and to dispel any previous inaccuracies published for the sake of selling scandalous newspapers.\n Anthony Ernest Pratt stood in front of the roaring fireplace, studiously peering through a glass of port held high in front of the flames. At the personal invitation of the distinguished physician, Dr. David Black; he had been the guest of honour for the evening. There were other guests – of course, and they were currently entertaining themselves cheerfully in other rooms of the Tudor-era house; however, at the specific request of the doctor, Pratt had been invited to the drawing room for a tête-à-tête, a one-on-one to discuss politics in the expectant post war era and took the opportunity to relay his views to the uninterested doctor.\n “One party being in endless control of the populace, is simply contrary to the system of democracy, my good doctor,” Pratt stated.\n“It is possible for the most placid individual to contain the courage of a lion and strength of an elephant - when forced into a corner… Dictatorships have a history of failure when the populace rise up against them.”\n Pratt had not achieved the same level of schooling as Dr. Black. Twelve years his junior, Pratt’s education was interrupted at the Grammar level. War had seen to that. However, he did possess a high degree of intelligence and savvy that would light up any Oxford University Debating Society. Had the war not required his skills, a scholarship at Oxford was a distinct possibility.\n“Take this glass of Port, for instance,” Pratt explained. He possessed a love of drama, and using visual metaphors was a common practice of his.\n“The emotion it produces can elicit conflicting reactions and interpretations in those that try it for the first time. One may see a beautiful ruby tone in colour, and may taste a rich dark, fermented fruit. Another may just miss the entire point of its fortification and overlook its charming aroma.”\nPratt was building tension. He was intentionally stalling, trying to entice Dr. Black out of his defensive shell. It was something Pratt learned; interrogating German officers, captured in Norway.\n From the onset of war with Germany, a young Anthony Pratt had enthusiastically joined the British Army, volunteering for the Special Service Brigade, and it wasn’t long before he experienced the horror of combat while fighting in the Norwegian campaign. After two months of killing Hitler’s finest, battle plans changed when news broke of Germany’s lightning invasion of France. The Norwegian King and Crown Prince had already evacuated to London, followed by the government and large numbers of Norwegian forces; so, with mission accomplished, Pratt and his battalion completed a tactical withdrawal to their secretive country training barracks in Hampshire for a deserved rest. Not long after, Pratt’s SSB were reorganised into the newly formed Commandos, and due to his service in Norway, he became eligible for re-training as an officer; so, he enthusiastically volunteered for No. 2 Commandos. After more than two years of fierce combat - sometimes viciously hand-to-hand – the newly promoted Lieutenant Pratt, was honourably discharged from the Commandos. Shrapnel wounds from a German grenade had left him with a distinct limp. This was not a career ending injury; however, his unit needed fully capable fighters.\nUnfit for active deployment, Pratt joined the civil service as a Special Adjutant to Churchill’s War Rooms. If he couldn’t fight on the frontline, then ‘By God’ he would do everything else he could on the home front to help Britain win the war.\n Pratt took a sniff of his glass followed by a controlled sip of the sweet tasting wine. A satisfying smile pursed his lips. What a marvellous after dinner drink, he thought as he continued to provoke Dr. Black.\n“…Like power, too much of it can bring on an insatiable… uncontrollable lust that makes you crave more…”\n This was 1943. No-one knew how long the fighting would continue. The Nazis ruled most of Europe and their spy network of oppressive socialists infiltrated both Britain’s disconnected poor and society’s rich elitists. The innocent looking soiree in the old Tudor mansion - filled with a collection of wartime sitting ducks - was highly suspicious to the astute Pratt. This cocktail concoction of ministers, clergy, and intellectuals was transparently devoid of any modicum of sincerity. The true reality behind the gathering masked a sinister Nazi undertone of coercion, deception, and betrayal; however, Pratt was aware of this. He had been well trained. His role at the war rooms was a cover story. Agent Pratt was on a new, secret mission.\n Strategically, the other guests on this evening; had been separated and corralled into the library, kitchen, billiard room, and several other rooms of the large house. The drawing room that Pratt presently found himself in was reserved for the most influential, and it hid a shadowy history of covert conversion tactics conducted by a ring of Nazi sympathisers, cloaked in the garb of local high society.\n Dr. Black remained seated, apathetically listening to Pratt, trying to avoid eye contact. Semi comfortable in the lush, high-backed lounge chair, he stared intensely at the fireplace; quietly processing the ramblings of the young man hogging its radiating heat.\nThe room was moderately lit with a table lamp adorning atop a beautifully, hand carved Edwardian-era sideboard. Thick velvety, maroon-coloured curtains blocked out any evening chill that the cold wind outside pushed through the window cracks. More importantly, it kept the light inside from escaping into the night. The German Blitz of English cities was just a painful memory now. Hitler’s Luftwaffe had essentially been neutralised since the Battle of Britain; however, smaller, nightly raids were still a possibility, so blackouts were essential in all buildings – unless you wanted to suffer the indignation of an air raid warden’s public yell to ‘Close that bloody curtain!’\n Enduring enough of Pratt’s tedious talk, Dr. Black finally looked up. The long-winded lesson about the characteristics of port had lost its momentum.\n“Your point, Pratt?”\nPratt finished his glass of port, then carefully laid the empty glass on the fireplace mantle. He could feel the friction building up in the room. Something in the tone of Dr. Black’s voice told him to seek evasive action. Drawing a deep breath into his lungs then slowly exhaling, Pratt focused on the layout of the room, briefly analysing each object that came into view. What escaped the flickering glow from the fireplace, was dimly lit by the table lamps’ shallow reach. Cupping his hands behind his back, he slowly wandered around the richly decorated room with its inlaid wood panelled walls and gold leaf painted high ceiling. At some time during the Edwardian years, the room had seen some renovation work done to bring it into the new century. One of the upgrades was the addition of an ornate electric chandelier, hanging dormant in the centre of the room. In case of accidental illumination during an air raid, its grandeur had long ago been hidden with a black cloth draped over it. Light could still penetrate the cloths’ many folds, but the cover-up successfully managed to prevent any escape of light towards the windows.\n“Difference of opinion makes for a healthier state, old chap,” trying to close the argument.\n“Besides, this country would never settle for a one-man-no-vote system. Much too civilised for that, ol’ bean.”\n“I’m afraid that’s exactly where we’re headed, Pratt,” the doctor interrupted. “Otherwise, a great deal of blood will be shed.”\nTired of the game, Pratt came straight to the point.\n“Yes, I’ve seen your messy trail. That’s what led me here tonight. Your way or Norway, eh?”\n“I’m not sure I get your meaning.”\nPratt’s voice unexpectedly became stern, almost impatient.\n“I’ve read your file.”\nFocusing back on the fireplace, Dr. Black slightly cocked one ear towards Pratt.\n“My file?”\n“Please, Dr. Black… or should I say Field Marshall Bloch, of the Waffen-SS? There’s no use in denying it. We are after all, both in the business of intelligence gathering.”\nDisplaying no emotion or physical response, Field Marshall Bloch carefully and slowly moved his right hand towards the inside of his suit jacket.\n“Ah, I suspected as much. Agent Pratt, is it? What a shame, you would have been a great addition to the new British Gestapo.”\nBoth covers now blown, the next few moments were crucial for survival. No longer in his peripheral vision, Bloch listened very closely to the shifting dynamics of the room’s acoustics, as Pratt changed his location. Acutely aware that Bloch’s heavy chested breathing had increased in tempo, Pratt’s inherent sense of immediate danger, diverted his attention in search of something to use as a weapon. He had answered the invitation unarmed. Tonight, was supposed to be intelligence gathering – not a kill order. \nOn the decorative sideboard, something shiny caught his eye, as it reflected the fires’ flickering rays.\n“Ever read the Sunday Times, ol’ chap? If you did, you would have seen a wonderfully written eulogy on the late – but real – Dr. Black… Remarkable resemblance… The skills of your Nazi plastic surgeons are exemplary. Very accomplished, indeed.”\nPratt positioned himself three paces directly behind Bloch’s chair.\n“If it hadn’t been for the obituary column, I dare say that you may have escaped our attention.”\nBloch shifted uncomfortably in his chair, tightly gripping the handle of his hidden pistol.\n“Congratulations Agent Pratt. British Intelligence is not all sherry and trifle, it seems.”\nTrying to mask the sound of the safety catch on his pistol being released, Bloch vociferously cleared his throat.\n“The Third Reich will last one thousand years, Britisher,” he blurted. “Nothing can stand in the way of progress… Not even this small island of milky tea drinkers can stop us.”\nPratt stealthily took three deliberate steps forward until he was almost looming over Bloch’s chair.\n“This war will be over soon…” boasted Bloch. “…and when that happens, your cooperation now, would be generously rewarded when der Führer takes up residence in Buckingham Palace.”\nSlowly emerging from the dark shadows behind Pratt’s back, a heavy brass candlestick came into view, rising aloft in his steely grip.\n“Your war will be over sooner than you think, Nazi!”\nThe candlestick’s heavy square base began to shake with a nervous tremor, as Pratt’s pulse quickened - excited by the arrival of impending justice.\nFeeling the rush of Pratt’s breath hitting the back of his neck, Bloch quickly drew his Luger pistol from its shoulder holster, but Pratt had the advantage of height and sight. Just at the point of no return for both men, the drawing room door flew open, followed by jovial laughter as several people spilled through the doorway onto the volatile scene. At the front of the group was Pratt’s wife, Elva. Young, pretty and bubbly, she was so excited to introduce her new friends.\nReaching for the wall switch, Elva turned on the ceiling light, immediately lighting up its dark shade. Cloaked rays pierced through the gaps not covered, illuminating Anthony Pratt and Field Marshall Bloch. In an instant, the Luger discharged, sending a bullet whizzing upwards and slicing through the chandelier’s cable. A deafening crash resonated around the room as the chandelier fell from the ceiling to the parquet floor, followed by a sickening sound of simultaneous bone crunching and flesh slurping. Had Pratt not courageously grabbed hold of the pistol’s barrel in time, Elva would have most certainly become Britain’s latest war widow. Instead, partially obscuring Bloch from view, Pratt stood very much alive, with his back to the chair, facing the friendly interlopers. The boisterous group’s frivolity was immediately replaced with shocked silence.\n“Sorry about that,” Pratt apologetically improvised.\n“…We were debating the war effort, and Dr. Black was kindly showing me his pistol. Must have gotten startled when you all burst in, and accidentally pulled the trigger.”\nThe assembled group uttered a collective and relieved sigh, allowing a moment for Elva to break the ice.\n“…Yes, always better to be careful around guns, I say…”\n“Indeed,” was Pratt’s sheepish reply.\n“…Anthony darling, you must come and play this frightfully enjoyable game we all started. It’s called ‘Guess the murderer.’ It’s oodles of fun! Colonel Moosetard here is from Paris – I do hope I pronounced your name correctly.”\nThe Frenchman shook his head and shoulders in a comme ci comme ça expression of indifference. \n“I ran into him in the hall, carrying a rope - of all things…”\nRepeating his gesture, Moosetard added an extra nod of his head in agreeance.\n“…and this is Melody Peacock. She was showing me her marvellous Roman dagger in the kitchen. It’s called a Pugio, I think. That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Peacock?”\nThe slim, shy looking knife collector blushingly smiled.\n“…So, I thought my Anthony… you… would probably like to see that. You used to be a commando, and have lots of experience with knives and such…”\nIn a not-so-subtle attempt to signal her to get everyone out of the room, Pratt gave his wife a side glance, raising both his eyebrows, and jerked his head ever so slightly. Elva understood but hesitated. The unsettling surprise of gunfire had piqued her curiosity.\n“I must ask darling… Is everything alright?”\nSilhouetted from direct view, Bloch’s arm limply dropped over the chairs’ armrest.\nPratt had to think very quickly. His job was not finished yet.\n“...Poor chap must have fainted from the shock… I’ll look after him.”\nSatisfied, Elva cheerfully turned and began to usher the unsteady guests from the room.\n“Come on everyone, let’s see what Reverend Green is up to with that spanner he found in the library… Join us soon, darling?”\nPratt agreeably nodded as the drawing room door gently closed. He quickly searched Bloch’s lifeless corpse, slumped motionless in his chair. Discovering a few folded pieces of paper in a jacket pocket, Pratt briefly examined their contents. ‘This will interest Winston’, he thought - before taking a closer inspection of the Luger pistol.\n‘Engineering at its finest’, he reflected to himself. ‘Perhaps Professor Plum can drop this off at HQ for me. Hopefully, he’s not left the dining room yet.’\nSubtly folding his unexpected war booty into a copy of a discarded newspaper, Pratt tucked the package under his arm, then headed towards the drawing room door; each measured step, crunching pieces of shattered chandelier beneath his polished, black brogues. A narrow beam of light rushed in from the hallway as he opened the door. Field Marshall Bloch of the Waffen-SS, lay limp in his chair, looking like he had just fallen asleep in front of the fireplace. However, the shiny, brass candlestick protruding from the top of his head, and the blood dripping from his shirt sleeve onto the Persian rug; revealed a more dramatic and less pleasant story.\n“I’ll report this as case closed by unintended circumstance,” Pratt muttered. “Assignment completed.” He then turned and moved into the hallway, slowly shutting the door behind him. This had been an eventful evening – to say the least. There would be more clashes with home grown Nazis to come; however, this night was a V for Victory for Britain…\n Two years later, the war was finally over. The victorious allies joyfully celebrated a world without Hitler. Pratt had been an intrinsic part of the war and was duly promoted for his endeavours. On his last day of duty at the war rooms, Winston Churchill beckoned him over to his desk.\nLighting up one of his iconic cigars, the triumphant leader took a long look at Pratt through the thick exhaled cigar smoke, filling up the desk space between them.\n“Major Pratt, on behalf of your king, country, and your Prime Minister; I’d like to express to you our deep and sincere gratitude for all that you’ve sacrificed these past six years.”\n“Thank you, Prime Minister.”\n“That unpleasant business at Tudor Hall… Hopefully, you’ve put that behind you?”\n“Yes, Mr. Churchill.”\n“Splendid. It was a valuable piece of intelligence that you retrieved. Hugely instrumental in the rounding up of all the Nazi sympathisers. Can’t have that type of business on our own soil. No, just can’t have that… You helped win the war, Major Pratt.”\n“We all did our bit, sir. The country was certainly inspired by your speeches… helped us fight on for what was right. You’re the one that Britain and the free world owe a great debt to.”\n“Poppycock, Major, but appreciated… This was not a popular war. No war is,” Churchill clarified. “… and I am not a popular Prime Minister… however, history will be kind to me… for I intend to write it.”\n“Indeed, sir.”\n“Listen, before I send you skipping home unburdened, to your lovely wife; there’s just one matter that I've always been extremely curious about...\"\n\"Sir?\"\n\"Of all things… why the candlestick?”\nA wry smile stretched across Pratt’s face.\n“The rope and spanner had already been taken, sir…”\nChurchill puffed heavily on his cigar, then let out an appreciative laugh.\n“Yes… yes, I see… Excellent, most excellent, well done, Major!”\nTurning on his heels, Major Anthony Ernest Pratt left the Prime Minister chuckling away. His military service to his country was over. He could now proudly return to civilian life.\n Over the course of the next several years, he and his effervescent wife, Elva; walked once more into history’s hall of fame, remembered not for valour this time, but as the co-creators of the world-renowned detective themed, murder-mystery board game, ‘Cluedo.’\n It’s all true…" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Flood\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2945\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the arrival of a new person in a town full of gossips." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The whispers seemed to begin even before the horizon betrayed the arrival of the Stranger. Before certain cataclysmic events, such as earthquakes, they say all kinds of animals will start to act strangely. Birds may fly in unusual formations, rats and snakes will abandon their homes, cows will cease to produce milk. Humans also have the capability to sense impending catastrophe, but it manifests in us through disrupted thought patterns. We may tend to be highly irritable in situations which usually cause us no distress; we may find ourselves less hospitable to cooperation with our contemporaries; we may even divide ourselves into cliques, pitting ourselves against one another in some vain effort to regain control of a world over which we have very little. The people of Brigham City were already easing into these uneasy waters when one of the children, while climbing a tree, saw signs of someone - or something - approaching the town in the distance.\n\nThe small desert town of Brigham City, Arizona - one might say a haughtily ambitious name for what was barely a village - had been founded by Mormon settlers from the Salt Lake Valley only four years previously, in 1876. Boasting a modest population of around two hundred people, there were a couple dozen houses all contained within the walls of a frontier fort. Outside the walls were vast fields for growing crops; mostly beans, greens, potatoes, and corn. Although they never got more than a foot of rain per year, the soil was rich in minerals and nutrients, and their location next to the Little Colorado River proved to be helpful in the completion of a rudimentary irrigation system which kept the fields adequately hydrated. The fields provided more than enough sustenance for the townsfolk, and they kept all they could that would not spoil but could not be immediately consumed. Due to their remote location, the vast majority of the residents were highly involved in farming, while the rest occupied themselves with fellowship and friendliness. Such was not the case for the latter on this particular early-evening in the year of our Lord, 1880.\n\n“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elizabeth declared. “Everyone likes me.” \n\n“Well I think your head is getting too big!” Dinah shouted at her sister.\n\n“Oh yeah?!” Elizabeth shot back. “At least my ears match the size of my head, you beagle-eared baby!” With that, Dinah lunged for her big sister, reaching for a clump of hair with which to pull her to the ground. From the kitchen window, their mother could hear the girls arguing, but she didn’t step out to intervene until a piercing scream cut through the relative silence of the Arizona countryside. “Aaaaaaaaah! My hair! She’s got my hair!” With that, Josephine darted outside to end this confrontation between the two little girls.\n\n“Dinah, you let her go right now!” she shouted as she quickly approached her daughters. The moment Dinah released the death grip she held on her sister’s hair, Elizabeth swung her open hand towards Dinah’s face and made contact with a loud ‘thwack.’ Now, it was Dinah’s turn to shriek. Elizabeth, as the adrenaline subsided, burst into tears and squeezed her mother like a boa constrictor squeezes its prey. Dinah extravagantly caressed her face trying to drum up some sympathy, but Josephine was doing all she could to prevent suffocating under her eldest daughter’s panicked embrace, and did not notice the surprisingly skillful exhibition. She pried Elizabeth’s arms from around her waist and spoke again. “Elizabeth! Dinah! What has gotten into you?”\n\nBoth girls began animatedly talking over each other, pointing fingers and making grand hand gestures. This only lasted for a few seconds before Josephine shouted, “That - is - enough!” The girls fell deadly quiet, and their mother allowed this moment to become saturated with the silence until the uncomfortable moment became almost unbearable, even to herself. She drew in a soft breath, and set into lecturing the girls in a subdued tone. She knew this method carried more weight than yelling outright, and it was easier on her own voice to boot. The reason for their disagreement was a moot point anyway - what was important was that whatever had precipitated the engagement must not happen again. Ever since they had arrived at the fort, Elizabeth and Dinah had been like two peas in a pod. From sun-up to sun-down the two of them frolicked in the yard, played in their room, or walked by the river together, always without a hint of conflict. In the past week, they’d gotten under each others’ skin more than ever before. Josephine was concerned, but she knew children had a tendency to push boundaries as they approached their teenage years, and this was probably the case, she assured herself. As Josephine was just coming to the end of her parental soliloquy, she heard the neighbor boy cry out from about thirty feet up.\n\n“Mrs. Jensen! Mrs. Jensen! Smoke!” Josephine’s heart jumped as her eyes darted in the direction of Wyatt’s voice, which came from near the top of one of his family’s mesquite trees. He was staring off towards the east - beyond the river. A momentary sigh of relief. She had been concerned that something in the town had caught fire in the dry, desert heat. Then she grasped the implication of what the young boy had just said; he was looking off into the desert wilderness. Miles and miles of uninhabited country lay beyond the river, but as she peered towards the horizon, she too could see the telltale remnants of a campfire, about five to ten miles away. It was already more than a decade past the war out east, but every now and again, stories popped up of mercenaries who shifted their talents towards ransacking and robbery. There was also the ever-present threat of certain segments of the native population rising up against frontier homesteaders to contend with. She shook herself from her thoughts and her eyes returned to the tree, where Wyatt was quickly descending earthward. He was sure to be headed to the fields to inform the men of the new situation, as was part of the community’s plan.\n\n“Girls! Go with Wyatt to the fields, and find your father!” Assuming this soon-to-be visitor or group of visitors was traveling by evening, they would arrive in Brigham by nightfall, and without knowing their intentions, it was best to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Josephine ran into the house, rushed to her bedroom, and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. From the chest she retrieved two rifles and laid them on the bedspread. Next came a box of ammunition from which she scooped up about a dozen bullets which she carefully deposited into a pouch to be worn around her neck. She did the same thing with her husband Robert’s pouch, then donned both satchels, grabbed the guns, and went outside to alert her other neighbors to the possible impending encounter. Over the next half hour, the entire town had been mobilized, and they went to the riverside to form a meeting party.\n\nIt was about an hour before sundown when the townspeople first got visual confirmation of their visitor. Somewhat confusingly, it appeared to be neither a group of disgruntled soldiers, nor a clan of rogue Navajo, but a solitary man who walked alongside a donkey. The villagers remained optimistic but cautious as the man drew closer and closer, and another strange silence drenched the dry air. When he finally reached the river, he stared across the water at the aggressively postured crowd and waited. Outwardly, there was nothing too worrisome about him, other than his unkempt and wearied façade. He appeared to be a native man, except for three obvious differences. First, his skin had a distinctly olive tone, as compared to the almond or cinnamon tones most of the locals were known for. Second, he wore very strange attire; a dingy, cream colored robe the hem of which hung just below his knees, and shoes that consisted only of soles and some type of strap that wrapped around each foot. Finally, he had a bushy mustache and thick beard, both of which were highly uncommon for Navajo, Hopi, or any other native peoples the settlers had come into contact with. Eventually, Josephine’s husband worked up the resolve to greet the Stranger. “Hello sir, my name is Robert Jensen.”\n\nThe Stranger appeared to smile at the greeting, and returned the welcome in a very strange dialect of English that the townsfolk could not place. “Peace to you, I am Rosh Pinah.” His donkey grunted, and looked away.\n\n“Well...Rosh,” Robert lingered on the -sh sound, “where have you come from?”\n\n“I’m sorry, I don’t speak very well English.”\n\nRobert thought for a moment. “Are you Navajo? Are you Hopi?”\n\n“I am hungry,” Rosh answered after pausing to process the question. “I am thirsty. I seek food and water.” The look on his face corroborated these statements, and Robert’s stance relaxed considerably.\n\n“Well, we aren’t looking for any new residents, but you are more than welcome to eat with us, and then you can spend the night in the guest quarters inside the fort - it’s just about time for supper, anyway.” Rosh’s expression seemed to demand something more, but Robert didn’t know what more to say. “If you need time to rest and recuperate, we can talk about that in the morning.” At this, Rosh seemed a bit more satisfied, and now was Robert’s turn to smile. \n\n“Now wait a minute,” a voice came from behind. “We don’t know who this gentleman is, let alone what he’s been doing out there in the wilderness. I’d say he ought to keep moving on.” A few voices rose in support of the conflicting idea.\n\n“Friends.” Robert replied before the murmur could transcend its reticence and become a cacophony of fear and hatred. “This man carries no weapon. He appears before us to be malnourished and dehydrated. Is it not written in our holy texts that we should love our neighbors? Is it not written that we should do for others what we would hope others would do for us?” The dissenting citizens remained quiet. Robert nodded with a combination of disappointment and satisfaction, and gestured towards the north as he directly addressed Rosh. “There’s a sandy, tranquil section of river about five minutes this way. You can cross without risk of being swept away, or stepping on anything hard or sharp. Come, we’ll meet you there.” With that, Robert and James (Wyatt’s father) led the Stranger up the banks of the river to the crossing point, while the rest of the village returned to their homes to finish preparing their own dinners. Once he had come across to the other side, Rosh and the other two men engaged in a brief conversation on the way to the fort.\n\n“How long have you been out in that desert?” James asked the tired-looking traveler. “It’s been hot lately, and you don’t even seem to be carrying a canteen - I imagine it’s water you’ll be wanting first and foremost.”\n\n“It feels like...forty days...in the desert,” Rosh replied, “and yes, water very much I would like.” Robert’s and James’ eyes met in a concerned but intrigued way as they heard the ‘forty days’ remark. “But I have not been alone. I have had my donkey.” The three of them carried on until they reached their respective destinations. James split off and headed towards his home, and Robert led Rosh into his own where Josephine was finishing up the evening meal. After the meal was over and everyone had enough to eat, Robert showed Rosh to the guest quarters, helped him get settled in, and returned to his family.\n\nThat evening, most of the townspeople, including the Jensens and the Spencers, met in the center of the fort to discuss this strange turn of events. From house to house, details of the conversation between Rosh and his river chaperones spread like wildfire across the plains. Even with the Stranger fast asleep as his body attempted to overcome exhaustion, they spoke in hushed voice so as to avoid being overheard. Their cautious optimism had been short-lived as trepidation began to set in. The conversation, as a result, started out as a series of unanswered questions more than genuine dialogue.\n\n“What do you think he’s doing here?”\n\n“Why does he speak with such a strange accent?”\n\n“Have you ever seen anyone who looks like that?”\n\n“Where did he say he was from, anyway?”\n\nThe seemingly rhetorical questions quickly gave way to accusations and assumptions.\n\n“He’s obviously a foreigner, and there’s no way we can trust him.”\n\n“There’s no way he was in the desert for forty days without water, he’s putting on a ruse of some sort.”\n\n“He’s probably not even sleeping, just waiting for us all to go to bed so he can rob us!”\n\n“Or something worse!”\n\nAs they continued to prattle on, their voices grew in volume, and their apprehension turned to anger. Someone suggested that Robert had made a mistake allowing this Stranger to stay within the walls of the fort, arguing that they just as easily could have given him a tent to sleep in beyond the bounds of the village. The Jensens and the Spencers, along with a couple other close families, were forced into a defensive stance against the rest of the townspeople. A disturbing intensity had taken over, and the speaking had turned into shouting. The opposing groups stood against one another like armies preparing for a battle. At that moment, Rosh stepped forward into the midst of the melee.\n\nEveryone ceased their squabbling and stood in a tense tranquility. Bingham City waited for the Stranger to say something, but he simply stood among them surveying the scene that had unfolded as he was trying to get some rest. When he finally broke the silence, his voice had changed - it was much more commanding, and his accent had all but disappeared entirely, startling the onlookers. He turned towards those with whom he had shared a meal and said, “I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me in.” He smiled, but underneath the smile was a pain that escaped explanation. Then the smile faded, and he turned to the other group. “I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink. I was a stranger, and you did not invite me in.”\n\n“Well what’s it to you?!” one of the protesters shouted. “We don’t know you! It’s awfully bold of you to assume we’d share what limited supplies we have here. I say we take a vote, right here, right now. All in favor of sheltering this foreigner?” Something about the aggression of his tone kept even the Jensens and Spencers silent. “All opposed?” Nobody spoke, but one by one, the hands of the villagers rose into the air until all were aloft except for Robert, James, and their families. “Well I guess we’ve got our answer. Pack your things, Stranger - you’re not welcome here.”\n\nRosh walked towards his donkey and began to untie him. As he did, he spoke in a voice so quiet, yet so powerful, that everyone who heard was shaken to the core. “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone - a stone that causes people to stumble, and a rock that makes them fall. Goodbye.” With no further fanfare, he hopped up on to the donkey, and rode out the gates that had already been opened by the staunchest opponents of his inclusion there.\n\n* * *\n\nShortly after the departure of the Stranger, a series of torrential rain storms barraged the land. The fields, which had been painstakingly irrigated to ensure a proper amount of crop moisture became flooded for weeks on end, destroying what had promised to be a bountiful harvest. To add insult to injury, several of the storms brought perilous winds which dismantled many of the more-hastily constructed dwellings within the fort, as well as a large section of the fort wall itself. Families had to move in with one another, and crowded living conditions did nothing to help their morale. Over the winter, Brigham City depleted all of its food reserves, and by the spring the people were within months from total starvation when a council of leaders declared the outpost a failure and began preparations to move back to the Salt Lake Valley.\n\nAmong the settlers, questions lingered about the Stranger who came to visit their little piece of land in the middle of Arizona Territory. Most believed he was somehow involved in the collapse of the Bingham City project. Some thought he was a shaman, a magician, or even the devil. Robert Jensen was of a completely different mind regarding the situation. Any time the subject would come up, and somebody suggested that Rosh Pinah ruined their way of life and killed their dream of creating a garden in the desert, Robert Jensen would somberly reply, “The Stranger didn’t ruin our fields. The Flood did. The Stranger didn’t ruin our craftsmanship. The Flood did. The Stranger didn’t kill our dream. The Flood did.” \n\nIf only they understood, like he did, that the Flood had been avoidable. Next time would be different, he thought to himself every single day for the rest of his life." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Clue of the Forgotten Claw\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2821\n\nPrompt:\n\nCreate a title with our Title Generator, then write a story inspired by it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "cw: references to WWII\n\nThe hour was late, and although the candle on David’s bedside table was nearing the end of its life, the boy couldn’t care less. It was a Sunday night, and on Sunday nights, Mr. Otto always paid him a visit. Tonight was no exception. \n\n“Now what story do you want to hear this evening?” Mr. Otto asked as he pulled up a chair next to David’s bed. He was a tall man, Mr. Otto, David thought. Not that he had met many grown-ups in his lifetime. \n\n“We’ve already done Mystery of the Mute Porter and Sign of the Painted Staircase,” Mr Otto continued as he adjusted the pair of round wire-rimmed glasses that sat on his nose.\n\n“Don’t forget Death of the Fake Lynx!” David added. \n\nMr. Otto let out a soft chuckle. “Mrs. Schmidt tells me that you’ve been good about taking your ointment these past few weeks,” he said. “So how about I tell you a new story tonight?” \n\nDavid chewed on his lips. That wasn’t exactly true. Just last night, he had thrown a fit over the pale yellow paste that the housekeeper rubbed on his leaden legs every evening, but if that was what Mr. Otto had heard, then David certainly wasn’t going to correct him. \n\n“What’s it called?” David asked instead.\n\n“Hmm, why don’t we call it the Clue of the Forgotten Claw?” \n\nHans had only ever been to a museum once, but he was certain that Mr. Fischer’s house, with its seemingly endless collection of artifacts, could qualify as one. \n\nThe housekeeper, a cross-looking lady named Mrs. Schwartz, had told Hans to take his time in each room so as not to miss even a speck of dust, but Hans was torn between doing his job and wanting to see as much as he could as soon as possible. \n\n“He’s a little bit impatient, isn’t he?” David interrupted. \n\nMr. Otto raised a brow. “He does remind me of a certain 11-year-old boy.” \n\n“Mrs. Schwartz also sounds very familiar,” David said with a grin. \n\n“Are you going to let me go on with the story or not?” Mr. Otto asked.\n\n“Continue, please!” David said. \n\nToday, Hans was starting in a new room. As he opened the double doors, he let out an audible gasp. Where the last room was covered with paintings, this one was filled with precious stones and metals encased in glass display tables. \n\nA curious-looking necklace at the very center of the room drew his attention. It was nothing like the other pieces in the collection. In fact, compared to everything else, this one was almost primitive in design. Just the thinnest band of leather accessorized with an animal claw. \n\nHe wondered if it was a mistake. As the only other person cleaning the house apart from Mrs. Schwartz, he considered himself practically an expert on Mr. Fischer’s collection. He was so puzzled at its existence that he stopped by to look at it every single day. \n\nHis strange behavior had certainly not gone unnoticed because just a week after he discovered it, Hans found himself standing before a man that could only be Mr. Fischer. He had finished cleaning for the day and was just about to look at the necklace before going home when he saw him standing before the very object he had wanted to see. \n\nNow Hans had never seen his Mr. Fischer before, but he wasn’t born yesterday, and judging by the manner in which the man held himself, he had no doubt that he was face to face with the master of the collection himself. \n\n“Good afternoon, Mr. Fischer,” Hans greeted. It was only polite to acknowledge one’s employer. \n\n“This claw was taken from a wild saber-toothed cat thousands of years ago,” Mr. Fischer said without preamble. “I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to take such a magnificent creature down.” \n\nHans had learned about saber-toothed cats back when school had still been open. The image of a tiger with two huge blade-like fangs from an old textbook came to mind.\n\n“I doubt it had truly been taken down, sir,” Hans said. \n\nMr. Fischer turned to face him. “Oh? What makes you say that?”\n\nHans shrugged. “Just that, if that were the case, wouldn’t the necklace have at least one of its fangs instead of just its claw?” \n\nMr. Fischer stared at him for a few seconds before breaking out into raucous laughter. “So you think it managed to escape? And where do you think it went?”\n\n“Well,” Hans said as he fiddled with his thumbs behind his back, “I think it went home.”\n\n“Home, eh? There’s a hopeful thought,” Mr. Fischer murmured. He glanced at the claw necklace with a strange expression on his face before turning to look back at Hans. “What’s your name, boy?” \n\nHans let out a relieved sigh. Finally, a question he could at least answer confidently. “Hans, sir.” \n\n“Well, Hans, how would you like to see the rest of the rooms? Leave all that behind,” he said, gesturing to the cleaning tools Hans had with him. “Mrs. Schwartz shall take care of the rest.” \n\nAlmost as if she had been listening in on their conversation, Mrs. Schwartz entered the room in long, purposeful strides. Hans would have been worried about leaving all of his duties to the head housekeeper, but Mrs. Schwartz didn’t appear to look any crosser than she did whenever she looked at him. \n\nFor the next few weeks, Mr. Fischer showed Hans the rest of the rooms and filled the latter’s head with stories about each acquisition. Hans especially loved hearing about how a young exiled princess had told Mr. Fischer about a lucky stone that she had hidden inside a painted staircase. Or how he had given half of a unicorn tapestry to a mute porter who had saved his life while he had been on a cross-country trip some years back. \n\nHans took all of Mr. Fischer's stories home and recounted each one of them to his mother who seemed especially thankful for the distraction. He knew that she was worried about the lack of letters from her sister who was living abroad. Despite his young age, Hans was not completely ignorant. He had heard things here and there. He’d heard about soldiers marching in the east, but he didn’t think that trouble would reach their little town. \n\nUnfortunately, both fear and fire tended to spread quickly, and on the morning after the first snowfall, Mr. Fischer took Hans aside.\n\n“Listen, Hans,” Mr. Fischer began. \n\nHans stood up straighter for no good news ever started that way. \n\n“I might be gone for a little while,” he said. “Should something happen, I hope you can grant me a favor.” \n\n“What is it, sir?” \n\n“I want you to take the claw necklace out of its display case and keep it safe.” \n\nHans opened his mouth to speak, but realized that he didn’t know what to say, and so shut it promptly. As if sensing his reluctance, Mr. Fischer pressed on. “You’re the only one I can trust with this, Hans.” \n\n“What about Mrs. Schwartz?” Hans suggested. \n\n“Oh, I trust Mrs. Schwartz with my life,” Mr. Fischer said. “But she’s already going to be responsible for everything else. I don’t want to risk this one slipping through the cracks.” \n\nTo even suggest the possibility of Mrs. Schwartz not being on top of anything seemed like blasphemy, and judging by the expression on Mr. Fischer’s face, he knew it, too. \n\n“How will I know when it’s time?” he asked. He still didn’t understand why his employer wanted him to take the claw necklace for safekeeping, but the relief on Mr. Fischer’s face told Hans that he had made the right choice. \n\n“You’ll know it,” Mr. Fischer said, a faraway look on his face. It was an expression that Hans had seen before. \n\n“That’s conveniently vague,” David remarked. \n\nMr. Otto sat up straighter in his chair. “You think so?” \n\n“It’s also unfair,” David continued. “Mr. Fischer is putting all the burden of the responsibility on Hans’ shoulders. If the claw necklace were as valuable as Mr. Fischer implied, then he should have given it to Mrs. Schwartz or taken it upon himself to guard it.” \n\n“Why, David,” Mr. Otto said. “That’s pretty insightful of you.”\n\n“It’s what father would have done,” David murmured under his breath, looking away as he did so. “Tell me what happens next.” \n\nSince that day, Hans had not seen Mr. Fischer at all. It was as if he had never existed. Then, just two weeks later, a group of armed soldiers arrived in town. Hans saw some of them on his way to Mr. Fischer’s house. He had been planning to ask Mrs. Schwartz about it, but when he got there, he found his answer waiting for him at the Grand Salon. \n\nMost visitors were introduced to the house through the Grand Salon. It was where Mrs. Schwartz had scrutinized Hans from head to toe back when she had first hired him to clean the house. Now, she sat there opposite three soldiers, but somehow, Hans didn’t think that it was quite the same situation.\n\n“And who is this?” one of the men asked.\n\nHans could feel his heart beating loudly inside his chest, but before he could answer, Mrs. Schwartz rose to her feet. “That boy comes here to clean five days a week,” she said. “Go on then. Go do what you’ve been told to do.”\n\nHans kept his head down, and without a word, proceeded to cross the Grand Salon. As soon as he closed the double doors behind him, Hans removed his shoes, and in just his socks, ran as fast as he could to where the claw necklace was being kept. He couldn’t really explain it, but he got the sense that this would be his only opportunity to do what Mr. Fischer had asked him to do. \n\nPulling out the key that Mr. Fischer had given him that day, Hans opened the glass display table as quickly as he could although his hands were shaking terribly. After pocketing the claw necklace, he made sure to move the rest of the items around, so that no one would suspect that anything had been removed. Then, he locked the display table again before running all the way to the other end of the house where the back entrance led out into the woods. \n\nWhen he arrived home, Hans’ mother was so relieved to see him that she pulled him into a suffocating hug as soon as he entered the house. \n\n“I’m so glad you’re safe, Hans!” she said. “From now on, you have to stay inside the house. No more going to Mr. Fischer’s, okay?” Hans was so alarmed by his mother’s response that he could only nod his head. \n\nThe next few days, more soldiers rolled into town. Radios and tools were confiscated. Gardens and pantries were raided. Unsurprisingly, the soldiers had taken over Mr. Fischer’s home. Several people had been delegated to keep the house running, but Hans noted curiously that Mrs. Schwartz had not been among them. \n\nHe voiced his thoughts out loud over dinner, which, tonight, was composed of potatoes and a little bit of soup. It wasn’t exactly a feast, but with the way the soldiers had been rationing everything, Hans was happy to have anything at all. \n\nHis mother sighed. “Perhaps she has gone home, Hans.” There was an unspoken “or” in his mother’s statement, and Hans decided that he didn’t want to press any further.\n\nThings were worse in other towns, and so while Hans worried for him and his mother as well as for Mr. Fischer and Mrs. Schwartz, he endured. Some days were easier than others. On these days, he made stories up for the younger kids in the neighborhood and found wild berries growing in the woods to make his mother smile. On these days, the claw necklace, which he had taken to wearing under his shirt, made him feel like he still had something to look forward to. \n\nOther days, however, he felt the weight of it bearing down on him more and more with each passing day. Perhaps this was what Atlas felt when the gods had condemned him to carry the world on his shoulders for all eternity, he thought. \n\nBut just when he thought that there would never be an end to all of this, it was all over. On the morning after the first snowfall, a year after the soldiers had first appeared, every single one of them had vanished. Fled in the middle of the night. They had left in such a haste that people reportedly found whole meat pies that were still waiting to be eaten on Mr. Fischer’s dining table.\n\nIn the next few weeks, help from different parts of the land poured in. There was more food than Hans and his mother had seen in a long time. Other things that they had taken for granted such as laughter and sugar and school returned.\n\nHans had always been a bright student, so it came as no surprise to anyone that he was among the few who were sent abroad to study in a prestigious school. The government would pay for everything. His mother had cried buckets at the news.\n\nHans packed only a few things with him, but he made sure that the claw necklace was one of them.\n\nA decade was plenty of time to forget. In the last 10 years, Hans had grown so much, made new friends, and often visited his mother who had moved to live with her sister. On the day he completed his studies in university, his mentor, a kind gentleman named Mr. Williams, sat him in his office and asked him what he wanted to do with his life next. \n\n“I would like to go back to my hometown, sir,” Hans answered. \n\nThe surprise was evident on Mr. Williams’ face. “What could you possibly want to go home for?” \n\nHans touched the claw necklace underneath his shirt before proceeding to tell Mr. Williams the story of how he had met Mr. Fischer as a young boy and how both he and Mrs. Schwartz had disappeared without a trace. “I want to find out what happened to them.”\n\n“It’s been so long, Hans,” Mr. Williams said. “If you haven’t heard back from them by now...” \n\nHans shook his head. “I know what you’re saying, sir,” he said, “But I just think that if the saber-toothed cat had really died, I’d have a necklace made with a fang, not a claw.” \n\nSave for the sound of the boy’s breathing, the room was as quiet and as still as it could be. Mr. Otto slowly stood up from his seat and leaned over to tuck David in bed. The young boy had already fallen asleep. He blew out the candle next to the bed and was just about to leave when he heard David mumble a question sleepily in the dark. \n\n“Mr. Otto,” David said with a yawn, “Did Hans ever find Mr. Fischer and Mrs. Schwartz?”\n\nMr. Otto stopped in his tracks. Although he knew David couldn’t see him, he still turned around to face the boy. “Perhaps we’ll find out next Sunday.” \n\n“Hmmkay,” David answered. “You have a good night now, Mr. Otto.” \n\n“Good night, Mr. David.” \n\nMr. Otto closed the door behind him carefully so as not to make a noise and proceeded to walk quietly along a corridor so narrow that only one person at a time could possibly go through it. As he reached the very end, he felt around the wall for a latch, opening a secret door that led to the rest of the house.\n\nIn the kitchen, he found Mrs. Schmidt mending a shirt by the window. “Good evening, Mrs. Schmidt,” he said. \n\n“Good evening, Mr. Otto,” she said, her face looking as cross as ever. Not that Mr. Otto ever minded. Over the years, he had gotten used to Mrs. Schmidt’s pinched expression, and to be honest, he much preferred it over the look of horror he had seen on her face many years ago the day she told him that David’s father had been taken away by the Germans.\n\n“Any news?” he asked. \n\nMrs. Schmidt shook her head.\n\nMr. Otto nodded grimly. He would have to go to Utrecht tomorrow morning to see if he could find out anything more. Unlike the story he had just told David, the war in their reality was far from over. But if there was one thing Mr. Otto knew, it was that all stories had to end eventually. He would just have to do everything in his power to make sure that this one ended well, if not for him, then at least for David." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Mystery of the Silent Visitor\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2754\n\nPrompt:\n\nCreate a title with our Title Generator, then write a story inspired by it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Warning: Contains Death due to Catastrophic Event)\nMay 6, 1937\n It was the perfect, sunny day for a birthday. That’s what Donna Patricelli was thinking as she looked both ways before crossing the bustling street coming from school. Her best friend Mary Catherine invited her to play Marbles on her block, but Donna had said no, her Ma was making her favorite chocolate cake for her eighth birthday. Ma called it Crescionda di Spoleto. So off Donna went, skipping home in her favorite bright blue dress with matching hair ribbon, dark brown curls bobbing behind her and licking her lips as she imagined the sweet, rich taste of cake. Her Pa presented her this morning with new shiny black shoes for church, but Ma allowed her to wear them to school today. She looked down at the perfectly polished shoes as they twinkled brightly in the sun back at her. Donna felt like the luckiest girl in the world.\n She skipped to her quaint brick-fashioned tenement in Battery Park, Manhattan, hopped up to the second story and pushed open the door, smiling as the warm buttery scent of fresh baking enveloped her. Her smile stretched even wider as she saw her Pa standing by the radio, listening intently in his brown work suit and matching fedora.\n “There’s my Donna girl!” he bellowed with a broad smile, catching Donna as she leapt and melted into his arms. “I have another surprise for you!”\n “Oh, Pa! Another surprise?!”\n Donna glanced back in the kitchen where she saw Ma, hands on her slender hips, casting a scornful gaze at him.\n “Now don’t fret, Sofia. This one doesn’t cost a single cent,” he assured her, raising his eyebrows mischievously. Ma let a small smile slip from the corners of her mouth, unable to keep angry with him.\n “Knowing you, Lorenzo Patricelli, it may not cost a cent, but a few gray hairs on the top of my head.”\n Placing Donna on the floor, Pa pecked Ma gently on the lips and tipped his hat. “We’ll be back before dinner, my love. Donna! Quickly!”\n Donna followed Pa excitedly back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk where he took off his hat before the wind could claim it and peered up at the sky. She looked up as well, looking at the fat white clouds rolling over the wide stretch of blue.\n “What is it, Pa?”\n “A surprise, darling! You’ll know when you see it!”\n Donna giggled as she followed her Pa around the streets, staring up at the sky as if waiting for the cotton candy clouds to fall down. What she saw instead made her heart gallop in her chest. A large shadow loomed over the sidewalk, blocking out the sun. She squealed in a mix of terror and delight as an ominous silver balloon glided over the buildings.\n “Oh, Pa! I’m scared!”\n “Don’t be, darling! That’s the surprise for you, it won’t hurt ya! Don’t you know what that is?”\n “No,” she stammered, her Pa scooping her up.\n “That’s the Hindenburg Blimp. It flew directly over our home to say Happy Birthday to you!”\n Donna was surprised. As large as it was, floating where the breeze steered it, it didn’t make a single noise. Well, why would a balloon make noise like an airplane after all? Pa ran with her jostling in his arms towards the Hudson River to watch the silent visitor glide across Liberty State Park.\n “Where’s it goin?” Donna said softly, brown eyes wide as saucers.\n “I s’pose back on track to Lakehurst Naval Air Station,” Pa answered, kissing Donna on the cheek. “They’ve been waitin’ on the weather to clear over there before landing, so they stopped by to say hello to you. At least, that’s what the radio was squawkin’.”\n Donna gulped down her fears so as not to disappoint him. “What a treat, Pa!” she said.\n They went back inside after the large silver blimp became nothing but a small speck, but Donna couldn’t shake the chill that dripped down her spine. Earlier this morning she felt like a grown eight-year-old lady on her way to womanhood. After witnessing the sheer size of the zeppelin that had loomed over her, it reminded her just how tiny and fragile her eight-year-old little girl self really was.\n---\n Werner pushed against his brother and sister to get a look out the slanted window. He was just tall enough if he stood on his toes to see out, but it would be better if his mother would let him drag his dining room chair across the carpet so he could stand as tall as his sister, who peered out with ease. Dinner was finished and the guests were making their way out, so it’s not like anybody needed the chair anyways.\n Three days prior, he waved goodbye to his newly made friends in Germany on the ground from another window on the air ship. It was noisier than he thought it would be. He always pictured riding in a blimp would be like sitting in a balloon and letting the wind guide you, but the large engines and propellers hummed loudly day and night, forcing their way against the unexpectedly sharp gusts towards New Jersey. Despite the pounding thrum of the engines, he was transfixed as they soared over the Atlantic Ocean. The deep blue expanse lay below him undisturbed besides the great icebergs that jutted out. He squinted, looking for tiny penguins like he had seen in his books about Antarctica.\n “We aren’t in Antarctica. What would a penguin do out on a lonely little iceberg?” his sister teased.\n “Catch fish swimming by, I suppose,” he argued back. He knew his sister was right, but he still looked for the penguins anyways.\n He was anxious to get off the blimp and back on land, even if for only a few moments. He knew the ship was delayed because of the weather and groaned as the blimp shifted course before arriving in New Jersey. There was supposed to be a thunderstorm tonight, but the high winds around Lakehurst had them detouring around until it calmed. They were somewhere, flying high over New Jersey. Werner looked down at the tall buildings, smiling as he saw small specks of people walking along the streets.\n As they floated over the engines were cut off, delivering a sweet, silent reprieve to his ears. He was finally riding in the quiet balloon he had originally thought he’d be in. They flew gracefully over the Hudson River.\n “Just heard word from the crewmen,” father said in his low gruff voice to mother, “the weather is favorable now. We’re heading for Lakehurst.”\n “We were supposed to land at Lakehurst hours ago!” mother had sighed, “I’ll believe it when we’re on the ground.”\n “Come, children,” father had ushered, placing a firm hand on Werner’s shoulder, “let’s make our way to the port side of the ship.” Werner obediently followed behind his brother and sister, naughtily tugging on the ribbon in her hair. She whipped her head around and shot him a glare that loosened at his giggles.\n “Honestly Werner, if I didn’t know you were eight, I’d assume you were four with all your wicked pranks,” she giggled, tightening the ribbon. She ruffled his black wavy hair before skipping up beside father.\n---\n After a hearty dinner of Risotto topped off with Donna’s favorite chocolate cake, she sat in the family room with Ma and Pa, listening to Herbert Morrison on the radio. His voice crackled excitedly between jazz songs, announcing the whereabouts of the blimp. It was a late arrival, as Donna had learned. Who could rush a balloon to float across the sky? Herbert had blared through the speaker that the ship could hold seventy passengers, but it was only half full. Was that supposed to make it float faster?\n “Oh, Ma! You should have come out to see. It was the grandest blimp I’ve ever seen!”\n “It’s the only blimp you’ve ever seen,” Ma corrected, not taking her eyes off the pants she was busy hemming on her lap. “Besides, I’ve seen the Hindenburg.”\n “Really?”\n “Mmhm,” she hummed triumphantly, “The Hindenburg was here a few times last year. Although, they’ve never flown over Manhattan that I’m aware of. I was visiting your baby cousin Vicky in the city when I saw it.”\n “Were you scared when you saw it?” Donna whispered, hoping she wasn’t the only one.\n Ma gave a dainty laugh, “Why would I be scared, silly?”\n “Because of how large it was!”\n “Well, no larger than the clouds now, is it? They float across the sky all the same.”\n Feeling silly, Donna slid back into the hard cushion of her chair.\n Herbert Morrison’s voice chimed through the radio: Well, here it comes, ladies and gentlemen; we're out now, outside of the hangar. And what a great sight it is, a thrilling one, just a marvelous sight. It's coming down out of the sky, pointed directly towards us and toward the mooring mast.\n Pa turned the dial on the radio, the crackling growing louder as he strained to listen. “It’s finally landing at Lakehurst!” Pa smiled.\n How did they land a big balloon? That’s all Donna could think about. Did somebody poke it with a giant pin? Or let all the air out of a stitching? “How’s it going to land, Pa?”\n Ma answered instead, “Well, I believe sometimes they throw ropes down, and men on the ground tie it down and pull it towards them.”\n Donna thought about how brave those men were, standing underneath that enormous silver balloon and wrenching it down towards them. Goodness, she hoped they wouldn’t get taken up in a gust of wind and blown into the sky, clinging to the ropes! Not only that, but it’s so dark out now! She walked over to Pa by the radio and glanced at his watch. 7:23pm. Would they be able to see alright and tighten down the ropes in the dark? Her heart beat wildly with the thought.\n It's practically standing still now; they've dropped ropes out of the nose of the ship, and it's been taken a hold of down on the field by a number of men. It's starting to rain again -- the rain had slacked up a little bit. The back motors of the ship are just holding it….\n “By golly,” Pa mumbled, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes, “what a sight it must be. How lucky we got to catch a glimpse of it, isn’t that right Donna girl?”\n “Yes, Pa,” she agreed.\n Suddenly, Herbert’s crackling voice announced frantically, It burst into flames! Get out of the way! Get out of the way!\n Pa’s eyes popped open and he shot up in his seat, staring at the radio as if it itself had burst into flames. Ma’s head snapped up just as fast, brows furrowed in confusion at what she just heard.\n Get this Charley! Get this Charley! It’s burning and it’s crashing! It’s crashing terrible! Oh my, get out of the way please. It’s burning, bursting into flames….\n The horror that Donna gulped down earlier in the street with Pa now seized her throat. Ma dropped her needle on her lap, covering her mouth in horror with her hand. Pa jumped up, grabbing each side of the radio as if to get it to speak faster.\n I -- I'm gonna step inside where I cannot see it. Charley, that’s terrible. I – I can’t....Listen folks, I -- I'm gonna have to stop for a minute because I’ve lost my voice. This is the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed.\n Donna wished Pa would turn off the radio, but she couldn’t open her mouth to speak. All she saw flashing across her mind were flames spewing from the giant balloon as it tumbled dangerously to the ground, crushing the brave men below as they diligently tied their knots in the ropes.\n---\n “And there the ropes go, do you see that, Werner?”\n Mother had propped Werner up on the ledge of the slanted window, so he could see clearly what his brother and sister were already tall enough to see. He watched the ropes tumble to the ground, men scrambling to grab hold of them to tie the ship in place.\n “This is called a ‘flying moor,’” father whispered into Werner’s ear. “The crewmen toss down the ropes and the men on the ground will pull the ship down and secure it.”\n “Nuts!” Werner gasped.\n Father led his sister to the opposite side of the observing deck to see what was happening while mother, Werner, and his older brother stood by the window peering down.\n It was dark out, but as the balloon hovered over the ground a mass of people could be seen. The workers were illuminated by lights. He smiled, waving down at them. All of a sudden, Werner felt a sharp shutter from the ship as he fell out of his stumbling mothers’ arms. A few yelps sounded off around the deck\n “Good gracious,” mother said, picking a stunned Werner off the floor, “What was—”\n Before she could finish her sentence, a hot burst of air hit them in the back, a heavy choking smell of smoke and diesel filling their lungs. A sensation of falling rippled through Werner’s gut, but he couldn’t open his eyes to see around him. Screams filled the putrid deck before he could figure out what was happening.\n He was back on the ground again, and forced his eyes open just in time to see his mother picking up his older brother while screaming, tossing him out of an open window. Werner gazed up at his mother in horror, but before he could run away his crazed mother grabbed him around the waist and launched them both from the window.\n Werner didn’t have time to feel relief that the ground wasn’t as far as he thought it would be. Mother wrenched both boys by the hand, Werner’s feet almost unable to keep up with their running pace. The uncomfortable sensation of heat clamped his back, and he smelled burnt hair as the sounds of screaming and metal crashing echoed around him. He looked up and his eyes grew wide, the nose of the Hindenburg blimp straight up in the air, the entirety of it being engulfed in a flash of flame. He looked wildly around the crowd despite his eyes stinging with smoke. Panic crept in as he realized his father and sister were not with them.\n He tried to ask mother where they were, but all he could manage was a fit of coughing and a sideways glance at his horror-stricken brother whose large brown eyes reflected the massive ball of fire that consumed the Hindenburg, his father, and his sister.\n\nMarch 3, 2013\n The mystery of the Hindenburg disaster—after seventy-six years— has finally been solved. Many hypotheses have surrounded the Hindenburg, enshrining it in dark secrecy. From sabotage, lightning, engine failure, puncture, and incendiary paint hypotheses, the real cause was due to static electricity. After the ship flew into a thunderstorm, a build-up of hydrogen led to the explosion.\n Although this story is historical fiction, the character Werner was inspired by the true story of Werner Gustav Doehner, who lost his father and sister that horrendous night on May 6, 1937. Werner Doehner passed away from complications of pneumonia on November 8, 2019 at the age of ninety.\n The fire consumed the zeppelin quickly, many eyewitnesses stating the total time of destruction reported between thirty-two and thirty-seven seconds, although NASA expert Addison Bain determined the actual time of destruction was around sixteen seconds.\n Despite the short amount of time the blimp was destroyed, there were only thirteen deaths of the thirty-six passengers on board, and only twenty-two of the sixty-one crewmen died. Many who did survive were severely burned.\n\nCitations:\nLife on the American Newsfront: The Hindenburg makes her Last Landing at Lakehurst . (1937, May 17). Life Magazine, 26–31.\n\nMagazine, S. (2012, May 1). Document deep dive: A firsthand account of the Hindenburg disaster. Smithsonian.com. Retrieved January 28, 2022, from https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/document-deep-dive-a-firsthand-account-of-the-hindenburg-disaster-79086828/\n\nHindenburg mystery solved 76 years after catastrophe. Synapse Wall of Cool - Hindenburg Mystery Solved 76 Years After Catastrophe \| Synapse Product Engineer. (n.d.). Retrieved January 28, 2022, from https://www.synapse.com/wall-of-cool/markgi/hindenburg-mystery-solved-76-years-after-catastrophe\n\nLarsen, E. (2019, November 17). Last survivor of Hindenburg crash dies at age 90. USA Today. Retrieved January 28, 2022, from https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2019/11/16/last-hindenburg-survivor-werner-gustav-doehner-dies-age-90/4219975002/" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1845\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people reconnecting after a rough patch in their relationship." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Let's go home later Matt? \"I asked him while eating in the canteen.\n\"Yes, but when we go home for a long time, you go first so that you can go home early, maybe your mother will look for you \"he replied while chewing the food.\n\"Okay go ahead but mama won't be angry when I take home for a long time as long as someone is home with me\" I said while sipping the coke.\n\"All right, I'll try if I can finish the work early so we can get home earlier ha\" he said to me and drank the water so we can enter our room, there are still a lot of activities because I will finish the activities.\nAfter we ate we immediately went to our room.\nI'm in the afternoon after the actives that the teachers ask me to do. I'm here right now in front of Matt's room waiting for him near our graduation so there are a lot of things to do. I saw him on the second floor talking to their president Amanda, apparently talking about their project and he immediately went inside while holding the paper.\nAs I waited for Matt I looked around, I saw many students coming to the gate to get home, on the other hand there were students playing in the big fields. Someone is kicking the ball, someone is running and some women are screaming.\nBOOMMMM! A loud voice from behind me, I turned to Matt who was holding a book that was his used whip on the chair.\n\"Is there handsome there?\" he asked with a frown.\n\"Is there? I can't see anything, wait for me to go there so I can see something\" I said to him while dragging him to the field.\n\"Woaahhhh !! You're so handsome matttt!\" I shouted at him with a laugh.\n\"that's crazy Allysah let's go sunset. oh maybe my aunt will scold you if you go home for a long time, woman. \"he preached.\n\"I'm just mad at you no\" I told him once raising an eyebrow.\n\"You're crazy, let's go\" he said irritably while pulling me and ran to the gate.\n\"Another madman just wait don't run matt\" I said.\n\"Come on, because let me show you something\" he said.\n\"Hey where are you taking me hey?\" I asked him.\n\"Secret. Let's go Because you are slow to run \"he said breathlessly due to running too fast.\n\"Yes it is\" I told him and ran faster than him.\n\"Bleeee what are you doing now bwahahah you're the one running slowly\" I said to him again with a laugh.\n\"Hey wait wait like you know where we are going\" he shouted at me and I stopped running Because I was out of breath.\n\"How far are we going? It's tiring to run\" he gasped when he said to Matt.\n\"We're close, let's just walk\" he said to me and immediately grabbed my hand.\nA few more minutes as we walked from our school, we were like the top of a mountain behind the school, but now I just came here. Here you can see the beautiful sea view with the setting sun.\n\"It's nice here, isn't it?\" matt asked.\n\"Yes, I just came here just now, if you hadn't brought me here I wouldn't have known that there is such a place here, it's so beautiful\" I said.\n\"I really know you would love to come here\" he told me.\n\"Let's go here again because it's nice, naks just like a date \"I said while laughing.\n\"Sure I love anything as long as you want\" he said softly to me once hugging me and kissing my face.\n\"What time is it?\" I asked him.\n\"It's about 6 o'clock, why are we going home?\" it asked me.\n\"Later I want to be with you for a long time. I will miss you again because Saturday is still a long way away from Monday\" corny said.\n\"What? Can I call you, you miss Matt again\" he said with a laugh and stood up.\n\"We're leaving?\" I asked him looking up.\nYes let's go maybe your mom will scold you\" he said.\nIt was night when I got home after matt took me to him and he immediately went home to them because it was evening, he said goodbye to my mother who came home. dad was planning to deliver in case Matt insisted not to Because he said he could do it himself.\nMonday morning and I am getting ready to go to school, I don't want to be late Because maybe our guard won't let me in because the guard is still strict.\nWhen I was in front of the school, I easily entered our room and to see if Matt had entered, he said he was feeling a bit bad e. I went to their room but he was not absent I guess I asked his classmates why he was absent but they also did not know so I went back to my classroom before our class started.\nThat my day ended well but there seems to be something missing, because Matt is not there so maybe this is how I am not used to eating alone during recess or lunchtime as well as when I come home I am not used to Because he is always with me e, I also do not have friend Because I didn't have time to chat with other students, Matt was really the only one.\nI went home early because I might not be able to go outside I still don't have anyone with me I also plan to call or e text Matt to say hello maybe because he didn't text me what his condition is now and he is not in school.\n\"Matt are you okay? You didn't come in earlier ah, did you have a fever? What happened to you?\" I asked Matt in the text and he immediately replied.\n\"I'm fine Allysah I'm just feeling pretty bad and just taking care of something\" he replied.\n\"Really? Be careful always I love you\" I replied to him.\n\"Yes you too I love you, I love you\" said matt.\n\"I love you too Mahal, rest there\" I replied to him.\n\"Yes I love you too, go to bed at night oh I can sleep too\" he said to me and I did not reply Because I knew he was tired after that and I went to sleep.\nThe next day the same thing happened, I got home early because Matt was gone I don't know what really happened to him. The next day it was the same until it took a week but he was still not there he did not reply to my messages to him even in Facebook his account was deleted when I called his Cp he just r-ringed but unanswered sometimes even killed so when I decide to go to their house tomorrow to ask how Matt is or how it is.\nMonday afternoon instead of us going to see Matt I went so I could ask Because it's not good anymore and I miss Matt so much I'm also worried about him, just now I came here Because I went with a Friend since I was no longer in school I met Hanna my classmate who was just quiet in the room but when I was with her there was too much chatter our house was also close so we always went home together and I was happy because of it.\nWhen we got to their house, I noticed the silence here, there was no one there, but because I was nervous, I called Matt.\n\"Is there anyone here?\"\n\"Matt, are you there?\"\n\"This person is allysah, Matt, where are you?\"\n\"Tao pooooo\"\n\"Man pooooo is there anyone here?\" I shouted but no one answered.\nBecause no one answered, Hanna and I just decided to go home so that we would not spend the night on the road.\nWeeks, months and years passed but Matt still does not come back I have many questions in my mind but I can not answer all these. Morning until I fall asleep Matt is in my mind still waiting for him but nothing, nothing comes and I am gradually losing hope that it may be right I can not fight anymore that maybe you already have family and Matt is married and maybe he forgot about me for a long time but why? Why am I still not able to forget him even though a few years ago I do not know if it is because of unanswered questions? Or because he really was the first and will be the last to be loved no matter where I am and what I am now Because I really love him, as long as I continue to live and see every sunset I will love him even if one day sinks, two times or even a few more as long as my love for him does not disappear or sink like the sun. It also will not disappear suddenly like when he is not there Because I love him.\n5 years later....\nBecause today is the day without Matt I can easily go to where we last met and that's where our school is in the back, I will watch the sunset alone.\n\"Mom, I'm leaving first, ma ha\" I said to mama and left easily before leaving.\nWhen I got to the place where you last met I was shocked because someone was sitting there. I was unfamiliar with him and he turned to me and smiled.\n\"Hi\" it simply said to me so I immediately approached.\n\"hello do you also know this place?\" I asked the man sitting there.\n\"Yes, I used to bring the woman I love before but because of what happened to me, it disappeared\" He told me that I was surprised.\n\"Do you know what the woman's name is?\" I asked him.\n\"I remember we ran here, her name is Allysah\" he replied to me which surprised me.\nWait for this Matt? But why? Why didn't I meet him right away?\n\"Matt? Is that you?\" I asked him.\n\"You know me?\" he asked me back.\n\"This is me, Allysah I came here Because this is the day we last met\" I said.\n\"You are Allysah, sorry Because I suddenly disappeared but like the sunset even if it sinks it will come back later\" He said to me and hugged me.\n\"Even though you have been gone for a long time Matt I have not been able to forget you because when I see the sunset you are the one I remember, that I love you so it's okay Matt it is important you come back\" he said yes and I hugged him tightly.\n\"I love you so much Allysah\" matt said and kissed my forehead.\n\"I love you too Matt\" I replied and we just kept watching 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: If only he remembered\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone asking out an old crush, only to realize their crush doesn’t remember they’ve ever met before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Carol please get done! \"We are going to be so late\"\nI'm coming Mandy!\nThe two school friends is on their way to a day out at the beach\nDriving down Adderley Street in the beautiful Cape Town, they are both over excited to be together after a few years apart.\nMandy married her partner Dave, whom she is daring now over six years and they are still going strong\nCarol on the other hand have a secret; a very big stupid secret\n\"I can't share my stupid secret with Mandy\". She will make fun of me and that will spoil my thoughts!\n\"A penny for your thoughts Carol\"\nOh you will be very poor if it was worth a penny Mandy, Carol says to her best friend\n\"If you say so, but I could swear you were a thousand miles away just mow\"\nCarol parks her red Golf GOT in a parking and the two takes their cooler bag, umbrella and all the other belongings from the booth\nMandy we are only spending a day at the beach, not a month!\nMandy laughs at Carol as she takes out her three bags stuffed with all the sweet things and juices for the day\nA few minutes later the two girls falls down on their bright towels with printed animations\nCarol and Mandy have their last juice before packing up; their bodies exhausted and sensitive from the suburbs\nBoth takes a cold shower and heads straight for bed\nIt's early morning when Carol is busy in the kitchen preparing her long deserved holiday in Port Elizabeth\nGood morning Carol!\nI see you are up early and ready for the long three weeks holiday\nYes I can't wait to spend the days at a beautiful beach with the most beautiful sunsets\nSoon Carol is ready and on her way to her holiday\nThe sun is scorching hot and the road makes her feel warm and sticky; a weather she just do not like\nOh no! What sound was that now\nShe pulls over and walks around the car to see what could be wrong\nShe noticed her wheel is punctured and water is leaking underneath the car\nNo! I can't even change a wheel, what more about a water leak\nShe puts her hands on her head, closing her eyes for a few seconds, hoping that when she opens it the wheel will be fixed and so the water leak\nShe slowly opens her eyes and noticed the same problem is waiting for her to be fixed.\nDamn stupid car! I should have traded you when I had the chance\nShe goes on her knees and looks underneath the car\nJames wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hands\nHe noticed a red sporty Gold on the side of the road\nHe pulls over behind the car and walks over to the drivers side and notices something very strange\n\"The behind of a female\"\nHe stands in silence for a while, looking at the car trying to figure out what might be the problem\n\"Good day\" he says in a bass voice\nCarol realizes someone, a man is there and reverses her from underneath the car and bumps her head\nShe opens her mouth as she looks at this tall blond headed handsome Adam infront of her!\nCan I help you? This is a very dangerous road to be stucked on; especially for a beuti....\"he paused and says for a female\"\nDonny don't remember me!\nYes I'm struggling with a leak and as you can see a flat tyre\nJames walks to his sporty silver Mercedes Benz and quickly changes her wheel; \" you can fill the water, but have to repair your watermark or tour engine might seize\nHe places the jack back in his booth and greets her\n\"Thank you very much for helping me\"\nHe gets in his car and slowly drives past her as he smiles\n\"Why is he smiling\"?\nShe gets back in her car and looks in the mirror, her face is smudged with black marks from scratching underneath her car\nShe wipes it clean and places the key in the ignition\nShe cruises down the road as she sips on her icy cold water from her cooler bag on the back seat\n\"James don't remember her at all; Come on James, the movie is about to begin\"\nMany years ago they had a one and only date to the movies\nThank you for the evening James\n\"Thank you for accompanied me Carol\"\nHow can he not remembered?\nI did not changed that much!\nI will try and find out where he stays, maybe he have a Facebook account\nExcitedly she drives to her designation and books in at the Protea hotel and takes the lift to the second floor\nShe is well rested and feeling fresh after her showers and short rest in her hotel room\nShe walks to the balcony and sits on a dark wooden bench\nShe looks over the blue sea and then down to where the other guests is relaxing at the pool, while enjoying the sunset\nHer mouth falls open as she notices someone, once again!\n\"It's James\"!\nWhat is he doing here?\nDid he followed me?\nOfcourse not Carol! \"How could he if he left before you\"\nShe is confused as he don't remembers her, she thinks sadly\nShe observes James as he takes a dive into the water and swims down to the steps. He wraps the towel around his sexy waist, while his long fingers makes sure his hair is still on his head; moving his fingers through his blond strands\nShe moves forward to inspect every move that he makes\nA warmth comes up from the bottom of her spine moving into her neck\n\"She wants to join him at the pool, but he don't remembers her\"\nAt seven she walks down to the area where everyone is welcome to enjoy a light supper\nA white teeth waiter escorts her to a corner table where he pulls out the chair for her to be seated\nShe sits on the soft while cushion as the waiter pours her a glass of water\nThank you that will be all; please bring me a soda water with the meal\nJames walks in and sits on the other corner from where Carol sits\nShe is watching his every move\n\"I think I am inlove\"\nOh stop with the inlove thoughts Carol\nHe don't even remembers you!\n\"She enjoys her supper in silence with a Kenny G in the background\"\nShe takes a walk outside in the garden before she decides to turn in\nThe summer offers a soft cool breeze over her body and her long hair is hanging lose over her shoulder; while playing with the wind\nThe next day will be valentine!\nSuddenly Carol feels alone and a little on the sad side\nThe entire pool area is decorated with red and white balloons\nRed roses is spreader in the pathway and the atmosphere is loved\nShe plans to prepare a surprised supper for her and James\nShe rushes down to the kitchen where she speaks to the manager; the plan is in action and the waiter is booked for a special table for her and James\nShe takes a shower; getting ready for her surprised date with James, but first she needs to go see if everything is in order in the kitchen before getting dressed\nJames answers the knock on his door\nSir you are summoned to a surprised dinner at table number thirteen at seven tonight; your guest is a Valentine surprise\nJames smiles and closes the door; looking at his watch it is in exactly three hours\n\"Who can the surprised guest be\"?\nHe goes to the shower and welcomes the cool water over his well build body\nJames cannot guess who the person is inviting him to a Valentine dinner\n\"After Mary left him for Trevor has he never been in a relationship\"\n\"Love is just too confusing for me\"\nCarol looks at herself in the mirror for one last time after fifteen times before\nShe enters the dining room and takes a seat at her table\nThe waiter sis a very good job with the table, now just for James to enter and recognizing her!\nJames walks in and looks at the numbers on the side of the tables and notices table number thirteen\nHe smiles as he recognizes the lady sitting st the red and white balloons decorated table\nCarol noticed James is smiling and excitedly smiles back at him as he approaches her\n\"He remembers me!\"\nShe reaches out her tiny hands to handshake him\nSo you remembered? She excitedly says with a soft voice\n\"Ofcourse I remember\"\nPlease have a seat\nJames sits at the table and smiles at her\nCarol is the happiest girl alive! \"He finally remembers me\"\nSo did you fixed your water leak of the car?\nMy what?\nOh! Yes I had it fixed\nShe realizes James don't remembers her from school days; only of the day she struggles with her car\nSuddenly she is not hungry\nShould she tell him who she is?\nWhy the sudden silence lady\n\"What is your name or is our identity going to remain a secret\"\n\"Oh, I'm James Cunningham\"\nCarol is not sure if she wants him to know her name and hopes the evening is over sop so that she can be in her room, with herself\n\"I'm Carol White\"\nSo you are not from here I take it?\n\"No I'm from Cape Town\"\nI'm from Port Elizabeth since ages ago, when my mom passed away\nMy dad moved here and I am the only child\nCarol is no longer interest in James and her evening is a dull atmosphere\nThey eats a divine supper in silence\nJames looks at her as she pours the red wine\nSo why me?\n\"Me what\"\nThis; all this with us\n\"Oh I just wanted to thank you for saving me when I got sticker in the middle of nowhere\"\n\"Well this is not something I expected, but it is very thoughtful of you\"\nSo tell me James, \"which Secondary school did you attend\"\nSea Point Secondary, why do you ask\nI attended the same school\nYou did?\n\"Yes and my class teacher was Van staden\"\nHis eyes stretched, \"mine too\"!\nAnd you don't remember me at all?\n\"No I don't Carol\"\nShe looked at him and gets up\n\"Well, I had a lovely evening\"\nJames gets up as well and shakes her hand firmly\nThank you for inviting me to a \"Valentine dinner Carol and I am sorry that I don't remember you\"\nIt is not a problem at all James, she whispers as she reaches for her silver sling bag\nShe walks away and decides to take the stairs to clear her mind\nHe looks at her as she walks away\nCarol is on her bed and the tears freely roll down her soft skin face\nHe don't remember me!\n\"What a fool I have been to have this stupid Valentine dinner\"\nShe wipes her tears and starts packing her bags\nEarly the next morning she have a coffee in the dining room and signs out\nShe slowly drives down the road, the early morning breeze is perfect as the road is still long\nJames is at the front desk\n\"Can I help you sir\"\nYes, in which room is Carol White\n\"Oh I'm afraid she signed out this morning sir\"\n\"She what\"?\n\"She signed out sir\"\nDid she say why?\n\"No sir, but she seemed sad\"\n\"It's all my fault\"!\nHe walks back to his room on the third floor and don't realize that he took the stairs and not the escalater\nCarol stops at a pitstop to stretch her legs and to grab a take away for the road\nHer Valentine has tumbles down on her\n\"I will grow old and grey on my own\"\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 Sign of the Devil’s Cottage\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1778\n\nPrompt:\n\nCreate a title with our Title Generator, then write a story inspired by it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The twisted tree stood in shadow against the pinks and oranges of the evening sky while the sun dipped behind the small cottage below. Young Osborn Fairchilde crept through the field towards the rickety home. He had already seen 12 winters pass but kept the curiosity of one much younger. Grasses crackled beneath his feet, and he slowed to avoid being heard. The air was cool as often happened between the seasons and a gentle fog tumbled along the path. He crouched behind some taller brush to study cottage. The windows blinked at him as a fire was lit within and the shadows from the roof reached out like fingertips across the ground. \nYoung Mister Fairchilde snaked his head out around the brush to look closer. The sky was falling darker, and the moon began to dance off the branches of the twisted tree. He leaned further forward to see she who lived within. As he craned his neck, his balance failed and he tipped over, his knee catching a stray branch on the ground. He cried out in pain as a red streak appeared on his thigh. He cupped his hands quickly to his mouth to muffle his yelp. \nPerhaps she did not hear. He hoped. But the door yawned and opened revealing a small figure, hunched, and twisted herself. Osborn tucked himself back in to the shadow of the brush, pressing against his thigh as Nelda Younge turned her head from side to side and called for her cat. A sleek black creature answered the call and snaked around her legs several times. \n“Come now, Fortuna.” The old woman said. “There is warmth within, and I fear the weather is turning.” She clicked her tongue three times, and the cat rubbed its head against her leg and slithered inside. By now the sun had disappeared and the sky was dotted in stars and when her door closed again, Osborn Fairchilde headed home quickly, knowing his mother would be displeased with his being out beneath the night sky. \nHis mother’s anger waned when she saw her son’s leg. “Good gracious, my child.” She exclaimed, “Your injury is not small.” She boiled some cloth and cleaned his wound. “How did you receive such a gash?” \nThe child understood that were he to speak the truth that he should find himself on the receiving end of a lashing and spoke the first words that crept into his mind. “It was Nelda Younge and her cat. I was startled by them lurking in the fog.” \n“And she provided this wound?” His mother’s eyes burned. \n“They did.” He lied. “From a distance. She whispered to her cat and the gashes appeared.” Osborn peeked up at his mother. She was twisting and untwisting the cloth in her hand. \n“You need to rest, child.” She said quietly. “We shall speak further tomorrow.” \nWhen daylight reached through the windowpane and Osborn’s eyes flickered open, he was surprised to see his mother up and dressed. His leg pulsed but the bleeding had slowed, and it now just oozed periodically. \n“Dress and wash yourself, child.” His mother spoke as he rolled lazily over to one side. “We have visits to make.” \nOsborn furrowed his brow but followed his mother’s wishes. \nTheir first stop was to the town’s healer who examined Osborn’s wounds carefully. \n“How did these come to be?” Harlan Hurste questioned him. \nOsborn opened his mouth to speak but his mother responded first. “It was the widow Younge and her cat.” \nMr. Hurste again examined the leg. “These look not like the scratches of a cat.” \nOsborn looked to his mother. \n“Twas not the cat but rather some force of the mind that provided this injury.” She whispered. “She must be one of them.” \nMr. Hurste rose and proceeded to his shelf, scanning the contents before removing a small tub. “That is a strong accusation, Mrs. Fairchilde.” He smeared some salve across his patient’s leg. “This should help with the pain.” \nMrs. Fairchilde glared at the healer. “Do you accuse my son of lying?” \n“Certainly not.” Replied Hurste. “Best head to the church, though. Mr. Hille will have guidance in such matters.” \nMrs. Fairchilde nodded, took her son by the hand, and headed in that direction. \n“The presence of a witch is very concerning.” Oswine Hille stroked his beard. “We have been blessed not to have the Devil’s touch amongst our women.” He was young for a member of the clergy and the town questioned his readiness. He looked at the young Fairchilde. “You say your wounds happened without her touch?” \n“Yessir.” This was not a lie, for she had not laid a hand upon him. \n“Then the Devil may be among us.” Hille spoke at last. “Be vigilant.” \nMrs. Fairchilde nodded, and Osborn’s eyes fixed on the cross behind Mr. Hille as his mother dragged him out of the church. \nAs they returned home, they happened up on Mrs. Goode. Mrs. Fairchilde could not contain herself as she spoke to her friend. \n“Gossip is of the Devil’s tongue.” Mrs. Goode reminded her sternly. \n“This is not gossip. I speak the truth.” Mrs. Fairchilde insisted. \nMrs. Goode turned to Osborn. “Is what your mother speaks true?” \nOsborn’s eyes widened and he started up at Mrs. Goode. \n“Did she take his speech when she injured his leg?” Mrs. Goode asked. \nOsborn shrank behind his mother. \n“I suppose it is not gossip if young Osborn experienced this firsthand.” Mrs. Goode considered. “My calf has not been well. Perhaps she has cursed the creature.” \nMrs. Wilkee and her husband appeared at the door shortly after their arrival home. They spoke in hushed tones. \"We visited the widow Younge last month,” they whispered to Mrs. Fairchilde in the kitchen “she waved her finger when we asked her why she had not attended service that week. Our butter won’t come since.” \nMr. Wilkee turned away from the child indicating something to Mrs. Fairchild that caused her eyes to widen and her cheeks to flush. \n“It is not the same.” He shook his head. “It functions poorly.” \n“She hath used her dark magic to affect him.” Mrs. Wilkee seemed genuinely afraid. \nOsborn did not understand their words but did understand that he felt odd and tired. He wandered to his bed, slipped into his nightclothes, and lay in bed. \nWhen he awoke, he found his brow wet and hot. His leg throbbed anew, and his breath unsteady. His body shook, despite the warmth emanating from him. \n“It is the Devil’s curse.” His mother proclaimed and she left to get Mr. Hille. \nThey returned together and were joined by Mr. Hurste who carried a heavy bag with contents that clinked with each step. \nMisters Hille and Hurste approached the boy, brows bent in concern. \nMr. Hille placed his hand on Osborn’s forehead, closed his eyes and began to pray. “...deliver us from evil...” \nMr. Hurste examined the wound before digging through the bag and extracting several vials whose contents were mixed and placed on the wound. \n“The devil woman hath caused much damage.” Mr. Hille noted as he removed a bottle of holy water from his pocket. “Begone, evil spirits and the Lord protect this child.” He sprinkled the holy water on Osborn’s forehead. \nIf gossip is the devil’s tongue, then the whole town was possessed as news of young Mister Fairchilde’s affliction spread. \n“She cursed her husband, as well.” The townswomen whispered. \n“Her cat sneaks out at night and spreads their charms to the cattle.” The men expressed. \nMany rushed to find the young clergyman. “The Devil is among us.” He preached. “There is no doubt that her spirit is turned away from the Lord.” The crowds around the church muttered their approval. \n“She has the mark on her hand!” Called out a voice. “I have seen it!’ \n“She hath not attended service this week!” Shouted another. \nThe clergyman listened carefully before responding. “I will pay her a visit and check for the devil’s mark myself.” \nSeveral amongst the crowd followed as he proceeded to the cottage by the twisted tree. \nThe widow Younge emerged from her cottage with her cat on her heels. \n“Mrs. Younge, I must see your hand.” Hille removed a cloth from his pocked, turning her hand several times. “Your hands bear the Devil’s mark.” He told her. \n“No, sir. They do not. They show only the signs of age.” She replied. \n“If these be not the mark of evil spirits, then speak the Lord’s Prayer.” \nThe spectators in the distance craned their necks to hear the elderly widow speak. \nNelda Younge could feel the eyes upon her. She removed her hand from the clergyman’s grip and rubbed her skin, washing her hands in the air. “Our father,” she began, her voice shaking. “Who art in heaven hallowed be...” She stopped as the onlookers’ stares bore through her. \n“Can you not finish?” Mr. Hille straightened his back. \n“I can, sir.” She whispered. \n“Continue.” He stared at her. “Continue if the Devil does not prevent you from doing so.” \nHer jaw trembled, “ha-hallowed by t-t-thy name...” She lowered her head. \n“The Devil has interfered! He has her soul!” Hille turned to the hidden crowd. He raised his hands to the heavens. “Guide us, oh Lord, as we purge the evil from this woman’s soul!” \nThe crowd of onlookers approached slowly. \n“My calf is ill!” Shouted Mrs. Goode. \n“My butter won’t come!” Called out Mrs. Wilkee. \nA cacophony erupted with shouts of “my crops died!” and “the crows are behaving strangely!” overlapping cries of “woman’s heart is easily turned!” and “she prays to the dark one!” \nThe mob descended upon Nelda Younge. “Run, my beautiful Fortuna! Flee!” She called to her cat and then they were upon the old woman, dragging and pulling her in every which way. The cat skittered off into the darkness. \n“We call to you, God, to protect us from this devil woman!” Mr. Hille called to the sky before turning his head down to his flock, who stirred violently with Mrs. Young in the center. “There is no sin in ridding the earth of one whose heart has been turned to the Devil.” He said calmly. \nThe twisted tree stood in shadow against the pinks and oranges of the evening sky while the sun dipped behind the small cottage below. From its branches a figure swayed in the breeze, the bow creaking with each swing. Young Osborn Fairchilde, recovered from the Devil’s touch, crept through the field towards the body of Nelda Younge. Fortuna stood watch beneath the branch, her eyes glowed in the darkness.\n“Witch.” He whispered before turning away and returning 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: Women Are Unpredictable\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1007\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone asking out an old crush, only to realize their crush doesn’t remember they’ve ever met before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Leslie? Is that you?” I couldn’t believe it. What are the odds that my high school crush would be here? “I’m sorry, have we met?” Of course she doesn’t remember me. “It’s Jake! From high school!” Her face turned red. It was obvious that my name didn’t ring any bells. “Sorry- I-” she stuttered. “You know! Jake Reynolds! We were in like 20 classes together?” She started avoiding eye contact. “I know we didn’t talk much, but we’ve met a few times. Remember Dylan’s party? We played beer pong. We absolutely destroyed Charles and Amy.” She stopped blushing and looked up at me. I thought that she had finally remembered who I was. Oh boy was I wrong. \"Is this some kind of joke?\" She said angrily. \"You know what, I'm sick and tired of being treated this way. What makes you think this pickup line would work? Charles and Amy are my friends, and frankly it's scary how you made up a story about us meeting just to hit on me.\" I was baffled. I didn't know what to say. \n\"Leslie... no that's not what's happening. We actually do know each other! I had a crush on you for all of high school. We had math first period with Mr. Franklin junior year, remember? You sat right in front of me. You always wore your hair in a ponytail. I would get so distracted watching your hair swing from side to side that I almost failed math that year. Then one day, you came to school having dyed your hair a lighter shade of brown. You were upset that none of your friends noticed. But I noticed. I noticed right as you walked through the door. It looked so soft I couldn't help but stare. I always fantasized about asking you out, but I couldn't even bring up the courage to talk to you. You were so popular, and you clearly had a crush on Ben. How could I compete with him? He had perfect grades and was clearly going to be the CEO of a company one day. And I heard he actually started a company! Anyway, it wasn't until Dylan's party that I decided right then and there, I'm going to talk to you. Of course I had to have a few drinks beforehand, but like I said, we ended up playing beer pong. It was one of the best days of my life. I went back home and couldn't sleep because of how excited I was. The next day, I went back to school and you didn't show up. I thought it might just be because you were hung over or something. But days went by as I stared at the empty seat in front of me. I was even more distracted coming up with scenarios of what could have possibly happened to you. Day after day, I couldn't get you out of my head. I started going around school asking people if they knew what happened to you. I was a shy person, so this took a lot of courage for me to do. No one would give me a straight answer. Your friends just ignored me. Ben made fun of me. I didn't give up. I knew you couldn't have gone far. I started skipping class just to drive around the neighbourhood looking for you. It wasn't until a few days later that I realized that you had moved one town over. With no warning. You started attending Riverview High, the local high school. I found transfer papers online and filled them out. I just wanted to smell your hair. I didn't realize how much I'd miss it until you had left. The school called my house, and I answered pretending to be my father. After taking care of a few small details, I managed to transfer to your school. On my first day, I looked everywhere for you. You were nowhere to be found. The school was so big and had so many classes, the odds of randomly running into you were slim to none. I knew I had to get your class schedule to see you again. That night, I hid in a locker as the janitor began locking the doors and closing the school. Once the whole building was empty, I went into the principal's office where I found his computer which contained information about every student who attended Riverview High. Problem was, it was locked. I had all night to figure out the password. I tried combinations of common words and numbers, but nothing worked. I then noticed a picture of a dog on the desk with the words \"Buddy\" written on the picture. There was another picture of the principal's wedding, with the wedding date inscribed onto the back of the picture frame. Finally, I gained access to the computer by combining the name of the dog and the date of the wedding. Your class schedule showed that you had math in room 202 in last period. I went home and the next day, I sat behind you in math class. Your hair was just how I remembered it, shiny, soft, and copper brown. Unfortunately, I still couldn't muster up the courage to talk to you for the remainder of high school, and you moved across country for college. Remember?\"\nSurely, her eyes widened. I continued. \"I couldn't say it then but I can say it now. Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?\" Before she could answer, a bell rang. We had to go into the courtroom. \"You honour-\" the defence attorney began. \"My client is a well respected software engineer working for our government. He displays no signs of mental illness. He couldn't have possibly committed this crime.\" The trial continued for a few hours. Finally, Leslie stood up. \"Your honour, the jury finds the defendant, Jake Reynolds, guilty of criminal harassment.\" I couldn't believe it. After everything we've been through, Leslie turned on me. Women are as they say, truly unpredictable." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dresden\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1162\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose name you got from our Character Name Generator." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warin believed he could fix anything.\nHe'd repair any gadget he could get his hands on. Watches, radios, toys. His neighbours brought him their broken trinkets—he would take them apart and put them back together, good as new. When his mother found him an electronics magazine, he thought he could be the next great inventor.\nHe couldn’t fix the dead body of his brother, returned home in a coffin.\n\n- - -\n\nEmeline adored her bakery. It had belonged to her grandfather, passed down to her father, and finally to her. She awoke every morning at first light to heat the ovens. She’d wash trays, prepare muffins, and bake a dozen kinds of bread. The locals lined up as she opened.\nShe would be the one to take the store a step forward in the world. \nRenovations and expansions. \nHer family would be proud.\nYet, as Germany’s war efforts faltered, soldiers showed up and demanded her wheat. She had no choice but to comply. Then, they asked for her pots and pans—they’d be melted down to make bullets. She argued, unwilling to let them in.\nThey broke her nose with the stock of a rifle.\n\n- - -\n\nVelten’s life led up to defending his home. The winds howled in mid-February. He shivered, sitting behind the twin barrels of an anti-aircraft cannon. His allies set up their searchlights. Another prepared to feed the weaponry ammunition—although the army provided little for defence. \nThe light of the city ahead dimmed. Street lamps and traffic stops shut off. Windows were boarded over with dark panels. Air raid sirens sounded their distorted, haunting wail, and Velten waited, breathing slow.\nDresden, as black as pitch, faced hundreds of British warplanes.\n\n- - -\n\nWarin kept close to his mother, his hand intertwined with hers—he would not lose her too. He pulled her arm as they ran for the shelter. Planes droned overhead. Bombs hissed, shrieking as they fell, reducing buildings to rubble on impact. Warin coughed against the dust, raising an arm to cover his eyes.\nHe needed to find the subway station.\nA barrage of explosions rocked the earth. His teeth chattered. A nearby cinema groaned, caved, and collapsed, an avalanche of rock and metal. A wedge of loose debris struck his mother’s head. She dropped to the ground.\nWarin couldn’t pick her up.\nThe surrounding fires brought light to the hulking beasts in the sky. He found a rock, threw it as high as he could, then fell to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes.\n“What have I done to you?” he cried.\n\n- - -\n\nEmeline stumbled through the wreckage of her city. The bombers had retreated—far from routed—and left infernos in their wake. Her eyes grew dry in the rising heat. The fire brigade worked around her, spraying hoses of ivory-white water, calling to one another. Inaudible amidst the chaos. Buildings collapsed by the second.\nAhead stood her bakery. \nReduced to ash and rubble.\nA century of memories erased.\nShe fell to the ground before it, breathing in smoke, digging through cinder and stone. Cuts nicked her hands. If she could salvage the photos on the wall, the ones of her parents and grandparents, it would be okay. She would recover.\nYet, the smoke made it hard to think.\nShe coughed, hacking from her lungs. A fireman rushed to drag her off.\n\n- - -\n\nVelten walked with his head hung low. The sun dawned on a ruined city. A woman sobbed, laying down by the remains of a house, a broken stroller resting beside her. A man played a sombre tune on a violin. Others worked to drag out what remained of their possessions.\nChildren cried within triage tents, surgeons fixing what they could.\nHe couldn’t face any of them.\nThe British had overwhelmed the night. He’d shot down one plane before ammo ran low, his cannon making clunking noises as it fired blanks, his boots held down on the pedals. Not a dent to the enemy forces—a loss in all terms of the word.\nThey’d left his people distraught.\n\n- - -\n\nWarin held a rifle at his side—the weapon over half his height. He stood in a palace garden, far away in Berlin, alongside boys his age, all dressed like soldiers. Orphans. Beige uniforms with red armbands. They would all be taught, trained, and sent off to defend the front lines of the city against an invasion.\nA chance for vengeance.\nAdolf Hitler walked down the line of soldiers. They broke into salutes. The Fuhrer consoled each of the youth, patting their shoulders, assuring them of victory. Bags reposed beneath Warin's eyes. His arms shook in jolts. He longed for the battlefield.\nThe Fuhrer reached out a hand.\nTheir goals of retaliation aligned. As the last of his family, he would do his part in setting everything straight. Warin shook hands with Hitler, his grip firm, and shouted,\n“Sieg Heil!”\n\n- - -\n\nEmeline worked shoulder to shoulder with another woman. A silent one. Not that it mattered—neither could hear the other over the factory’s hammering. Emeline lowered her mask, sparked her welder, and brought the adhering flame to the tank’s hull. She followed the guidelines as taught.\nA plate welded.\nDown the assembly line.\nOnto the next.\nHer hands grew thick with calluses. Dozens of light tanks left the factory by the day. She’d attach cables, wave to a foreman, and they’d send the tank to the next station. Soon enough, she took the position and commanded the work orders herself.\nThe factory did little in taking her bakery's place.\n\n- - -\n\nVelten would not fail again. He marched in unison with a hundred others, each step the sound of thunder. The insignia of a dual lightning bolt painted the right side of his helmet—another on his collar. High power and high rank. The elite force of his country.\nMen and women waved Nazi Germany’s flag as he passed through the town square, and Velten kept a straight face of confidence. He raised an arm alongside his comrades in a salute. Soon, he’d fight the enemy head-on. There’d be blood to spill on his homeland’s soil. \nHe would protect his people.\nBy all means necessary.\n\n- - -\n\nHenry would get revenge for London at any cost.\nFor fifty-seven days straight, the Germans terrorized his home. Their fire-bombings destroyed landmarks, museums, and libraries. History razed without remorse. Houses damaged beyond repair—thousands upon thousands of innocents torched within the fires.\nHis people, throughout the air raids, kept their spirits high.\nLike thorns in the paw of a lion, their fortitude could not be deterred.\nAs Churchill said, they would fight until the end without surrender.\nHenry flew alongside hundreds of Royal Air Force bombers. The raid on Dresden would decimate German morale. Destroy their confidence. Give them a sharper dose of the miseries they’ve showered upon mankind. \nThousands of feet above, he pulled the lever.\nBombs whistled 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: The Nameless Planet\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1014\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a nameless world." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Scientists discovered a New World where everybody was full of Love and highly intelligent. There were no Sickness and Diseases. There was no corruption, and Everybody lent a helping hand to one another and lived a happy, productive lifestyle until Scientists devised a plot to take over the world. On this nameless planet that they discovered, the air was clean and contamination-free, the grass was greener.\nThere were no harsh weather conditions, and there was better technology. People were able to get around at high velocity. Everything was faster, trains, planes, and automobiles. No one knew where this world came from and why they had never discovered it before, and it baffled the scientist, so they started to Infiltrate this new world with all manners of investigations.\nQuantum Physics reported that this mysterious planet was close to the black hole, which is why they did not discover it before. But with their new high-tech telescope, they were able to see on the other side of the black hole discovering this new planet. The black hole played a major role in sucking all the pollution out of the air, which is where its healing powers derived from cleansing the body and mind of pollution and contaminants.\nQuantum physics believes this is the side effect of the Big Bang theory that this is the element of dark matter that's been a mysterious phenomenon to scientists for millions of years. Once it merges with the person's biological makeup, it acts like a vacuum sucking all of the pollutions out of the person's body as the sun generates new growth of cells.\nBiochemists have a theory that the elements of these particles attach themselves to your DNA components and become one property, whereas you cannot distinguish one from the other. When news got out about the wonderful nameless world, everyone wanted to go there because The scientist who went there with an ailment was able to heal quicker through the healing power of the elements in the atmosphere, and when they returned to the earth, they were looking younger, healthier, stronger and more intelligent.\nThe MPIU (mysterious phenomenon investigation unit) reports that extensive investigation findings show that once a person comes in contact with these elements, they merge with the person's DNA and take on the healing properties of the elements beyond even what they can imagine. And the light from the sun was able to boost their intelligence.\nBut for everyone with an ailment to travel there to be healed, it will cost a whopping sum of one million dollars.\nPeople began to panic and were frightened because they wanted to save their friends and family members who only had a short time to live and could not afford the cost. But the government planned only to take two volunteers.\nThere was chaos, people began fighting to be the first volunteers to go to this nameless planet and accusing the government of being racist for not choosing someone from their race. World 1 News reports for everyone to stay calm because Climate experts and biochemists are working together to devise a plan to bring the healing properties of this nameless planet to earth. In the meantime, stay positive.\nWorld News 1 updated reports that Doctors and scientists work diligently with state-of-the-art machines for further investigation. Paleontologist studies show distinct traces and correlations between the ancient history of mankind when studying how the pyramids were constructed. And examining the bones of the deceased, Which did not decompose at the normal rate.\nGood evening world; good news, we have a special announcement, after careful and extensive testing of the water found on this nameless planet, it has been discovered that this water contains special high potent properties with great healing abilities that can release your body healing properties at a slower rate but is more cost-effective in a less concentrated form. It costs $500- for an 8oz bottle and is covered by most insurances.\nWe will be sending a probe carrying large quantities of this water to earth. But it still won't be enough to heal everyone, so there will be a waiting list on a first-come, first-serve basis. Everybody got excited upon hearing the news and rushed to the hospitals to be the first on the waiting list. There was a lot of debate about who should be first. This stirred up massive confusion, so they changed the requirements to let the sick and elderly go first, and the rest will go on a first-come, first-serve basis.\nThousands upon thousands of people lined up outside the hospital to get their names on the list. Some people camp out all night by the hospitals to be first online. A lot of fighting broke out, so they had to call in the authorities to maintain the peace. But at 9:pm, they shut the doors, and everyone who didn't get a chance to be seen had to come back the next day. This went on for months, the traffic was congested, so they shut down the waiting list and told everyone that prescription would only give out the healing water from now on.\nThis new approach helps the authority to be able to prioritize the use of the water, based on the prescriptions of the medical experts only, and everyone was excited about this decision because they can’t all access the water for cosmetic purposes. From the day this news was made public, the water from the nameless world has been used for medical treatment as prescribed. This makes people stay calm and positive because they all now have opportunities to come in contact with the healing elements of the water, so that they merge with their DNA and take on the healing properties of the elements beyond even what they can imagine. As a result, those people with one ailment or the other were able to heal quickly and effectively using the water, and they were looking younger, and healthier, and stronger, and more intelligent. From then on everyone gave honor to the nameless planet and name it “Planet Phenom”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Secret!\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1177\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone asking out an old crush, only to realize their crush doesn’t remember they’ve ever met before." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The hustle-bustle of the mall looks fantastic after a year-long lockdown due to the pandemic. The crowd and noise that was irritating earlier now feel good. Feels good that we are back to normal. Three kids passed running on the floor, caring little about the crowd. They looked so happy. They were going up and down through the escalators, talking to strangers, and finally stopped near an ice-cream stall. Suddenly my attention went to the lady in a black dress standing at the stall.\nShe looked familiar. The way kids were speaking with her, it felt they are related to this lady. I was trying to churn my memory sack to find out how I know her.\nMy iconic memory of remembering people was laughing at my attempts loudly, but I did not give up this time. I kept rummaging through the memory lane to find a clue.\n\"Yesss, I know her,\" I shouted. People around me looked at me with surprise. My wife was inside a cosmetic store, and I was sitting outside as it was crowded, and I found a place to sit outside. I looked at her; she was busy selecting the nail polish shade and occasionally showed me to get an affirmation which one will look better.\nI recalled, she is Kavita from my 11th standard Physics Tuition class. I saw her after almost 3 decades. She used to sit next to me in the front row. It was Vinod Sir's Tuition. We both used to compete to be recognized as the best student in the tuition. She attempted to speak with me on several occasions, but I was the shy one who used to respond through nods and gestures and hardly spoke. She used to wish me every day and compliment my answers in class. She became my reason to come on time to the class. I made all attempts to get noticed by her but never dared to speak with her.\nIf I remember anything from that entire year, it would be waiting to get noticed by her and make at least one eye contact. \nHer father moved out of the town, and I never saw her after my 11th. But one incident during that period kept this afresh in my memory even after 3 decades.\nIt was my birthday, and I wore a new shirt to the tuition class that my mother bought for me. It was light pink. That day we had an evening class. We went to the tuition around 5 in the evening. All my friends made fun of my shirt color as they found it girlish. I was a little upset with that and tried to hide the entire class so that Kavita doesn't notice me and laugh at me. For that day only I sat in the last row with some of my friends. I saw she was there at the front bench and felt like she was looking for me. I continued to stay hidden from her world. As soon as the class got over, I went out to get my cycle out and go home before she comes out. But my cycle was stuck among others. It took me some time to get that out, and by then, she was out. I hid beside my cycle, but then I heard Vinod sir calling my name. I had no other option to come out. Sir said Kavita's father is unable to come today to pick her up. Her house is on the way to my house if I can take her along.\nI was not able to believe what I heard and was nervous about going with her. What will I talk to her? I will go speechless if she asks me anything. My throat was going dry, and I was sweating at this thought. On top of it, my shirt was sitting on my shoulders like a mountain. \nShe came close to me, and by then, I had taken my cycle out. \nShe said, \"Let's Go.\" I started walking, holding the cycle. \nShe said, \"Happy Birthday.\" I was shocked to know that she knew. \n\"Why didn't you sit in the front row today? I was searching for you.\". I smiled and kept my head down. \nThis shirt looks so lovely on you, she said, and I felt she is making fun of me. \nMen look complete with colors, and this light pink makes you look like a man. \nI felt as if somebody has pumped me, and I am swelling like a balloon. I was literally pressing my feet on the ground so that I don't float. \nShe kept talking, and I kept responding with my gestures. \nFor the first time, I saw her face. She was the most beautiful girl I had seen in my life ever. But the moment she looked at me, I turned my face down so that she doesn't realize that I saw her. After a hundred meters of the walk, she said, \"Do you plan to go home by walk?\". \nI looked at her in surprise as I was unsure if she expected me to ride the cycle and let her walk alone. Then I realized she may be asking me to give my cycle to her to go by cycle, and I will walk home. \nI thought, How stupid of me. I should have thought that before. I said, You take the cycle and go home. I will come running behind you. \nShe laughed so loudly that I wished earth to split, and I go deep inside. \nShe said, \"Don't you ride double?\". I said, \"Yes.\" \"Okay,\" I will sit on the rod you ride. \nNow I was trembling like a dry leaf. I wanted to vanish from this world and never return. But before I could think, she was sitting on the rod of the cycle, and I started riding. My hands and legs were shaking rapidly, but I tried to control myself and save myself from any embarrassment. I was speechless, beatless, breathless, lifeless till I dropped her. And that 20 minutes of cycle feeling is still alive with me.\nI saw she is wearing a black gown, looks as beautiful as she was then, and went up to her. I was much more daring now, so I went to her and was 300% sure she was Kavita. I called her Kavita. How are you?\". She looked at me. \"Hi, I am good.\" She looked surprised. I could imagine 3 decades. I told her, \"Sakti from Vinod Sir's Tuition.\" She recalled Vinod Sir's tuition, \"Yes, I remember in 11th. Were you in that class?\" I was not sure if she forgot or playing a prank with me. \"Sorry long, long years unable to recall. Good to see you\". She excused herself and left with her kids and husband.\nI realized my wife had selected the cosmetics and was coming out. She told me 'Buttlescotch for me. Don't you dare to eat alone\" and laughed. We both laughed and soon after that left for 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: Long Before Dawn\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2311\n\nPrompt:\n\nCreate a title with our Title Generator, then write a story inspired by it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "[CW: non-graphic discussions of kidnapping, attempted murder, and implied suicide (it's pretty light-hearted, but better safe than sorry)]\nIsaac does not have enough time to knock before the door swings open, and he is quickly swept inside. The door snaps shut behind him, and suddenly he has an armful of Cass. She hasn’t grown any taller than when he’d last seen her, and she has to stand on her toes to press her face against his neck. He drops his bag with a solid thunk, and wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her slightly as he presses his face into her hair. It was damp, she must have showered.\n“What took you so long?” She breathes against his jaw.\n“I got here as fast as possible, Cassie,” he replies with a huff. \n“You took ages.”\n“It took me about four minutes.” She leans away from him slightly with a frown. He keeps his hands on her waist, and she keeps hers on his upper arms. “Typically, it takes more than four minutes to get from Chicago to New Orleans, you know.”\n“Well,” she shoots him a pointed look. “When I provide you with instantaneous travel accommodations, I expect you to be here near instantaneously.”\nIsaac rolls his eyes, but shoots her a grin anyway. “Sorry. I had to pack.” He gestures at the bag on the ground. “I didn’t know how long this might take.”\nShe hums and crosses her arms. His eyes follow the movement, and then he notices that she was in a peach colored, tea length nightgown, and immediately snaps his eyes to somewhere above her head. He’s a gentleman, goddamn it. Why the hell isn’t she dressed?\n“I suppose that’s fair,” she was saying. “Hopefully it won’t take too long. Sorry for dragging you into my shit.” \n“Not-” he blinks in the direction of a pale blue clock on the wall that says it’s 1:28 am. “Not a problem at all, Cassie. Happy to help. Really.”\n“Right,” she says slowly. “And you’re refusing to look at me… why?”\n“Just-” the clock now says 1:29. “Wasn’t expecting you not to be dressed, is all.”\nShe snorts. “Oh? Sorry to burst your bubble, pretty boy, but it’s nearly two in the morning, and the dress I was wearing is now covered in blood, so I think being in pajamas is justified.”\nHis eyes snap back down to her when she mentions blood, but she waves him off before he can get any words out. \n“Don’t worry, it’s not mine. Mostly. Tea or coffee?”\n“What? What? What do you mean mostly?”\nShe stares at him for a moment, then sighs. “I’m making us tea. Come on.” She starts to walk down the short hallway into her kitchen, and Isaac scrambles to grab his bag and follow her. He takes one step into the kitchen, when she turns around and adds: “You can drop your bag in the bedroom. It’s just across the hall, door’s open.” And then she’s turning back to the tea she’s in the process of fixing, and he’s backtracking out of the kitchen to drop his bag in her room. \nHer room is… surprisingly clean, especially for Cass. Her bed is made, but crumpled as though someone had sat on it. A few dresses are draped across the chair in front of a mostly empty vanity beside the window, covered with tightly shut curtains that keep the room dark. The only light came from the en suite bathroom, glowing a soft yellow. Isaac drops his bag by the foot of the bed, and slowly walks toward the open bathroom door. He reaches out to nudge it open wider, and purses his lips when he sees a bathtub half full of dark pink water, a white and pale blue dress, now tinted red, floating gently near the bottom. There’s a hole just above it’s waistline, as though something tore through it. Isaac leans against the doorway, takes a deep breath, then quickly makes his way to the kitchen. \n“You’re injured.” \nCass looks up from the mugs of tea she was placing on the table. \n“That’s quite the statement. Care to tell me where it came from?”\nIsaac walks up to her, slowly, and places a gentle hand on her waist. “There was a hole,” he says, and moves his thumb until it’s about where said hole was. He doesn’t press down, just hovers it there. Cass places her hand on his wrist, and lifts it off of her before pressing his hand between the two of hers. \n“It’s been handled.”\n“Cass, who hurt you? Whose blood is that? It can’t all be yours.”\nShe gives a quiet smile, and tugs him down to sit at the table with her. “I will answer all questions after you drink your tea.” \nHe’s too tired to fight her on this, and silently accepts defeat as he picks up his mug. \n“Thank you.” She cups her head in her hand, resting her elbow on the table, simply taking a moment to look at him. Some of her curls are caught under her hand, and squish against her cheek, while a few of the others fall across her face. She’s not staring at him anymore. Or, rather, she is, but she isn’t seeing him. Only using him as something to keep her eyes steady as her mind drifts. Isaac doesn’t mind. This happens quite often, for both of them, and so he simply allows himself to enjoy the fact that she’s beside him, and tries not to let the concern fester in his chest. \nThe little tunk of the porcelain mug hitting the table brings Cass back to herself, and she shakes her head while sitting up straighter. \n“I’m not injured,” she says into her tea, and he knows better than to interrupt her. He merely nods, content to listen quietly now that she’s actually talking. “I mean, I am, but as I said, it’s been handled. Stitched up and everything. Just has to heal. Nothing to fret about.” For this last part she looks up at him, making sure he understands. He looks reluctant, but nods anyway. She gives a tight smile and looks back at her tea. “For the first part, my memory is a bit… discombobulated, but I assume I was kidnapped.” Isaac sits up straighter as though bracing for something, but Cass simply grabs the hand that’s still holding the mug, and he settles. “I assume. I’m not sure. Point is, I was out of the city. Maybe somewhere in Jean Lafitte? I’m not sure how we could’a gotten in. Point is, it was wet, I was freezing, and I was severely overdressed for the occasion. Being hunted for sport in Baby Dolls is not very pleasant.”\n“In… Baby Dolls?”\nCass rolls her eyes with a snort. “Heels, Isa. They’re a type of heel.”\n“Oh.” He looks down at his lap with a slight grimace on his face. \n“That’s what you paid attention to?” She looks amused, at the very least. \nHe scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I mean, at least I know what being hunted for sport means. The “running in Baby Dolls” image was… concerning, to say the least.”\nCass actually laughs at that. A full, genuine, bubbling laugh that fills the tiny kitchen of her apartment with a soft warmth that matches the inside of Isaac’s chest. \n“Touché,” she breathes, lifting her mug to her lips. \n“So…” Isaac starts slowly when she puts the mug down, leaning in and nudging a hand against her knee. “What happened? Who was it?”\nShe lets out a long exhale and leans back in her chair. “My boss.”\nHe pulls back a bit in shock. “Your what?”\nShe shrugs. “My boss. I’m pretty sure he was a cannibal or something. I think I knew too much, and he wanted to tie up loose ends. Or he finally flipped his wig. I dunno. Point is, I was out in the sticks, and he was shootin’ at me, then he shot me - very poorly, if I might add, he practically missed - I tackle him, we’re both rollin’ around, and then one thing lead to another and he was makin’ out with his shotgun.”\n“Je-sus, Cass!” Isaac runs a hand down his face and slumps in his chair. “You killed your boss?”\n“Technically, he killed himself.”\nHe sits up, and rests his elbow on his knees. “And how’re you feeling about this?”\n“Well,” she grins. “I don’t think I’ll have to go to work tomorrow.”\nHe frowns at her. “This is serious, Cass! We need a plan!”\n“I got a plan!” She puts her hands on his shoulders, looks him in the eye with a ferocious expression that he adores so much. “And you’re part of it. That’s part of the reason I asked you to show.”\n“Oh yeah? What was the rest of the reason?”\nHer expression shifts into something sweet as she says: “‘Cause I missed you, silly! Haven’t seen you in ages.” \nHe smiles at her, and it manages to reach his eyes. “I missed you too, Cassie.”\n“Damn right you did.” She grins as she takes another sip of her tea.\nIsaac leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “So, what’s the plan?”\nThe mug hits the table, and Cass leans forward to match his position. “I’m not going into work tomorrow.”\nHe exhales sharply. “Yeah, no shit. Please don’t tell me that’s your entire plan?”\n“Of course not.” She nudges his shin with her bare foot. “When do I ever half ass anything?”\n“Touché.”\n“Anyway,” she drawls. “Here’s the story. My lovely boyfriend just stopped by to surprise me last night. Well, tonight, but by tomorrow it’ll be last night, you get what I mean–”\n“Since when were we dating?” \n“Since ‘52. Anyway–”\n“Cass, I didn’t know you in ‘52.”\n“What are you talking about, we met in ‘46?”\n“I mean, yeah, and then you fell off the face of the earth 'til '53.”\n“Ok, fine. Cutting it close, but we can say ‘54. Happy?”\n“Sure.”\n“Great.” She pauses to take another sip of tea. “Anyway. Boyfriend.\" She points at him. \"Flew in to surprise me. I don’t go into work tomorrow, I call in sick. God knows my boss won’t be coming in, so it’ll be pandemonium. I don’t know anything about that. I’ve been with you all night.”\nIsaac wiggles his eyebrows at her, and she swiftly kicks him in the shin. “Ow, fuck, okay. So I’m here to be your alibi?”\n“Actually, you’re here to get me the hell outta Dodge. You’re here to take me away to some big city, preferably before the cops ask too many questions. Or find the body.”\n“Right,” he says slowly. “It won’t be weird at all that some random guy comes to take you away the same night that your boss mysteriously disappears?” \nShe hums to herself. “Well, you aren’t exactly some stranger. My coworkers know that I have a boyfriend.”\nIsaac sits up at this. “Oh? And who would that be?”\n“I thought we agreed that was you?”\n“Cass.” He tilts his head at her. “Last I checked, we aren’t dating? Please, correct me if I’m wrong.”\nShe rolls her eyes. “Well, sure. Yes, we aren’t exactly a typical, white-picket couple, but I needed to get Charlie off my back somehow, and I knew that you’d at the very least roll with it.”\nIsaac’s eyebrows pinch together as he frowns, and Cass takes a moment to appreciate just how endearing he looks. “Who the hell is Charlie? Has he been botherin’ you? Do I need to kick his ass, because I will send him straight to God if he–”\n“And this is why I said that you were my boyfriend,” Cass says through a poorly stifled laugh. “And no, he hasn’t been bothering me. Not after I said I had a boyfriend, anyway. Though he often attempts to stain your good name by implying that you’re neglecting me.”\n“I’m not neglecting you! Oh, I swear–”\n“I know, Isa.” She puts a hand on his knee. “I just told him that you were off at uni somewhere up north and that as soon as you graduated, I’d be moving up there with you. This was always gonna be my out. The fact that it’s happening around the same time as my boss’s disappearance? Purely coincidence. Maybe even a sign from God. The perfect time to start over somewhere new. And it’s not like we’re leaving tomorrow– you know how I pack. And they’re gonna be questionings and what not. I’d give it ‘til the end of the week.”\n“That…” Isaac exhales slowly, thinking it over. “That sounds like a plan. So, what? You call in tomorrow morning, and we elope by Friday? Saturday?”\nShe nods. “We start with the call, and leave as soon as attention is off us enough to where leaving becomes more romantic than suspicious.” \nWith that, she stands, wincing slightly, and brushes her hands down the front of her nightdress. She grabs her mug, and reaches for Isaac’s, but he beats her to it, grabbing it first as he stands as well. She rolls her eyes at him, but allows him to gently pry the mug from her fingers, and place them both in the sink.\n“What, you’re not gonna wash them too?” She says from where she’s leaning against the counter.\n“Two a.m. is no time for dishes. I’ll wash them in the morning.” He walks back over to her, places a hand on the side of her waist that isn’t injured, and kisses her temple before leaving the kitchen. \n“I’m taking the couch!” He calls over his shoulder.\nCass huffs, but continues to smile as she quickly follows him into the hall. “Like hell you are!”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lament\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2749\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose name you got from our Character Name Generator." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The two German soldiers in the back of the truck had struggled to keep their prisoner under control for the last half-hour they had been riding through the snow-covered forests of southern Germany. The tall, imposing, but lean man wearing a British uniform was covered in bruises and blood, but much of the blood wasn’t his own, as seen with the bandaged bitemarks on the neck of one of the Germans. At least, to their relief, the man wasn’t a vampire or werewolf. They still put a makeshift muzzle on him when it became clear he was going to fight no matter what.\n\n“We’re almost at the camp, Sergeant Becker,” the bandaged one said. “You can act like an animal there. I highly doubt the commandant will tolerate your behavior, though.”\n\n“And we’re talking about someone who is typically very calm and tolerant,” his companion said. “Good luck.”\n\nThe sergeant glared at both of them, not saying a word. The blood was drying to his face and freezing solid on his uniform, making it feel hard and heavy. The discomfort only seemed to enrage him more. He struggled in the soldiers’ grips, growling at them.\n\nUnfazed, the bandaged soldier tightened his grip, sighing. “How much longer?” he called to the driver.\n\n“Another ten minutes, Corporal!” the driver shouted.\n\nThe truck was soon rolling through the gate under a large sign reading “Stalag V C.” Snow whipped around the Germans as they lifted Becker from his seat, nearly dragging him out of the truck as an older, scarred officer using a cane approached them.\n\nCaptain Westheimer shook his head upon seeing the new prisoner was muzzled, then his frown deepened when he saw the bloody bandages on one of the guard’s necks.\n\n“Sorry we’re late, Captain,” the guard said. “We . . . had a slight delay.” He looked at Becker, who was giving Westheimer an unblinking stare.\n\n“This will certainly be an experience,” Westheimer muttered as he was given Becker’s papers. “I have never dealt with a prisoner so aggressive.”\n\n“He’s already a repeat offender for attempted escape,” the bandaged soldier said. “He’s mauled guards at previous camps, and beat the commandant at his previous camp within an inch of his life with a piece of metal piping.”\n\n“I see.” Westheimer looked Becker in the eye. “I sincerely hope you and I do not have a problem.”\n\n“It’s too late for that, old man,” Becker snarled.\n\nNodding, Westheimer stepped back a little. “Take his restraints off.”\n\nThe bandaged guard gave him a baffled look. “Sir, that’s like letting a tiger out of the zoo! Are you mad?”\n\n“Trust me, gentlemen.”\n\nThe two guards were nervous as they took off the muzzle, followed by the cuffs from Becker’s wrists and ankles. They scampered back to the truck as Becker charged at Westheimer, screaming. Westheimer raised his cane, and Becker was shoved back by an invisible force. He tried running against it, face reddening with rage, almost matching the frozen blood on it.\n\nWestheimer let go. Becker fell as though something was yanked away from him. Scrambling to his feet, he ran at Westheimer again, and suddenly found himself being lifted in the air, flailing his fists. Without warning, he was dropped in a pile of snow.\n\n“Have you had enough yet?” Westheimer asked. “I could do this all day.”\n\nBecker pulled himself from the snow, breathing hard. “Crippled wizard,” he spat. “If I had my wand, I’d blast you right out of the compound!”\n\nWestheimer hardly reacted. “I am surprised you do not remember me, because I remember you very well.”\n\n“I don’t know you, German bastard!”\n\n“I met your father in the First World War, during the Christmas Truce of 1914. We stayed in contact because he was a warlock. I started learning English from him. I met up with him in Britain a few years later, when you were still a child.”\n\nBecker’s face was wet with tears. “If you were so close to him, then why are you wearing that uniform?”\n\n“Because I run a witch resistance cell out of this camp. If that is not enough to convince you to not run at me like a rabid rhinoceros, I do not know what will.”\n\n“Perhaps. I guess that means you’ll let me escape and won’t bat an eye.”\n\n“On the contrary. You are not going anywhere. Should you escape, the Gestapo will be crawling all over this place, and that is the last thing I need.”\n\n“It’s every POW’s duty to escape and get back in the fight. You are nothing more than a fucking coward if you don’t help.”\n\nWestheimer didn’t respond right away. He got closer to Becker, saying in a low voice, “I would think twice before calling me or anyone else here a coward. You will be spending the rest of the day and tonight in solitary. I do not need you lashing out and hurting my men or fellow prisoners.”\n------------\nWord about the new arrival spread quickly around the camp, and the fight between Becker and Westheimer hadn’t gone unnoticed. It was all anyone could talk about during the dinner hour, and British Sergeant Plundell didn’t hesitate to approach Westheimer and a group of guards in order to get some clarity on the situation.\n\n“I don’t think we’ve ever had a prisoner this aggressive come through,” Sergeant Nagel said.\n\n“Nor one that we had to throw in solitary right away,” Corporal Viermitz added. He glanced up at Plundell. “I figured you were going to come over sooner or later.”\n\n“Is that a problem?” Plundell asked.\n\n“No. In fact, you might want to get the rest of the barrack NCOs over here.”\n\n“Why?”\n\n“Because Sergeant Angove of barracks three will be replaced by Becker when he leaves solitary,” Westheimer said.\n\n“If he’s so violent, why would you do that?”\n\n“Becker has seniority by several months. I do not like this anymore than the rest of you, but that is how this system works.”\n\nOnce the rest of the NCOs were seated at the table, most of the guards left, aware of what was going on. Only Nagel, Viermitz, and the medic, Corporal Wenzel, stayed behind.\n\nWestheimer looked each of the British soldiers in the eye before speaking. “Most of you are aware of Sergeant Becker’s presence here, correct?”\n\nEveryone nodded.\n\n“Good. Becker will be replacing Sergeant Angove as senior prisoner-of-war for barracks three.” Westheimer focused on Angove. “I understand this could be a bit jarring, especially since Becker had already demonstrated aggressive behavior. However, we do not know why Becker acts this way. It will be everyone’s duty to assist in trying to put his mind at ease. It could be a simple but understandable hatred of all Germans, or it could be something more. Either way, I do not want this causing rifts between people. Is that understood?”\n\nEach of the men at the table nodded.\n\n“Good. You are dismissed.”\n\nOnly Plundell stayed when the others left. “How are we going to figure out what’s wrong with Becker? I mean I . . . I overheard you say to Becker that you knew his father, and that his father was a warlock. Aren’t you worried Becker has his wand?”\n\nWestheimer shook his head. “He admitted to breaking his wand when he was captured, and I had the guards search him thoroughly.”\n\n“Can’t he build a new one?”\n\n“There is a specific procedure when making a wand. He will not accomplish that in here. Odds are, I think all he needs is someone to listen to him.”\n\n“I think Liebermann could do that.”\n\n“I was thinking of you, Sergeant. I think he will respond better to one of his own countrymen.”\n------------\nSolitary was based in one building, made up of several cells, all of which had solid doors with a slot for putting meal trays through. There was one small, narrow window in each one, too small for anyone to fit through, and they were lit with a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. There was one cot, one toilet, and one sink. Nothing else.\n\nPlundell was escorted into the building with Private Liebermann, who whispered, “I don’t like this place.”\n\n“Nobody does,” Plundell said. “I’m glad I’ve never had to spend a night in here.”\n\n“It just . . . feels different to everywhere else in the compound.”\n\n“It’s very depressing in here. That’s the point, though.”\n\nLiebermann nodded. He knocked on one of the doors. “Sergeant Becker?”\n\n“What do you want?” Becker replied.\n\n“Someone’s here to talk with you.” Liebermann unlocked the door, staying out of Becker’s sight, and gestured for Plundell to come forward.\n\nBecker was quiet as Plundell approached. “I didn’t know visitors were allowed.”\n\n“It’s a special circumstance,” Plundell said. “I . . . just wanted to get to know you.”\n\n“My name is Sergeant Aiken Becker. What more do you want?”\n\n“Your story. Why you lashed out at the men bringing you here, and Captain Westheimer.”\n\n“Those were not men. They were animals. Monsters.”\n\nPlundell shook his head. “I know those two. They work at one of the holding camps near Augsburg. Corporals Martell and Ahlers. They were the same men who brought me here last September. Martell was quite cruel to me at first, calling me a coward because I was frightened and crying. I had just lost my entire squad in Italy. He’s changed since then. Back in December, they came with a group of soldiers, and a snowstorm kept them from leaving. Martell and I got to know each other, he apologized, and I forgave him.” When Becker didn’t respond, Plundell added, “We have to separate the monsters from the decent people here, otherwise we’re no better than the monsters themselves.”\n\n“You lost your entire squad, and yet you treat the ones who killed them like brothers?”\n\n“None of the men here were the ones who killed my squad. In fact . . . I blame myself for what happened in Italy. I failed to scout the village properly. We surprised the Germans hiding out there, and it turned into a mess.”\n\nBecker looked away. He was shivering, and his face reddened as tears began running down his cheeks. “They fucking killed my brother in Sicily. I cannot and will not forgive them. I just can’t.”\n\n“I’m sorry.”\n\nThere was silence between them for several long minutes. Becker managed to make eye contact with Plundell before saying, “Now what? Are you going to lecture me? That’s all my father’s been doing in his letters, all because he’s friends with Westheimer. Telling me that not all Germans are the same.”\n\n“I’m not going to lecture you, but I am going to say that grief isn’t a good excuse to hurt people. There’s a better way to work through it.”\n\n“And what’s that? Talking? I’m tired of talking. The one person I could talk to is gone, and he’s not coming back. There’s nothing anyone can do to change that.”\n\n“You can always talk to me.”\n\n“I don’t know yet.” Becker drew his knees up, hugging them. “I want to be left alone.”\n\nAfter closing and locking the cell door, Liebermann jogged over to Plundell as he left the building. “I could sense a lot of grief when he first arrived. It was . . . suffocating, to be honest.”\n\n“I think we’re all a bit too familiar with grief,” Plundell replied. “It’s still no excuse to hurt anyone.”\n\n“No, it’s not. Becker needs help.”\n\n“He does, but he’s probably not going to accept it. Not now, at least.”\n\n“What should we do, then?”\n\nPlundell shrugged. “I wish I had the answer. He’s so closed off, I don’t know where to start. I just know it’s not something that’ll heal overnight.”\n\n“He’s consumed by revenge. That isn’t easy to overcome.”\n\nPlundell shook his head. “We’ll help him out, somehow.”\n------------\nSilence consumed the tiny cell after night fell. Becker could no longer hear the guards and prisoners walking around outside. His rage had fizzled out somewhat after Plundell left, replaced with a heavy sadness. Instead of boundless energy and bloodlust, suddenly all Becker wanted to do was sit. Sit and do nothing.\n\nHe wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he hadn’t bothered eating when one of the guards brought a tray. Now the food was ice-cold, and his stomach was growling. As the night whittled by, he lay awake on his cot, deep in thought, with only the dull, gnawing ache in his stomach for company.\n\nWhen the moon was high over the camp and casting light down into the cell, Becker jumped when he heard the click of someone unlocking the cell door.\n\n“Should I restrain him, sir?” one of the guards asked.\n\n“I will be fine,” Captain Westheimer replied. He locked eyes with Becker, who was sitting with his knees up in the cot. “I see you have not slept, either.”\n\n“What do you want?” Becker mumbled.\n\n“Plundell came to my quarters before lights-out and told me what you two discussed. I was going to save this for morning, but something was telling me that it could not wait.”\n\n“If you’re going to tell me the same shit my father and Plundell have said, I don’t want to hear it.” Becker dropped eye contact with Westheimer, hugging his knees tighter. “It’s like Cole’s life didn’t matter to anyone.”\n\n“Telling someone not to pursue revenge is not the same as saying that your brother’s life was meaningless. Revenge is not going to bring him back. All you are going to do is hurt more people in the process. Is that how you want to live your life?”\n\n“I want to go back to the front and find the soldiers who killed him. That’s what I want.”\n\n“For all we know, those soldiers are already dead. Your efforts could end up being pointless. Do you think that is a good way to honor your brother’s memory?”\n\nBecker didn’t respond.\n\n“I know what it is like to want to inflict pain on others out of anger and grief. It might feel good in the moment, but all it does is create more problems for you down the line. Problems that you have to fix.”\n\n“What should I do then? You seem to think you’re so smart. You tell me what to do.”\n\n“That is not up to me.”\n\n“Then why did you come talk to me if you have no real solutions?”\n\n“I am letting you know that you cannot heal and move on by yourself, but you cannot achieve that by antagonizing everyone around you. Despite how you treated me this morning, I take responsibility for you, and if you escape and get yourself killed, I am the one who has to tell your father what happened. I do not think he wants to lose his other son.”\n\nBecker shook his head. “No. We have our disagreements, but . . . he’s suffered enough. I just want to go home to him and Ma.” He looked up at Westheimer. “I know Cole would want me to just go home. Just go home and make sure everyone’s OK. That’s what he would do if it was me who died.”\n\nWestheimer didn’t respond right away. After studying Becker’s face for a moment, he said, “I hope you understand I am not dismissing how you feel.”\n\n“I have to come to terms with it, I know.” Becker drew in a breath.\n\n“Exactly. Your journey will start in the morning, when I let you join the rest of the prisoners. You will be taking over Sergeant Angove’s role as senior prisoner-of-war in barracks three.”\n\n“You trust me to do that after this morning?”\n\n“I tend to give people second chances. However, I will not respond kindly if you abuse it.”\n\nBecker nodded. “I wasn’t expecting that. Frankly, I was expecting you to keep me in here for the rest of the war.”\n\n“No. That would be cruel.” When Westheimer didn’t get a response, he continued. “You have the rest of the night to think, but do try to get some sleep.”\n\nThe cell door closed, and Becker went back to laying on his side. There was still a part of him that was angry, but now there was a part of him that was tired of being angry. Things wouldn’t change overnight, but it was his choice whether or not to start changing at all." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: THE LOCKED DOOR\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1788\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story titled ‘The Locked Door.’" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Warning: May cause emotional response)\nYears of hiding in the shadows behind a locked door had become a way of life for Claus Snepps. It was the Germany he and his five-year-old grandchild had come to know. To them there was only darkness and fear surrounded by death and despair for his grandchild was Jewish. They had been living in a world of quietness for the past year on the first floor of his once proud beautiful building that had once vibrated with the sounds of life, the very sounds that could now lead to grief and death. For now, survival was counted in minutes and in any one of them it could be their last A lot depended on their locked door.\n Fortunately, Snepps deeds of the past had stretched those minutes to days and months, he had once owned a butcher shop in the good old days before the war and it was busy along with being well known in the neighborhood, it was his pride and joy but had not made much of a profit. Instead, it had produced a wealth of gratitude from others for he was a man that could not say no. He extended credit when he really couldn't and shouldn't. He fed the poor that could not pay and measured his success by the fact that he was able to stay open. Now those who he had helped were helping him as he now hid almost in plain sight behind a locked door.\n They brought him food in the dead of night at the risk of their own lives, told him of the news that sometimes gave him and his granddaughter the hope that soon the war would end. His granddaughter's name was Christina Helmut, she was small for her age, beautiful and full of the life. She, like almost every five year old, she had dreams of what she wanted and they were not diminished by the life she lived.\n Her worries were not the same as her grandfathers who had taken her in after her mother, a Jewish woman was dragged away in the middle of the night by the Nazi Bastards who also shot his son as he hopelessly tried to stop them. Snepps was doomed to always remembering that nightmarish day that started with the morning being filled with horror and despair , as the news of what had happened reached him. \n He knew right then that God had placed his granddaughter in his hands that night for a reason. She was considered Jewish, and death now would always be on her heels, as the days of their lives now passed slowly. They lived with the fact that one day they could be caught or exposed. This fact was always hanging heavily over their heads, always in the background of every thought and in every living minute. One locked door separated them from the madness outside.\n Only in a child's world was life still just the life of a child. Her sense of danger was always like that of any other child's would be at her age... short lived with a short-term comprehension of the life they really lived. That's way the unexpected knock on the door was a devastating blow to the heart of the 67-year-old butcher. It was bad luck coming at the wrong time as he was walking past the locked door with Christina, as they headed for the kitchen. \n What amounted to seconds of lapse in their carefulness was about to change everything. Their shadows which could be seen through the window of the door, took away the option of ignoring the knock. He had just taken Christina from their well-hidden somewhat noise proof crawl space that they had built and had occupied this time, for two straight days. All he wanted was to let her stretch her legs, get a glimpse of the sun and let her help him cook, which she loved to do. \n Their long running luck had indeed run out with that knock on the door, which was followed by the quick unexpected words that came out of the mouth of his beloved granddaughter as she responded in an instant. \"Who is it\". Yes, it was over, even if somehow the person had missed her shadow, if it wasn't seen, her little voice was heard. \n What had seemed like an eternity of hiding in fear had come to a crushing end and Snepps was now in a quiet heart stopping moment as though he was stuck in a blackhole that only released him when he answered as he held his too late hand over Christina's mouth. \"Who is it, may I help you\" The response from the other side of the door was almost too much to bare even as it came in a woman's voice, because it was hard and stern with the words’ ‘Gestapo, open the door...NOW\" \n Snepps never even knew there were woman in the Gestapo. That didn't matter because he was still powerless with no way out and armed only with the hope of a miracle from God. He opened the door and the woman who was alone was met with a soft sweet child's voice saying \"Hello\" . The Nazi told them that her partner was upstairs checking on another apartment and that she was there because someone caught stealing food had gave them information. Information that there was a Jewish child named Christina hiding there. \n At that second, again with lightning unexpected speed Christina yelled \"That's me\" as she had the most wonderful smile on her face. Snepps heart sunk into his stomach and everything around him, sound and all seemed to again just stop. Frozen until the woman's words broke through the air cutting though it like little razors “I'm removing her\" Snepps in an instant fell to his knees and broke down in tears. \n As he did so , Snepps glanced at a knife that was on the stand by the unlocked open door, near to where the woman was standing but he dared not reach for it. He knew that in these years of his life he was to slow and to weak, he could only beg and hope to convince her that letting one child go would not change or have any effect on anything. He began to tell her the story of the child's life trying to reach whatever passion was hidden in the depths of that woman's cold seasoned heart. He was sure that she had done this hundreds of times and her face most likely matched her heart, which he was sure was made of a stone. \n Then somehow in that second with the grace of God a miracle did come. Could it be for her, that this may have been one too many. Could there really be as they say, a straw that could break a camel's back. Snepps watched in disbelief when a tear formed in her eyes. She didn't give it a chance to fall. She quickly wiped it away. It was truly water coming from a stone.\n The woman suddenly turned as she stepped all the way into the apartment, reached out for the doorknob, then closed and locked the door behind her. Then in a continued motion put her finger on her mouth signaling to him and the child to be quiet. Christina responded by doing the same with her finger, only she had a big smile on her face. The woman then told him to trust no one, show sorrow to all as though the child was gone or dead, do not make the mistakes of the past.\n She then said that the child must be taught the reality of the life she lives even at her age. Snepps, clutching the photo he kept in his pocket of his dead son, daughter in-law and Christina responded with, \"I will\" as he felt his heart pounding with renewed hope.\n He asked the woman what he could do for her, he told her he had money. Her response was unexpected but seemed sincere when she said \"Nothing, the war will end soon...just survive\". Right then and there it seemed that somehow, in this world they lived in today, even under the face of evil there could be goodness. \n Then suddenly out of nowhere shattering the moment came another knock on the locked door. History repeated itself. Christina again answered unexpectedly and with a swiftness yelled \"Who is it\". The response was also stern and hard it was an order from the hallway . The words broke Snepps already weakened heart even more, “Open the door”. The light that had started to shine in the room, quickly darkened again and the air once again filled with hopelessness and despair. \n The woman reached for the doorknob then unlocked and opened the door. There stood her partner, a man dressed in traditional Gestapo type clothing and standing straight up like an arrow. You could tell he was proud of his work and without any doubt, he most likely had an inner belief, that what he was doing, was good and that all that was Jewish should and must die.\n He looked straight at the woman and asked her what the delay was. Then he told her the words that would haunt Snepps until his last breath on earth \"Take her in the room and do it...unless he wants to watch\"\n Snepps again collapsed to the floor and his breathing became the hardest thing to do. Again, he found himself clutching the photo but he knew showing it to them would be pointless as Christina's screams got louder and louder as she herself now seemed to sense the danger she was in as the woman pulled her away into the next room.\n In slow motion, nothing seemed to be real, not even the Gestapo devil that was moving from the hallway door to look into the room where the woman had taken his granddaughter. \n Snepps looked up to see the man nodding his head as if to approve of what he had seen in the room. The man then turned his head back into the apartment hallway as Christina's screams came to a stop. He went back to the door and then walked out the apartment without saying a word and without closing the door.\n The woman came out of the room and was about to follow the man out when at this time Snepps and the women's eyes met. In that instance they both knew what they had always really knew. That the world was the same as it was yesterday. That noise can mean death and a locked door doesn’t always mean.... your safe." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Forthright Thursday\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2512\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour family’s holiday dinners always end with everyone at each other’s throats. This year you’re determined to keep a low profile, but your patience is being put to the test." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "8:45PM Thanksgiving Day – GLOVES OFF:\nMy mother, Mary, and her sister Alice were engaged in a wrestling match on the dining room table. Aloysius – my father - and Alice’s plus one; Jack, attempted to pry them apart, but both women had locked themselves into each other’s hair with vice-like grips, despite both their hands being splattered with custard trifle remnants. All I could do as an observing teenager was sit with mouth agape while holding my new Super 8mm silent movie camera, recording the whole scene. It was typical behaviour at family get-togethers of old, but this year, this Thanksgiving, was meant to be celebrated as a reunion several years and many miles since the previous family sit-down dinner.\nMy plan was to document the long-awaited family reunion – five years after we emigrated to Boston; however, I quickly found myself being caught between being a neutral documentarian and unwavering loyalty to my mother.\n“Will the two of yous, please stop!” I yelled to deaf ears. “This is my favourite part of the year and you’re ruining it! I hate family reunions! They always end up the same way!”\nThe hypocrisy acted out by the two sisters - writhing around atop a table full of food, initiated a memory flash of the day we left Ireland. The tears of Aunt Alice and my grandmother waving goodbye alongside other heartbroken dockside relatives of migrating family members, touched my young emotional wellbeing. At the time, I imagined those left behind in the Emrald Isle, were desolately pondering if they would ever hear from or see their loved ones again. To those onboard, a ship sailing into the sunset is the beginning of an adventure, the onset of a journey. But to some of those left to grieve the departing, it can feel like the end of their own journey, leaving them to pick up the remaining pieces of a fractured family.\nThat’s why I chose to get this day on film, because it would be saved for posterity-sake to be sentimentally viewed time again in the future with fond recollection of days gone by.\nThe Sixties was a time of expensive long-distance phone calls where you competed with the crackling static on the line trying to have a conversation, so the choicest form of communication was the cheaper method using the written word and a postage stamp. It wasn’t instant news or timely updates, but it was something tangible that could be saved and re-visited at a future time. However, with the passage of time, weekly letters can easily fade into monthly correspondence, then drift towards a lazy twice per year, finally receding like distant memories into forlorn remembrances spoken around an open fireplace and a warm glass of stout.\n“Did you hear from that one?” Would be a commonly asked question. “I must write to them, soon.”\nLaziness turned to habit, and that letter never got written. Then, as if by magic, all past disagreements were forgotten, like time and distance had cured all the ill feelings and jealousies, wiping the slate clean.\n“If only me sister were here,” my mother would lament. “Why did we ever leave Ireland?”\n“Remember, Mare,” my father would say. “We came for a better life.”\n“Sure, tis better to be amongst family poor than lonely and rich,” she would argue.\n“Aye, my love,” my father would empathise. “But are we not better off, now? Sure, don’t we have each other?”\n“Can’t even get a daycent cup of tea in a city famous for its tea party.”\nMy father would laugh at the innocent quips my mother often entertained him with. Being born into abject poverty in a damp, wet land with little job prospects; schooling – although a necessity – was not always convenient for families that needed wage earners to heat the home, put food on the table, and pay the inflated rents of slumlords. So, like many others of her time, my mother had to find early work in button factories and other menial and repetitive jobs, where unsolicited education accompanied canteen breaks relayed from the tip of every Irish Biddy’s tongue eager to stretch truth beyond recognition.\n“My Seamus saw it with his own eyes and told it to me as I tell it to you, now,” would justify a story’s authenticity.\n“Daft as a donkey’s arse that one is. Sure everyone knows the man upstairs was Jesus’s real father.”\nIn a Catholic country, to question authenticity, is to spit on the word of God.\n“The priests have the knowledge you seek. Sure, why do you need to listen to all that rubbish on the radio? Nothing but filthy lies told by dirty heathens!”\nGaining the trust of the Irish has always been a difficult proposition. Suspicion and a lack of acceptance of outsiders is engrained into the indoctrinated embodiment of every child of Irish soil.\n“Tis the God’s honest truth!” The liars would always finish with.\nCatholic hypocrisy knows no bounds. Random expressions of gossip fuels an ignorance that turns folklore into fact, and fact into suspicion, distrust, then finally, ostracization. It was the latter that forced the decision to rip us from the familiarity of immediate family and sail across the Atlantic to a foreign land with foreign ideas and foreign food.\nBut time seemingly forgot the ignorance of the devout, so we found ourselves reluctantly assimilating into what we deemed American culture – and the uniquely American Thanksgiving was one of the holiday traditions that converted this young filmmaker into a free young man.\n 8:42PM – PRE-EMPTIVE STRIKE:\n“Mam’s death is on your shoulders,” Alice coldly stated, as she took her seat at the table. “She was never the same after ye’s left.”\nAunt Alice had just downed another glass of false courage, before raising her voice to my mother.\n“I was never her favourite,” my mother replied. “You made sure of that.”\n“Now, Mare,” my father tried to intervene, when hearing raised voices. “Tis not the way to welcome family. Sure, they’ve only just arrived in America.”\n“Yes, fresh arrival, but with stale memories of spite,” my mother pointed out.\nMy father had been in the middle of enough encounters of similar ilk between the two sisters back in Ireland, to know when hostilities were about to kick off.\n“She can feck off back home for all I care,” was Mary’s conclusion.\nNo sooner had the words trailed from my mother’s mouth, a lump of custard flew across the dining table and filled the void her words had just vacated.\n 8:40PM – CALM BEFORE THE STORM:\nI was panning the dining room with my movie camera, documenting the pre-dinner chit-chat, while in the adjoining living room, the coal fireplace glowed, spreading much needed warmth on a cool evening. My father and Jack clowned for the camera, pretending to be old Irish women by draping table napkins over their heads, while singing Irish songs of hope, rebellion, and the forty shades of green pastures they once roamed. The silent camera captured the tomfoolery but missed a roaring chorus of Mother Macrae. However, the camera didn’t fail to capture two pairs of male eyes tearing up from the words of the emotive song. Jack – another displaced Paddy had met my Aunt Alice on the ship coming over, and an immediate attraction blossomed, causing wedding bells to ring loudly in an expectant air of matrimonial coupling.\nLike many Irish immigrants to the USA, Jack also left a grieving mother behind, so any songs about Irish mothers solicited the same response in distant sons. Melancholy to the point of tears.\nThe strongest emotion displayed in that touching moment was from my father. My grandmother on his side had passed away during our voyage to the new world. Some said it was her time, but other bitter gossipers said she died heartbroken after her son uncaringly sailed away. Having neither the funds nor the time to get back for her funeral, my father went on a drunken three-day wake through the Irish pubs that Boston provided a taste of home to those mourning souls pining for the Auld Sod they left behind in search of a better life. His pub crawl of self-pity ended when my mother tracked him down and ordered him out of the pub, then marched him home by his ear – much to the amusement of his fellow drinkers.\nSince that day, my father has mellowed in his emotional reactions, and found a respectable job in a post office sorting facility, where he enjoys a camaraderie of fellowship with similar tales of Irish woe to share in a pseudo psychotherapeutic counselling environment. Well, that’s what he calls the after-work drinks at the pub. My mother calls it the pub of woes.\n 8:35PM – STAND WELL BACK:\n“Will ye put down that thing and come sit, please, Sully,” my mother addressed me using my nickname. I was a serious child of Eireann for my young years. The constant bickering and in-fighting of the family of my childhood, had left little room for frivolous youthful normality. Instead, it created an introspective sullen personality, where I used art as an escape, and filmmaking as an expression of my true opinions.\n“Ye are so sullen,” she would say. “That, I’ll call ye Sully.”\nIt stuck and most of the family would address me by my nickname. I didn’t mind. Having a nickname was a sign of respect and admiration, so I gladly accepted it.\n“I’m capturing the moment, Mam” I replied. “It’s going into my documentary.”\n“Make sure you get my good side,” Aunt Alice mentioned.\n“That’ll be the back of yer head, then,” my mother quippingly followed, causing my father to halt his conversation with Jack and throw a disapproving glance toward my mother.\nIn one innocuous moment of flippancy, my mother had unintentionally lit the touch paper to the subsequent eventful evening.\n 8:15PM – A CAREFUL REMINDER:\n“Yous should have been there,” my Aunt Alice said to my mother. “Family from all corners of the globe attended.”\n“Families with money,” my mother tried to justify her absence from her own mother’s funeral. “We were barely scraping by. I couldn’t leave my job. Not so soon after starting. I would have surely lost it to someone else.”\n“We just thought that you and Aloysius had started your own trend of missing funerals. Too busy to remember your own - back home.”\n“Mare?” My father attempted a distraction. “Have a sip of the black stuff and let’s get everything on the table. I’m sure we’re all hungry to sample your fine cooking.”\nThe condescending smile from Alice’s lips suggested the topic was not closed. Not by a longshot.\n 7:45PM - REUNIFICATION:\nMy mother and Aunt Alice sat on the living room sofa sifting through the photo album Alice had brought with her across the sea. They giggled at photos of them together holidaying in Ballybunion, gasped at the photos showing the hand-me-down St. Vincent De Paul’s charity clothes their mother used to dress them in, and silently blessed themselves whenever they came across a photo of their late parents.\nThe initial news of her sister’s emigration had excited my mother. At last, she had her sister close-by to confide in. Momentarily forgotten, were the sibling disagreements, the vociferous arguments between family members of the generation that preceded them, and the hardships they had endured living under the roof of parents who were always late to rise, late to work, late to build any self-esteem in their two daughters, but always early at pub opening times – then, late home after closing.\nFor the first time in a long while, I glimpsed a moment of happiness creep across my mother’s face, and I was so ecstatic to capture that moment on film.\n 7:30PM - ARRIVAL:\nMy Aunt Alice ruffled my hair as I greeted her at the front door.\n“Don’t look at the camera, Auntie Alice,” I directed. “I’m making a documentary. Just act natural.”\nMy directing debut lacked the commitment to control. This was demonstrated by Aunt Alice curtsying while raising her skirt above her knees.\n“Ye shameless harlot,” my mother said in passing.\n“I hear short skirts are all the rage these days,” Alice pointed out. “Lucky I can sew. I’ll have new hems in no time.”\nThe disagreement in opinions didn’t prevent the two reunited sisters from hugging each other warmly. For my mother, this was indeed a day for thanksgiving.\n“This is all so new to me, Mary,” Alice confessed. “I feel like I went to sleep in Ireland and woke up in heaven. Such opulence, wealth, and friendliness. We stopped to ask directions to your house, and the policeman went out of his way to accompany us to the corner. Ask directions in Ireland and you’ll get the reply, Who’s askin?”\n“Well, you’re here, now,” my mother reassured her. “At long last. Tis the fourth Thursday in November and the first day in your new life. That’s a lot to be thankful for.”\n 7:25PM – LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION:\n“I hope there’s film in that thing, son,” my father asked. “Your mother has prayed for this moment for so long. Having her sister living near us, will be a godsend. No more pining for home when everyone’s in the same spot, hey? Would ye like a song to start things off?”\n“Sure, Dad.”\nI hadn’t the heart to tell him there was no sound recording in the cine camera, but his antics at the piano made up for that - as he played and sang a version of Molly Malone at the top of his voice. With every high note in the chorus section, he comically raised his seated posture, then dramatically flopped back down on the piano stool to begin a new verse. The festive air of the Thanksgiving holiday had been set. Music, a warm fireplace, and the smell of my mother’s cooking pre-empted the arrival of real family to our humble Boston dwelling. It was an opportunity for me to use my birthday present to document the beginning of a new chapter and the anticipated emotional reunion between estranged Irish sisters in their new land of opportunity.\nMy mind drifted to imagine that across the country, families and friends alike were giving thanks to a time in the past when the pilgrims shared their harvest with the natives of a land they would soon displace, but I was too young to recognise the irony. However, across the centuries, Thanksgiving has evolved into a time for families and friends to share stories, food, and drink in a welcoming and friendly atmosphere, so I had high hopes for the success of the rest of the evening.\n 7:24PM – ANTICIPATION\nIt’s the fourth Thursday of November. The table is almost set, there’s a sparkle in my mother’s eye that hasn’t been there in a long while, and I’m excited to get this all on film. When Aunt Alice arrives, it’s going to be great seeing family back together again…" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Don't go into the forest\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2641\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a skier who accidentally strays off-piste." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Disclaimer: Not based on real events during WW2, any similarity to real events or history is unintentional by the Author.\n“Don’t go into the forest!”\nHis mother warned as he left the family home, skis wobbling over his child-sized shoulder.\nKal smiled at the warm memory. His mother had been gone for quite some time now. The war rationing was not kind to a woman in her later years. He kept her memory in his mind as he prepared to disobey her. He chuckled a little, imagining her scolding a grown man in his uniform for wandering into the woods.\nHis mother’s words of warning and his father’s morbid fairy tales had bred a deep fear of the snow-covered forest. When he joined the militia to fight against the Soviet incursion, he was expected to use the forest and his skis as a vital part of combat. At first, he had a hard time hiding his shaking hands and panicked breathing as he followed his commander into the thickest parts of the endless tree cover.\nTwo years later he was hardened and felt at home in the snow-covered trees skiing through miles of forest to deliver messages from one commander to another.\nHe stopped skiing for a moment to check his bearing. Pulling his hand out of a thick mitten, already clasping his compass. It was easier to keep the compass in his mitten, so he spent less time fishing for it elsewhere. His exposed hand tingled as he checked his direction, due south. He was on target to reach the southern encampment. He jammed his hand back into the mitten, relieved it was still warm, and skied on.\nHe kept himself occupied with his parent’s old folk tales and memories of happier times. As he skied along, he imagined being in the cabin. He could see his father and his crystal blue eyes, sitting in the old wood Viking style chair his grandfather made long before he was born.\n“You should be kind to everyone you meet Kal. Do you want to know why?” His father said under a bushy blond beard.\n“Why?”\nThey were sitting around the fire, Kal was wrapped in a wool blanket on his father’s knee.\n“Let me tell you about the Black Blooded Prince.” He said with a twinkle in his eye.\nThis sounded like a scary story. He was thrilled.\n“Long ago, there was a small village in the middle of a forest. It was a peaceful village, and all the local rulers agreed that this village was to be spared all squabbles and wars between their peoples. In return, the village helped heal the wounded or sick and fed the hungry from other villages.”\nKal’s father paused to take a long drink of beer.\n“One of the local kings had a son who was known as the black prince. The black prince had waged many battles and brought back a sword that would be the emblem of their house; a long and delicate blade decorated with ivory and gold.”\n“The prince was obsessed with treason. He believed everyone was plotting against him. When his father died, he took power and villages suffered under his rule as he ‘weeded out’ those who were not loyal to him. For a long time, it was rumoured that the village in the forest used magic for their cures. The prince worried it was black magic, and that the village in the forest would use that black magic against him. He called his mercenaries and marched into the village. They spared none, not even women and children.”\nKal’s father’s voice grew grim to add drama to the story. Out of the corner of Kal’s eye, he could see his mother shaking her head disapprovingly.\n“You’ll give him nightmares Joseph!” She warned.\nHis father chuckled “It’s a moral tale dear. It’s supposed to scare him.” \nKal twitched with excitement. He loved scary stories.\n“That night they dared to camp in the town they massacred. Having a feast on the town’s plentiful rations. Some say forest sprites or the Queen of Faries herself took pity on the villagers; others say it was God or Jesus Christ who heard their cries. Whomever it was, granted them one final act of vengeance. They rose up from their graves…”\n“Joseph that’s enough! He’s too young for that one.” His mother snapped.\nKal never got to hear the end of the tale. When he was in his teens his father passed. Despite not finishing his story, his father frequently joked that if Kal went into the forest at night he could be snapped up by the undead villagers.\nLooking forward through the trees he was a little worried. Normally on this trail, the trees began to get thinner the further south he went. Instead, the stretch before him was thick. He pulled the compass out again, cursing the strong burning sensation as the icy air attacked his exposed skin.\n It displayed south. Was it broken?\n The sun was low in the sky, and already beginning to send purple, orange and yellow over the clouds. He wasn’t sure he was heading in the right direction, but he had no choice but to ski on until he found others. Camping in the forest was a good way to freeze to death.\n The growth of trees opened to a grouping of cottages. This confirmed he was off course. There were no villages on his usual path. It was eerily quiet in the clearing like time had frozen with the air. Kal felt uneasy; there was no light coming from any of the cottage windows.\nHe walked up to the door of one and found the door slightly ajar. He braced himself, he had seen houses left like this before. \nHe called out “Friends, I’m sorry to disturb you. I am a Finn lost in the woods.”\nThe house replied with silence. It was almost black as coal inside, so Kal pulled out his lighter and pushed the door open, he realized there were deep gashes and grooves in the doorway like someone had taken an axe to it. The cottage was one room, with furniture neatly grouped into a kitchen area and bedroom. Children’s toys were scattered about, left on tables and chairs. Kal breathed a sigh of relief. No bodies.\n It was possible the families living here abandoned their homes because of the recent incursion of the Soviet military in this area. Kal hoped that was the case and lit a fire in the tiny hearth to warm himself.\nHe couldn’t help but look around the cottage. He tried to insist in his mind that the family must be elsewhere, probably with extended family in Viipuri. However, his eyes wandered to the table, where a bucket of washing was still full of water and clothes. A neat bundle of wool socks was stacked on the little one’s bed.\nHe tried to focus on warming himself and getting ready to sleep.\nThe family’s thick wool coats were still hanging on metal hooks by the door. Boots were neatly tucked beneath them.\nThe back door of the cottage creaked open, as though it was calling to him. It was hanging on one hinge deep gashes running long the side…\nCome look. Look at where they are…\nKal swallowed. He knew he couldn’t sleep. Something had happened here. He walked over to the back door. The moonlit the snow well, and he could clearly see a trail of footprints leading into the other side of the forest clearing. The path was wide, possibly 4 or more people all walking clustered together. He put his skis on and began following the trail into the forest.\nThe path wound for about 10 minutes before Kal saw a figure slumped against a tree trunk. He froze and waited. After a minute passed and the figure didn’t move, Kal realized the figure was covered in a light dusting of snow. Kal moved closer to reveal the body of a man dressed in a wool sweater and underwear, his feet bare and burned black by the cold.\nTears welled up in Kal’s eyes. “I’m sorry brother. Rest easy. You’re suffering is done. I will tell our people about your sacrifice.”\nKal carefully pulled a pin off his uniform. It was a decorative pin he bought in Helsinki a while back. He pinned it to the dead man’s sweater. It was all he could do in lieu of burial.\nHe continued to follow the footprints, now noticing that many footprints were barefoot. He began finding small items like ribbon, pieces of shoelaces, and a small woodblock. Each artifact, lightly buried in snow was like a knife in his heart.\nAn animal-like cry made his blood run cold. Kal turned wildly, trying to see where the sound came from. He spotted a figure in the woods, on foot and clawing madly at the snow. He watched as the figure stumbled and screamed wildly… and came toward him.\nKal turned and tried to ski away as quietly as possible, but the man was fast, bumping into Kal suddenly full force.\n“Augghhh! God!” He screamed.\nKal and the man struggled and flailed in a heap before they managed to separate from each other. Kal, now thoroughly flushed with adrenaline, was able to see the uniform in the dim moonlight reflected off the snowbanks.\n“Brother it’s another Finn! I’m a soldier as well!” Kal breathed.\nThe man stopped screaming. His eyes were red and full of tears that were already freezing on his face. He had piercing green eyes.\nUnderneath his scarf that was still tightly wound around his mouth, bits of blond whiskers poked out.\n“Oh, thank God. What is your name? I’m Juho.” The man asked as he leaned against a tree.\n“Kal. You are lucky I tried to run instead of drawing my weapon.”\n“Kal we need to move, back to the cabins. This isn’t a village, it’s some sort of strange nightmare.” Juho breathed.\n“What do you mean? What happened to the people in the village?” Kal struggled to his feet trying to untangle his skis.\n“I came with my troop to establish a camp here and we were attacked. We all had to run, these things came right through the village and…” Juho didn’t get to finish his story.\nOut of the 1-meter-thick snow on either side of the men emerged hulking forms. They were draped in heavy and long clothing, and against the moonlight looked like blackened ghosts.\nThe men made a mad scramble, and before Kal could call out, Juho had run in a completely different direction, off the footpath that made it easier for Kal to ski. Kal had no choice, it would take him too long to undo his skis to run so he made for the cabins. The forms followed him at an inhuman speed, twitching and running on all fours like dogs. His heart pounded, he skied so hard he broke out in a sweat, something he was taught never to do in freezing temperatures.\nIf he could make it back to the cabin, he could barricade himself inside.\nHe was horrified to find a long spindly hand was able to grab his uniform and he was yanked back, crashing into the snow. His skis tangling on branches found in the underbrush. He could see his attacker now, and he felt sick with horror as he desperately tried to grab the rifle buried in the snow underneath him.\nThe figure was clothed in an old Viking wool tunic, dyed a dark colour. The figure itself was a dried husk of a human body, the skin pulled taught like an animal skin on a tanning rack. It was black as night, clearly eaten by the frost. The skin on the face was pulled back and hardened as well, so the Viking had a sinister permanent smile. Kal managed to kick one foot free of his ski, breaking the laces he had used to hold his boot onto the ski. As he used his free foot to kick the risen corpse, he noticed a sword hanging off the thick leather belt, with a white handle etched with gold.\n“It can’t be!” Kal found himself mumbling wildly out loud.\nHe managed to get to his feet and began desperately hobbling away from his attackers, but his other ski was caught fast in some branches. He fell face first and waited to feel the cold grasp of the undead on him. Instead, a strange screaming and sucking noise came from behind him. Kal rolled over to see a group of frostbitten people rising around the Viking corpses and were now pulling them down into the snow, biting and tearing at them. The Viking corpses howled and flailed wildly. The people were gaunt but wearing modern wool sweaters and dresses, some women still had aprons on. They tore at the Vikings with no fear, making horrible wailing noises.\n“You haunted us for generations… “One woman whispered, small clumps of brown hair still clinging to her skull. “Now we will haunt you!”\nKal was able to undo his other ski and scramble to his feet, making his way back to the cabins as wails, screams and otherworldly screeching filled the air. He turned in time to see the corpse of the black prince being torn to shreds, the villagers pulling the bony arms off, the dried flesh snapping. Kal scrambled faster, fighting the urge to be sick.\nAs he entered the clearing, he heard Juho’s voice.\n“Kal! Here!” Juho was already in a cabin.\nKal ran over and helped him throw firewood, furniture, and anything else they could find to barricade themselves in. Exhausted and sweating they made a small fire in the hearth, expecting to hear hoards of undead at the cabin door. Instead, they sat in uneasy silence. Kal held his rifle at the ready, in case the corpses got through their barricade, but it proved to be unneeded.\nEventually, Juho found enough strength to tell his full story.\n“The villagers did a strange ritual every night. They blocked off their doors and sealed themselves inside the cabins before the sun went down. They said evil things come out of the forest at night.” Juho hung his head.\n“It’s our fault they’re dead. They told us not to camp outside but we insisted. We thought they were just being superstitious. They said people left out at night attracted the dead. They were right. We were asleep when they started dragging men into the woods. Soon they began hacking open the cabins. The villagers had no choice but to run. It happened so fast.”\nKal didn’t know how to comfort Juho as he cried.\n“It wasn’t your fault; how could you have imagined this would happen? This is something out of a folk tale.” Kal managed.\n“I don’t know how it’s possible… I don’t understand.”\nThey sat for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the sun rose, and light began to shine through the cabins.\n“Do you think it’s safe to go out?” Kal asked.\n“The village did normal things during the day, so I think so?” Juho said nervously.\nPushing aside the barricade, Kal and Juho wandered outside. Kal’s rifle at the ready. They were greeted with silence. They paused, reluctant to leave the safety of the cabin, but also eager to leave the village in the forest behind them. The two men slowly made their way toward the centre of the village, and Juho pointed out a road his troop had taken to get there. It was a small road, not wide enough for vehicles, but clear enough the men could travel without skis. Shaken and exhausted, they walked into the growing daylight hoping to find Juho’s main camp… and safety." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Craving\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1985\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone trying to recreate a grandparent’s signature baked good from memory." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "cw: miscarriage \nThis could not wait till morning. The craving came on so sudden and intense that resisting never even crossed her mind. For some reason Claudia needed fudge. Maybe it was hormones. Maybe it was the fact that she finally had an appetite. But she needed fudge. Not the kind she usually made this time of year, melting chocolate chips in the microwave. Claudia needed the heavy, silky fudge her grandma used to make—the kind you made in a saucepan with a candy thermometer.\nDid you need a double broiler? Claudia wasn’t sure anymore. She closed her eyes and tried to picture it, her mom at the stove, swirling a big wooden spoon, round and round continuously like the second hand on a clock (can’t let it scorch) stirring and lifting with such deft motion.\nBut Claudia could only observe this memory from outside the pan, from where she’d sat at the counter with a coloring book, or later on, a workbook or laptop. She did not know whether the pan contained a double broiler.\nIt was too late to call—10pm in Los Angeles and midnight in Sugar Run. Mom went to bed reliably at nine. \nGoogle would know, Claudia consoled herself. She typed “fudge recipe” into the little white box and scrolled through too many microwaved chocolate chip recipes before typing “fudge that you make with a candy thermometer.” This was better. Condensed milk sounded familiar, but the more she read, the more Claudia doubted her own memory. Condensed milk or evaporated? Had it been sugar and cocoa powder, or some baker’s chocolate? There were a hundred variations.\nShe was pretty sure that there was vanilla extract (that, she knew, was her family’s power ingredient), and she was certain that all of these variables would matter when it came to getting the exact flavor and consistency she craved—something you could hold in your mouth savor as it slowly melted away. Like a good memory. The supple kind of fudge that wrinkled and cracked like leather. If she could lose herself in a mouthful, maybe it would smooth over the terrible week. \nShe tried to concentrate: Grandma Nora’s kitchen. Yellow linoleum, dark brown cabinets with old brass knobs in the shapes of flowers. Claudia had usually been there when Grandma made her fudge. With the cousins, decorating felt ornaments with puff paints, out of the way. Now she tried to reverse-engineer the smells. Butter. Vanilla.\nBy the time she was old enough to actually help, Claudia had found other interests—speech tournaments, volunteer projects, study groups. In the back of her mind, maybe Claudia had always thought there’d be more time. \nGrandma Nora had stopped cooking after the stroke. Mom tried the fudge for a while, but lost momentum after a few years, after the cousins stopped gathering together for Christmas. After it turned out that Grandma was the sugar or condensed milk or whatever it was that held everyone together.\nClaudia tried to remember. It was a family recipe—the kind that should never need to be written down. It was written in their mitochondrial DNA, Claudia suspected—the pieces of molecular coding passed unaltered from mother to daughter every generation. Moms and grandmas and daughters had been making this fudge since at least the 1800s, probably on temperamental stoves fueled by wood or coal. \n“I remember when my Grandma Ira would make this fudge…” Grandma Nora would say sometimes, her brown eyes sucking up all of the light in the room and spinning it into something that sparkled in her mind. \nClaudia pictured them, a chain of women living close together, gathering in dowdy blue-checkered kitchens, around wood block counters and formica-topped bars to make fudge and rum cakes and fingerprint cookies. And here she was, two time zones away, Googling recipes. Asking a computer. \nClaudia had always considered herself a mold breaker, and had always considered that a good thing. Now, standing alone in her kitchen with cream-colored porcelain tile floor and sleek bar pulls on the cherry cabinets, she just felt broken. She was going to be the one to break this tradition. \nMom would remember. She could call in the morning. But the craving was so deep and immediate that the thought of waiting barely passed through Claudia’s mind. That need consumed her as she rifled through her walk-in pantry. Sugar. Cocoa powder. Vanilla. \nShe had learned to cook, but always new recipes, her own discoveries. Claudia recalled her dad’s perplexed eyebrows at Thanksgiving. “Why would you want to put apples in the stuffing?”\nWhy not? To be different. To take things up a notch. Back last month, when being different didn’t quite mean being separate. Now the stakes had changed, and all Claudia wanted was a family recipe.\nShe had learned to cook, but never fudge. How many Christmases had she not even missed it, distracted by office parties and ski trips and neighborhood cookie exchanges in other people’s European-inspired kitchens, where bakers showcased neatly flooded royal icing and sugar crystals that sparkled like snow on festive platters from Target and Michael's, while sipping Cabernet from wide-brimmed glasses? \nShe decided to go with milk and butter, and no double broiler, recklessly mixing and matching from online recipes, guided by flashes of light and scent memory. \nIn a large and heavy saucepan, stir together the first three ingredients, then stir in milk, her phone screen instructed in frigid Helvetica. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until mixture comes to a full rolling boil. Boil to 234 degrees F or until syrup, when dropped in very cold water, forms a soft ball which flattens when removed from water.\nWhy had she not remembered before, her grandma keeping a glass of ice water by the stove? The way she’d watch the fudge mixture (what was the sign she was looking for?), dropping just a bit of mixture in the glass, reaching in for it with her hand. The memory hit Claudia like a wave. That had been the shocking part—Grandma Nora sticking her hand in the water, after all of her admonishments at the dinner table. Keep your hands out of your water…\n“It’s okay; it’s different,” Grandma had said. Was it with an actual wink? Or had that wink only been in her voice? “Table rules don’t apply in the kitchen.” And she had pressed the ball of fudge in her fingers and given it to Claudia to sample. Claudia, out of all the cousins, because she was the one who wandered into the kitchen.\nWhy had it taken an internet recipe to jog this memory? Maybe because Mom used a candy thermometer. She didn’t have Grandma’s eyeballing abilities. She relied on science, not art, Claudia thought as she pulled a long bar handle and searched the gadget drawer for her own candy thermometer. It had been a wedding gift, and she couldn’t remember using it. \nFor most things, boiling was boiling. You looked for the bubbles. Not here. Somehow it made a difference. She could remember mom throwing out a batch of fudge once, slinging it with the wooden spoon from the pan into the trash can with a vehemence that had kept Claudia from asking what’s the matter.\nClaudia watched her ingredients pool and melt into a sticky liquid. The scent of warm sugar and cream melted something inside of her, and her stream of consciousness swelled with a glut of melted memory run-off. It ran wild and overflowed the banks of Claudia’s self-control as images flooded her mind unbidden: Grandma Nora, her right hand withered and hanging useless at her side; Mom flinging grainy fudge into the trash; the doctor’s office, the empty black screen.\nShe felt tears well in her eyes and ooze like blood. I’m leaking, Claudia thought, but still she stirred, consistent like the second hand on a clock. She blinked her eyes, clearing the opaque wall of tears that obscured the numbers on the candy thermometer. 157. \nIt would thicken, Claudia assured herself. She had a Viking range. If her foremothers could do this on a wood-burning stove, she could do it on a Viking range. Or had it not been the fire at all—the secret to their success? Maybe it was the consistency of the hands. Maybe it was having someone there to stir for you while you greased the pan or grabbed the butter.\nEmpty kitchen notwithstanding, Claudia would master the fudge and join her foremothers, creators of fudge. She would extend her wooden spoon across space and time and they would grab on and welcome her, tell her never mind, you’re one of us. All of those women, all those years, different personalities joined by fudge. Imagine! Fudge and daughters.\nNo. They would not welcome Claudia. She was not a good daughter. She had no daughter of her own. \nSometimes you could follow all the directions and things still didn’t turn out. Claudia had choked down lentils, kale, eggs, fighting the nausea that formed a tight lump in her throat. She needed something sweet. So she stirred, letting tears leak like blood.\nThe thermometer climbed, the red mercury stretching and blooming. 210, 217. Then what? Why hadn’t she read ahead? And from which recipe? Claudia didn’t want to stop stirring for long enough to check. She didn’t want the fudge to burn and crumble. She was already leaking; she couldn’t afford to crumble.\nThe mercury drifted up to 225 and Claudia gripped her wooden spoon. She didn’t want to do this, but she had a wooden spoon and the craving was strong. She needed this fudge, needed to taste the thick, buttery chocolate, but mostly she needed it to turn out. She needed a win. She needed that connection.\nShe had a wooden spoon. She picked up her phone and extended her spoon across space and time. Would anyone grab the other end? It was 10:58 in Los Angeles and 12:58 in Sugar Run.\nClaudia stirred as she listened to the hollow dial tone. One ring, two, three.\n“Hello,” a heavy voice answered.\n“Mom, what do I do when the fudge gets to 234 degrees?” Claudia asked in a rush.\nShe heard a cough in response, then silence. Finally, “You stop. You take it off the heat. Add your butter and vanilla and let it cool without touching it.” It was a monotone recitation, a steady stream. Mom could do this in her sleep. Literally.\n“Okay, thanks,” Claudia said with a sniff that she hoped was not audible on the other end of her call. “Sorry. You can go back to sleep now.”\n“No, I can’t.” Mom’s voice was coming to life now, with more highs and lows animating her words. “It’s late. Are you okay?”\nThe thermometer drooped, wilting down from its peak. Claudia could feel her stomach sinking, almost like the nausea that had dissipated days ago. Sometimes she could hold it in; sometimes she could not.\nThis time she could not. The words spilled out, bitter and acidic like bile. “I lost the baby.”\nSilence, and then, “That hurts. I’m sorry, Honey.”\n“Yeah,” Claudia sighed. “Sorry. I know you were looking forward to being a grandma—”\n“No, it’s not about that,” Mom interrupted. “I just mean… I remember.”\nThe realization dawned on Claudia slowly as the thermometer drooped down to 225. “You?”\n“Three.” Mom said. “It happens. If you only knew.”\nClaudia wondered how many invisible links there were in the chain of her foremothers. She wondered at the invisible link that clipped her into this chain. Kitchens and fudge and daughters, and the daughters and sons that might have been. Crowded kitchens, nonetheless—people to share the bitter and sweet family recipes.\nIt was 11:28 in Los Angeles and 1:28 in Sugar Run, but Claudia kept Mom on the phone until the candy thermometer dropped to 110 degrees. Then she picked up the wooden spoon and started to stir 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 Hunt\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2868\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite your story from the point of view of someone learning or teaching an extreme hobby." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Hunt\nRingerike, Norway. 806 CE\n As Freydís watched from the doorway, her older brother knocked his spear against the bottom of his boot, dislodging snow, and her mother stood unconcerned at the loom near the hearth, placidly beating down the weft. The soft, familiar staccato passed through Freydís’ ears unheard. She imagined throwing her hands around Björn’s ankle and letting him drag her along the packed snow as he had done when she was smaller, and she hated herself for it.\n“Take me with you today.” \nHis eyes rose to her waist. “Close the door. You’re letting in the cold.”\nWithout hesitation, she shut the door behind her back but ignored his narrowing eyes at seeing her remain on the wrong side. “I’m dressed. My bow is strung. You don’t have to wait for me.”\n“I can see that, but Mamma needs you for spinning.”\n“How am I going to learn to hunt if you don’t take me?”\n“Just do it on your own. Like I did. You don’t need me.”\nFreydís clenched her teeth. “I’m coming.”\nIn answer, Björn shoved his feet into the withe rope of his wide birch skis and bent to secure his heels with the leather straps. Frosty breath billowed from his nostrils, obscuring his profile, and he tightened the final knot with a sharp exhale.\nHeat crept up her neck and flicked at her ears. “Pappa taught you, but he’s not here to teach me. You never had to teach yourself.”\nInstead of responding, he pushed the butt of his spear into the ground and set off at a sliding walk. Freydís snapped into action, grabbing her own skis from the snowdrift and hurrying to follow. Within moments, he was out of sight, his tracks disappearing into the forest.\nThrough the underbrush and down the hillocks, she forced herself to double her brother’s pace, but by the time she crossed the valley floor, he had nearly reached the foot of the neighboring mountain. Freydís paused to catch her breath, closing her eyes against the mid-morning glare and glitter of fresh powder. In her ear, she heard her brother hiss, “See? I knew you couldn’t keep up.” The thought propelled her forward, and she shoved her stick viciously into the snow at her side.\nFor the next several hours, up the slope and down the gullies, Freydís hunted the hunter. When his snaking tracks left the top of the tree line, she leaned against a scrawny aspen to rest. Her eyes scanned the mountain, and like embroidered chevrons, his skis marked a clear path up and over the summit. All thoughts left her head as she turned her feet out to push one leg after the other along the incline, thankful for the fur lining the bottom of her skis, keeping her from sliding. Her heart expanded and her lungs burned as she gulped the frigid, thin air.\nWhen she reached the top, elation filled her chest, and for a moment, she imagined she was Skaði, goddess of skiing and the bow, renowned for her beauty and wisdom, her bravery and perseverance. No wild animal could escape her arrow. What trouble would an arrogant brother be to her? None.\nBelow her, she saw Björn resting on a boulder, a tiny dot within her hawk-eyed sight. Her mouth twisted, and her eyes glittered, all pain forgotten. She inhaled, prepared for the exhilarating drop in her stomach, wiggled her boots in her skis, and launched herself over the side. As she flew, she leaned her weight farther back over her heels and dug her stick into the drifts, turning herself with it like a rudder. The wind whipped her cheeks, and her eyes teared, but she whooped and then roared like a berserker from the sheer freedom of it. If she stretched out her arms, would she soar?\nAs she approached the bottom, she crouched, a diving falcon intent on its prey, and when she thrust her skis out for a sudden stop, powder curled in a beautiful arc to cover her brother. She bared her teeth at him, expecting anger and prepared to meet it.\nSlowly, he bent double and shook out his cap. Though his jaw ticked, after a moment, he said in a low voice, “You sounded like a troll’s wife screeching down the mountain like that. Probably scared all the game. You know that, right?”\nShe cast her tongue about for a tart reply but could only stare back at him. Finally, she said, “I would know that if you’d bother to teach me.”\n“You already know that.”\nIt was true. She did, and a seed of embarrassment sprouted in her gut, making her angrier with him. “Well, I’m here now.”\n“Indeed.” He stood and brushed off the snow covering his shoulders, chest, and legs, then stuffed the remains of his lunch into his bag. When he sipped from his water pouch, Freydís swallowed, surprised at her dry throat.\n“May I have a sip?”\nBjörn wiped his mouth and handed the pouch to her.\n“Thank you.”\nRather than respond, he glanced over her shoulder, and she followed his eyes as he searched the landscape. “See those tracks?” he said. “It’s a red deer I’ve been following. A big one. He should wear out soon.”\nFreydís slid beside him as he approached the deer’s trail. Björn removed a leather mitten with his teeth and pointed at distinctive features in the snow. “He’s stumbling. Getting tired. A fresh deer would leave tighter tracks, tighter draglines.” He circled a mark with his index finger. “His knee fell here.” When he peered up at her, she nodded.\n“How long does it take? To exhaust a deer?”\n“Depends.”\nShe waited for him to elaborate, but when she realized no further reply was coming, she asked, “Today? Tomorrow? Next week?”\n“It takes as long as it takes.”\nBehind his back, she rolled her eyes, and they continued on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. For a long time, neither spoke as they traversed the mountainside and small valleys, and the sun crept across the azure sky. The rhythmic shushing of their skis drained her temper and left her content to follow where he led. \nBjörn broke the silence first, turning to whisper to her. “We should watch for bears. They’re waking up.”\n“I know. I’ve been watching.” She hadn’t, but now she peeked through the trees, scanning for movement and skinny, brown, ravenous creatures. Bears didn’t frighten her, but she thought it might be prudent to load an arrow and did so.\nBjörn glanced behind him. “Don’t shoot me in the butt.”\n“I won’t shoot you in the butt.”\nAt her tone, he added, “Don’t shoot me anywhere.”\nFreydís giggled, sorely tempted to draw the string to her cheek and tell him to turn around.\n“I’m not kidding,” he said, face firmly ahead.\n“I’m not going to shoot you.” She followed him as he slid down a hill, her tracks tracing his. As their pace slowed on level ground, she called to him, “I would never shoot you.”\nBjörn stopped, then turned, leaning on his spear. His gaze jumped from her eyes to her mouth and back again. “I know.”\n“Why—”\n“Shhh…”\n Freydís listened. In the distance, she heard a strange wheezing and snorting but knew instantly it was their quarry. A thrill ran through her body. Her eyes must have rounded because Björn nodded at her expression, then placed a finger over his lips. \nSlowly, he slid forward toward the sound. Freydís gripped her bow, sweat dampening the inside of her mitten. As they neared, Björn veered away from the deer and then circled back, returning head-on. He halted, and she slid up beside him.\n“Quiet your mind,” he said. “Be calm.”\nFreydís breathed through her nose and out through her mouth, clearing her mind of all thoughts.\n“The gods are watching,” he added, which didn’t help and only made anxiety flood the pool of her mind.\nThe deer, huge and powerful, struggled in a drift that reached to its chest. His antlers tossed to and fro as he fought against the very mountain itself, and his tongue curled in overheated agony. With each wheezing bellow, a frosty cloud drifted skyward.\nBjörn bent his head to her ear and whispered, “Since he is forced to keep his head up, you can take a direct shot to his heart. Aim where his neck meets his chest. Do you see?”\nFreydís concentrated on the point he indicated as it churned up and down in the snow. “I see,” she said.\n“We wait,” he said. “Let him calm down.” With that, he squatted in place, and she mimicked him. When he closed his eyes, she closed hers.\nAfter a time, the deer settled, though its breathing still labored incessantly. Björn touched her shoulder, and when she turned her attention to him, he nodded. Arrow still loaded, she drew the string to her cheek and imagined her heart connecting with her target, just as Pappa had instructed her years ago. When she released, her hopes sank, knowing it would miss before it did so. The arrow struck the deer a glancing blow on the shoulder, which only renewed its panic.\nBjörn grunted beside her and shook his head. \nShe ducked and peeked at him from the corner of her eye. “I’ll get him with my next shot.”\n“No, I’ll do it. You must kill on the first shot.”\nFreydís’ cheeks burned, and she held back the tears that threatened. She sensed Skaði’s disdain, the goddess’s fierce presence searing between her shoulder blades, and she sniffed as discreetly as she could, turning her head away.\nAs if he could sense her distress, Björn said, “Don’t fret. I didn’t make the kill on my first hunting trip either. Just practice more at home.”\nShe gazed down at the hand on her shoulder, surprised at his tenderness. She couldn’t recall him ever touching her. Punching her? Yes. Kicking her? Yes. Wrestling her into obedience? Yes. Comforting her? Never.\nThe moment ended as quickly as it had happened, and he drew his arrow from his quiver, took aim, and sunk the point deep into the deer’s beating heart. A final puff of steam blew from its nostrils as it slumped forward into the snowbank, the only signal of its death.\nThey stood as one and slid toward the body. Now, the true work would begin. Freydís had helped with butchering farm animals before, many times, and they moved in sync as they cleared away snow and carefully sliced the thick fur to remove the cape. When it was free, she laid it out, flesh side up, and the tang of blood hung heavy in the air. Björn cut the backstrap loose and handed it to her to lay on the skin. Section by section, they worked, adding meat and organs to the growing, steaming pile. \n“I plan to go raiding with Pappa this summer,” Björn said. “It’s good for you to have had some hunts before then.”\nFreydís snorted. Björn’s downy cheeks testified otherwise. No crew would take a youth his age when a man could fill the oar-seat. It was on the tip of her tongue to tease him when she realized what he had said and choked on her words. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”\nHe glanced at her out of the side of his eye but otherwise didn’t comment further.\nTo ease the strain on her back, Freydís stood straight for a moment and tilted her head toward the sky. The sun would be dipping behind the mountain soon. Though the deer had taken a meandering path, they had a more direct route home, but they would need to hurry if they wanted to outrun the descending darkness.\nAs Björn started on the last section of the carcass, Freydís felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. They were being watched. Her first thought was a bear. She should turn and look, but couldn’t make herself. Instead, she forced a word from her lips. “Björn?”\n“What?” When he lifted his eyes, he froze. At the same moment, two wolves stepped into view in front of her. Freydís' breath caught, and she swiveled her head. Three more wolves approached her back. “They want our kill,” he said. “Not us.”\n“Do we give it to them?”\nBjörn spit on the ground and reached for his spear. Slowly, Freydís stretched her body and arm for their bows where they leaned against a tree, but they were well out of her grasp. As she moved, she heard the largest wolf growl, a soft rumble deep in his chest. The others joined him, punctuating theirs with an occasional whine. \nHer brother spun the shaft of the spear in his hand, and his head turned left and right, noting each wolf’s position in his view. Freydís took a hesitant step toward their bows, and the growls increased. She froze again, unsure how to proceed. There were too many of them. Yellow eyes drilled into her, and tongues lolled from drooling mouths. One yawned in agitation, looked to their leader, and returned its lethal stare to her face, jaw clamped.\nThe leader took a step toward Björn, and when Björn lunged at it, the wolf skipped back out of reach. The growls escalated beyond all proportion until it was the only sound Freydís could hear, as if it was the only sound she had ever heard. Terror coursed down her spine from her scalp to her heels. Every muscle in her body shook. Undeterred by Björn’s previous thrust, the leader approached another pace, and the other wolves tensed, ready to spring.\nFreydís dove her hands into the pile of meat, held up the first pieces she could grab, and tossed them as far as she could throw. With several of them distracted, she ran for her bow, then tossed Björn’s near his feet. Still terrified, she felt marginally better to have a familiar weapon in her hand. She drew an arrow from her quiver and inhaled to calm her mind.\n“Toss the wolf at my back a piece,” Björn said.\nCarefully, Freydís bent to retrieve another chunk of meat, but the wolf chose that moment to coil for an attack. Without thinking, she nocked the arrow she still held in her bow hand and released from her chest without aiming as the wolf soared toward her brother. The arrow struck its lower spine, and with a sharp whimper, it dropped to the ground, its front legs digging at the snow while its back legs hung uselessly in the drift behind him.\nUnaware, Björn drove forward with his spear toward the leader, but it sidled away. Freydís turned, nocking another arrow, and aimed at one of the three wolves fighting over the meat behind her. Her first arrow sailed harmlessly over its neck, but her second arrow sunk into its rump. The wounded wolf bounded off into the trees, but the two remaining wolves saw nothing but the meat in front of them. She took a third shot but missed just as the smaller of the two wolves managed to get the better of his packmate and swallowed the entire piece of meat whole. Freydís’ fourth arrow struck him in the neck, killing him instantly. The loser of the tug-of-war leaped backward at seeing his companion fall, then shot off into the forest.\nWhen she turned back to Björn, he was pulling his spear from the paralyzed wolf’s chest, and the largest wolf was nowhere in sight. Her legs gave out from under her at that moment, and she sank to the ground. The macabre image of the surprised wolf desperately clawing at the snow suddenly struck her as humorous, but her laugh verged on hysterical. Björn turned his face toward her, and she sobered.\nWith deft precision, he removed a claw from the wolf she had killed with one shot and handed it to her. “Good shooting,” he said.\nFreydís studied the bloody token in the palm of her hand. Skaði had seen her bravery and would be pleased by her marksmanship. For a moment, she felt taller than her brother. “Glad I was with you, huh?” she asked, and braced for a retort.\n“Yes.” \nHer chin drew back at his simple answer, and she searched his face, but when his eyes remained serious, a warm glow sparked in her chest, and her cheeks hurt from her broad grin.\n“Let’s get this meat home,” he said. “We can try to come back for the wolf pelts tomorrow.”\nThey finished their work in silence, both cold and ready to be home by the hearth, eating their mother’s cooking. When all was ready, Björn wrapped the rope hauling the bundle of meat around his waist, then handed her his spear. At her quizzical look, he held out his hand to trade for her ski stick.\n“You should get used to the weight of a spear,” he said. “We’ll make you one tomorrow. I’ll also show you how to load arrows faster.” Without another word, he set off for home.\nCopyright Jennifer Marchman 2022" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Iron Door\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1315\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a skier who accidentally strays off-piste." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "December 12th, 1692\nTo Father Eusebio Francisco Kino:\nThe Cañada del Oro is rightly named, glory be to God. The placer has pointed our direction and we begin our journey up and into the belly of the mountain. The burros complain terribly, but not so loudly as the novitiates. The Papago peoples, of whom our apostolate counts some small number, are silent and strong in their ascent. They are possessed of a God-given sure-footedness that is the envy of burro and novitiate alike. Perhaps they are part bighorn sheep.\nWe have made camp along a ridge that juts some thousands of feet above the great river. Light digging is begun in earnest, but our guide, Alférez Juan Bautista de Escalante, tells us we must practice patience. He believes the lode is still many thousands of feet above the canyon, and we approach snowline. That snow may exist above the shimmering desert of Pimería Alta – is it not proof that our Lord is an artist? Watching the sun set upon the river, scattering golden reflections off its surface, I feel certain this is a whispering of God that our works will be rewarded.\nAd majórem Dei glóriam,\nFather Alonso Bartolomé Calvo\n*\nDriving through the twists and turns of Sky Island Scenic Byway, I feel like I'm being consumed by the folds of the mountains. Who could imagine finding such comfort in becoming a landform's lunch? I've watched myself become and come undone a thousand times this year, Cass. But here, in the mountain's entrails, is where my pieces reside. Gathered as if by some metaphysical magnetism.\nNo, it isn't magnetism, it's longing. For the bite of a true winter – the one I left you in and find often promised, but never arriving, in the valley below. I'm still awestruck that any appreciable amount of snow, nevermind a ski mountain, can exist above Tucson – even at ten thousand feet.\nI know you hate when I get flowery. I know you hate that I still text. I'm sorry. But skiing always makes me think of you.\nRead 11:31 AM\n\nOctober 29th, 1695\nTo Father Eusebio Francisco Kino:\nOn the credit of the mine we have erected a number of suitably humble buildings atop the mountain, a small chapel with three gilt bells among them. Escalante tells us he has never seen a lode its equal. Even a Godly man, one whose gaze is forever turned heavanward, can see how thickly the quartz is veined in gold. I tell you, Father Kino, that San Xavier del Bac is only the beginning of our ministry in Pimería Alta. With this gift, we will spread the Word across the continent.\nAd majórem Dei glóriam,\nFather Alonso Bartolomé Calvo\n\nThe lift here reminds me of the old double at Pat's Peak – do you remember? Being here, on this lift, with the wind like a song and the shimmy of ponderosas humming out the harmony... it feels like a gift. I'm telling you, Cass, this place – this mountain – is a treasure.\nRead 1:54 PM\n\nMarch 8th, 1698\nTo Father Eusebio Francisco Kino:\nWith rumors of our claim's riches now flowing down the mountain like snowmelt, it has become necessary to secure the mine. I have commissioned a fine iron door, for which I shall have the only key, to span its mouth. There is no other entry.\nA strange formation in the rocks which the novitiates call “the eyes of Saint Ramon” looks upon us as we work. I find his gaze a holy comfort but a number of our party find it unsettling. I have condemned such worry as heathen superstition, but it has not stopped some of the Papago from fleeing our site. They say it portends evil things.\nThe only evil I fear is that of which Timothy spoke: “For the love of money is the root of all evil.” It is for this reason the location of the mine must remain secret. The novitiates have sworn themselves to God and in this confer my unbidden trust. But Escalante gives me pause. His god lives in the veins in the quartz in the tunnels in the mountain. Much has been spent to secure his discretion, but I fear still more will be required.\nAd majórem Dei glóriam,\nFather Alonso Bartolomé Calvo\n\nIt just snowed here two days ago, and it's almost like being at Steamboat. Not quite champagne powder; maybe prosecco? The north boundary is studded with stands of aspen and pine, not a single track laid. Just begging to be breached.\nCass, I can see you toeing the out-of-bounds, looking over your shoulder to make sure your illicit descent remains undiscovered. There's a hoodoo that looks like an Easter Island head, all sharp nose and pensive brow. It's looking straight down a perfect line, and I'm watching you now, winking at it as you lift the rope and shove off. If a skier goes off-piste and no one is around to see it, do they still leave tracks?\nWish you were here.\nRead 2:12 PM\nSorry again for the texts.\nRead 2:13 PM\n\nJuly 26th, 1702\nTo Father Eusebio Francisco Kino:\nWe have had a small cave-in at the mine. Thanks be to God nobody was lost, but Escalante pushes too hard. The men are unnerved. The Papago blame Saint Ramon, the novitiates blame Escalante, and Escalante blames the dikes in the granite that spill open like wounds into the drift. The vein is still rich, he says, and work is begun to block fresh timbers.\nIs it his pride, Father Kino, or ours that sustains us on this path? I pray for him. I pray for us.\nAd majórem Dei glóriam,\nFather Alonso Bartolomé Calvo\n\nCass. Help. Please. I don't know what the hell happened. The ground fell out from under me. I'm in some sort of tunnel.\n! Not Delivered\nCold is leaching my battery. Don't know how long the flashlight will last.\n! Not Delivered\n\nAugust 12th, 1702\nTo Father Eusebio Francisco Kino:\nA major roof fall last night. The cost of our pride can be counted in lives. Two novitiates and a Papago. A third novitiate, Tomás, is badly injured and not expected to wake. Still more unaccounted for. We sift through the ore not for gold, but for bodies. This is not a mine, it is a tomb.\nAd majórem Dei glóriam,\nFather Alonso Bartolomé Calvo\n\nJesus. I think it's some sort of mine. Should never have gone off trail. Please Cass. Help.\n! Not Delivered\n\nAugust 16th, 1702\nTo Father Eusebio Francisco Kino:\nEscalante is gripped with a sickness. I have heard of this thing where gold is concerned. He is mad with lust of riches and digs through the mine in a fever, even as the mountain belches and rumbles and spits out timbers, even as the bodies of two more novitiates lie entombed within. The men fear him.\nHe demands the transfer of our claim, but I cannot conscience another life. The iron door will be sealed by week's end and the mine left to God.\nAd majórem Dei glóriam,\nFather Alonso Bartolomé Calvo\n\nPhone dying. There's an iron door. Sealed. Please god, help.\n! Not Delivered\nJesus. There's a body. Bones. I'm going to die down here.\n! Not Delivered\n\nAugust 21st, 1702\nTo Father Eusebio Francisco Kino:\nWe begin our descent from this accursed mountain. The mine has collapsed, with Escalante within. There was nothing to be done. The key is buried, the door is sealed, and we have done what we can to obscure it with large boulders hefted in front of the entrance.\nMay God wipe the memory of this place from the earth.\nAd majórem Dei glóriam,\nFather Alonso Bartolomé Calvo\n**\nCass. I'm sorry.\n! Not Delivered" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: 10 Things To Do Instead of Writing New Year's Resolutions\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1913\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a short story about someone who refuses to write New Year's resolutions." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "1. Hang out with friends\nYour friends are the kind of people that make New Year’s resolutions. The five of you, too broke to go anywhere, sit around your studio apartment. One has her legs hanging off the arm of the one chair you have. One is sitting next to you on the futon. The others are splayed, their bodies like starfish, on the ground. They use their fingers and each other to remember the resolutions they think of on the spot. Maybe they could actually eat breakfast instead of skipping it or replacing it with coffee. Maybe they could go on jogs, not runs, but jogs. Maybe they could save more money so they could go somewhere else besides your apartment this time next year. Plucking a piece of paper from the printer and a dull pencil, you finally offer to write these down for them.\n2. Read a book\nYou realize you haven’t read a book since high school when they were assigned and you had to. The downtown library is a short bus ride away. The people on the bus don’t look ready for another year. Above their heads, like cherries and sevens on a slot machine, you see what their resolutions might be. Drink less, from the man whose eyes look like he’s already broken that resolution. Don’t kill everyone on the bus, from the bus driver with a smile plastered on her face. You look down so you don’t have to see, hoping that on your way back, you’ll have a new book to distract you. The librarians are lovely as you apply for a library card and you chat with them because you think you’ll be back every week. The spines don’t tell you much but you check out one because the cover looked nice.\n3. Get some exercise\nThe neighborhood around your apartment has some nice hills but can get pretty flat, too. You dust off your rollerblades you used to use before you had a car. Your mother would send you off to the store with a wad of cash and didn’t care how you got there. They sat next to the sack of potatoes and cans of soup in the shopping cart while the cashiers and baggers ignored the fact you weren’t wearing shoes. You think it’s just like riding a bike.\nThe cars don’t like you in the same way they don’t like bikers. The rollerblades feel good but you still do the flat streets first, dodging cars and pedestrians, going faster than both. Going down the steep streets with the wind in your hair feels like skiing, even though you’ve never been skiing.\nYour ankles start to hurt and sweat is sliding down your back, so you slow down. You didn’t see the rock and the rock didn’t care about not seeing you. Flipped over on your back, you clutch the knee that’s bleeding. The sandwich artist at the sub shop runs out and runs back in to get you a towel and Band-Aid. He has shaggy blonde hair underneath his mandated cap and a large nose that you could look past but maybe he can’t.\n“That was a nasty fall. But I’m sure you get these all the time,” he says. While you stop the blood with the towel, you nod, happy that he thinks that you’re some kind of pro. “Yeah, all the time,” you say. The sandwich boy takes the bloody towel and applies the Band-Aid to your cut. He makes sure you’re okay before heading back in, but it hurts and you’re still on the ground and you wished he would’ve kissed it to make it better.\n4. Go to the doctor\nGetting a physical sounds more enticing than writing New Year’s resolutions and your doctor has an availability. Your arm constricts underneath the blood pressure band. As a kid, and even now, you think just one more pump from the doctor’s side would surely pop your arm right off. But it doesn’t, and you’re at 108/73.\nThe doctor listens to your heart rate and you wonder if it’s telling her anything in Morse code. You ask her about weight loss and diets. She tells you to never get on a scale again.\n“The number is not always the best indicator. People with other health concerns, such as smoking, are just as at risk as someone overweight,” she says, with the kind of conviction that makes it seems she’s had this conversation before but as an argument. This is good advice and you love her for saying it but it doesn’t answer your question. You don’t know if you don’t like wearing a bathing suit because you don’t like it or because society tells you that you don’t look good in it. On your way out, you ask if she knows Morse code.\n5. Drink water\nThe sun is setting and you live in an apartment that’s only amenity is its balcony. Your stomach is still settling from drinking too much the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. These couple of months are for parties, socializing, and overindulging so no one is judging you, but you take it easy today. You sit on the balcony with a mug of water, having looked in your cabinets and your wine and pint glasses, not knowing what people drink water out of. The cold water goes down easy. You imagine your throat as a water slide, screaming and closing your eyes in enjoyment on the way down with the gulp.\nSo many cars pass by below you. You watch someone in the driver’s seat throw pills down his throat from an orange pill bottle, without water to chase them down with, all without veering. The people on the street laugh at stories you won’t hear. Some stop along the sidewalks and make themselves a house, cigarette or vape or Juul smoke billowing from their chimneys. Just this once, you wish you were Jesus, looking down at your mug, who could turn water into wine.\n6. Call your parents\nYour parents are divorced but are still best friends. They are almost more married now than when they were actually married. They always seem to be together even though, being legally separated, you’d think they would spend less time with one another. But it was as if saying they didn’t have to commit anymore lifted the heavy weights off their shoulders and they could finally like each other again. You call your dad, not knowing which parent you will get anyway.\n“Hey, honey, what a surprise to hear from you,” your mom says. She says Dad is coming in from the kitchen to talk too. The small talk is small but it’s nice to hear their voices even over miles of satellite connection. Your parents get a bit somber, saying they have something to tell you. Images of tumors and the inside of funeral homes flash in your mind. They say they can’t talk anymore right now. “It was our New Year’s resolution to not call you as much.” \n7. Clean your apartment\nThere has been a spider hanging out in his spider web in the corner of your room for weeks. He’s been there so long, you treat him like a roommate but wish he helped with rent. Papers have piled up as have the dishes so you decide to clean before any more roommates can move in. You don’t know how there are food stains on the walls. This is a plus of living in such a small place and alone: you don’t have to plug the vacuum in more than one outlet to get the far corners.\nThere’s a Hershey Kiss still wrapped in its silver underneath the futon that you unwrap and eat before anyone can see you. You get under the burners on the stove, you take out the trash and the recycling, you unclog the hair in the drain of the bathtub. You take a nice, long shower to reward yourself and crawl into your freshly laundered sheets. Before falling asleep, you look up and realize you forgot to kill or, at least, evict the spider and its spider web from the corner of your room. \n8. Learn an instrument\nThe piano has always been beautiful. And learning to read sheet music always seemed like learning another language. You visit your grandmother’s retirement home to practice on their grand piano before you buy yourself a piano a little less grand. She is doing well and is the first to request a song when you get better. The people on stage and in the movies make the dance your fingers do over the keys look as easy as the dance your fingers do over the keys of your computer. You struggle through “Heart and Soul” but your grandmother cheers you on and, from where the piano is situated, you get to look out at the lake the old people walk around. There’s a sign hanging in the sub shop down the street from your apartment. The sandwich boy needs a keyboardist to accompany his guitar. You begin learning your grandmother’s wedding song for the audition.\n9. Cook a meal \nYou have so much more time than if you were writing New Year’s resolutions, enough time to cook yourself dinner. A full meal, with all of the good food groups. You have a tendency to just eat sides like tater tots or rice for dinner when you’re not ordering out.\nThe library had a cookbook that made it look easy, without too many ingredients you didn’t already have. You put slices of lemon on the salmon like the picture shows, and the asparagus is roasting next to it, and the rice pilaf is bubbling over. Some of it splashes on the wall behind the stove and you realize that’s where the stains must come from. You plate it like you’ve seen professional chefs do on cooking competitions, even wiping the excess spills with a towel. The salmon is a little overcooked but you eat it and make a note of it for next time. You don’t know why you don’t do this every night.\nThe pile of dirty dishes in the sink and on the stove and in the oven are not as daunting when you blast music and dance elbow-deep in soapy water.\n10. Count your savings\nYou look around for anything else to do, anything else you could tell your friends you did instead of writing New Year’s resolutions. Upon your newly dusted shelves, you see your fishbowl of coins. That fish has long since died but stayed around longer than expected — seven years from elementary to high school — and your parents would always roll their eyes at your magical goldfish. It is now the bowl you where you collect pennies you find on the street or change you get back from shopping.\nYou sit on the ground and spread your legs around the bowl. The metal coines make your fingers smell like blood. Or, you think, does your blood smell like coins. Maybe you’ll ask the doctor which came first at your next scheduled visit in six months. There’s more here than you thought, but, thinking about what you might buy before remembering that this is going into the bank, you lose count. You can’t help thinking, with each penny and each dime, you are counting your blessings." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Report on the Activities of the Chapman Family, December 2023\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1615\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/2:\n\nJOSH: Kept his cool on a work call when a coworker tried to goad him into a political argument. Nice.\n\nMADDIE: You know that ‘One Margarita’ song from TikTok, boss? In an attempt to be ‘the cool mom’, she sang it in front of Mackenzie’s friends. …There was a dance, too. From what I hear, their parents are no longer letting them come over. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Broke up a fight between Alex and Rachel. Nice.\nALEX: backtalked at Maddie for asking him to put away folded laundry while he was scrolling TikTok. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Told Maddie that dinner was ‘gross’ and ‘Kaylyn’s mom makes this better’. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Decided to give herself a makeover. Resulting haircut required professional intervention. Also crushed two of Mackenzie’s lipsticks into the bathroom carpet, left large gouges in Maddie’s Dior eyeshadow palette, and covered the bathroom and herself in black hair dye. You know what, boss, I’m gonna let you make the call on this one. I didn’t see the crime scene firsthand as I was stationed in the kitchen that day, but I certainly heard the uproar it caused. I’m not authorized to rule on whether this is a ‘seven year olds will do that’ situation or a ‘she’s old enough to know better’ kind of thing.\n\n\nSir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/9:\n\nJOSH: Disinvited his mother and stepdad to visit for Christmas. Okay, boss hear me out on this one—I was stationed on top of the TV and saw the FaceTime where it all went down. The woman was insisting that Mackenzie ‘dress like a lady’ while she was here, said she showed too much skin for a girl of her age and all that makeup made her look like a ‘streetwalker’. And that was just the start—she kept going, criticizing pretty much everything her own granddaughter did and being pretty cruel about it. I’ve never seen the vein in Josh’s forehead stand out that much. He told that woman that if they, as parents, didn’t have a problem with Mackenzie’s fashion choices, then she had no right to say anything. The he told her to cancel her plane ticket and hung up. It was epic. Feel free to overrule me, but I’m giving him a big, fat NICE.\n\nMADDIE: Noticed Mrs. Figueroa across the street sprawled out at the bottom of her front steps. Took her to the emergency room. Sounds like the poor lady broke her foot. Since then, Maddie’s been over there three times a day, sometimes for up to an hour, usually carrying a meal with her. Nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Volunteered last-minute to babysit the Jeongs’ three-year-old when Mrs. Jeong went into labor prematurely. Handled dinner and bedtime solo before Mr. Jeong’s sister arrived to relieve her. Refused pay. Nice.\n\nALEX: Ate the entire bag of Mackenzie’s allergy-friendly cookies, and showed no remorse when there was nothing left in the house she could have as a snack. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Did lots of research on her social studies project and wrote it all herself, without asking Maddie, Josh, or Mackenzie to do any of it for her. Nice.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Threw a tantrum because the Christmas dress Maddie got her didn’t have gold sequins all over it like Rachel’s. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/16:\n\nJOSH: Came home with a puppy and didn’t ask Maddie first. Plus…well, see Mackenzie’s entry below. Naughty.\n\nMADDIE: Wrote Rachel’s teacher an absolutely unhinged email, in which she used no less that twelve words she would normally punish her children for saying (believe me, I was reading over her shoulder—Maddie was low on inspiration that morning and literally stationed me on a shelf). Demanded a change of grade on the social studies project despite clear evidence Rachel hadn’t followed the rubric the teacher laid out. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Unleashed a fifteen-minute rant at both her parents about how the younger kids are constantly taking her stuff and Josh and Maddie never do anything about it. Reacted, um, pretty poorly when Josh subsequently grounded her. Stormed out of the house and didn’t answer calls or texts for several hours. I mean, yeah, naughty, but the kid has a point.\n\nALEX: Offered to play video games with Rachel when she came home from school crying about a low score on her social studies project. Let her win. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Played on her phone instead of socializing when Maddie’s sister and her family came over for dinner. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Snuck into Mackenzie’s room and stole her expensive art markers (you know the ones, boss, they were last year’s big ticket Christmas gift). She completely used up the sky blue, broke the tip on the skin-tone shade, and left the caps off several others. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/23:\n\nJOSH: Bought his mother a book on etiquette for Christmas. Wrapped it in a box with a charcoal briquette. Nicccceee.\n\nMADDIE: Trips to Mrs. Figueroa’s house have continued throughout December, and in fact, have increased in frequency. Yesterday I even saw her wrapping a bunch of presents, then taking them over there. Last week, she went over there with a bucket of cleaning supplies and didn’t come back for hours. A few days ago, she strongarmed Josh into coming with her one evening, and within a few hours, the tree was up and decorated in Mrs. Figueroa’s window, and the eaves were strung with lights. Josh was grumbling as they came back, and she shut him up by saying, “The whole time we were in the ER, poor Luz was sobbing because her kids are coming into town for Christmas and there was no way she could get everything ready with a broken foot. I promised her I would make sure Christmas still happened.” Just really nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Took Josh’s car keys, snuck out of the house. Nice. Yeah boss, I’m saying ‘nice’. Yeah, boss, I know sneaking out is an automatic lump coal, but you gotta hear the mitigating factors. See, I was stationed hanging from the light fixture in the second floor hallway, it’s probably 10:30 PM, everyone’s all settled in for their long winter’s nap, and I hear a phone ringing in one of the bedrooms. Turns out it was Mackenzie’s. I could only hear so much of the conversation through the door, but it went like this: “Hey Grace, what’s… Holy… Are you okay? …Nuh-uh, doesn’t matter if he’s your boyfriend, that is NOT okay, it’s not okay for ANYBODY to… Well, I’m glad you got out of there. Are you someplace safe? Where are you? …Okay, good call, there’s lots of people around, even at this time of—me? I mean, I feel like you should probably call your parents to… Okay, okay, just get yourself a coffee and go browse the makeup section for a while. I’ll be there in ten minutes, I promise.” At this point, she opened her door very quietly and stepped lightly down the hallway, whispering as she went: “yeah, I’ll stay on the phone the whole way, promise. You’re gonna tell your parents, right? …Well, he DESERVES to get in trouble…”\n\nShe was back before midnight. Feel free to overrule me on this one, boss, but I’m saying nice.\n\nALEX: Charlotte came home from school crying because some kid at school had told her you weren’t real. Alex was the only one home at the time. You know what that kid told her? “Santa is 100%, absolutely real, Charlie. I know because…I’m him. And Dad is him too, and Mom. See, Santa isn’t actually just one guy--it’s a secret club. To join the Secret Society of Santas, you have to solemnly swear to spread joy and kindness all year long, and then you get officially named a Santa Claus. Usually you’ve gotta be bigger to join, but since you know the truth now…wanna join up?”\n\nI know it’s a load of hogwash, boss, but it’s not like I could correct him, and you should’ve seen the smile on that little girl’s face when she solemnly swore to keep Christmas in her heart all the year. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Turns out, she’s been secretly packing herself a second lunch since about October. Maddie finally noticed and confronted her about it. According to Rachel, there’s a kid in her class who only ever has a single granola bar for lunch, and Rachel’s been secretly making sure she has extra to share. Rachel said the kid’s name, and from Maddie’s expression, I’d say she knows the family and has some idea why the kid never has a real lunch. Once school kicks off again in January, Maddie is 100% onboard with Operation Feed Carly. Very nice, both of them.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Went shopping with Maddie. Saw the toy donation box and asked what it was for. When they got home, Charlotte went upstairs and came down with her arms full of literally all her toys. Maddie tried to talk her out of it, but the kid spent the next three days insisting that it was ‘her job as a Santa’. As a compromise, they went out and bought some (brand new, in-the-box) toys together that they donated to the toy drive. Really, really nice.\n\nSo there you have it, boss. Nice all around, checked it twice and everything. I’ll head back to HQ as soon as the family packs up the Christmas decorations—I estimate sometime around January 6 or so. And…sir? Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind getting this assignment again next December." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Predicament\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1628\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character runs an inn for resting mountaineers. It’s a calm life, until they encounter a twist of fate." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The headlight from the giant locomotive illuminated ominously through the foggy abyss as dusk settled into darkness. The steam billowing out of the valves and the black smoke huffing out of the smokestack only contributed to its abstract, melancholy appearance. The shrill of the airbrakes synchronized with the low-pitch whine of the whistle. The clanging of the bell was the only optimistic percussion that this mechanical beast seemed to produce. The locomotive was grimy and exhausted from its long climb up the mountain, winding through too many curves and tunnels. It was relieved to finally slow down and stop. Each wheel of the rolling stock slowly ground to a halt. The violent momentous chugging now was reduced to the calm, rhythmic heartbeat of the air pump and the steady whir of the dynamo. \n\nBowen watched as the weary and infirm troops filed out of the coaches and onto the platform. The porters assisted with their luggage. The conductor assisted however he could, the soft light of the lantern swinging and glowing in the mist. The engineer tended to his beast, ensuring the tender took on plenty of water for the rest of the trip into Tennessee. Bowen was a man of conviction. When faced between patriotism and the health and safety of his guests, he had quite a predicament on his hands.\n\nBowen already started taking precautions. He ordered his staff to wear cloth masks at all times they were around anyone else. Health experts advised this was the best precaution. “It covers both the mouth and the nose. Otherwise, it’s worthless. If you still want a job here, you will learn how to wear it,” he would repeat whenever he saw their masks pulled down to their chins or their nostrils haphazardly exposed. His guests were less receptive to the order. They traveled to the inn to get away from the mundane order of the real world, not to recreate it. Some flat out refused to wear them.\n\nEven though Alta Pass Inn was advertised as a place of healing and recovery with its crisp, clean Blue Ridge Mountain air, it was not equipped to accommodate or treat any serious illness. Tubercular and other respiratory patients were banned. Bowen oversaw its construction three years back, envisioning it as a lavish resort for lowland aristocrats who wanted to overcome ailments such as the humidity of the piedmont and the stress of ordering up a round of mint juleps, not serious diseases that were infectious and perhaps deadly. The telegram from the veteran soldier’s hospital in Tennessee assured that the veterans fresh from the Western Front would be leaving on the next train to Johnson City come next morning. Bowen caught himself when he thought of protesting the arrival of his new guests. After all, these were American heroes of the Great War, plus many sacrifices were made in wartime, and his business couldn’t risk being labeled as un-American. \n\nSnow started to trickle out of the fog as the last soldier disembarked from the train. The bell clanged repetitively. The conductor made his final inspection, hopped on the back of the last car, leaned outward holding onto the railing, and waved his lantern to signal “all clear.” The engineer pulled the rope that made the whistle hoot and then pulled back on the Johnson bar. The valve gear creaked forward, and the train started its slow acceleration. The fireman used his shovel to stoke more coal into the firebox. The engine huffed and chugged, disappearing into a fog-draped tunnel. \n\nBowen peered over at the line of disheveled soldiers aching and hobbling their way up the steep hill to the inn. What was left of their patriotic fervor and youthful exuberance as passengers on the same railroad headed opposite way down to Fort Jackson three years ago was now gone. Sure, they defeated the Hun, and France, Belgium, and England were no longer America’s responsibility. But shellshock and trench life had turned these doughboys’ glossy, impressionable eyes into pale, ghastly remnants of their former selves. The last hero filed into the inn.\n\nReluctantly, Bowen started to make the ascent up the hill to oversee the hospitality towards the veterans. The warm, yellow glow from the inn’s windows amidst the fog had a soothing and rejuvenating nature. The light spoke of many nights of ballroom swaying, orchestral notes, the laughing and banter of inn guests who were comforted by the stillness of the Blue Ridge Mountain landscape. Nights of entertainment after a day filled with a round of golf on the inn’s 9-hole course or a hike up to a fresh mountain spring, or perhaps a round of trap shooting. The inn was fully intended to be a place to reconnect with nature and to forget about the woes of city life—a place where the mountains were dominant, not the grim reality of a relentless society. \n\nBowen couldn’t help but feel proud of his handiwork when walking up the steps. The inn was three stories and had a large vestibule that could host a wide array of gatherings. The columns that supported the sturdy roof had a commanding presence and gave the guests a sense of groundedness as they were perched atop the hard quartz and mica of the Blue Ridge. Guests may come and go, but these mountains were here to stay. \n\nAs Bowen entered the inn, his blood started to heat up as he saw his establishment deteriorate into a makeshift Spanish flu sanatorium. Beds were brought into the ballroom and quickly filled up with pale-faced soldiers hacking and coughing. Local women who worked at the inn - mountain women accustomed to hard times, turmoil, and affliction - were recruited and trained on the spot as nurses. They were scurrying around making beds and taking temperatures. When they needed help or had questions, they looked up to Mrs. Holman, who had watched over the sick, infirm, and injured up in these hills for years. She came down from Philadelphia some time ago on a mission to better the lives of the Carolina mountain folk. When the railroad was built, railroad workers mangled on the job were rushed to Mrs. Holman’s house and treated unconditionally with the utmost compassion. Mrs. Holman was said to be sent down by heaven’s angels. \n\n\n“Everything will be alright.” Mrs. Holman said as she placed her hand upon Bowman’s shoulder as he glanced around in dismay at what had become of his grand resort. A few of the inn’s paying guests glared in disgust at the motley assortment of sick soldiers, makeshift nurses, and field doctors. They turned and walked back to their rooms to absorb as much manufactured fantasy as they could before they had to return to the main thoroughfare of the inn. Upon seeing the infirm soldiers, the guests were finally convinced to wear masks and cover both mouth and nose. \n\n“What if they won’t be able to leave the inn tomorrow morning?” Bowen asked Mrs. Holman, nervously taking comfort from the light touch on his shoulder from this resilient and capable woman.\n\n“If the veteran soldier’s hospital in Johnson City can’t take them all at the same time, we will make room up across the creek,” she reassured, referring to her own mountain clinic on the opposite ridge. She would have taken all of the men there tonight, but they were too many in number, and her place had sparse room. Bowen felt a sigh of relief that the soldiers would not be staying at his inn for an extended period of time. \n\nThe next morning, the fog lifted slowly from the Blue Ridge. A soft blanket of snow had christened the landscape, and as Bowen walked out onto the front vestibule of the inn, he could see a subtle plume of smoke coming from the stovepipe chimney of the train station. It was a quaint wooden building, yet it was placed in such a strange spot directly over the creek. Bowen mused over this choice of placement and how just one good rain could send that ramshackle little building downstream, up and over the ridge, and barrelling down into the valley below. Just like how taking in sick soldiers for the sake of patriotic duty could send well-paying guests to another resort. \n\nOff in the distance, the whistle of the northbound passenger train whistled with increasing intensity. The cold air thickened the steam spewing from every cavity of the locomotive as it pulled into the station. The veterans filed out of the inn, one by one and down the long hill to the station platform. Some were still bedridden, and the makeshift nurses from the night before assisted with rolling these men down the hill carefully and safely. The railroad had anticipated that this would take a while, so they sent a dispatch to delay the next southbound freight until they could get the passenger train rolling to Johnson City. \n\n“We’re leaving as well,” the guests from the night before gruffly stated; golf club bags hastily shouldered and suitcases stuffed as they scurried down the hill to purchase first-class tickets, well away from the soldiers. Bowen thought to offer them an apology but then remembered that it was his duty to provide those soldiers refuge for the night. He headed back inside and looked around at the remnants of what had happened the night before. The staff picked up bedding and pillows, folded up cots, pushed everything back into place, and tidied up. Outside, the whistle sounded for northbound departure.\n\n“Mr. Bowen, may I say something?”\n\nBowen turned around to look at who was addressing him.\n\n“Yes.”\n\n“Your mask, sir. It kindly goes over both the mouth and the nose.”\n\n“Right,” Bowen replied to the bellhop, pulling up his mask." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 A Spoonful of Poison\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1491\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character runs an inn for resting mountaineers. It’s a calm life, until they encounter a twist of fate." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The year is 1496. The place is Rome, Italy. The snow-capped mountains in the distance are beautiful. The air is crisp with the promise of snowfall. Lucretia Borgia is sitting at a large table in the kitchen of the Vatican thinking about how to get rid of the rats.\n\nHer father, Pope Alexander VI, wants her to take a job as a cook at a nearby Inn. Lucretia, with her blonde hair and kind heart, is a cinch for getting the kitchen job.\n\nMeanwhile, the snow is falling softly at the Mountainside Inn near Rome. The kitchen is full of black smoke.\n\n\"What kind of cook are you? I put an ad for a cook and all I get are amateurs. I will be out of business soon if I can't find a decent cook!\n\nThere is a knock on the door and several mountaineers enter the Inn very tired and hungry. \"Quick, open the windows and try to get rid of the black smoke. I will try to distract the mountaineers so they won't leave for another Inn.\"\n\nThe mountaineers try to peer through the black smoke and start coughing. \"What kind of place is this? The sign outside said the food is good. Maybe we should just turn around and go to Dominic's Pizza Inn down the hill. I hear the pizza is amazing!\"\n\n\"Just a minute. My staff will clear up the smoke and start over. What kind of food do you want? We just had a little mishap. We are getting a new baker within a day or so. I can whip up anything you want. Come sit down at the tables.\"\n\nHe quickly wipes up the soot and motions for the mountaineers to sit down.\n\n\"Do you have pizza?\"\n\n\"Of course we have pizza. It's better than the stuff down the mountain. Many mountaineers come here Just for the Pizza. Do you want ale as well?\"\n\n\"What do you think?\"\n\n\"Okay, there are ten of you. How many pizzas?\"\n\n\"Ten\"\n\nThe owner of the Mountainside Inn returned to the kitchen and motioned for his helpers to assemble ten pizzas with pepperoni and cheese.\"\n\n\"Don't burn it. Just don't. Or you will be on the street.\"\n\nThe owner went in his office and started to write a classified ad.\n\n\"Cook/Baker wanted for Mountainside Inn. Baking experience, pleasant personality and willing to do your own dishes. Apply as soon as possible.\"\n\nA few days later, Lucretia Borgia is sitting in the kitchen with her tea while reading the local paper. She really wants to be a cook or a baker. She is bored hanging around the Vatican. She wants to stop trying to poison rats. She smiles. Maybe she can poison....\n\n\"Just a spoonful. What harm can it do? And such delight.\"\n\nShe turns the page of the paper and sees the ad for a cook or baker\nat the Mountainside Inn. \"Just what I want!\"\n\n\"Papa, I am going out. I am going to apply for a job at the Mountainside Inn for a cook.\"\n\n\"I hope their stomachs can handle it. \", he laughs.\n\n\"You are always the comedian, aren't you?\"\n\nLucretia puts on her hat and robe and gets inside the coach. \"Driver take me to the Mountainside Inn. I have a job to get!\"\n\nThe horses rush along the roadside and climb the hills to the mountain when they finally arrive at the Mountainside Inn.\n\nThere is a help wanted sign. \"Cook/Baker Wanted Immediately\".\n\nShe gets out of the coach and knocks on the service entrance door.\n\n\"I am Lucretia Borgia. I am here to apply for the Cook/Baker position in the kitchen here. Will you please announce me?\"\n\n\"You are the Pope's daughter. Why would you want to be a cook here? \"\n\n\"I am so bored. It's always the same thing every day. Papa trying to marry me off to his enemies and walking around the Vatican is rather repetitive. I need change. I need to cook and bake!\"\n\n\"I don't know about this. Let me get the boss. Let him take a look at you.\"\n\nThe boss of the Mountainside Inn comes to the door to greet Lucretia Borgia. She reaches out her hand in greeting and he kisses it.\n\n\"I am here to apply for the Cook/Baker position. I am a terrific cook and I can make the mountaineers happy too.\"\n\n\"What do you like to bake?\", the boss says.\n\n\"I like to make cookies, brownies, pies, cakes, you name it, I can bake it. Just get me the ingredients. But I refuse to do dishes. I have to watch my beautiful hands don't get chapped. Do you want a cook or not?\"\n\nThe boss takes a look at her beautiful face and long blonde hair and smiles.\n\n\"It's been boring here too. Business has been slow and the last cook almost burned down the kitchen. Are you sure you can cook? You look like you never seen a kitchen, never mind a stove!\"\n\n\"No worries. I can whip up a feast in moments. Put your faith in me.\nI will turn things around and just a spoonful of my magic will make all the difference. Please just give me a chance?\"\n\n\"I will give you a week probation. If you burn the food, you are out, understand?\"\n\n\"Understand.\"\n\n\"When can you start?\"\n\n\"Right now is good.\"\n\n\"One thing. I don't want any supervision. I work alone. My secret ingredients are a family recipe. So no peeking.\"\n\n\"You're hired, Lucretia. Hope you can cook.\"\n\nThe Mountainside Inn boss gives Lucretia Borgia an apron and a cooks hat. He shoos all the other workers out of the kitchen and shows her around. \"This is where we keep the flour and sugar and other baking items. The pans are over there. The stove needs wood and be careful because the last cook almost burned down the whole inn. If you need help, yell out.\"\n\n\"Do you need recipes?\"\n\n\"No\" , Lucretia says, \"I have my own family recipes. They are in my mind.\"\n\n\"Start baking. The mountaineers will be coming in after a few hours of skiing on the mountain and they are hungry.\"\n\nLucretia Borgia smiles. \"Oh, how delightful! This is more fun than chasing the rats in the Vatican. Just a spoonful of poison and the fun begins.\"\n\nLucretia starts assembling flour, sugar, butter, eggs and a special ingredient along with chocolate chips for Lucretia's cookies.\n\nShe also makes pies and cakes with the same loving touch and signature spice.\n\nThe dining area is her special touch. She puts table cloths of the tables and fresh saucers and plates. Music is added for ambiance.\n\nThe front door to the dining area has a bell that rings when the mountaineers enter. There are five today. Lucretia smiles from ear to ear.\n\n\"Let them eat cake.\"\n\n\"What is your pleasure fellas?\", she says as she hands them a menu.\n\n\"Are you the new cook? You look familiar.\"\n\n\"I am the new cook and baker. Call me Lucretia. I am happy to serve you today.\"\n\n\"You sure are pretty. What do you recommend?\n\nLucretia thought for a minute. \"Have a cookie, sweetie, They are delicious and pack a punch. I have coffee and cream as well.\"\n\n\"Bring on the cookies and we will have pie as well.\"\n\n\"Very good sir. I am sure you will enjoy it.\"\n\nAbout fifteen minutes later, Lucretia brought in a tray of coffee and poured it into the cups. \"Wonderful aroma. I never tasted such good coffee.\"\n\n\"A family recipe\"\n\n\"I will be back with the cookies and pies.\"\n\nShe wheels a cart arranged decoratively with colorful cookies and slices of pie. There is a certain sheen about the pie that attracts attention.\n\n\"Take a taste of the pie and let me know how you like it. I am on probation. I hope it pleases you. Let the boss know I am a good baker.\"\n\nAll ten of the mountaineers take a taste of the pie, all at the same time. Time stops. All ten gaze at Lucretia with fear in their eyes and lean back with the taste of the family recipe on their lips.\n\nThe boss walks into the dining area.\n\n\"The aroma of cookies and pie are addicting. \" He says as he shovels a spoonful of pie into his mouth. A frozen smile on his lips as he falls over and the pie flies around the room.\n\nLucretia shakes her pretty blonde hair and brushes off her apron.\n\n\"The lunch crowd will be coming in soon. I have to call Papa to clean up the bodies and make another batch of cookies. \"\n\nShe walks outside and puts a new sign on the Mountainside Inn. It is now called \"A Delightful Spoonful \" and soon becomes the talk of the mountainside.\n\nThe Borgias are pleased. Just a spoonful of poison makes this Inn delightful." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mrs. Jackson's Pumpkin Pie\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1520\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about somebody trying to rationalize giving into temptation, even though they know they shouldn’t." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Come on, we’re going to be late,” she pulled his arm, dragging him along.\nYanking his arm away from his sister’s grip, he scowled. “Don’t touch me.”\n“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, her typical reaction.\nLuke hated it when people touched him, especially his arms or wrists, always commenting on how skinny he was. “You’re all skin and bones,” they said, making him feel less of a person, even smaller than he actually was if that were even possible. The school nurse had said not to worry, he would grow out of it, would become a big man one day. She had sounded certain, but he wasn’t sure. She didn’t know they sometimes went days without food, counting on the free lunch at school and the healthy snacks that Mrs. Jackson brought in, putting the extras into his backpack during recess.\nEvery morning they passed the fruit stand on the way to school. Sometimes just seeing the colorful display made his tummy rumble and his mouth water. He pictured biting into one of those shiny red apples, the juice running down his chin. He slowed down just to look, picking out the perfect one, until his sister’s impatient sigh prompted him to quicken his pace. It didn’t matter anyway. He had no money to buy an apple.\nThe neighborhood boys were at it again, he saw, with that familiar bad feeling. They teased him, called him names. Mama told him to ignore them, she said they were acting out. They were hanging around the fruit stand picking up the apples that he had his eye on.\n“Hey, check it out,” the bigger boy laughed as he began juggling two apples, badly, dropping them both immediately. Reaching into the carefully arranged display he grabbed two more, leaving the ones on the ground to sit ignored.\n“Get out of here. I’m calling your mother!” The old shop owner came running out with her broom as if to chase away a mouse. Perhaps these children were like rats to her, pests coming around destroying her goods.\n“Shut up, old lady,” they boys mocked her, throwing apples at each other, laughing before finally meandering away.\nLuke stood still, frozen. Those apples on the ground. How he longed to pick them up and put them in his backpack. They were perfectly fine, just needed a good washing. What would she do with them? He was tempted to ask her or to just take them. Was she going to throw them away? His stomach growled. How easy it would be to grab them while she was looking at the boys a few shops down taunting the man at the newspaper stand.\nHis sister pulled his arm again, this time harder. He winced in pain and followed her to school.\n*\nSitting at the kitchen table Luke tried to do his homework but had trouble concentrating. “What’s for dinner, Mama?”\nHis mother lit up a cigarette and laughed. “What did you bring home today, Luke? Did Mrs. Jackson have any leftovers for you?” She grabbed his backpack looking in. When finding nothing she threw it on the floor, sat back taking a long drag on her cigarette. “I guess no dinner tonight,” she said through the thick stream of smoke. She went into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.\n\nMama didn’t get up the next morning to say goodbye, have a nice day at school. His sister had peeked into her room before grabbing his arm roughly, pulling him out of the apartment onto the cold city streets of Brooklyn.\nHe saw the wind swirling the leaves about on the sidewalk, felt it blowing through the holes in his sneakers. He had bigger worries than his cold feet as Thanksgiving was getting closer. That meant the celebration was getting closer too. \n\nHolding his hand down on the construction paper he carefully traced around it. He concentrated, keeping the crayon far away from his fingers to create a nice fat turkey instead of the skinny bird that had appeared on his paper the year before. Cutting the colorful feathers to glue onto his project he was worried. Almost sick with worry. He looked at Mrs. Jackson hoping he wouldn’t cry.\n\nPassing the fruit stand the following morning he still didn’t have his problem figured out and the celebration was just one day away. He didn’t tell Mama as she had stopped coming to school parties long ago. He still had the folded slip of paper that he had pulled out of the hat deciding for him what he would bring to the feast. “Pumpkin pie” he had read after unfolding the paper. Pumpkin pie, he had been repeating to himself, feeling the paper in his pocket day after day. Where would he possibly get a pumpkin pie? \nThe boys on the street were being rowdy again, this time calling out nasty words as the old woman chased them down the street leaving the small shop unattended. He glanced through the doorway at the sign written on the chalkboard advertising pies for sale. Pies! Would there be pumpkin pies? His heart raced. He had to find out.\n“Luke!” His sister screamed in annoyance. “What are you doing? We are going to be soo late.” \nHe didn’t care. He stepped into the warm shop, the smell of baked goods overwhelming him, his mouth watering. He stood in front of the tower of pies, pumpkin pie, apple pie, pecan pie all sitting neatly in their brown boxes with holiday stickers decorating them. It was the answer to that folded up piece of paper in his pocket. He wouldn’t have to tell Mrs. Jackson after all, seeing her eyebrows come together as she listened carefully to his disappointing news. He wouldn’t have to be the only student not arriving with a colorful shopping bag to add to the table in the corner of the room.\nTaking off his backpack he opened the zipper. He knew it was wrong to take a pie, he knew it, he knew it. But he chose a brown box with an orange pumpkin sticker on it anyway. Holding the pie in one hand and his open backpack in the other he was frozen. Take the pie, take the pie. It’s for the celebration, it’s for the class. He tried to make himself feel better. It’s for Mrs. Jackson, to pay her back for all the treats, all the surprise bags of freshly washed clothes she had slipped into his backpack during recess. Sometimes there were even baggies for Mama and his sister. It would be his turn to finally give something to Mrs. Jackson, to make her happy.\n“Luuuuke! What the hell?” \nShocked to hear his sister using bad language he jumped back, his heart racing. Scowling at her, he put the pie back on the pile just before the old woman returned from her chase.\nIt’s okay, he thought. He still had one day to figure it out. One day to get that pie into his backpack.\n\nEntering the classroom on the day of the feast he felt sick. His forehead didn’t feel warm, but his tummy was all sorts of jumpy and he was tired. He was more tired than ever before, even when he had to sleep on those small beds in that scary place when he was little. Sometimes he thought about being in the shelter, but he wasn’t sure if it was a dream he remembered or if it had actually happened.\nHe didn’t get much sleep the night before, worrying about the pumpkin pie. He dreamed about the old lady chasing him down the street with her broom while he held the stolen pie. He dreamed of bringing the pie to the feast and mice crawling out of it when Mrs. Jackson cut into it. He stayed awake after that one, too afraid to go back into the nightmare.\nHe had one last walk to school, one last chance at the pie in the shop. He carried his backpack loosely at his left side, the zipper open and ready. The pies were near the door, he would grab one with his right hand, slip it into his bag and not miss a step. He had practiced at home in the bathroom pretending the four pack of toilet tissue was the pie. He was sure he had his moves right. He just wasn’t sure it was the right move. \nApproaching the shop, he saw the old lady sweeping the doorway. Just his luck! He slowed his pace to the annoyance of his sister but no matter how long he dawdled, how slowly he dragged his feet, she continued sweeping. He passed her by in a blur, the pies behind her, then she behind him as he continued down the cold city street.\n*\n“Good morning, Luke,” Mrs. Jackson greeted him in the hallway. \n“Good morning, Mrs. Jackson,” he mumbled, looking down.\n“Please add this to the corner table and take a seat,” she handed him a colorful shopping bag. Glancing inside he saw a pumpkin pie." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mac and Cheese and Muffin Mix\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2146\n\nPrompt:\n\nAt some point in your story, a character says “You’re better than this…”." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The line was already forming as Margaret pulled into the parking lot of the small, unmarked building tucked into the residential neighborhood. The usual characters were front and center waiting at the locked door. \n“Good morning,” she called out, juggling several brown paper bags, careful to keep her keys on hand to unlock the pantry. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!”\nShe was met with smiles and cheerful holiday greetings. Those closest to the door shuffled to the side allowing the older woman to pass. “Please stay in line against the building, thanks so much!” She called out her instructions the same as she did every week to keep the crowd organized. More volunteers would be arriving soon with boxes and bags, some with wagons, and they needed a clear path.\nEntering the spacious pantry, Margaret flipped on the light switches then turned to lock the door behind her. There was one hour before they would officially open, and much needed to be done. Looking in the backroom’s freezer she counted fifteen turkeys donated at the last minute. Not enough for everyone, only a select few would receive a bird for the holiday and the decision would not be made lightly.\nIt would be a longer line than usual based on the traffic they had been receiving lately. Times were tough, she was thankful for the donations that came in over the past few weeks to prepare for the holiday. Pounding the pavement herself, she had collected gift cards from local restaurants and food stores, but her success was significantly less fruitful than in the past. It had been hard times for everyone.\nChecking her watch, she noted fifty minutes before the doors opened. Time to get busy.\n*\n“How did I get back here?” Ashley wondered, feeling pathetic and small, holding the hand of her daughter. She had promised herself to never return to this feeling of despair and embarrassment again. She had kept their heads above water for almost two years, but just barely. One small setback was all it took for the domino effect to send her back to the line of the downtrodden. She squeezed her daughter’s mittened hand and smiled down at her child. She would make up for this, she promised herself. She would.\n\nMargaret unlocked the door, smiling at the massive crowd of people waiting. The line, probably twice the length of her original estimation, snaked its way through the parking lot and spilled into the street. Worried about the reaction of the neighbors she knew she had to work fast and stay organized. “Remember the rules, everyone! One at a time, fill up your bag and allow the next person in. Come on in, Freddy. Good to see you!” She propped the door open and allowed entry to the elderly man, always the first to show up, standing out in the cold for hours to ensure a meal for his family. She smiled at Joseph, the second in line, the veteran who stood tall and proud in his torn shoes and open coat with missing buttons. Her heart broke a little every time she saw him. Looking past him was Ronny, pale and thin undergoing another round of chemo. Nobody said life was fair.\n\n“Mommy, it’s almost our turn!” \nShe looked at Ava, her beauty, and tried not to cry. “Yes! Only a few more minutes,” she replied shifting her weight from foot to foot trying to stay warm, glancing down at Ava’s boots wondering if her feet were just as cold, praying that was not the case. \n\n“Next!” She called out to the volunteers to usher in the next person on line while quickly reorganizing the inventory. The cans of vegetables and boxes of stuffing were going faster than she would have liked. Having a small number of boxes in the back room, Margaret hoped there would be enough. Turning away even one hungry person was not an option even if it meant running out to the store to buy a cart full of groceries herself.\n“Come on, Ava, it’s ok,” she heard, turning to see a young woman enter, her hood pulled closely around her face, the little girl a miniature version. There was something about them, what was it?\n\n“Oh no,” her heart raced when she saw the older woman at the counter, her worst fear coming true. She kept her hood on, head down and prayed Ava would behave like a silent little church mouse. This was a mistake, she cursed herself repeatedly. Why would she come back after all this time?\n\nThe pantry was quite warm, but Margaret noticed the young woman kept her hood on while going from shelf to shelf working her way around the room. She couldn’t get a good look at her face. Was she trying to avoid her? Being at the mercy of strangers can bring shame, making those feel awkward, not being able to look anyone in the eye. She would never think less of a person reaching out for help. How could she judge when she herself was in their shoes once upon a time? She was tempted to greet her, make small talk, but didn’t. She was tempted to bend down to smile at the little girl called Ava, to brush the hair out of her eyes and stroke her cheek but didn’t. She reminded her so much of another little girl in another lifetime. Waiting for them to make their way around the room she stood at the counter thinking about the turkeys in the backroom realizing she had found a good recipient. \n\n“Keep your head down, keep your head down,” she chanted to herself, the heat rising to her cheeks, sweat collecting on her forehead beneath the thick hood. Blindly she put boxes of macaroni and cheese into her bag, followed by muffin mix and cereal. The cereal they could eat immediately, even without milk if need be. The mac and cheese and muffin mix would have to wait, both being poor choices under the circumstances. Feeling the familiar panic, she had no idea what she was going to do. Their utilities had been shut off that morning, as the pile of notices had warned they would. Thankfully they left the apartment before Ava noticed the TV had gone dark, her favorite cartoons silenced. The mac and cheese and muffin mix were nothing more than a reminder of the stove that wouldn’t turn on in their apartment that would be freezing upon their return. She scanned the shelves for items requiring no prep at all to eat in the heated car while driving slowly back home. Noticing the basket of wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, she shamefully took four, hoping she wasn’t being selfish but at the same time grateful for their lunch and dinner. Feeling her face flush she added a handful of energy bars to her bag, her self-hatred and her relief rising simultaneously.\n\nThe young woman’s bag was filled to the brim as she neared the end of the obstacle course of shelving units. She was approaching Margaret, eyes downcast, cheeks red and glistening with sweat, clearly in extreme distress. “Victoria, please send in the next person and ask one of the girls to cover for me,” she called out to the volunteer in the doorway before giving her full attention to the situation at hand. She was tempted to stay quiet, to let her pass through the system, but was on high alert and needed to step in.\n“We have another room in the back, come see if there’s anything else you can use,” she said gently, hoping they wouldn’t bolt. Feeling so drawn to this girl and her daughter she wondered if she knew them from somewhere or were they a modern day version of herself and Liz? A lump formed in the back of her throat at the thought of her own daughter. How many years had it been? Too many, but apparently her crimes were unforgivable, the punishment lasting a lifetime. \nLooking like a deer caught in the headlights the young woman froze, and Margaret’s memories of that night came flooding back. \n\n“She remembers,” Ashley thought, horrified. The worst night of her life, the nightmare that she fought every day to forget, to move on from. The memory was still not crystal clear, the doctors said that all the details may never return, which would be a blessing as far as she was concerned. She didn’t need to remember every slap, every punch and shove until finally falling to the floor whimpering like a dog. She didn’t need to remember every cruel word, every insult from that night, the years of verbal abuse were enough to last a lifetime. \nShe did remember the kindness of strangers, the brown eyes of a woman who stroked her cheek, cleaned the blood gently off her forehead while they waited for the ambulance. She did remember her soothing words, caressing whispers promising she would be okay. “You’re better than this,” she had heard, finally releasing the tears that had been bottled up for years, allowing them to flow as the kind woman held her, rocking her like a baby, providing comfort and a glimmer of hope.\nThose same brown eyes were looking at her now. The women stared at each other, locked together in a shared memory of that awful night when she had hit rock bottom.\n\n“I can’t believe it. It’s her.” How many times did she think of this girl since that terrible night? Being alone in the pantry stocking the shelves, Margaret had been startled by the banging on the door, the terrified voice coming from the other side begging for help. Opening the door, a young woman fell into her arms bleeding from a gash on her forehead. Fighting her flashbacks, she had dialed 911 with shaking hands, doing her best to comfort the stranger who had taken a terrible beating. With no one else in sight and no cars in the parking lot, she was left to assume she lived in one of the houses on the road. \nWhen the ambulance came that night, Margaret had desperately wanted to accompany her to the hospital, but the police officers had requested she stay for the paperwork. How long ago was that? A year? Five years? If it were fifty years ago she would still remember every detail, still think about it daily, wondering if that girl was okay. Now she was there again, returned to her pantry.\n**\n“Want more pie, Ava? We have apple and pumpkin, which are you in the mood for?” \nAva looked from one to the other, undecided.\n“Or you can have both,” Margaret suggested, loving the look of excitement that lit up the little girl’s beautiful face. It had been a year since Ashley and her daughter moved into her house with the plan of being there just one night. \nStaying in Liz’s room, which had remained empty for decades, they took it day by day at first. Ashley, not wanting to intrude, had found it difficult accepting the hospitality. Margaret allowed them their space, not wanting to push, but praying every day for them to stay even one more night. \nSlowly with the passage of time they had settled in, no longer thinking in terms of temporary housing as Margaret’s home became their home as well. Never quite filling the void left by her own daughter, Margaret felt a contentment she hadn’t known in years. The women had many similarities, both had suffered through volatile relationships and debilitating economic hardship. The one difference being that Liz was unable to forgive her mother for the crime of poverty while Ava showed compassion and strength in the face of hardship.\n“Come on, girls, let’s finish up. The truck is on its way to the pantry. We have a lot of organizing to do for Thanksgiving. Not to mention our first clothing drive.” Margaret looked worried suddenly.\n“Yes, but luckily this year you have us.” Ashley smiled and gave Margaret a kiss on the cheek before helping Ava with her new mittens. “Let’s go,” she said, picking up the shoes and coat she had purchased for Joseph and the woolen hat she had found for Ronny, whose hair was beginning to grow back. A moment of sadness came over them as they remembered Freddy, always first in line, who had passed away a few months back. \n“Ava,” Margaret called out from the front door, “Do you have the mac and cheese?”\n“Yes,” the little girl answered, holding a bag filled with plastic containers. “And the muffins.”\nLife was not for the weak, they knew that well, it could be cruel, but it could be beautiful. They were victims, they were survivors, and now they were family." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Eventually She Will Crack\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2991\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a tea party that your character is reluctant to go to." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Eventually She Will Crack\n‘Wait, you got fired again?’\n‘Yes. Do you have a lighter?’\nBeverly reached over from the driving seat and sun in her glove compartment. She found a small silver lighter and handed it to Margot.\n‘Thanks,’ said Margot, opening the car window and lighting the tip of her cigarette. \n‘What for this time?’ Said Beverly, chancing glances between the road ahead and her sister in the passenger seat.\n‘Punched my boss.’\n‘You what?’ Beverly’s shock took form in a lasting gaze at her sister, one that lingered a second too long, causing her to swerve violently off the curb and almost hit a mailbox.\n‘Watch it, will you?’ Said Margot, clutching the door handle.\n‘Did I hear that correctly? You punched your boss?’\n‘Yes, Bev,’ mumbled Margot. She could feel her older sister’s blazing blue eyes searching her like a floodlight seeking out rogue prisoners. ‘He put his hand up my skirt!’ Said Margot, finally.\nBeverly furrowed her brow. Her magenta stained lips opened and closed a few times, but she remained silent. Margot rolled the window open wider and laid her head against the edge, feeling the summer breeze flicker her hair. She had baked under the scorching sun while waiting for her sister to pick her up outside the tall glass building on Madison Avenue. The incident had occurred so quickly, all she could really remember was seeing the headline of newspaper on her boss’s desk:\nAugust 14, 1958. Manhattan Under Siege of Record Breaking Heat.\nRather than ride the subway back to her apartment in Brooklyn, she called Bev from a payphone and requested a ride. Within the hour, Beverly pulled up the to curb among a stream of taxis in her husband’s new crimson Chrysler. \n‘Well, that’s certainly awful,’ said Beverly. ‘But, Margot..’\n‘What?’ Said Margot, watching a young boy run along the sidewalk at the helm of his golden retriever. \n‘You know you needed that job.’\n‘I know I did. But I also know my worth.’\n‘How are you going to pay for that apartment? You should’ve just stayed with Harry and I. We had that room all set up-‘\n‘What and listen to your baby cry all night? I’m sorry, Bev, but you know I like to work at night.’\n‘Work? Oh you mean that - that journal? God, I certainly don’t miss the clacking of that typewriter.’\n‘They’re not journals. They’re stories. And it is work. It’s work that I actually care about. I don’t want to be some flimsy secretary waiting on those awful men my whole life.’\n‘I was a secretary! That’s how I met Harry.’\n‘Oh, I know,’ said Margot. \n‘All I’m saying is you have to start somewhere. You could’ve met your husband at that job and then never have to work again. Like me.’\n‘God forbid,’ mumbled Margot.\n‘Look, what are you going to do for rent?’ Said Beverly as the car halted outside the low brick building where Margot lived. She turned toward her sister.\n‘I suppose I’ll have to ask Mom,’ said Margot, sighing. \n‘She won’t be happy, said Beverly, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. She puckered her pink lips and cupped her hands under the buoyant blonde curls that hung just above her collarbone. \n‘You know, it’s not as easy for me as it is for you,’ said Margot. \n‘What do you mean?’\n‘You know what I mean.’\nAfter lunch, Margot called her mother to inform her of the news. \n‘Oh, Margot,’ sighed her mother.\n‘Yes, I know. I hate to call like this.’\n‘Well, sure. Your father and I can help. But this is the last time. You need to learn to control your anger. Shall I set up another meeting with the pastor?’\n‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said Margot, twirling the phone cord in her hands. \n‘Well, if you’re not going to do that, I want you to attend a luncheon for the ladies.’\n‘A what?’ Said Margot.\n‘Luncheon for the ladies. It’s a monthly get-together for some of the younger ladies in the Club. Bev usually goes, but she’s been too busy with the baby. You know, the Club struggles without an Elliot presence.’\n‘I sincerely doubt my attendance would alleviate that.’\n‘It’s next Sunday. Borrow a dress from your sister. I don’t want you going in those rags you call clothes.’\n‘Mom, I really don’t-‘\n‘Margot. You do this or no help from us. For crying out loud, it is just a luncheon. Those women are very well connected, you know.’\nMargot hung up the phone and leaned against the fridge. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she opened the fridge and dipped her face into the cold. The sweat trickled down her face as she made her way down the hallway into her bedroom. She yanked open the window, as the jeers and laughter of children playing the streets carried up the three stories. \nShe unzipped her dress and crawled out of it, eager to shed this unwanted skin. She kicked it to the corner of her room next to a suitcase still unpacked from the spring. She made her way to the bathroom, grabbing a small rag and dousing it under cold water from the sink. Wringing it of excess water, she slapped it on her face and sighed from relief. She was reminded of the summer of 1952 when Hidden Hills found new residents in the Elliot family. Roger Elliot was translating his professional promotion for a large four bedroom house in the affluent suburb just outside Manhattan. It is there that he and his wife moved with their two teenaged girls, one blonde, boisterous and blooming in her adolescence, the other, meagre, moody and muddling through hers. Margot spent that summer lounging by the fountain in the neighbourhood park, always a bottle of Coca Cola at her side. She met Joy that summer. The girl with the auburn hair to her waist and eyes green like emeralds who had appeared before Margot like a magnificent mirage and asked for a sip of the sweet, syrupy soda. Margot had dipped her feet in the fountain pool one afternoon, only to learn through Joy that she was immersed in water tainted by Timothy Taylor’s urine. Joy laughed as Margot grimaced at the repugnance of Timothy and in fact, of all the boys in the world. \nThe following Sunday, Margot grudgingly dressed in a purple laced number she borrowed from her sister. The dress, which accentuated Beverly’s figure, fell rather flat on her, like a musical note sung in the wrong tempo. Margot rode the subway into the city to Tally’s Tea Room, an establishment commonly referred on the tongues of the women of the social club. Margot lingered outside the window, anchored by her hesitation. She checked her reflection, smoothing down the flyaway stands too excited by the sweltering heat. Her face shone pallid and wet, especially against the starkness of her black hair. She wondered how she would look after a bottle of blonde dye. \n‘Margot Elliot!’ Sung Mary Walton, throwing her arms out and dissolving Margot in her perfumed embrace. A tall, striking woman with broad shoulders and piercing eyes, Mary Walton wore an extravagant canary yellow dress with a matching hat the tilted, as to reveal only half of her glossy, porcelain face.\n‘Hello,’ said Margot, mustering a smile. \n‘Well, how long as it been?’\n‘Few years, I expect,’ said Margot.\n‘I think the last time I saw you was back in school, wasn’t it?’\n‘I think you’re right.’\n‘Well, let me look at you!’ Mary held Margot at arm’s length and cast a slow vertical glance up and down her body. Her smile flickered as her gold lined eyes scanned every inch of Margot’s humble physical offerings. Margot knew what she was thinking. She was a stale teething biscuit smothered in sickeningly sweet purple frosting. \n‘Anyway, come along,’ said Mary, linking her arm in Margot’s and leading her through the maze of small circular tables. ‘We’re just over there near the back!’\nSurrounding the largest table in the room was a collective of women dressed in similarly dramatic outfits to Mary. Voluminous hats decorated in feathers, ribbons and lace were coupled with jewel toned dresses and matching satin gloves. Margot felt like Alice, suspended in a Wonderland crawling with Mad Hatters who survived on hollow conversations of husbands, child rearing and gossip.Though she folded her hands neatly in her lap and offered a polite, she struggled to keep her eyes open in the hot haze of perfume and saccharine scents.\n‘We had to let our girl go,’ said Patty Molson, blowing steam from the top of her tea cup. ‘She keeps asking for Sundays off, but with Carson working extra in the city, I need full time help.’\n‘Mmm, mhmm, mmm’, echoed the women in unison, nodding their heads in synchronicity. \n‘Robert’s just bought a place in the city as well,’ said Linda Donaldson. ‘Our boys, they do work so hard, don’t they?’\n‘Mmm, mhmm, mmm.’\nMargot found herself drifting in the dreariness, when, a sudden draft from the front of the shop, accompanied by a tinkling of the door awoke her. She turned to find a woman running towards them, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying a tray of cakes.\n‘Gosh, sorry!’ She breathed, laughing. He blushed as she laid a white gloved hand on his shoulder. With her long neck, dark eyes and light blonde hair pulled back in a loose knot, Margot thought she looked rather like a swan.\n‘Oh, look who’s here,’ said Mary through her teeth. \n‘Surprised she made it,’ said Patty under her breath. ‘Eve!’ She chirped as the woman arrived at the head of the table, gasping. \n‘Sorry I’m late, ladies!’ Said Eve, peeling the white gloves off her hands and tossing them on the table. Margot chuckled as one of them landed in Barbara Atkins’ cup. \n‘Not at all,’ said Barbara, frowning slightly as she pulled the glove out by one of the fingers and laying it down at Renee’s place setting. \n‘It’s a scorcher, isn’t it?’ Said Eve, dabbing at her neck with a napkin and taking her spot across Margot. They eyes met for a moment before Margot, not unlike the waiter, blushed and dropped her gaze. \n‘Indeed,’ said Mary, rolling her eyes straight into the dregs of her tea. \n‘So,’ said Eve, reaching across the table and selecting a a few cucumber sandwiches from the tray. ‘What’re we all talking about?’\n‘Well,’ Mary cleared her throat and flipped back her hair. ‘Patty’s just had to fire her girl. So hard to find reliable people these days.’\n'Mmm, mhmm, mmm.’\n‘Have you hired someone yet?’ Said Patty.\n‘Me? Oh no,’ said Eve. ‘Don’t need it.’\n‘Even after…’ said Linda.\n‘The divorce?’ Said Eve, a smiling creeping on her face. \n‘You’re divorced?’ Said Margot, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them.\n‘Yes,’ said Eve, biting the tip of her sandwich. ‘It didn’t last very long. Just long enough for me to find out why he’d been spending all those late nights in the city.’\nA nervous shifted spread around the table, ending and beginning with Mary who coughed lightly and called for the waiter to bring more tea. He lowered a tray carrying a teapot, and several saucers, the contents of which Eve dipped her finger and brought to her tongue.\n‘Mmm, Chantilly.’ She said, exchanging a smile with Margot who burned her mouth on a fresh pour of tea. \n‘Cigarette?’\n‘Sorry?\n‘Would you like one?’ Eve leaned against the hood of her car at the corner, halting Margot from her walk back to the subway.\n‘Sure,’ said Margot, joining Eve by the Buick. She took the cigarette and held it to her mouth while Renee leaned in and put the flame to the end. ‘Thank you.’\n‘So, you’re new to the Club,’ said Eve.\nMargot nodded. ‘Favour to my mother.’\n‘Ah. Bev’s sister, right?’\n‘Right.’\n‘You two are so different.’\n‘I’ve been told that.’\n‘That’s not a bad thing,’ said Eve. ‘I suppose that’s her dress too?’\n‘Oh,’ said Margot, crossing one arm against her chest. ‘Is it that obvious?’\n‘No, you look nice,’ said Eve. ‘Just doesn’t look like something someone like you would pick out for herself.’\n‘Someone like me?’\nEve smiled, then squinted her eyes against the blinding sun. ‘This heat is unbearable. I can’t stand it.’ She rummaged in her purse, pulled out a pair of cat-eyed sunglasses and perched them neatly on her nose.\nMargot looked up at the sun, cupping a hand over her eyes. \n‘Are you hungry?’ Said Eve suddenly. \n‘We just ate,’ said Margot.\n‘Oh, please. My cat eats more than that. Don’t tell me you got full from those little cucumber things?’\n‘I guess not,’ said Margot, laughing.\n‘Come on,’ said Eve, crossing to the driver’s seat of the convertible. ‘Hop in! Do you like burgers?’\n‘Sure.’\n‘I know a great little place. It’s a bit of a drive though, do you mind?’\n‘No,’ said Margot. ‘I don’t mind at all.’\nOff the road that bridged the city from the suburbs was a quaint diner called “Lucky’s”. Margot waited in the car at Eve’s insistence to order the food for them. Margot’s eyes crawled about the car, gathering as much evidence as she could in her attempt to explain the enigma that was Eve. A napkin with a lipstick imprint sat crumpled at her feet. Behind her, in the backseat, was a pair of kitten heals, newspaper and a road map. \n‘Margot!’\nEve stood at the front of the restaurant, waving her over.\n‘There’s a table under some shade back her. I think it’ll be more comfortable than the car, don’t you?’\nThe women took their trays and headed to a small table behind the restaurant, covered by the shade of a birch tree. Eve removed her glasses and laid them on the table next to her purse. Under the shade, the outer rings of her eyes glittered hazel under long curled eyelashes. She tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ears and wrapped her thin fingers around the burger. Margot thought it was rather charming; the heaping sandwich in such delicate hands. \nMargot picked up a fry and nibbled at the end. Eve pushed the tray towards her.\n‘You have to try the burger and tell me what you think.’\n‘Fine, fine,’ said Margot, carefully unwrapping the foil. ‘Wow, it’s incredible.’\n‘Isn’t it? Oh,’ Eve grabbed a napkin and reached across the table, dabbing Margot’s mouth with it. Margot, startled, flinched and darted backwards.\n‘Sorry,’ said Eve. ‘You just had a bit of…Sorry,’ she handed the napkin to Margot. \nMargot wiped her mouth, careful to avoid Eve’s eye. She hadn’t meant to recoil at Eve’s touch. It just happened so quick, like burning her mouth on hot tea.\n’So, how do you know Mary and the ladies?’ Margot said, finally spurred by her mounting guilt. \n‘Through my ex-husband. He grew up with them. I think that’s why they resent me so. A lot of them were hoping they would be Mrs. Michael Murphy.’\n‘How did you meet him?’\n‘Through work. I used to be something of an actress. He cast me in my first commercial. I was so flattered back,’ she laughed and shook her head. ‘Now, I realize that that was just his hunting grounds and I was just another doe-eyed fool.’\n‘Do you still act?’ Said Margot.\n‘No,’ Eve wiped her hands with a napkin and crumpled it into a ball. ‘That ended after I had my son.’\n‘Oh. You have children?’\n‘Just the one. He wasn’t planned.’\n‘I see. Happy accident I guess, then.’\nEve paused. ’Yes,’ she said, quietly. ‘Very happy.’\nMargot unscrewed the cap from her soda bottle and took a sip.\n‘Funny story. My first ever commercial was for Coca Cola,’ said Eve, her eyes resting on the bottle in Margot’s hand.\n‘Really? Must feel a little special every time you drink it now.’\n‘A little bit. You always remember your first, after all.’ Eve nudged Margot’s foot with hers. Margot wondered whether this was intentional or not. Regardless, she felt tickled by the feather of a familiar bird, one that hadn’t visited her in a long timed, and yet, one that she recognized immediately. \n‘Would you like some?’ Margot handed the bottle to Eve, who took the bottle from her and raised it to her lips.\n‘So, what do you do?’ Said Eve, taking a long swig.\n‘Oh. Well.’ Margot looked up, searching the sky as if the answer would fall out of it. ‘Not much of anything right now.’\n‘That sounds lovely.’ \n‘It’s pathetic, isn’t it.’\n‘No, really! You’re not tied down to anything. You’re free to explore, learn, do whatever you want. It’s where every girl ought to be. Not in some stifling tea room sucking on sugar cubes with women drunk on their own misery.’\n‘Why do you go to those things, anyway?’ Said Margot. ‘You’re quite different from them.’\n‘Honestly, I go for the laugh. They’re so uptight, I like to poke and tease them and see if they break. Chip away at the china long enough, eventually it’ll crack.’ Eve let out a light hiccough and, her cheeks flushing, patted a hand to her chest.\nMargot began to laugh. It fell out of her, gaining in rapturous uproar with very breath. \n‘What’s so funny?’ Said Eve, staring at Margot.\nMargot wiped her eyes with her hands, but every attempt to stifle her laughter simply aggravated it. \n‘What?’ Said Eve, now crossing her arms and arching her eyebrows. ‘Are you laughing at me?’\n‘No!’ Said Margot, raising her hands and waving them. ‘No. I just-‘\n‘What?’\n‘I - I’\n‘Well? Tell me!’\n‘I feel it,’ said Margot, catching her breath and letting the tears trickle down her cheeks. \n‘You feel what?’\n‘Joy.’" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Final Tea Ceremony\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1320\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone making a cup of tea — either for themself or for someone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The humble elegance of the chawans stood out to him as he placed them on the bamboo mat in front of him. They were of various colours and their imperfection stood out to him as beautiful. He greeted each guest with a courteous bow as they entered, and began to gently clean each utensil in full view of all those around him. He was the host; his gaze was steadied on the task before him. Each utensil had been used previously hundreds of times. The nostalgic feeling did not shake his demeanour in front of all the guests at all.\nTheir clothing was plain and consisted mostly of singular colours. Green, grey, blue. The host was draped entirely in white. When the utensils had been all thoroughly cleansed, to the silent satisfaction of the guests, he positioned them nearby on the bamboo mat. Only when this was finished did he look up. Each guest was then handed a sweet, which they immediately placed in their mouth. There was no change of appearance in any of the guest’s countenances as they sampled the sweets given to them. However, their stone faces belied a truth that only he could perceive – childlike eagerness.\nHe proceeded to purify the simple chawan in front of him with an equally simple cloth. Each motion was done with minimal effort, and no wasted movement. The warm water was gently deposited into a waste water receptacle, which stood out to him at this very moment. He thought back to the birth of children. Their first time joining their father for tea. The errors he had to correct in their own behaviour and the satisfaction of their transition into adulthood.\nAll his guests were kneeling around him. He sensed an almost imperceptible shift in the weight of one of his guests. This guest felt uncomfortable, perhaps even anxious, he thought to himself. But did not react. The ceremony must go on. Reaching for the bamboo tea scoop, he placed two helpings of powdered tea into the first chawan, which he promptly handed to a guest. The guest bowed politely and drank, both hands enveloping the simplistic chawan. Satisfied with the taste, the guest made an audible slurping sound and handed back the empty bowl. Each guest receiving their portion, and handing back the empty chawan to be yet again cleansed by the host. Motions were always precise. Efforts never exerted beyond what was necessary.\nDrink. Cleanse. Pour. Bow.\nIt was a dance with a purpose. His final one.\nIt was a tradecraft being passed down from an older generation. His own.\nEach item placed in front of him a tool of this exquisite trade. A trade he was displaying for all to see. The simplicity of tools glimmered and shone in his eyes. It represented his life’s work and he knew his time was coming to an end. He was already a very old man. He reached for his simple whisk. Its bristles were already fraying and bending. Looking up from his knelt posture he passed this whisk to a guest and bowed. The guest bowed in return. The cloth next caught his eye. It represented cleansing and purity for him. He passed it to the next guest, bowing and handing it both hands. The tea scoop instilled in him stability and consistency. He passed it to another guest.\nThis continued until all guests had received an item from the tea set.\nAll the items had disappeared from his view, except the chawan.\nHe felt satisfaction not sorrow at the loss of his tools. They were in safe hands.\nThis last item was how one savoured the tea, tasted the simplicity of the ceremony.\nNo guest should ever drink from this bowl again, he concluded.\nPulling out a dagger from his belt, he proceeded to strike the chawan with one swift strike. Not a guest flinched. The bowl shattered and pieces spilled everywhere on the bamboo mat. An assistant shifted in order to come and collect the shattered pieces; however, he raised his hand and spoke. The assistant paused and bowed. He told all the guests that misfortunate will no longer befall the chawan laid broken in front of him.\nThe assistant scooped up the pieces, disposed of them, and quickly returned carrying several hanging scrolls. The kakemono scrolls were presented to the gathered room and the unique design on each explained. The assistant passed the scroll to the host who then passed it to a guest. Complimentary words were exchanged and the host informed all that they can keep the tea ceremony tools as souvenirs along with the kakemono.\nAlmost in unison each guest bowed while continuing to kneel around the host. They were extremely satisfied, and the change in their faces betrayed their emotionless demeanour. One by one each guest gave a personal thanks to the host. A few select words were exchanged regarding the tea ceremony and proper procedure. The guests were encouraged to conduct their own ceremonies to spread the knowledge.\nAll guests had eventually departed but one. The assistant attended to the tea room door, seeing to it that all the guests had left. A second assistant entered the tea room, gently sliding it shut behind him. The host looked up from his kneeled posture at the final guest who had not yet departed. He made eye contact, nodded his head and proceeded to bow while saying a word of gratitude.\nBoth assistants entered the room, with the second assistant standing directly behind the host. The first assistant brought a bamboo basket to the room and placed it to the right of the host. She then elegantly tip toed to the corner of the room and stood motionless.\nThe host addressed all who were present, giving thanks and reading a scroll poem that had been written earlier. Each guest listened with great reverence at this master of tea ceremonies. With the poem read, the host rolled up the scroll and placed it to his left. He picked up a thick piece of hemp fabric and placing it between his teeth, bit down forcefully. Simultaneously, he began opening up his own robe to reveal his bare chest and belly. All his actions belied his true purpose, as they were done with the same agility and elegance displayed during the ceremony. To all gathered, it seemed as if another ceremonial dance were taking place. The host then placed his right hand on the dagger, which he had earlier used to smash the chawan. With the blade facing himself, he thrust the handle of the blade forward, and quickly retracted it back, impaling his own abdomen. The lone guest batted an eye and momentarily looked away. Immediately the host’s white kimono was stained red. A profound contrast of colours, he thought to himself as he lacerated his own belly diagonally. The thoughts of his own children once again flooding his mind as he dragged the blade from left to right. Their lives would certainly be more joyous and meaningful. His legacy would endure for hundreds of years, he assured himself as the pain became almost unbearable. And then the pain was gone.\nThe second assistant, carried out what appeared to be a single action to the two gathered onlookers. Withdrawing his long blade from its sheath, he made a precise downward cutting motion, then using a white cloth near the entry-point of the sheath, he wiped the blood off as the sword re-entered.\nThe host’s head hung to its body by a single flap of skin. The second assistant would give the host the honour he deserved and not allow the head to simply fall to the ground. The first assistant gracefully walked over and detached the head from the body using a small dagger. She then placed the head in the basket as all present bowed to show gratitude for their host’s exquisite tea ceremony." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Hot Day\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1008\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Waves of long green leaves tumbled down to the arbor path on both sides; leaving only enough room to walk single file. The blue flowers sticking up among them were the size of two fists put together waving on long stems. They gave the feel of a watery existence. The arbor was lushly covered with wisteria giving the day a cool feel. The pronounced smell of roses in my mind was turned into the smell of brine. It was joyful to walk down this path parting the waters like Mosses. The illusion and contrast momentarily took my mind off the extreme heat of the day.\nThe radio the night before had warned it would be the hottest day of the week. It had been a hot week. A little hotter was not a good sign for walking beautiful gardens. It was the museums my good friend and I wanted to see, especially the Photograph Exhibit of Edward Weston. I envisioned a long over powering hot walk to the outlying buildings. I almost did not want to go. It was the only day we had together to see this exhibit.\nThe day was everything that was promised, HOT. But large gardens have their surprises. After a short hot walk, we came to a crossroads. Dusty paths from four directions meet. The one we need is the little trail to the left. It leads us under a canopy of trees. It is cool and gives the feel of damp. We are not aware of the dusty road to one side and the grass area to the other. A short branching path gives us a vista of a large carved fountain in an expanse of green grass. Its gurgling sound and splashing water give the allusion of cool. We keep walking to the promise of an air-conditioned building. We are disappointed when the shade of the canopy runs out way before the building is reached. There is a big tree not too far off with an empty bench under it. We gratefully sit in the shade to contemplate the brilliant glare of the sand stone building. Its stately pillars made it look like a temple of hopefully cool air.\nWhen you go from a hot place to a cold place, your body tends to boil over like a car. The photos were so interesting I did not notice this effect. In Edward Weston's early years, he photographed things up close. His photos are so simple that a bell pepper for a moment looks like something a bit obscene. It was interesting how a black and white close up of an every day object can be so different looking.\nThere was a picture of a locked door. It reminded me of the church in Hornitos. Not long ago I had gone by this church on a car trip. The church and its door were as inaccessible as the picture of the door. The picture that brought the itchy feeling of the start of tears was Mono Lake. It was taken from the water’s edge up the banks to see the pine trees beyond. It is a desert now. Those trees are gone. The great masses of LA have raped the land of its water, so little grows there anymore. The briny waters are still the breeding grounds for seagulls, but not the creatures that use to live off and among the leaves of those long-gone trees.\nWe left the temple of cool purified air feeling a bit changed. The tree again beckoned. We choose the cool grass to lie in this time because our bench was occupied. We reflected on the clang of rivet to steel girder. They were adding a research center to the Huntington Library. It has always seemed odd how the extensive gardens and small galleries scattered about were a library. Oh, it is a library of antique books. Scholars from hither and yon come to examine the stacks in the volts behind bolted doors with guards. It is not a place for the public, but it is a cool place for scholars. I get up to find a mildew mark on my bottom. My friend seems a bit concerned. I yank down my tunic to cover it. She seems satisfied. I notice more mildew speckled bottoms throughout the day.\nThe day seemed to call for an iced drink with plenty of ice floating in it. I choose fresh squeezed lemonade. Iced tea was a close second. Watermelon from the cooler caught my eye. The lady at the checkout register was a jolly pink cheeked soul. The door behind her opening and closing all day had left the little room warm. It was even warmer outside under the pergola. As I was eating my watermelon, I could smell the faint order of fertilizer and things growing. It was an interesting combination, not at all unpleasant, simply different. I dipped a clean paper napkin in my friend’s iced water and pressed it to the back of my neck. She did the same. It revived us enough to continue our trek.\nWe looked down on the Japanese Gardens in the canyon and remembered the koi in the ponds and the Zen Garden behind the decorative fence from past visits. We knew that the walk back up the canyon paths no matter how lovely, would be too much. We settled on watching children play in the sprinkler on one of the large expanses of lawn. By now all the benches under trees were full to over flowing of resting people. A breeze blows up our backs and cools the sweat in my hair. It is a nice feeling. It was time to go home when a tiny sparkling fountain in a tiny shaded garden is too hot.\nThe tree our car was parked under had done its job. When we open the doors a blast furnace of stifling air did not hit us in the face. We climbed in and started the car air-conditioner for the short trip home and a nap." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Poor Petitions\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1507\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a tea party that your character is reluctant to go to." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Only on Lady Edith’s third invitation to tea, did Lady Mary accept. She had been out of town on the first occasion and had reservations with her husband, Henry, on the second. However, when her old friend approached her after church the Sunday past, Mary found her well of excuses entirely dried up. \n\nLady Edith was quite as busy as Lady Mary had pretended to be, for no item could be forgotten or left unpolished. Ordering the most delicate of finger sandwiches, preparing the tea, dusting the counter, setting out the fine china – indeed, when her powdered and frilled guests arrived, Edith’s cramped dining room simply sparkled. \n\nLady Mary was neither first nor last to be seen entering the party. She had chosen a dress which her husband had mail-ordered from Paris, a deep blue dress which, she was told, made her eyes appear almost shocking. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Long had arrived just before her and made quite a bit of fuss as she entered, gesturing fiercely to join them at the table. \n\n“What should one think,” rushed Mrs. Long as she leaned in, “hosting tea so soon after such a tragedy?”\n\nMrs. Hughes paused to make sure Lady Edith was still absorbed arranging the sandwiches in the next room. “I should think,” Mrs. Hughes muttered, “she’d just as well have danced a jig over her poor husband’s grave.”\n\nMrs. Long nearly spat out her tea. “Quite.” \n\nLady Mary sipped hers in silence. News of the sudden death of Lady Edith’s husband had shaken their gentle and oftentimes uneventful circle. Indeed, it was odd for Edith to seem recovered so much more quickly than the other members of their little society. Though Mary noted that she still wore the traditional clothes of mourning.\n\nIt was then Lady Edith returned from the kitchen with the sandwiches and with Miss Elizabeth Parker who had just come from Wharton’s. Elizabeth was not two years younger than Lady Mary, but displayed every bit of spirit and risk that Mary was without. Smiling broadly, she removed her stylish coat and plucked a ham sandwich from Lady Edith’s carefully constructed tray. \n\n“Don’t say you’ve begun without me. What a scandal.” Elizabeth teased the others as Lady Edith hurried to pour her tea before sitting herself. \n\nLady Mary spoke for the first time, “We weren’t entirely sure you were coming, you know. Some of us did wait almost half the hour.”\n\n“How could I miss it? To think I shouldn’t come when surely I’d be last to know how a man falls off the balcony in his own home? Truth, it’s almost like walking straight into a novel! Who could miss it for the world?”\n\nAll eyes were directed at Lady Edith as she sat woodenly at the head of the table. \n\nMrs. Hughes stuttered in her reproach. “What could you mean by – how could you say something so thoughtless in front of our poor Edith?” \n\nElizabeth blushed deeply, “Goodness, it’s not as if I meant – ”\n\n“It’s alright, Elizabeth darling.” Lady Edith answered kindly and with no menace, lowering her cup to take Elizabeth’s hand. “Please don’t think me so entirely breakable I can’t speak of his death. Truly, it’s not as if I’ve forgotten.”\n\nAs no one else spoke, Lady Edith continued, “John was a dear man and I’ll remember him fondly. But I’ve every mind to make a fresh start,” she paused, looking to Lady Mary, “and I’d truly appreciate the help of everyone at this table in achieving it.”\n\nFrom this moment, their party gained the forced ease of those trying to speak without speaking of anything at all – though Miss Elizabeth a bit embarrassed, Lady Edith a bit anxious, and Lady Mary a bit quiet. \n\n“Did you remark Mrs. Swire’s appearance at Etherton’s?” Mrs. Long leaned in conspiratorially. “Pale as a sheet – she really looked almost spectral. I thought she might slip free of her dress and float away.” Several other ladies smiled behind their cups. \n\n“My maid’s aunt works in her kitchen and tells such stories of the husband,” Mrs. Hughes interjected. “Says he thrashes and screams the night. The whole house can’t sleep a wink.” \n\nLady Mary had noticed the deep lines in Mrs. Swire’s sweet face but thought it more intolerable to speak ill of the poor girl. Henry, on the few occasions he spoke about the war, had told her what it was to hear cannons and bullet fire in one’s sleep even after returning home. Lady Mary admired Mrs. Swire’s steadfast efforts to shake her husband from the nightmares. \n\nLady Edith, too, was gentle. “I don’t believe we can blame Mr. Swire for his conduct as he sleeps nor Mrs. Swire for her kindness to him.” She amended, “But surely we also could not place blame if the poor woman sought a good night of rest and chose to seek it elsewhere. I think we have all learned our lives are too short and unpredictable to refuse happiness.”\n\nLady Mary turned, “And yet it is not the duty of a lady to find happiness, but to remain at her husband’s side.”\n\n“Yes, quite so.” Mrs. Long coughed.\n\nWhen the tea had turned cold and all the little treats were eaten, the ladies excused themselves from the table to return to their homes and husbands. Lady Mary had just turned to fetch her coat when Lady Edith spoke quickly, “I’m so sorry, could I trouble you to stay?” \n\nShe continued, “I remember you used to have quite the eye for roses, and I really do need help. Mine can’t seem to grow.” Lady Mary obliged, and followed her to the garden where her roses were indeed in poor shape. \n\nThe pair found a small path among the flowers and walked side by side, birds chirping hopefully overhead. “I confess I held tea as an excuse to speak with you,” Lady Edith disclosed as Lady Mary inspected a rose. “I’d like to speak as openly as we used to.”\n\nLady Mary said nothing, and then finally, “Really, Henry should be coming to drive me home soon. All that these flowers need is a bit of sunlight.”\n\nLady Edith almost smiled as her thoughts drifted to earlier years. “Do you remember when we and Henry lost ourselves on the Yorkshire estate as children? We thought we were the Merry Men set out to explore. They had to call out a search party.\n\n“And later when we’d imagined your father’s horse a unicorn and set it loose on the grounds – Henry very nearly got trampled when we finally did find the poor beast.” When Edith laughed then, Mary looked over. \n\n“When you married Henry, I imagined myself lost in the world. I really did. And that’s just when I met John, and he was such a dear man, I imagined we could all be happy,” Edith’s eyes welled with tears now. “But the truth is, and I think now you must hear it and I must share it –”\n\nMary turned, “Stop.” Her face was gray and pale and vicious against her nature.\n\nEdith spoke quietly, “I love him.”\n\nDrawing a small breath, she pressed on.\n\n“Truth, I’ve always loved Henry, though you must believe I’ve tried every possible means to not to. Out of an equal love for you and for our friendship, I’ve tried.” \n\nGrabbing Mary’s arm, she continued, “But I do love him, and can you not see I’m free now?” She paused, “I’m coming to you in the name of that same friendship to release him as I am. ”\n\nMary pulled back from Edith’s grasp, spitting. “How can you speak of our friendship when it was you who assaulted it and – and putrefied it? I know who you are. What you are. Do not call yourself ‘friend’.”\n\nEdith backed away, hand to her chest, remembering how to breathe. She had never seen this side of her calm, collected Mary. \n\n“Do you think I could not already know what you’ve told me? How could I not have seen the way you mooned over him, threw yourself at him — my husband — in the face of your own and everyone we know? And now you come to me not a fortnight after your own is buried.”\n\nMary’s spitting anger turned cold and distant. She turned away, sneering, “Really, Edith, I did wonder. Did your dear John learn the truth before he fell?”\n\nEdith spoke as if her heart could break again, “Yes – before he fell.” \n\nBoth ladies stood in the rose garden, in a silence broken only by the birds, surrounded by thorns of their own making.\n\nQuietly, Lady Edith asked, “How could you stay, when I have his heart and mine is broken? Do we not all deserve a shot at happiness?”\n\nLady Mary gathered herself, patting away the dirt from her deep blue dress so as not to muddy her husband’s car later. “I’m a lady, dear. The heart is just another organ.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Holy Crap\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2238\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a tea party that your character is reluctant to go to." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He was subdued now, sitting in a hard wooden armchair, alone in the room, his foot methodically kicking at the door in front of him making a dull thud as it hit the door, then a soft scraping noise as the sole of his runner slid down to the floor, over and over. Nobody could hear him anyway. How long had he been in this room now? It was four, maybe five hours, paying his penance, but he snickered, \"It was worth it\" he thought. \"Next one will be even better Father\", he promised himself. The stink of incense stored in the cupboard saturated the room. Archie hated the smell; it reeked like an electrical fire; Frankincense that they burned at every Sunday service. It was their undertaking to strip him of his culture and replace it with their sacraments. He wondered how many more hours he would spend in this room before he finally turned 18 and fled.\nBoredom setting in, he dragged the heavy chair across the room so it straddled under the stained glass window at the top of the wall, a foot below the ceiling. The middle pane was clear glass that he could peer through. The room was the semblance of a prison cell - cut off from the world outside by a heavy door firmly latched shut, the lighting was dim and it despaired of loneliness and gloom and radiated a musky smell; he referred to it as retribution 101. He'd been here before. The dusty old oak desk was covered with papers, books and the Holy Bible. He hopped up on the chair and peeked out the tiny clear window into the courtyard. His buddies were out there laughing and wrestling with each other on their afternoon break. He should be out there with them except he got caught again. \nMarty was kicking stones in the gravel laneway that made up the perimeter of the round lush green courtyard. The boys went out there every afternoon for a short break; it was their diminutive avoidance before they had to go back indoors and submit to the harsh regimentation of the residential school. They were laughing and jeering about his recent stunt. \"Did you see the look on the Father's face? Arch nailed it. It was hilarious!\" Marty laughed so hard Archie could hear him inside.\n\"Yeah, the old bastard deserved it\", Sebastian agreed, looking up at Archie peeking out the window and giving him a thumbs-up. \"I don't know anybody else who has spent as much time in the penalty box as Archie has.\" The boys all laughed and waved at Archie.\nFather O'Brien was an evil foul man and Archie despised him. Most of them hated the man and none of them ever wanted to be the chosen alter boy to tend to his afternoon tea ritual. Archie literally vibrated with anger and his stomach retched at the thought of it. Sister Mary didn't ring bells on the top of the directory either. She knew what the Father was doing but she preferred not to acknowledge it. That made her as despicable as Father O'Brien in his meagre opinion. Bless you Sister Mary for you have sinned, and you have never made a confession.\nMaybe Archie had sinned too but he was able to justify it to himself. His sins were simply comprised of pranks on the Father that the boys often chattered and hooted about when they were outside on their brief reprieves. Like the time Archie left some plastic dog shit on the Father's chair in his office and Father called maintenance to clean up the disgusting mess. Even the maintenance man had a chuckle over that one; it actually looked real, real enough to outrage the Father. Or the time Archie taped the receiver button down on his telephone. When the Father tried repeatedly to answer the phone, he finally lost his patience and slammed the phone down so hard it knocked a glass vase off the desk smashing into pieces all over the floor. The boys were down the hall listening to him, busting a gut laughing. \nThe abuse had scarred Archie over the years and it still continued. He was only seven years old when he was brutally ripped from his mother's arms and taken away from his home by authorities to be forced into the residential school. He remembered screaming and crying, trying to hang onto her while they pried him out of her arms. She was crying too when they thrust him into the police cruiser. He cried for days and nights, and he still cried when he was alone, seven years later, now 14 years old and still living in the hell they enforced on him. He had only had seven visits from his parents since he had been there - once a year. They were only permitted three visits per year but the trip was too onerous for them, and they were also in survival mode at this time in their lives\nHe became bitter and retaliatory and refused to comply or accept the constraints and beliefs they imposed on him. All the time he spent in the penalty box, as his buddies had labelled the room, only contributed to his contentious behaviour. It gave him time to think about his next prank. And prank he would.\nThe big red brick structure was always a flurry of activity. Nuns were always rushing around with their habits flowing behind them, glancing at the children and whispering to each other, the maintenance crew always cleaning and polishing statues and floors until they shone, and the Father would make appearances here and there scoping out the daily activities. Archie loathed when he saw the Father in the hallways. He knew that he was picking his next victim. Whenever he passed by him he never made eye contact with him, he always looked down to the floor and tried to slither past, holding his breath and hoping he would not be the chosen one. If ever there were a time when he prayed it was these moments when he prayed that it would not be him. On this particular day he was not so lucky. He knew he was going to be the Father's prey; his gut feeling told him. He wanted to throw up.\n\"Archie, my boy, where are you rushing to in such a hurry? Slow down son, I want to speak with you a moment, young man\", the Father moved into Archie's pathway to block him from getting past, his religious garments made his demeanour feel so gigantic as he towered over Archie. His connotation of the words 'my boy' repulsed Archie. \"I need to see you this afternoon in my drawing-room at 2:00 o'clock, my son, for my tea time. Don't be late\" the Father warned. Archie wanted to vomit; there was no avoiding the abhorrent man. He knew what was going to happen this afternoon in the drawing-room. \"But today Father, things will turn out different than usual\", he thought to himself trying to stay composed. \"Yes sir\" he dryly replied. He needed to get to his dorm room right away.\nArchie had a connection outside of the residential school, a friend named John, whom he relied on from time to time, especially when he needed supplies that the school didn't provide, supplies such as plastic dog poop or extra-strong laxatives. John was able to provide just such an item to Archie - and little tincture that was a marvellously strong laxative. When John came to visit him outside the fence a couple of weeks ago he was ecstatic with his purchase, he knew he would have a use for it someday. That day had arrived.\nOn his way to the dreaded tea time, Archie passed Marty in the hallway. \"Hey Arch, what's up bud? You don't look so good right now\" Marty commented to his friend. \n\"I'm not so good. The fucking Father nailed me in the hallway earlier. It's my turn today\", Archie told Marty, looking down at the floor trying not to cry. He was 14 years old now, he was supposed to be a man by now and men don't cry, but he knew this wasn't what real men do, or what real men tolerated.\nMarty knew exactly what Archie was talking about. He too had been sequestered for his share of turns for the Father's afternoon tea ritual. \"Shit Archie, that sucks,\" he said.\nArchie was on time for tea time, he knew better than to agitate the Father. He could be a callous unkind man when he was angry and his lenience level was extremely low. He demanded his way was the only way, there was no other way. As was the usual routine, the Father was sitting in his huge recliner chair, slightly reclined, with the Bible opened in his hands, the room dimly lit. When Archie entered the room, Father closed the book and placed it on the side table where Archie would place the silver serving tray with a freshly steeped pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. What the Father failed to see, because Archie had strategically kept his back to the Father while he prepared the pot of tea, was that Archie had dropped the tincture into his tea. One, two, three.... seven drops of it - double the recommended dose and one more drop for vengeance. He wiped his hands off and the smile off of his face, and turned to face the Father with the silver tray in his hand.\n\"Here you go Father\", he placed the tray on the table and poured his cup of tea for him. It was precisely 2:00 p.m. when he handed it to him. He submitted to the Father's requests and left the room at 2:30 p.m. \"See you this evening Father,\" he said as he left the drawing-room. \nFather O'Brien stood at the pulpit in front of the boys droning on about something but Archie had zoned out a while ago. He hated the Monday evening Boys Guidance Group classes, another formal procedure that was forced upon them so they could learn to be 'proper white boys' instead of the dirty little Indians they arrived as. As far as he was concerned, it was a total waste of his time; he would never let them strip his culture from him. He knew who he was and who he always would be. Nevertheless, the Father's monotonous voice continued, on and on, when he suddenly stopped speaking mid-sentence with a look of trepidation on his face. The growl and gurgle in his stomach filled the silent room as the boys looked on, and Archie stared at him waiting for it, holding his breath and elbowing Sebastian beside him. He winked at him, \"Here it comes\" he whispered. Sebastian could feel Archie's body quivering from holding his laughter inside; he could barely contain it. Then Marty caught on and he too vibrated from his effort of silencing his laughter. The Father was frozen in his spot with his butt cheeks squeezed tight ... and then he farted and oh Dear Lord it was a wet one. A really bad wet one. It was more than a fart - he felt it run down his leg. Immediately a brown stain formed around the butt of his pants and the stench that filled the room was disgusting. The embarrassment and humiliation on the Father's face was priceless, uproarious actually. It was the payoff Archie was looking for, recompense and penance wrote across the Father's face. The Father knew they all hated him. Forgive you Father for you have shit your pants. The Father knew intuitively who was responsible for this and he glared at Archie before he turned and stormed out of the room, silently. There was a pandemonium of laughter and clapping throughout the room behind him as he repentantly left with his head bowed, his brown stained pants revealed to everyone. Sebastian slapped Archie on the back in camaraderie, roaring in laughter, \"Good one Archie!\" All the boys in the room commended Archie. Class abruptly ended. \nHow many more times he would do this, he wondered to himself. \"What will I do next?\" Archie waived back to the boys in the courtyard and jumped down off the chair. He sat back down and visualized the prank in his mind again. Yes, it was worth it. This morning hadn't started out that good for him and the day hadn't gotten any better yet, but he still sneered regardless. At 6:00 a.m. this morning Sister Mary was standing at his bedside in his dorm room leaning over him, her oval face was outlined by her Nun's habit and her eyes were dark with anger. \n\"The Father wants to see you right away Mr Rainwater\" she reprimanded him with a cold starchy voice. \"He is very angry with you Archibald. You should be ashamed of yourself\", she hissed at him.\nBlinking awake, he looked into the Sister's eyes. \"I know I should be Sister, but I am not\" his voice was very cool. \"I'll get up and get ready to go and speak to the Father right away. Thank you, Sister.\" He got himself cleaned up and dressed. He left his dorm room and headed down the hall to report to the Father, yet 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: No Matter What\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1623\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a conflict that breaks out over something ordinary (like tea, perhaps)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When the lumber yard of Boston Harbor was in sight, Adoniram Douglass felt completely overjoyed. Three months of traveling by sea and he and his son, Cully, would be in the colonies in a matter of hours.\nLeaving Ireland was not easy. Especially during such a time as this. Rumors of revolution were in the air, and even breathing a word of agreement or compliance with the American \"rebels\" was grounds for arrest, beating, and hanging.\nHe and Cully had come to escape the violence. Adoniram was a hard-working man whom violence seemed to follow like an agitated bee. First there was the misunderstanding with the tax man. Then after fleeing, they found themselves in gangland, as the hoodlums who owned the neighborhood came knocking at their door wanting to see their protestant Bibles. Instead of a Bible, Adoniram fought them off with a poker from the mantel. Every last one of them. Then finally, was the last straw. The death of his wife, Faith.\nHad he been at home instead of toiling away in the fields, he could have protected her. She was like him, a natural fighter, and she fought off the drunkard who broke into their home. Fought him off with a tea kettle. And yet she had been the one arrested and hanged.\nThat scarred poor Cully. The boy was only sixteen, but he already had the temper of his mother and the poor luck of his father. The only choice was to get out while they still could. America offered something they were not finding at home. \nThough the trip was not easy, they were now within eyeshot of that beautiful cove. The ship rocked to and fro as they approached the harbor.\nAdoniram placed his hand on Cully's shoulders and squeezed his collar bone. \"You see that, son? We've nearly made it.\"\nCully did not answer, just stared ahead. His cheeks were flush. It had been a miracle that neither had keeled over on the voyage. Two of the nineteen passengers on their tiny trawler had died and six more had been violently ill. But not them. Perhaps Providence was looking kindly on the Douglasses for a change.\nHe inhaled and breathed in the fresh salt water and a scent of something else. Bread? Fresh bread had the strongest appeal. Adoniram looked through his meager purse. He had but a few shillings. For now. Soon, he would be working in a factory, making real honest money. He and the boy could afford their first days in luxury, with struggle only briefly ahead of them. This was a land of opportunity after all.\nWhen the ship finally docked, they were unloaded with their few meager belongings. \"Where are we going to stay?\" Cully asked, the first words he'd spoken in a day and a half.\nAdoniram smiled. He kicked a hay bale near the end of the dock. \"Maybe here.\" He dropped his bag and fluffed it with his shoe. \"Or here.\"\n\"It's certainly not as cold as home,\" Cully said, in his jacket, under shirt, and trousers.\n\"That's the spirit, eh?\" They lodged near the foot of the dock, out in the open. Father and son lay skull-to-skull beside the dock, staring up at the stars.\n\"Do you want to know the greatest part of being here, Cully?\"\n\"What's that?\" his son asked.\n\"I get to watch you grow up without the persecution I experienced in young manhood. You get the chance to really make something of yourself, you know that?\"\nCully scoffed, but his father knew he was also likely smiling. \"Whatever you say, old man. Let's get some shut eye, eh? I couldn't sleep a wink on that shaking trawler.\"\nThe two closed their eyes. At some point, a commotion broke out. Adoniram opened his eyes and sat up. At a dock nearby were men with torches. Lots of them. He squinted his eyes. No, they weren't men, they were dressed as savages. He'd seen them in drawings.\nWhat were savages doing 'round these parts? He roused Cully and his son quietly got up and saw the intensity of his father's eyes. He silently rose and got behind him. They crouched behind the dock post.\nDozens of them, with torchlight, were getting into small boats on the harbor. Something didn't seem to be right. The last thing either of them wanted was to get involved in some trouble their first night in the colonies. But the curiosity kept him from leaving.\nThe people or whatever they were got into the boats and began to row out to sea. Four paddle boats full. What were they up to?\nWith his eyes, he tracked their trajectory and located two large vessels. He recognized the design right away. British Freighters.\nAdoniram had the feeling that something bad was about to happen. He turned to his son. \"You listen to me. You go and get far away from here, no matter what happens, you hear?\"\nCully shook his head. \"Let's just leave now. Nothing good will come from watching.\"\nAdoniram heard the wisdom in his son's words, but something prevented him from heeding them. \"The British are no friends of ours, son,\" he said. \"If this is part of that revolution we've heard of, this may be our time to take a side.\"\nAs they were talking, the boats reached the two large vessels. The Indians were climbing ropes up to the deck. Adoniram watched with Cully whimpering quietly behind him, torn between abandoning his father and staying to watch what all this was about.\nSuddenly, even from shore, they heard the gunshots. Fire appeared on deck. They were both roused. Dogs were barking nearby. Splash. Was that was a man or cargo? Splash. Splash.\nSomething was being pushed into the harbor. Something large and heavy. Gunpowder? No, this was no naval vessel. What then?\nThey heard the hollering and saw the ships ablaze. The silhouette of crews trying to decide between saving the vessel and jumping overboard. The Indians were returning to shore. They were approaching a distant harbor.\nAt this point, the excitement had caused Adoniram to stand. The night sky glowed orange as the flames billowed skywards.\n\"Oye! I see the lookout man!\" someone shouted. Adoniram spun around to see a fat constable approaching him. A crowd had gathered to see the spectacle. He scanned the seas and saw no traces of the paddle boats anymore. They had vanished as in true Indian fashion.\nHe heard the crack of the gun before the wood beside him splintered. Adorinam picked up Cully, though he was capable of running and actually quite fast. They had no idea where they were going, but they ran.\n\"Cully, don't stop!\" Adorinam kept shouting. \"Don't stop!\"\nThe son kept running, until he was well past his father and could no longer hear his shouts. He didn't look back and he didn't slow down.\nCully found an alleyway and hid inside behind some garbage piled there. His chest was pounding. He had run for miles. In an unfamiliar town in a new country. There was much commotion now and dawn was approaching. Eventually he slept.\nThe next morning, when he came out from the alley, he was shocked to see so much commotion. People in rags and people in dress were all speaking about loudly. There was much hollering.\nHe walked around as one dumb, until he approached a man reading a pamphlet. \"What has happened? Sir? What has happened? Was it something last night?\"\nThe man gave him a funny look. His voice after all, was not British, but was fairly close. The man spoke in a new accent that Cully had not heard before.\n\"A troop came by, posting these all over every street corner,\" the man said. He showed Cully the simple sketch. He couldn't read the alphabet too well, but he could read numbers. Three hundred and forty two. He couldn't well make out the rest. Thankfully, the man supplied the rest.\n\"Who woulda believed we'd start the revolution with some tea?\" the man was laughing in a hoarse way. \"In the Harbor?\" He dropped the pamphlet. Cully snatched it up and stuffed it into his trousers.\nWhere his father was, he had no idea and not even the slightest clue where to look. He was not near the harbor any longer. He sat down at a bench and rubbed at his eyes. He remembered the words of his father last night. \"You go and get far away from here, no matter what happens, you hear?\" No matter what happens. He promised himself he would find work, then rescue his father. If his father had been arrested, he would bail him out. The one thing he knew for certain was that his father was not dead. He simply couldn't be. Not after all it took for them to get here.\nIt took three years, fighting with the Minutemen and Washington's militia, but eventually, Cully reunited with his father again. Adoniram had been held as a prisoner of war. He was once strong and rugged, but now he was gangly and shaggy-headed. When they finally reunited, in a tight embrace, the first thing his father had said to him was, \"You did good, son. You did good.\"\n\"I know dad,\" Cully answered. \"I didn't fight for no reason. I fought only when I had to.\"\nAdoniram squeezed his son's collarbone. They lived in the same home for nine more years in Boston until Adoniram died that winter of tuberculosis. He had died a grandfather of Cully's then two year old son, Graham. Cully never stopped telling his son or his wife stories of his father, who fought for their freedom." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tassmary Gray\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2843\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a tea party that your character is reluctant to go to." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was the day. The door had been locked and wouldn’t be opened until the following afternoon. \nThe man sat next to the chauffeur before calling out the destination he and his family desired to go to. While the man and the chauffeur were indulging in, what they considered to be, a fascinating conversation about an article they’d read in the newspaper, the man’s poor wife was trying to end a fight their twin daughters were having. The ‘battle’, consisted of scratching and mild hitting but the violent acts were not contained to just the twins, the man’s eldest daughter was pressing herself into the door in an attempt to not get hurt. \nIt had been a long hour and the eldest daughter and wife longed to be back at their Town House in Bath, England. \nThe husband and wife carried the luggage whilst the eldest daughter was faced with a more difficult task, looking after the twins, whom still wanted nothing more than to kill one another. The train had arrived just as the familiar were all standing on the platform. The doors flew open and the public began boarding. When it was the family’s turn, the twins were faced with a nerve-wracking challenge, only they could relate to. The large gap between them was much wider than the others perceived it to be as the pair were just five years old. \nThe man gave the twins a small push on the back to supposedly encourage them to move, but that tactic was unsuccessful and resulted in him placing his luggage down angrily and carrying the pair into the train. People clogged the narrow aisles of the old-fashioned carriage. Some were moving upstream to get to their assigned seats, which were made of brown leather and partly torn which revealed the foam beneath. \nThe family had found their seats, by spotting the number engraved on the side, just as the train began moving. A number of minutes had passed and a hostess walked up the aisle. The trolly she was pushing consisted of many sweet treats. The lemon sherbets caught the eldest daughter's eye but the same couldn’t be said for the twins next to her, whom craved the Fig Rolls on clear display. As the trolly progressed closer, more could be seen; Rhubarb and custard sweets followed by Pear Drops were above the assortment of biscuits; Pink Waffles, Hobnobs, and mint cream layered biscuits. \nThe wife smiled at the children whom were all gawping at something on the gold-framed trolly while her husband was reading the newspaper. He was completely absorbed in his own world until he would occasionally read out a line he found interesting and then would spend time talking about it. The wife gave the hostess ten shillings and the children tucked into their sweats. A conductor then came over to the peaceful family. “Tickets please” he ordered. The husband slightly started, handed the conductor the tickets. He was handed them back moments later. “Thank you, Mr. Floyd”. \nThey were the Floyd family. The eldest daughter was Scarlett Floyd. The twins were Scarlett’s half-sisters, they all shared a father. The train came to a stop and uprose a female voice. “Welcome to Circus Noir & Rouge!”. A soft silver light rested over the infinite amount of deep-colored tents. The delighted people disembarked the train and began racing over to the Circus, the Floyd family among them. As the family approached closer to the Circus, the pleasant aroma of caramel and fireworks became stronger. \nDespite the pearly moonlight haunting the streaky smoke sky, one could tell the soft and lushest green grass contrasted beautifully with the gold, the red and black theme of the Circus. Dazzling lights burst from all directions. Ten different food stalls were connected by a wall that had anthropomorphic animals spray-painted on. The family traveled around gradually before parting ways. The twins were occupied by the trampolines (which the father had to supervise) while the mother and Scarlett were on the Ferris wheel. When the family met back up in the middle, the mother did not hesitate to lecture her husband on why he should not have given the twins toffee apples and candy floss. \nJust as she was about to further her point, there was the sound of china smashing. Everyone snapped around to see an old lady staring at a smashed teacup. “Oh goodness,” the old lady cried. “Ma’am, is this your teacup? Scarlett asked gently. “Yes, I just bought it!”. When the old lady stood back up from her crouching state and looked up at the family, a slight smirk rose like goosebumps across her crinkled lips. “I don’t have any more money” she then exclaimed. “Well, not to worry” Scarlett’s mother spoke up abruptly, catching the lady’s attention quickly. “We’ll buy you another one”. “Why thank you, my dear”. \nScarlett was purely perplexed. The lady’s smirk caught her off guard as it offered a sense of evil. The twins, energetic from their sugar rush, followed the adults. The old lady gave a witch-like grin as she watched a new teacup, plain white with a gold ring wrapped around the rim, being purchased. She then bent down again. She gave a small wave of her hand causing all the pieces of china to move together to form a teacup that didn’t have a single scratch on it. She put the fixed teacup in her brown bag and waited to receive the new one. Scarlett witnessed something she was convinced she had just imagined. \n“Here you are,” said the mother, handing the old lady a new teacup. The old lady did not utter a thank you and instead, said something else. “Tell you what, to show you how appreciative I am, why don’t you join me for a little tea party, tomorrow?”. The family members contemplated between each other before reaching a conclusion Scarlett didn’t agree with. “We’d love to”. \n \nThe Floyd’s arrived at the hotel after yet another unpleasant journey, for the females. The twins were having their usual car battle that consisted of nothing but pure intention to injure. Scarlett found the picturesque view of the moon hovering a soothing distraction from the almost unbearable fights the twins exchanged. The family walked up to the reception and checked in before clambering up four flights of stairs that were significantly close together. The hotel room smelt heavily of pungent lavender with fresh towels and bedsheets. \nSitting in the corner of a desk was a few teacups with a kettle, tea, coffee, and packets of milk and sugar on an ornate tray. “Darling, would you be so good as to make me a cup of tea, please?”. The mother asked Scarlett. Scarlett sighed, according to her father, she’d never been able to make a cup of tea ‘properly’, so rarely ever did. With great loathing, she dragged herself over to the kettle. She seized the kettle by the handle and filled it with water before allowing it to boil. When the kettle let out a high pitch noise, that was unpleasant to the ear, Scarlett poured the scolding liquid into the teapot before infusing it with tea leaves that colored the water apple red. After a couple of moments, Scarlett poured the tea into a china teacup and allowed gelid milk and softly ground sugar to cascade into the mixture of water and leaves. The contents of the cup were finished with a final stir and presented. Her mother moved her glasses down the bridge of her nose to inspect, Scarlett’s fingers burning in the process. \nOnce the mother had finished her analysis, she took a sip which earned a contorted face of disapproval. She tipped the tea into the sink and shook her head. \n“Come on all, time to get some rest” then came the father’s voice as he walked into the room whilst undoing his tie. “Oh, uhh, where are the twins?’ The mother suddenly asked with concern. “I believe they’re outside playing with a cat they found. Anyway, you’re the mother, you should know where they are at all times, it’s your job” the father replied through a muffled voice of toothpaste. When Scarlett and the mother burst through the door and into the chilly corridor, they confronted the twins, whom were true, playing with a cat, a ginger one with sparkly green eyes. “We’re going to a tea party tomorrow and you pair need your sleep,” the mother said sternly. “Tea party?” One of the blonde twins questioned. “Yes”. The twins looked at each other and smiled before they ran into the hotel room and jumped on one of the beds with exhilaration. \nWhile everyone was excited to go to this tea party, Scarlett was very reluctant as she had watched the hostess of the party fix a teacup with one movement of her hand. Everyone was tucked in and cosy. The twins wouldn’t hush their mutters of joyfulness, the parents kept sniping at each other and Scarlett was conjuring a reasonable excuse not to go to the tea party in her head. \n \n Walking up to a sharp light in her eyes was her idea of hell. Scarlett attempted to cover her eyes but turning off one sensory source didn’t automatically eliminate the others, unfortunately. The twins were both bouncing maniacally on her bed and chanting for her to get up. Eventually, with great difficulty, she pulled herself out of bed. The mother was fretting around to get the twins dressed, but they were in the mindset of refusing to do anything that might’ve been even remotely helpful. “Look outside, it’s getting dark” the mother complained. “Good heavens, you’re right” then breathed the father. Scarlett raised her hand to look at her watch but the hands had vanished and in replacement, the numbers ‘8:30’ were there instead. \nShe was perplexed, she had woken up ten minutes ago, in what she thought was the morning?. \nIt's that old lady” she muttered to herself with realization. Her reluctance to go to the tea party was even stronger now, but there was no changing her parent's minds. They began getting ready and the twins were suddenly cooperative. “I think we ought to get going to this tea party” came the father. Scarlett, with unease, got ready for the day and began following behind her family. She struggled, as did the twins, to keep up the adult's surprisingly fast pace. The family had long left the hotel and were traveling across a large tender green hill. “How do you know where you are going?” She asked the parents. Scarlett’s father pulled out a map from his pocket that was not there before. He unraveled it and as he did, more appeared on the map. When the family had reached the end of the forest, the map in the father's hand became disadvantageous and he threw it carelessly onto the ground. \nHe led the way until they had reached a lake they had to cross by conscientiously stepping on each stone encased in a slippery moss-colored substance to get to the other side. Scarlett, the entire journey, was contemplating on going back to the hotel but by the time she’d made her mind up, it was too late. The family was face-to-face with a small stone cottage in the middle of what they initially thought was a vacant tree paradise. The stone cottage was surrounded by a garden populated with gnomes of all different shapes and sizes and the windows were layered in condensation. Scarlett had slight sympathy for the gnomes which had been smashed due to a few roof tiles sliding off. \nTrepidation was rising rapidly inside Scarlett as the door edged closer. The father took pleasure in giving the door a firm, manly knock. After a few seconds of anticipation, the lady from the circus opened the door and greeted the family with another witch-like smirk. “Come on in, if been waiting ever so patiently,” the old lady says in an evil sort of tone that only Scarlett had detected as she was last to walk in the house and reluctance was still burning inside. \nThe cottage was exactly how Scarlett had predicted. Wooden bookcases crowded with antiques and cookbooks with many of the pages scattered across the chipped stone floor. The old lady urged the family to sit down at her brown wooden table whilst she made a large pot of tea. Scarlett couldn’t help but notice every teapot and cup the lady owned had some sort of painting on it, mainly people. She looked over her shoulder to see the lady multiply a plain tea tup into four. She placed the teacups on the table before rushing back over to the teapot and filling it with water before infusing it with ground tea leaves that came in thin bags in the shapes of squares. \nShe slowly placed the teapot on the table. The teapot had pretty drawings on it. There was a couple dancing in the rain, a jet black cat staring up at the Eiffel Tower and vibrant pillows falling from a cloud onto a white bed. The lady began serving the tea by pouring a reasonable amount in each teacup which let off a soft glow once the warm liquid collided with the china. “Being able to make the perfect cup of tea is a talent in its self” the father commented. “Indeed” the old lady replied almost sternly. “Scarlett seems incapable of making a pot of tea properly” then added the mother. “Oh, I would highly doubt that,” the old lady said, glimpsing at Scarlett who felt extremely demoralized, to say the least. Everyone, aside from Scarlett, had taken a sip from their teacup (the twins spilled most of theirs down them but did take a small sip). \nEverything seemed alright, but that didn’t ease Scarlett’s hesitance.\n“If you don’t mind my asking, what is your name?” The mother asked the old lady. “Tassmary, Tassmary Grey”. “That is a rather interesting name”. “In case you’re wondering ‘Tasse’ means ‘Cup’ in French. My mother used to collect teacups, so it's no wonder, really”. A number of silent moments had passed and something in the atmosphere didn’t feel right. The teacups let out a more powerful glow and the family began glowing too. Scarlett sat, perplexity and fear conflicting with each other. A dull rumble followed shortly after the mysterious glowing. The teacups were shaking and within moments, the teacups smashed into each other to create one large teacup that was now more suitable for soup. \nThe twins let out a blinding glow as did the mother and father before they disappeared. Scarlett rushed over to find her family, whom were all printed in the form of a painting on the front of the giant teacup. “So…your mother says you can’t make a proper cup of tea?” Tassmary Grey rhetorically questions. Scarlett remained silent. “I want you to make me the perfect cup of traditional British tea”. A teapot, tea bag, milk, and sugar appeared on the table. “Where is the teacup?. “You’re going to be making it in this one” Tassmary Grey answers, pushing the teacup with Scarlett’s family closer with her index finger. “For every time you get something wrong, part of you will appear on this teacup”. \nScarlett dragged out the time by clarifying the rules over and over again. She eventually poured the water into the cup before seeing her hand fading away to reveal the floor beneath. “Too little water!”. Now, with one hand left, she poured in more water up to Tassmary’s standard. She had already removed the tea bag so proceeded to add some milk, which resulted in her other hand fading away. She’d quickly learned that both her hands were imprinted on the cup. “Too much milk!”. “How do you propose I go about adding the sugar without any hands?”. Tassmary Grey flicked her hand causing the sugar to form into cubes. “Use your teeth. Scarlett bent down and picked up a small cube of sugar with her mouth, feeling positively humiliated. The cube was then dropped but unsuccessfully, resulting in both her feet fading causing her to dramatically fall to the floor with a harsh thump. “No one, so far, has been able to pass this challenge”. \nScarlett tried to pick up another cube but that caused something worse to happen. The contents of the teacup had been spilled all over the table, droplets were plummeting to the floor and landing in splatters. The teacup, shortly after the spill, rolled off the table and smashed across the floor. \nBits of china flew in various directions. \n“I suppose you’ll never be getting them back” Tassmary Grey uttered. \n“What?” Scarlett muttered almost voiceless. \n“If you had made that tea properly, you’d have them back by now…but the teacup is smashed”.\n“So, they’re gone…forever…?”. Scarlett’s voice broke as she spoke. \n“Correct, and you’re going to look lovely on my teapot. You are my granddaughter after all”.\n“But…both my grandmothers are dead…”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: For All the Tea in Texas\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2937\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone making a cup of tea — either for themself or for someone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He placed his long, bony fingers on the edges of the lid. The container looked like an egg with its top and bottom lopped off. It shone like one of those Hercules beetles you find in rotting ash trees. If you caught one, you could turn it this way and that, and it changed colors in the sunlight. The container would probably do that too, with its streaks of gold in the black lacquer.\n\nMr. Sasaki lifted the lid to reveal a green powder the color of the algae that spreads out on the water between the bald cypress trees in the lake. Setting down the lid, he dipped a long bamboo stick with a scoop end into the matcha powder and dropped two little mounds into a ceramic bowl. Then from the cast-iron kettle he poured steaming water over the powder. My nostrils filled with a smell of the lake in spring. He set a whisk that looked like straw hair standing on end into the bowl and whipped it back and forth, turning the liquid into a bright green froth.\n\nWe sat on bamboo mats. I’d never sat on a mat before. He picked up the bowl, spinning it twice in his palm then bowed from the waist and sipped.\n\n“Now you,” he said, his words light and floaty in the humid winter air, only the slightest trace of accent in his voice.\n\nI bowed and held my hands out. But he set the bowl on the floor, nodding for me to pick it up and spin it. As I touched it, warmth spread from my palms to my fingers.\n\n“Drink,” he said. “Then wipe the edge with the cloth and hand it back to me.”\n\nI did as he said. The green froth tickled my upper lip, tasting like grass, earthy and bitter. I wipe the bowl with neat cloth on the mat.\n\nHe sipped, and we passed it back and forth. He had to make adjustments to the ceremony in Texas, he said. When we had finished the bowl, he cleaned the implements, putting everything away in its proper place before inviting me to sit at the table. I was glad to be off the floor.\n\nI cleared my throat. I came here to find out. He looked at me, his eyes wide with anticipation, like he thought a conversation with a teenage girl would be the most interesting thing he’d ever done.\n\n“They say you made a lot of money from the pearls,” I said, instantly regretting starting that way. Everyone said I was too bold.\n\nMr. Sasaki’s eyes crinkled in laughter. He was eighty if he was a day, deep lines running this and way and that all over this face like the bottom of bald cypress roots, just as they go into the water.\n\n“I did,” he said. “That’s how I bought this house.” He had a good-sized house right on the water where the Spanish moss swayed in the wind. “I sold the pearls to a big jeweler in New York. I met a tea merchant there. He sends me my tea. Where else could I find it here?” He swept his arms in the air. “And you? Your father also sold a pearl.”\n\n“Yeah, but he only made three hundred dollars. It was enough to buy a truck. And made him happy enough to name me Pearl.” We both laughed.\n\n“Pearls are a precious thing. In Japan, they are revered, as are the divers who find them. To be named Pearl is an honor.”\n\nNo one ever thought I was something special just because of my name, or for much else. From that day on, I thought there must a lot to learn from Mr. Sasaki, and I got better at making the tea myself over the next year, visiting him, hearing from him about how he stowed away on an American navy boat in Japan They didn’t kick him off, but made him a cook instead. And when the Admiral he worked for retired in New Orleans, Mr. Sasaki went too, making his way up to the Big Lake to fish.\n\nWe’ve long used mussels for bait around here, but Mr. Sasaki was the one who found the long pink pearl in his mussel. He was the one who showed the folks who’d grown up here how to look for mussels with your toes, wading into the lake and gripping those suckers in the muck. But it paid off, so even when the government built the dam in 1913 and killed the mussels, he’d already made a sackful of money and helped others to do the same. Then he went to cooking for the oil workers because he didn’t like to be idle, he told me. Everybody liked him, even though nobody’d ever met someone from the East. Well, more East than the piney woods of East Texas, that is.\n\nDaddy always said I was an old soul, so I guess he wasn’t surprised when I preferred Mr. Sasaki’s company to the sweaty boys and caddy girls at my school.\n\nOur town was as segregated as any other, maybe worse because we had oil and the highfalutin attitudes that went along with it. But somehow they looked past it with Mr. Sasaki, maybe on account of his quiet ways, maybe on account of there being no history there. But probably because he made them money.\n\nWe plugged along in our town, fishing, swimming, and for me and Mr. Sasaki, drinking tea while he told about the grand wonders of the wide world and I told him about smallness of mine. Things were happening in the rest of the world, and one day he couldn’t seem to smile at all. He was an American citizen now, but part of his heart was in Japan. In the cherry blossoms and the tea ceremonies and little sparks of life that feel like home. Now Japan had started on a dangerous path.\n\nJapan had signed a pact with Germany and Italy. Now, in my town, we didn’t seem to care much about what was going on in the rest of the world, but everyone knew Hitler was doing bad things in Europe. Mr. Sasaki had told me about the history of Japan; they even had women emperors. He said the one they had now though was a man and a bad one at that. He was ashamed that Hirohito allied with Hitler. And he was scared, but I couldn’t understand why.\n\nThen we were having tea one day in early December. I had gotten really good at the whisking. Mr. Sasaki said the froth was light and airy like a cloud in a painting. He gave really nice compliments, and it always felt like he meant them.\n\nI had just brought the bowl to my lips when the door flung open with a bang, swinging and hitting the wall. The sound startled me, and I dropped the bowl. It smashed, lime green tea seeping into the bamboo mat underneath me.\n\n“I’m sorry, Mr. Sasaki,” I said.\n\nHe didn’t seem to hear me. He jumped up and stood rigid in front of the men in the doorway. The men. Men of my town. Men with power. The sheriff, his deputy, and the county judge who lived in the county seat two towns over. Their expressions were set, eyes hard. I stood beside Mr. Sasaki, feeling uneasy and like maybe my presence would stop them from doing whatever they had in their minds to do.\n\n“The Japanese have bombed an American naval base in Hawaii,” the sheriff said, emotion pulling at his words.\n\nI took Mr. Sasaki’s hand. The only time we had ever touched was if our fingers accidentally grazed during tea. But he gripped my hand right back then. I could feel the old bones and gnarled knuckles under my fingertips. The men, I noticed, saw me do it too, but they didn’t move to stop me.\n\n“You should come with us,” said the judge.\n\nI squeezed Mr. Sasaki’s hand tighter. If they were gonna take him, they were gonna take me, too.\n\n“He hasn’t done anything,” I said, my voice unnaturally high. “We were just having tea. He’s an American now. He hasn’t done anything.”\n\nAll the law men turned to me. The deputy was my uncle. He took a step toward me.\n\n“Now, Pearl, it’s for his own good.”\n\n“That’s a lie, Uncle Bobby, and you know it.”\n\n“They’re gonna be people out for him, Pearl. We can protect him.”\n\nI’d seen how they’d protected citizens of my town, people that didn’t look like them. This town was built on the backs of our Black residents, always had been. Sharecroppers eking out a life while white fat cats sat on their porches drinking whiskey and chewing tobacco. They’d always acted better toward Mr. Sasaki, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t turn on him.\n\nMr. Sasaki squeezed my hand and then released it. Stepping forward, he said, “I’ll go with you.”\n\nI grabbed his arm. “No! It’s not fair. Don’t go.”\n\nHe patted my hand. “Take care of my tea things. Clean up the spill. I’ll be ok.”\n\nThe law men parted to open the doorway, and Mr. Sasaki stepped through the opening. Uncle Bobby was the last to leave, turning to me.\n\n“Get that cleaned up and get on home.”\n\n“Uncle Bobby…”\n\nHis face softened. “I promise, he’s gonna be alright.” He closed the door, and I stood there, tears streaming my cheeks, helpless and hopeless.\n\nWe listened to the radio that night, and it was all over the news. Daddy said he thought people would start trying to hurt Japanese folks. That was all he said, and it put the fear in me.\n\nI woke up early the next day and headed straight to the jailhouse. They kept him in there, but didn’t lock him up.\n\n“I told you, it was for his protection,” Uncle Bobby said. “We thought maybe some folk woulda got a wild hair and come to make trouble. But it’s been real quiet.”\n\nMr. Sasaki was smiling, that smile he got when he was real content. It spread wide across, stretching out some wrinkles and squeezing others together. He sat at a table and played cards with the sheriff. It all seemed like a dream.\n\nBut a few days later, the big lawmen came from Dallas: the Feds. An order had come from Washington that they were to round up all Japanese. It didn’t matter that Mr. Sasaki was an American citizen. In fact, they said even people born here were enemies. I knew Mr. Sasaki loved Japan, but he had served in the U.S. Navy. He loved living here. He’d been here longer than he’d been in Japan. He said Japan was like his mother, but America was his wife, and a child must leave his home to make his family.\n\nWhen the sheriff got word that the Feds were coming, they scuppered Mr. Sasaki off to the judge’s house. I wanted to go too, but Daddy said no. He let me stay at the jailhouse with Uncle Bobby, though. I sat on pins and needles in a chair in the corner.\n\nThose big lawmen weren’t so big. One of them was real small, like his fancy trench coat swallowed him up. And by the way he talked, his mind was small too. Well, anyway, the sheriff said they couldn’t take Mr. Sasaki.\n\n“It’s not your decision to make, sheriff,” the taller but rounder of the two Feds said.\n\n“This is my town, and I say it is.”\n\n“We’ll bring the full force of the Federal government down on your head if you don’t surrender the alien traitor.”\n\n“He’s neither alien nor traitor.”\n\nThe Feds couldn’t do much but bluster they’d be back with reinforcements. As soon as they left, the sheriff flopped into a chair and wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.\n\n“Bobby, get over to the judge’s. We can’t hold them off forever.”\n\nI dashed out after Uncle Bobby, sliding into the passenger seat of the police car. He looked at me as if I had appeared out of thin air.\n\n“You can’t come, Pearl. Your Daddy’d kill me.”\n\n“He won’t. Drive.”\n\nHe shook his head, but didn’t say anything else until we pulled up at the judge’s office at the county courthouse. “Mind your manners, Pearl.”\n\n“Best behavior,” I said with a smile, though my insides churned.\n\nWe were shown into his office, possibly the biggest office I’d ever seen. Texas and American flags hung on big stands behind him. Heavy, dark furniture filled the room, and it smelled like old money.\n\nUncle Bobby explained the situation, the judge listening intently, his elbows on the burgundy leather-wrapped arms of his chair and his fingers steepled and resting on his mouth.\n\n“Time for the big guns,” he said when Uncle Bobby finished.\n\nI didn’t know what that meant, but I’d find out soon. Along with the rest of the town.\n\nUncle Bobby dropped me at old Jeb’s grocery in town, told me to head on back home. I picked up the few things I knew Mama needed and brought them to the counter. Jeb made a note in his ledger so we could settle at the end of the month when Daddy got paid. He set his pen down and put his hands flat on the counter.\n\n“Don’t you worry, Pearl. This town won’t let anything happen to him.”\n\nI stared at Jeb. He’d never said anything about Mr. Sasaki before, least of all to me. “Thank you, sir,” I wasn’t sure what else to say.\n\n“This town looks out for its own.”\n\nI nodded and went home. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, sick with worry over Mr. Sasaki.\n\nDaddy offered to take me out on the boat on the lake for some fishing, but I didn’t want to. Even Tuck, our old hound dog, seemed restless and uncertain.\n\nA frantic knock on the door roused me, made Tuck yelp. Uncle Bobby didn’t wait for an answer and pushed the door open.\n\n“Come on,” he said. I looked at Mama and Daddy. They didn’t say anything, and we all followed Uncle Bobby down to the jailhouse.\n\nThe main street was full of people. Everyone in the town must have been there. I caught sight of Mr. Sasaki on the porch of the jailhouse. He made a small bow in my direction, and I returned it. I shifted my attention to the big black car parked in front. The Feds stood with their arms limp at their sides, waiting like the rest of us.\n\nA man stepped out of the big black car, his door opened by his Black driver. He was dressed like something from a magazine, fine looking suit, brimmed-edge hat, and skin so smooth it glowed in the soft December sunlight. With a smile, he pulled that expensive-looking hat off his head.\n\nI went closer so I could hear him. The Feds took a step back.\n\n“You’ll follow me inside, boys,” the fancy man said, his voice so low it vibrated.\n\nTo my surprise, they obliged and followed him inside the jailhouse, the sheriff, Uncle Bobby, and the judge following with Mr. Sasaki. I made to go too, but Daddy held me back.\n\n“Who is that man?” I asked.\n\n“Big Cappy Jones,” he replied, keeping his eye on the jailhouse door.\n\nEveryone knew who Big Cappy Jones was, but I’d never seen him. He lived in the big plantation house on the other side of the Lake, the fancy side. He had dozens of sharecroppers working his land and calling him “Big Mister” like nothing had changed in eighty years. What he said around these parts went, no matter the color of your skin. Word was he knew everyone worth knowing, all the way up to the King of England.\n\nThe whole town stood in the street and on the sidewalk, the winter wind whipping around us like water around river stones. After awhile, the door opened. Big Cappy got in his car and drove away. The Feds didn’t say a word, but their hangdog expressions said enough. The sheriff and judge shook hands, and the judge got in his own car and left. Mr. Sasaki and Uncle Bobby came to us.\n\n“They won’t bother him anymore,” Uncle Bobby said.\n\n“Would you like to have some tea?” Mr. Sasaki asked. “All of you?”\n\nMama, Daddy, and Uncle Bobby all mumbled excuses about this and that. They liked Mr. Sasaki, but the thought of tea was a step too far. I was over the moon.\n\nWe sat on the mats, and Mr. Sasaki brought a bowl, one I had never seen before, to replace the one I had broken. It was just as beetle-shiny, but black with water and pearl divers painted in red all around it.\n\nHe didn’t offer for me to help, but performed every step himself, carefully and with a contented smile on his lips. At last he bowed, offering me the bowl.\n\nNo one bothered him throughout the long days of the war. Midway through, we could no longer get the powder, as supplies of matcha ran dry with the embargo. He grew herbs in a small garden and ground them up. We kept taking tea until he died, peacefully, in his bed, a year after the war ended. He left a note for me alongside all his tea things. It read only: Musume.\n\nDaughter.\n\n(Inspired by the true story of Sachihiko Ono Murata.)" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mozart's Sister\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1155\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s dying to “spill the tea” (gossip) about something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Welcome to this house, where my brother was born. Look around you at the comfortable room that my late husband the Baron has provided for me. Feel the warmth of the crackling fire. As my maid serves you fine tea from China, see the light gleaming on the polished silver and the fine Dresden porcelain we inherited from his mother.\n\nI never want for food or care. Yet who would guess that once I played for the crowned heads of Europe, sitting at fine gilt harpsichords next to my little brother as we wove tapestries of brilliant sound? Who even remembers that Mozart had a sister?\n\n You've probably come to ask about Wolfgang. Most people do. For many years, I was afraid he'd been forgotten, but now that the old composer Salieri is dying, people have become curious about his earliest rival. \n\nMy brother had many rivals. His sharp tongue and sarcastic humor earned him enemies, and even worse, he refused to scrape and bow as musicians were forced to do in his day. Court intrigue blocked his every attempt to secure a permanent job to support his family. Everyone knows he died poor and thinks it was because he was a careless drunkard. He did love luxury, but he was no fool. Last year in Vienna, Salieri was even accused of murdering him out of jealousy. But poor old Antonio said on his deathbed, “I did not poison Mozart,” and I believe him.\n\nOne day when Wolfie had no money to buy firewood, he and his wife Constanze danced crazily around the room with blue lips and chattering teeth, trying to keep warm. He took on the insane task of writing an opera and a requiem at the same time to earn a few badly-needed guineas.\n\nIt's strange what opposite directions our lives have taken. \nWhen I was a little girl, Papa used to sit me on his lap and teach me music at our little Klavier in Salzburg. For my fourth birthday, he copied out a notebook of minuets I'd learned to play.\n\n\"Bravo, Nannerl,\" he would exclaim. \"My musical one, you will go far.\" He and his musician friends would exclaim in delight when I played, my legs dangling beneath my ruffled gown. \n\nThen HE was born. On a chilly night in January, Mama moaned behind closed doors and brought forth a tiny baby with a long name— Johann Chrysostomos Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart.\n\nAt first my brother was a bit like a puppy with his eyes closed all the time. All he did was puke and cry. I did not find him very interesting, and much preferred our real puppy, Bimperl. My parents seemed to like him well enough, though. \n\nWhen Wolferl grew old enough to walk, he grew especially annoying. He would interrupt my music lessons and try to plink on the keys. Papa gently chased him away, but one day something strange caught his ear. \n\n\"Oho, what have we here? Listen, Nannerl.\" \n\"What?\" I pouted. I just wanted my brother to go away.\n\"He's playing your minuet!\" \n\nAnd indeed he was. Not perfectly, but his tiny fingers were carefully pecking out the main theme in recognizable form. When he was done, Papa scooped him up, laughing in delight. \n\n\"Again, Liebling!\" He sat down with Wolferl on his lap, pushing me aside, and the two of them spent the afternoon at the Klavier. From then on, Wolfgang received lessons as well. \n\nPapa's friends convinced him there was money to be made with his Wunderkinder, his wonder children. Papa began to have visions of gold dancing in his head. When Wolferl was six and I was ten, we launched our first tour of Europe. Mama came along that time, and we had a wonderful time seeing the sights as we rode through Linz and down the Danube River to Vienna.\n\nWe went to Holland, to London, to Paris, falling asleep to the familiar rumble of carriage wheels. We stayed in dark sinister inns, sharing a flea-ridden mattress and shivering in the cold. Mama tried to make jokes and keep our spirits up, but it wasn't easy. Papa counted our coins and scribbled in his ledgers. Our money was running out fast.\n\nIn Paris we weren't paid at all, but were allowed the privilege of standing behind Louis XIV and Madame Pompadour at dinner. Despite their dazzling gowns and high elaborate wigs, the people at court smelled horrible. Parisians considered bathing unhealthy in those days, so people wore layers of cologne. We Salzburgers, who bathed every week, had to struggle not to hold our noses in the famous halls of Versailles. \n\nSo passed our childhood. Sometimes it was exciting, other times it was exhausting and dull. We would come home to Salzburg and delight in the fresh mountain air and romp with Bimperl. It felt so good to sleep in our own beds! Then Papa would pack us up again. \n\nBy the time I was twelve, Papa began to leave me behind. Though I had mixed feelings about touring, I hated being left behind without Wolfgang. I had hoped to learn how to compose as he did, but my early efforts were ignored. All Wolferl had to do was spill a concerto onto the page and everyone hailed him as a genius. Later, of course, we knew he was. But I was never given a chance to prove myself. \n\nI’ve composed ten piano piano sonatas, six violin concertos, a symphony and even an opera, Aphrodite. But the ink is fading and I doubt you could read them.\n\nWould you like to see them? I thought not. My eyesight is poor and my memory is fading too. \n\nI’ll tell you a secret. I composed Wolfie’s first minuets. Those marvelous miniatures, hailed as works of genius by a precocious prodigy of six. No one would believe that the female brain could conceive of such complex beauty. I was a seasoned ten-year-old and not nearly as interesting.\n\nHere’s the clue that those first works were not by Wolfie. Papa insisted that we sign them “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart” on the manuscript. “Amadeus” means \"God's love” in Latin. Although that’s how he is known to posterity, Wolfie himself never really took the name seriously. He would tease me, saying “I’m God’s gift to mankind. You were shat by a sow.”\n\nAt times like that I wished I could have thrown him off a cliff. It’s a wonder he survived to adulthood! Nay, I do but jest. In childhood we were best friends. Only when he married that dreadful woman did we drift apart.\n\nI have advice for you young people. Don't be afraid to go out into the world. Let yourself be heard, whatever your passion is. Don't pass away unknown, as will I. Perhaps someday people will learn that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had a sister, and her name was Marianne, whom her family nicknamed “Nannerl.” Remember 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: Just Big Brother Stuff\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2993\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Every year on Christmas Eve, I book a room in a hotel ten minutes from my parents’ house in suburban Maryland. It’s been my routine for a while now, which is why it was unusual that I forgot this year.\n\nDelilah and I were twenty minutes into our drive down I-95 when I realized it, so it became her job to frantically look online to see if any hotels had availability for that night.\n\n“I don’t get it,” she said as she scrolled and clicked. She was annoyed, I could tell; Delilah didn’t like doing anything at the last minute. “Is it so bad with your parents that you can’t stay there for one night?”\n\nThe relationship was pretty new - we’d met in grad school four months ago - so we hadn’t yet shared the ins and outs of our family dynamics. She was coming home with me for Christmas because her parents were flying to Australia “to be with family” for the holiday, and, happy as I was to be bringing her home, I didn’t know why she wasn’t going with them. This girl was special, though - I knew that already. So I didn’t ask too many questions.\n\n“No, I love my folks,” I said. “We’ll stay there Christmas night, and the 26th - it’s just Christmas Eve we need it. Well, I need it. You can crash on my parents’ couch.”\n\nWhen I glanced over at the passenger seat, Delilah was staring at me, her forehead wrinkled in confusion.\n\n“I’m not staying at your parents’ house without you, Matthew,” she said. “That would be so weird. I’ll crash at the hotel with you.”\n\nI hesitated. “I’m - I’m not sure if you can.”\n\n“Matthew, what the hell?”\n\nIt was a valid question. There was a lot we needed to discuss, and we had only about two and a half hours until we’d be in Towson.\n\n“I’m thinking it’s time,” I said, “that I tell you about what happened to Lauren.”\n\n***\n\nIt all started when I was sixteen years old and wanted a little extra pocket money. If I had known what was coming, I don't know if I would've made the same decisions, but that's been water under the bridge for a long time now.\n\n“There are some job openings at the mall,” my mother told me one day in early November.\n\nThere was something about her face just then - a twinkle in her eyes and a half-smile.\n\n“What kind of job?” I said, narrowing my eyes at her.\n\nShe’d been at the mall that day doing some early Christmas shopping. “They’re hiring for mall Santas,” she said. “I saw a flier outside Macy’s.”\n\n“Ma!”\n\n“I know, but -”\n\n“I’m not an old man!”\n\n“Well, I know that,” my mom said calmly, “but you’ve got the perfect physique for it, and -”\n\n“Rude, Ma. That’s rude.” It was - but I laughed anyway, because it was true. I was tall, like my dad, with a round belly and rosy cheeks. When I hung with school friends, I was often mistaken for someone’s dad.\n\n“You know you’d be great at it,” she said. “You’re great with Lauren and Thomas.”\n\nThat was how it happened - how my mom convinced me to become a seasonal mall Santa, a decision that would alter the course of my Christmases for the rest of my life.\n\n*\n\n“That’s adorable!” The story was helping. Delilah was laughing, and definitely less annoyed than she’d been a few minutes earlier. “But why -”\n\n“The story’s just getting started,” I explained.\n\n*\n\nI got the job, and Mom was right - I was great at it. It was excellent pay, and I spent every Saturday and Sunday being a mall Santa. The beard was itchy, but other than that, I had no complaints. Our family loved Christmas - my mother was the master of creating Christmas magic, and Thomas and Lauren loved to stay up as late as they could on Christmas Eve to look for Santa flying through the sky. Being adored by small kids, getting to listen to their Christmas wishes, which were often hilarious - it was a blast.\n\nEverything was going great.\n\nThe part that happened next - the part when everything got screwed up? That was totally Mom’s fault.\n\n*\n\n“What did your mom do wrong?” Delilah had shifted around in her seat so that she was leaning against the passenger door. She had abandoned her task, I noticed. Her phone was resting in the coffee cup holder.\n\n“She went shopping,” I said, shaking my head.\n\n*\n\nI couldn’t believe it when I spotted them across the crowd - Mom, holding tightly to Lauren and Thomas’s hands, winding through the throngs of people toward Macy’s. With me dressed in a Santa suit, on full display, in the middle of a faux Christmas village.\n\nWhen I asked her about it later, she blamed holiday chaos. “I’d forgotten the teacher gifts,” she told me. “I didn’t even think about you - about Lauren.”\n\nThings like this - people dressed up in costume - were always triggering for Lauren. We kept our front porch light off on Halloween and put her to bed early, because the sight of the costumes alarmed her. “Is she really a witch?” she had hollered in first grade, when she saw one of her classroom teachers dressed up. She had run away and hidden in a bathroom stall. They had to call Mom up to the school to coax her out.\n\nAny costume would upset her, but this? Me, in a Santa suit? Lauren and Thomas were both believers who loved believing. This was not going to go well.\n\nI had a kid sitting on my lap when I spotted them, and my entire body tensed up. I smiled for the photographer, digging my fingernails into my leg to keep calm. I looked around; the line of kids and parents looped around my Santa chair, and a row of ten foot tall Christmas trees stood behind me. Trying to get away would cause a commotion and attract attention. I had to just keep doing what I was doing, and hope -\n\n“AHHHHHHH!”\n\nI cringed, scooting the little kid off my lap and jumping to my feet. That scream was Lauren’s, and anytime I heard that scream, it meant my parents needed my help.\n\n*\n\n“She was scared?” Delilah asked.\n\nI considered this.\n\nHad Lauren been scared?\n\nIt wasn’t as simple as that. For Lauren, it was like - sometimes things just didn’t compute, didn’t make sense. Those were the moments when she would implode.\n\n*\n\nWhen I got to Mom, the crowd around had cleared away, leaving my mother wrestling my sister to the ground.\n\nWhen Lauren lost control, she was wild and insanely strong. She scratched at Mom’s face, over and over; I saw a smear of red on her cheek.\n\n“Thomas, go sit right there,” I yelled, pointing to a spot on the floor about six feet away. I needed him close so he wouldn’t get lost - he was nine years old at the time - but not so close that he’d get hurt.\n\nWith Thomas situated, seated and clutching my mom’s purse, I reached my hands out in front of me as a shield and moved closer to my mother and sister. Lauren was shrieking something, over and over, and when I got closer I realized it was my name. “Matthew! Matthew! Matthew! Matthew!”\n\nMy heart was pounding in my chest. I met my mother’s eyes; she was about to start crying. I knew she was scared. She told me how much she worried about Lauren having an episode in public. She didn’t want anyone to think she was dangerous, because she wasn’t. Lauren just got overwhelmed.\n\nI pointed toward Lauren’s legs, and I grabbed my sister’s arms while my mother wrapped herself around Lauren’s lower half. Mom, Dad, and I had learned how to do this a few years back when we realized we needed a safe way to restrain her momentarily when she was physically out of control.\n\n“Shh, Lauren, shh,” I whispered in her ear. She was still thrashing, but it was slowing down; my voice did typically have a calming effect for her. “Shh, Lauren, shh.”\n\nI must have repeated it twenty times before she became still.\n\n“Do you need assistance, ma’am?”\n\nA uniformed mall security guard was standing near Mom, evaluating the situation and looking unsure of whether he should step in to help us or not.\n\n“Lauren, we can go home and I can explain everything, okay?” I said quietly to my sister.\n\nShe nodded. Her face was bright red and she was sweating profusely. Thomas crept forward with a water bottle from Mom’s purse. He opened it for Lauren, and I held it steady so she could drink.\n\n“We’re okay, sir,” my mom said briskly to the security guard, standing up. “We were just about to head home.”\n\n*\n\n“You know, if you don’t get back to the hotel search, I’m going to end up sleeping in my car,” I said jokingly to Delilah.\n\nWe were stuck in traffic in Delaware, at a standstill, which gave me the chance to watch her face.\n\nDelilah is gorgeous - by far, the most beautiful woman who’s ever agreed to go out with me. When she laughs, it lights up her entire face.\n\nBut right now, she's not laughing. Her face is scrunched up in concentration.\n\n“You told me about Lauren, didn’t you?” she asked me.\n\n“A little,” I said.\n\n“She’s younger than you?”\n\n“By five minutes.”\n\nDelilah looked at me, her eyes wide. “She’s -”\n\n“-my twin sister,” I finished.\n\n*\n\nIt wasn’t until Lauren and I started kindergarten that it became evident that something was different about the way Lauren experienced the world.\n\nShe was smart - she taught herself to read before we ever set foot in a school. But she couldn’t seem to process even the slightest change in our routine. Once we had to eat lunch in the classroom because the cafeteria was closed for a special event, and Lauren wailed and howled at the top of her lungs and wouldn’t eat a bite. When we had a substitute teacher, she stood at the door of the classroom, paralyzed, until I came over and coaxed her inside.\n\nThere were other things that were hard for Lauren, too. She needed things to be as they were, and she couldn’t seem to tolerate the concept of pretending. A little girl in our class wore a T-shirt that said Princess across the front and Lauren bluntly told her that she was not a princess and could she kindly change her shirt. I went to our teacher, Ms. Mahoney, that day and asked her to change the little girl to a different table in the room.\n\n“Matthew, you don’t have to worry about that,” Ms. Mahoney had said. She switched the seats promptly, and every time Lauren piped up again - “But she’s not a princess!” - Ms. Mahoney would shush her gently.\n\nAt the school’s recommendation, Mom and Dad took Lauren to some specialists, and it was helpful. They learned about other kids like Lauren, and they learned some strategies that worked for helping her to deal with the world. I heard a lot of diagnostic terms get thrown around referring to Lauren - the word autistic was probably used the most, and she had a mild intellectual disability, which for everyday purposes meant that she functioned at a much younger social, emotional, and developmental level than her actual calendar age. For me, though, she was always just my sister, my twin, someone who sometimes drove me mad with her inflexibility and bluntness, and other times made me feel like the luckiest kid in the universe.\n\n*\n\nWhen we got home from the mall that day, Mom sent Thomas upstairs to play video games, and she and I sat on the couch with Lauren.\n\nIt was the Santa suit - that was the issue. I hadn’t told Lauren about my job, because she loved Christmas and Santa, and I didn’t want to ruin the magic for her. Lauren disliked pretend - but for her, Santa was never pretend. There was a Santa, she was certain, and there was nothing fanciful or costume-related about it at all.\n\nThat was why seeing me in a Santa suit had messed her up. When Lauren processed something she didn’t understand, if it was an emotional thing for her - she’d break down. She’d struggle until things made sense again.\n\nThat was our job that afternoon - to help things make sense again.\n\nI thought quickly.\n\n“I’m a helper,” I explained to my sister. Lauren was tall like me, but she had long red hair and a default expression that was more pensive than jolly. She looked focused and serious as I talked to her. “I’m one of Santa’s helpers. And my job is to be at the Mall and listen to kid’s wishes and send a note to Santa about them.”\n\nShe looked at me and shook her head. “That’s not true.”\n\nI looked at my mother, who closed her eyes and leaned back, waiting to hear what Lauren would say next.\n\n“You would never lie or pretend or wear a Santa costume if you were a helper, Matthew,” Lauren said, her voice sounding strong and confident.\n\n“No, I would -”\n\n“You are Santa.”\n\nMy sister was looking only at me. I looked at my mother, willing her to help me. She shrugged her shoulders and nodded her head.\n\n“You are,” Lauren said firmly. “I should have known it before. You’re the best guy in the world, Matthew.” She wrapped her arms around me in a hug.\n\nMom and I didn’t disagree with her, and Lauren had no more episodes that day.\n\n*\n\n“You didn’t think it through, though,” Delilah said, laughing.\n\n“We did not.”\n\n*\n\nWhen Christmas Eve morning arrived, Lauren looked at me over the breakfast table in surprise, her eyes wide. “Don’t you need to - go?” she whispered - a stage whisper, loud enough for Mom and Dad to hear too.\n\nWhen I tell people this story, they don’t understand this part. They think we should just have told her. We weren’t at the mall - she was home, safe and sound, with her family - and she was sixteen years old. She’d have to find out sometime - right?\nBut I looked around the house - impeccably decorated, Santas on every wall, lights strung through every room, my mom with the happy glow of a parent who delights in the giving of all the things at Christmastime - and, you know, it just didn’t seem like the time.\n\n“Yup,” I told my sister, who squealed with delight. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though.” I wrapped her in a hug.\n\n“Where are you going to go?” my mom whispered to me at the front door.\n\n“You tell me, Ma,” I said, slipping into my winter coat. “This whole thing is your fault.”\n\nShe smacked me on the arm. “Go to Nana’s,” she said, “I’ll tell her you’re on the way.”\n\nI walked the five blocks to my grandmother’s house. The next morning, I arrived at my own house and pretended to be exhausted from a night of magic, and Lauren’s eyes were filled with delight.\n\n***\n\n“My nana passed away a couple of years later,” I explained to Delilah as we pulled into a rest area about a half-hour from my parents’ house. “That’s why I do the hotel. It’s not bad, really - like, of course I’d rather be home with my family, but I usually watch some Christmas movies, my mom has food delivered - I’m used to it now.”\n\nI put the car in park. We needed a bathroom break, and then we either needed to find a hotel or start calling some of my high school buddies to find someplace to crash.\n\nIt was worth it - that was the part I didn’t say out loud.\n\nNothing in my life has ever made me happier than making my sister smile.\n\nI had a feeling that this whole charade would end someday - Lauren’s an adult now, and while she still lives at home with Mom and Dad, she’s out and about in the world, working a job, taking classes. There will be a day when something will slip, and she’ll know the truth about Santa Claus - and me. That day will be incredibly difficult, I think, and it’ll be hard for her to process. I truly hope it doesn’t come anytime soon.\nThere have been moments when I have wished for things to be different. For things to be easier for Lauren. To have a twin sister that I joked around with casually, and not someone I have to be so protective of.\n\nI never wish for any of that at Christmastime, though.\n\n“It’s just big brother stuff,” I said finally. “You’ll see, tomorrow. It’s worth it when you see Lauren’s face when I get home.”\n\nIt was quiet for so long that I turn to look at Delilah, who was staring at me, her face unreadable. I got worried for a moment - that she thought we were all nuts, that she wouldn’t want to go along with our plans.\n\n“Just big brother stuff,” she repeated. “Matthew, I -”\n\nShe doesn’t seem to be able to get any more words out, and I realized that her eyes were filling with tears. I breathed a sigh of relief.\n\n“It’s okay,” I said solemnly to Delilah, leaning closer to her. “It’s a big deal - learning that your boyfriend is Santa Claus.”\n\nShe kissed me on the cheek, smiling, and I smiled back. This girl was special.\n\nI couldn’t wait to introduce her to my 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: Healing Tea\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1545\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone making a cup of tea — either for themself or for someone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As I arrived home from work, I entered the apartment to see my dining room table set with all my best dishes. Settings layered from dinner plates to finger bowls at the top with doilies separating each layer. Crystal stemware positioned atop of each setting. Sterling silverware shined and properly placed. Emily Post would be proud. My prized hand painted chinoiserie white and gold edged teapot only used for the most special of occasions adorned the table as its centerpiece. Surrounding the teapot was a trio of pastries; muffins, scones, and macaroons, with jellies and hand churned butter situated at their sides. The tea perfectly steeped and ready to be poured.\n\nEach evening I would exit the bus and anxiously walk in the bone chilling wind several blocks to my apartment.\nFully wrapped in my oh my god winter weather attire, the coat and boots that are pulled out of the depths of my closet only when the temperature goes below 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Avoiding deep city pools of water coated in slush, I carefully plotted each step toward home.\n\nYou might think the anxiousness was from my weather concerns, but it was due to the visit of my parents. They had retired in Florida 10 years before the incident. My tiny New York City apartment became their home for several months, and it was the never-ending visit that created my anxiety. Life with them was always unpredictable. I never knew what was next...\n\nMinnie, our great aunt to three generations was turning 100 years old. A party was planned at a NY restaurant, in her honor.\n\nMom and Dad decided that coming up to New York to celebrate was a great idea. The trip would include the party, plenty of family visits, and a needed change of scenery. As they aged, coming up to visit was becoming more and more of an ordeal. The family tried to discourage the trip, but Dad felt confident that he would be fine if they traveled on the auto-train. Their preferred method. Mom was afraid to fly, and the auto train significantly altered the length of time in the car. Mom didn’t drive so dad had the full run all to himself. A 24-hour drive became 4 hours on each end of the trip separated by one day and night on the train. The bonus was the car traveling on the train with them, eliminating a need to rent a vehicle. They always booked 2 adjoining staterooms as the berths were bunk beds and neither of them were able to climb to the top. It also gave them the luxury of 2 baths. If you could call them baths. The 2x2 square housed the toilet and shower. The toilet centered in the square with the showerhead perched above. A curtain gave privacy. The water from the shower was contained within this area by a metal lip about 2 inches tall from the floor that required an obvious step over to enter the space. The entire room was miniscule.\n\nIn their retirement, finances had become difficult and to be able to book this trip, they found that a single room would better accommodate their budget. Excited and on their way, Mom and Dad were always ready for a party.\n\nDad was a strong and effervescent man always proud to have his beautiful wife on his arm. He would refer to her as his young lady. They were 79 and 83 respectively. He had a warm and friendly smile that won him friends everywhere he went. He was always confident about everything and an optimist which created an aura that people gravitated toward. He had that bigger than life persona.\n\nMom a bit demurer and happier to be at his side always. Their marriage lasted for 66 years and would have continued forever if it weren’t for the passing of Dad. The older they got, the closer they became.\n\nHappy to be on their way, they phoned from the car, we’re coming! See you tomorrow. Dad loved to travel. Mom, not so much.\n\nThat evening at two am, the phone rang. It was dad.\n\nHi Ca, sorry to wake you but I have a bit of an emergency.\n\nWhat’s going on? Are you and Mom, okay? You sound terrible.\n\nMoms fine, but I was climbing up to the top bunk when the train shifted sharply, and I fell off the ladder and landed flat on my back. There is a metal ledge from the shower, and it dug into my back and I’m in agony. I don’t think I can drive. My best guess is that several of my ribs are broken.\n\nDad, oh my, you must call the conductor and get off the train. You need to go to a hospital and get checked out.\n\nI can’t do that. That will leave the car on the train, and we will be stranded. I don’t even know where we are. If I’m hospitalized it will leave your mother isolated in a strange place. I just want to get to New York and be seen by my doctor.\n\nCan you wait that long? It sounds as if you are in a great deal of pain.\n\nI’ll make it, but I need you to come with Mike (my husband) so he can follow us back in our car.\n\nThe train arrives in the D.C. area around 8am.\n\nOkay, Dad, we will be leaving shortly to meet the train. Hang in there. Help is on the way.\n\nMy husband and I went rushing off to D.C. without any hesitation and we reached the station just as the train arrived. I spied this cute older couple, my parents, exiting the train with dad walking so gingerly and mom holding him so close. He looked terrible. His complexion paled from pain and exhaustion. Slowly we assisted him into the car and off we went directly to the hospital emergency room in New York City.\n\nWe called his doctor on the way, but he suggested the emergency room for immediate attention. The ER was packed wall to wall with all types of conditions. From gunshot wounds to sore throats, city hospitals are always a challenge. There was no room for dad, so they placed him on a hard chair squeezed between stretchers as he waited and waited for hours before being seen. They handed him a Tylenol, explaining until his condition was diagnosed, they cannot offer anything else.\n\nFinally, after hour 5, he was x-rayed and determined to have broken 3 ribs. They taped him up and released him with pain meds and the recommendation to rest for the next several weeks until he heals. There was not much else they could do.\n\nPain meds. Oxycontin. I was not fully acquainted with this drug, but believed I heard of it before and decided to trust the doctors to prescribe the best meds for him. But my Spidey sense was not comfortable. I was to learn that they are clearly not recommended for the elderly, and additionally, how dangerously addictive these drugs are known to be.\n\nWhen I went to fill the prescription, I asked the pharmacist, “Is this the drug that we have been hearing about on the news? He replied, “Yes, it is.” It’s an amazing drug and it will relieve his pain, but you must be careful and watch him closely. I phoned his physician and inquired about another type of drug only to be given another form of oxycontin. He was in such pain; we had no choice but to let him have this form of relief.\n\n”Mental status adverse events, mind altering in the elderly”\n These are the first warnings to pop up when this medication is googled.\n\nWe awoke the next morning in my apartment to the sounds of dad pacing. He was unable to sleep between the pain and the meds. His mirages were vivid and startling. We had coffee together that morning and he explained to me that he witnessed the French Revolution. Through the large picture window, facing the River, he saw Napoleon Bonaparte leading his army to victory at the Coup of Bramaire. It all took place adjacent to the Hudson River. He was emphatic about what he witnessed.\nThe French Revolution in New York City.\n\nDad was a history buff and an avid reader. It made sense that his hallucinations and altered state would be of an historic nature.\n\nThat night was quite long as his sleep patterns were all thrown off with his mind completely delusional. He was not coherent. Just as the warning indicated for use in seniors.\n\nMy dread each evening to go home was on my mind all day. Worried about leaving them alone while at work, yet needing the break from the challenges of their daily needs. I would stop at the apartment door just before entering, take a deep breath and ramp up my courage before making my entrance.\n\nWow Dad, Good Evening…what’s all this? The table is beautiful. You must be feeling so much better.\nYou’ve shaved and put on lovely clothes. What a wonderful surprise to come home to….\n\nProudly he replied,\nOf course, all must be beautiful. The Queen of England will be arriving momentarily for tea." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Zero\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1467\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone making a cup of tea — either for themself or for someone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When Japan’s fighter plane—the Zero—first appeared, it could outmaneuver any aircraft it encountered. It ruled the skies. Uncontested design. The allies found themselves at a loss to deal with it.\nYet, Japan did not prepare for a long war.\nShirua picked up an antique teapot, careful not to burn his hands. He poured out two cups. Steam rose from the water; sweet and floral. He placed the cups and teapot on a tray, then walked to the living room, sitting down on a cushion across from his grandfather.\nHe handed him a cup. His grandfather sipped. Sunlight broke through the windows, birds chirping in the early dawn. Shirua brought out his laptop from his bag and plugged in a charger, then launched a word program.\n“Are you ready?” he asked.\n“Yes,” his grandfather said. He held onto the teacup with his right hand, his left missing its fingers. His grip shook, and he breathed in to steady himself.\n“I first learnt of my death on a beige slip of paper…”\nShirua began typing.\n\n- - -\n\nThe Zero fighter plane swerved through the air.\nHeiji pulled back on the centre stick, raising the fighter’s wings, and pressed his foot on the left pedal. The Zero rotated in the ocean blue skies, turning on its side. His target came up ahead. Heiji readied his hand on the trigger and lined up his sights.\nSpeeding by, he fired the twin machine guns, bullets striking the funnel-shaped cloth used as a training target. He pushed the centre stick forward, his foot pressing the right pedal. The dial on the turn-and-bank indicator swayed to the left—his plane evening out.\nHe lowered speed over an Okinawa runway, altitude dropping low, landing gear extending. The Zero hit the tarmac, its propeller coming to a stop. The engine slowed. Heiji slid back the canopy—the other university students standing on the runway cheered. He stood up, stepped onto the Zero’s wing, then jumped to the ground.\nHeiji raised his goggles, imprints left over his eyes. He turned back to the Zero to marvel at its engineering. Sharp turns and high speeds. Light armour, but what need is there for plating when you’re not getting hit? A verdant-green paint job with a crimson Hinomaru disc over each wing, and one on the hull.\nA terror to the skies.\nHe first engaged the enemy in the Philippines. Clouds above, mountains below. He sped over forestry, an American fighter on his tail. Machine guns fired behind him. Heiji slammed his foot down on the right pedal, leaning to the side, pulling the centre stick. The Zero twisted in the air, avoiding the attack. \nHe gained altitude, flying through clouds. Droplets of water formed on the glass. The American plane, a shark’s jaw painted below the propeller, lagged behind, unable to keep up with the Zero’s speed. Heiji cried out. He brought his fighter around in a loop. He dove, pulling back on the trigger. \nThe Zero’s twin 20-millimetre cannons fired. The rounds punctured the hull of the American aircraft. Its pilot lost control—a bullet struck the fuel tank, setting the wings ablaze. The plane descended in a ball of flame and crashed into the forest. \nAn aerial victory over the Philippine sea.\nYet, as the war progressed, Japan’s air superiority degraded.\nThe allies advanced their technology to take back the skies. Zero’s were shot down by the hundreds—their weaknesses exposed. An officer handed out beige slips of paper to the remaining university pilots. The Americans advanced on Okinawa, and every plane that could still fly would be made useful.\nHeiji read the slip over. An assignment to the Special Attack Force.\nHe would give his life for the emperor, dive-bombing a Zero into a battleship. A suicidal crash with a plane fuelled up just enough for a one-way trip. \nIn a moment of respite, he sat by a stream, golden leaves drifting down around him. Sunlight reflected off the water, orange and white koi fish swimming by. He wrapped his arms around his legs and stared at his reflection. An attempt to come to terms with death.\nAfter an hour had passed, he penned his final letter.\nRina,\nI will not be returning home as promised. There has been a sudden change of plans, and we’ve all been transferred into the special attack unit. I have no say in the matter. I’m terrified by how it will end. I will perform my patriotic duty in high spirits. \nPlease forgive me.\nMy thoughts continually return to you and our soon-to-be-born child. I wish only for your happiness in the times to come. Please be cheerful and fight off all the pain and sadness. I desire that you live with a strong heart.\nBurn on through death, Rina, and animate in my shade.\nHeiji.\nThe following day, a battle raged over Okinawa. American warships bombarded the shores—kamikaze planes took off in waves. Heiji stood alongside a group of pilots at base, each given a ceramic bowl filled with saké. An officer stepped forward.\n“At the very moment of impact,” he yelled, “do your best! Every deity and the spirits of your dead comrades are watching you. Before collision, it is essential that you do not shut your eyes for a moment so as to not miss your target. Many have crashed into their targets with wide-open eyes. They will tell you what fun they had.\n“Each of you will follow in their lead. You will tolerate the intolerable, bear the unbearable, for the sake of eternity.\n“Banzai!”\nThe pilots shouted it back. Each drank their bowl of saké, then smashed the ceramic at their feet. They turned in unison and marched to their fighter planes. Heiji lowered his goggles, breathed in, and stepped into the Zero. He affixed a picture of his wife to the centre console.\nMen and women cheered on the runway, waving the Imperial Flag. Heiji took off into the rose-coloured sky, surrounding clouds as light as tendrils of smoke. Grass and ground miles below turned to water. The blue of the ocean. He looked to his right. A pilot in a nearby fighter turned to him, smiling, and saluted. He saluted back.\nThey broke off, separating from one another, prowling across the sky. He watched as an ally performed their duty, being shot down by a battleship’s anti-air before reaching their target.\nHis fuel ran low. A warning light blinked on his left. He steeled himself, prepared to destroy the ship while it recovered.\nHis wife would regard him as a hero.\nHeiji pulled back on the centre stick and cried out.\nHe dove at a sharp angle. A flak cannon clipped his right wing. He spiralled, altitude plummeting, losing control. The cannon fired. It missed. The fierce winds and the drone of his engine disoriented him. The picture of his wife remained steady on the console.\nWithin a breath from becoming unwound, a second from terminal speed, he found a moment of clarity.\nHe could live.\nHeiji pulled away from the ship with what control he had left. He forced himself into a landing and crashed into the ocean. The glass of his canopy exploded, shards slicing the fingers on his left hand. A fragment of steel lodged itself in his goggles. Water struck him in the face like wet concrete. He bit his tongue to the point of bleeding and feared he’d slit it in two.\nPanicking, water filling his lungs, he punched at his buckle, his vision a blur. His aircraft sank deeper into the ocean. The buckle came undone. He swam up from his broken Zero, lungs burning, and choked on the air above. \n\n- - -\n\n“I never thought I’d have such luck,” Heiji said. Shirua continued to type out his grandfather’s story. Crickets buzzed outside, moonlight shining through the windows. “I swam for hours, resting to float and breathe every few minutes. I was afraid of Americans shooting me from atop their carriers, but mostly of sharks. There was a trail of blood for them to follow.”\nShirua nodded, tapping on his laptop keyboard.\n“An American submarine found me. I’d been swimming away from Okinawa—right into their operating zone. They took me as prisoner. Since that day,” Heiji said, “I have never asked for anything more in life.”\nShirua typed out the last words and closed his laptop. He packed it in his bag, stood up, and bowed as deep as he could. His grandfather raised a hand.\n“Shirua,” he said. “Thank you for listening to me. In the years to come, my generation will no longer be around, and while I have no pride in how my country acted, I’m happy I could tell somebody my story.”\n“It deserves to be told.”\nHe bowed once more, and Heiji smiled." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cup of Opportunity\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2729\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone making a cup of tea — either for themself or for someone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The fruity and somewhat tart smell of raspberry tea had filled the kitchen. It was pleasant and sad at the same time, because the memories associated with such a smell were both pleasant and sad. It was a smell associated with home and happiness and comfort, but the last week or so had been a whirlwind of emotions for Private Liebermann, so much so that there was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to go numb.\nHe had never expected being a guard at a prisoner-of-war camp would be rife with excitement. He was told it would be incredibly boring. For his first assignment, it was. Upon being moved to Stalag V C, suddenly things became more interesting. Nothing was typical, and he liked that.\nBut it wasn’t always fun. After last week, he found himself wishing for a day where nothing happened, where he didn’t feel anything.\nIt started with feeling someone else’s pain, an injured British paratrooper found outside the camp’s perimeter, and it continued with being unable to understand how or why. Everyone told him that a lot of things happen that are and will always be unexplainable. That didn’t mean what occurred stopped bothering him. There was a part of him that accepted it now, but now he found himself preoccupied with how the paratrooper was doing. He didn’t want that night to have been all for nothing.\nAs the tea steeped, Liebermann looked out the window at the camp yard. January and February were the worst months here. It was bitterly cold, everyone was bored, and it felt like everything had come to a standstill. The war was still going on elsewhere. Last Liebermann had heard, the Allies were still making their way up through Italy. But, it felt like the camp was in a pocket where time had slowed down significantly.\nThe tea had now turned a rich, dark-red color. Liebermann began searching the kitchen for the sugar. He had made food for himself in the mess hall before, but it was always weird looking for large metal containers instead of small ceramic or glass containers. He understood serving so many people required a much more industrial setup, but it was a lot less cozy compared to a typical kitchen. At the same time, the kitchen was the only place Liebermann could find some peace and quiet, especially after last night.\nThe day before, Major Kersting had come by the camp with a present—big boxes of tea. Of course, the British prisoners were thrilled, but Liebermann had forgotten how seriously they took their tea. Arguments led to fights, and he wound up getting punched in the face. Now a large bruise had formed under his right eye, and much of the right side of his face was still sore. Liebermann understood things got heated, but he was still stunned he had been the one getting punched. Even though Corporal Fossey had apologized, there was a part of Liebermann that didn’t accept it.\nAs he set the large container of sugar on the counter, Liebermann looked up to see Major Kersting entering the mess hall, talking to himself. A second later, Kersting spotted Liebermann, and gave him a big smile. “Hello, Fritz.”\n“Hello, Major,” Liebermann replied. “Do you need something? I’m not on kitchen duty, but I’ve been . . . getting quite familiar with it.”\n“I wanted to see if there were any leftover chocolate muffins.”\n“Westheimer will kill you if he finds out you’re in here looking for extra helpings. I’m sure you know he’s still fuming that you ate all the Christmas gingersnaps.”\n“Well, I did try to tell him that it was a compliment to his wife’s impeccable baking skills, but he still nearly bashed my skull in with his cane.” Kersting dragged a chair over to the counter. “I smell tea. Is that what you’re making?”\nLiebermann nodded. “It’s for Private Tretheway. Wenzel said he’s a little more alert today, and I offered to make a cup of tea for him.”\n“That’s very nice of you.” Kersting studied his face for a moment. “I would think that would make you happy. I know Ludger told me that you’ve been anxious since Tretheway arrived, but you seem sad on top of that.”\n“I just don’t understand why it happened the way it did. I know everyone’s told me that some things just can’t be explained, but why do I want to know what happened so badly?”\n“I wish I could help you, but I agree with everyone else. There are a lot of things that happen to us that don’t make any sense by any stretch of the imagination. That’s how life has always been. A lot of things have happened to me that don’t make any sense, and I’m sure other things have happened to you that don’t make any sense.”\n“Being sent here certainly didn’t make any sense,” Liebermann said. “I mean, this isn’t paradise, but I’d rather be here than anywhere else right now.” He scooped a tiny bit of sugar in the tea, stirring it gently. “That’s not the only reason I’m sad. I’m tired of being anxious. I’m homesick. I’m still mad that I was punched last night. It’s so fucking cold out, and . . . I just want to feel nothing right now.”\nKersting gave Liebermann a sympathetic look. “I don’t think you mean that.”\n“Then what do I mean?”\n“I think you’re frustrated with feeling so many negative things at once. You don’t want to feel absolutely nothing; you just want to feel something other than sad and angry and anxious.”\n“I guess you’re right.”\nKersting smirked a little. “I’m the one who pulled Ludger out of his slump when he ran away from home so many years ago, and he was much worse than you.”\n“I’ve noticed Westheimer always seems to be in a battle with himself.”\nKersting nodded. “He is, and I don’t think that’s something that will change until the war is over. At the same time, he’s better off than when he was prior to World War I. I don’t want to see you go through the same thing.”\nLiebermann looked down at the tea, realizing he had been stirring it absentmindedly. “I should probably go give this to Tretheway before it gets cold.”\n“That would be a good idea. Do you feel any better?”\n“A little. I guess I needed someone to listen.”\n“We all need that sometimes. You have a great group of people here that you can lean on if you need it.”\n------------\nLiebermann’s nerves returned when he left the mess hall. He gripped the cup of tea tightly, not wanting it to freeze in the stinging January air. There really was something dismal about winter about Christmas—it was no longer whimsical and magical. It was nothing but cold, bitter, lonely, and hostile. An endless drag where everyone just sat around and waited for the first signs of spring.\nEntering the hospital, Liebermann found Wenzel organizing his supplies, and quietly approached him. “Corporal? I brought the tea. Is Tretheway still awake?”\n“I believe so,” Wenzel replied. “You made sure there’s no caffeine?”\n“Yes.”\n“Good.” Wenzel watched Liebermann head to the recovery ward, then said, “Hey, if you want, I can ask Westheimer to put you on medical duty for a bit. That way you can keep a closer eye on Tretheway.”\n“You think that would be a good idea?”\n“I think it would be a good experience for you. You were infantry before being moved to the POW camps, right?”\nLiebermann nodded. “I have minimal first-aid training.”\n“No worries. I can teach you more.”\n“Why are you interested?”\n“Because I’ve been thinking; your high emotional sensitivity could be useful in this setting. You seem to know and understand what someone wants even if they don’t say anything to you.”\n“I don’t know. I don’t want to be feeling pain all the time.”\n“Give it some though, alright? Maybe give it a try for a day?”\n“I’ll think about it.” Liebermann entered the recovery ward, thankful the tea was still warm. He cursed to himself when he saw Tretheway’s eyes were closed. I guess he went back to sleep. I’ll just leave the tea with him. As quietly as he could, Liebermann set the mug on the stand next to the bed.\nTretheway’s eyes opened. The bed squeaked as he tried frantically to move away, but stopped as a twisted look of pain crossed his face.\n“It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you,” Liebermann said.\n“Give me one good reason why I should trust you,” Tretheway said. “Where even am I?”\n“You’re in a prisoner-of-war camp, Stalag Five C. Several kilometers north of the city of Augsburg, in Germany.”\n“What . . . What day is it?”\n“January sixteenth, 1944.”\n“I’m long overdue back from my mission.”\n“What was your mission?”\nTretheway glared at him. “You have no reason to know. Honestly, I’m shocked I’m in a POW camp. I’d have thought I would be executed by now.”\n“You don’t remember what happened?”\n“I have . . . very vague memories. I remember getting blown off-target, and landing near a farm. I landed on a fencepost. After that . . . everything is blurry mass of pain and blood.”\n“You’re lucky to be alive. You were found just outside the boundaries of the camp. That’s why you’re here.”\n“Yes. I remember an old man and . . . you, actually, finding me.”\n“Captain Westheimer would be the old man. He’s the camp commandant. I’m Private Liebermann.”\n“I am surprised you had the kindness to take me in. I was told I would be executed if I was captured.”\nLiebermann put the puzzle pieces together. “You’re a commando, aren’t you?”\n“I was, yes.”\n“Westheimer doesn’t execute prisoners. Doesn’t matter what their job was. He tries to be as fair as he possibly can.” Liebermann bit his tongue, unsure if he should tell Tretheway the truth about the camp.\n“I really should consider myself lucky, then.” Tretheway glanced at his table. “Tea?”\n“Yes. Raspberry. I was told not to give you anything with caffeine.”\n“I haven’t had a fruit tea in years. Not my preference, but I’m not going to be picky in this situation.”\n“There’s really not much we can give you at the moment. The camp doctor says your intestines were ruptured, and we’ve been using—” Liebermann suddenly realized what he was saying, “. . . potions.” \n“Excuse me? Did I hear you say ‘potions?’”\nLiebermann looked at the floor. “You did.”\nTretheway gave him a confused look. “What kind of camp is this?”\n“One where the commandant and at least half the guards are warlocks.”\n“You’re bloody joking.”\n“I’m not.” Liebermann took his wand out of his belt. He noticed one of the beds was unmade, and with a flick of his wand, the sheets and pillows flew up, and fell neatly back into place.\nTretheway’s jaw dropped. “I knew you were real, but I never thought I’d be meeting one for myself, nor did I ever think I’d have magic used on me.”\n“Westheimer’s been giving you healing potions. Nothing else.”\n“I had always thought magic was instantaneous.”\nLiebermann shook his head. “In the case of healing potions, no. The majority of them take several doses to work properly. They’re very potent. To give you a massive dose would kill you.”\n“I see.” Tretheway shifted to get comfortable. “How long until I can walk?”\n“I’m not sure. You’d have to ask Wenzel next time he comes to check on you.”\n“Alright, then. You said your name is Liebermann, right?”\n“Yes. You can call me Fritz, though.”\n“We call every German Fritz.”\n“Well, in this case, that’s actually my name.”\n“That makes it easy to remember, then.” Tretheway nodded a little. “You’re not bad, Fritz.”\n“Thank you. I . . . try.” Liebermann’s train of thought was interrupted when Wenzel entered the room.\n“Ah, good to see you’re awake, Private,” Wenzel said.\n“I’m just glad I know what’s going on now,” Tretheway replied, “and that I’m not going to be executed.”\nWenzel shook his head. “Not here, you’re not. How are you feeling?”\n“Very sore. Sometimes I have a dull, throbbing ache where the bandages are. Part of me feels like I can stand up, and another part of me feels like that wouldn’t be a good idea.”\n“It wouldn’t. You’ll be bedridden for some time, unfortunately. That wound will take a long time to heal. Westheimer is hoping to shorten it with the aid of healing and regeneration potions.” Wenzel offered a small smile. “I can promise you won’t be bored, though. We might even take you outside in a wheelchair once in a great while.”\n“Thank you. I must ask, is my family aware of all this? My parents, sister, girlfriend—”\n“Westheimer contacted the Red Cross the day after you arrived. Everything’s been taken care of.” Wenzel’s look turned sober. “As much as I wish we could send you home, you’re not fit to travel. You’ll be stuck here for a little while.”\nTretheway nodded. “I understand.”\n“Have hope, my friend. You’ll be home soon enough.”\nTretheway switched his gaze to Liebermann. “There’s no spell that can speed this up?”\nLiebermann shook his head. “No. It doesn’t exist.”\nGiving another nod, Tretheway said, “Alright. I can be patient.”\n“I hate to interrupt,” Wenzel said. “I have to change Tretheway’s bandage. Would you mind stepping out for a few minutes, Liebermann?”\nNodding, Liebermann stood up, and faced Tretheway. “It was nice to finally talk to you.”\n“And to you as well,” Tretheway replied. “We’ll see each other soon.”\n------------\nIn the early hours of the evening, Liebermann and the rest of the camp’s population headed into the mess hall for dinner. Without thinking much about it, Liebermann asked for a cup of hot water and a bag of raspberry tea, then he took his tray and mug and nervously walked over to where Westheimer and Kersting were sitting. “Sirs? May I speak to you a moment?” Liebermann asked.\n“Of course. What do you need?” Westheimer replied.\n“Did Wenzel talk to you about putting me on duty in the hospital?”\n“He did, and he mentioned he was letting you think about it.”\n“I . . . I think I’ll give it a try. Maybe it will be a good choice for me.”\n“Alright, then. I will add you to the roster next week.” Westheimer looked at Kersting. “If he is happy in medical, I will need a new guard to take Liebermann’s place.”\n“Let’s give it some time,” Kersting said. “First off—” he looked at Liebermann, “Congratulations.”\nLiebermann looked down at his tea. “I don’t even know if I’m going to like it. Wenzel said my . . . emotional sensitivity will help me figure out what patients need.”\n“That can be a big help or a big detriment,” Westheimer said. “It is not something you can allow to overwhelm you.”\n“Is that something you can help me with?”\nWestheimer shook his head. “This is your gift, son. You have to learn to control it for yourself.”\n“That’s not to say we won’t give you advice,” Kersting added. “And not just us. I’m sure Plundell or Jahn or someone else here can try to help you if you need it.”\n“What I am trying to say is that no one can control your gift for you.”\nLiebermann nodded. “I understand, sir.” He took a sip of his tea. “Do you think this was the right choice for me?”\n“Only you can know that. I think this will be a good opportunity for you to find your place, but that is not up to me or Kersting or Wenzel or anyone to decide.”\n“Technically, you can put him wherever you want him as commandant,” Kersting said, grinning a little.\n“I know, but I choose not to.” Westheimer looked back at Liebermann. “Just be prepared for your schedule to look a little different next week.”\n“Alright, sir. Thank you.” Looking out the window at the camp hospital, Liebermann found himself excited and afraid. It would only be a test period, lasting only a week. The only thing he could be certain of was that it would tell him a lot about himself." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Goodbye Kiss\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1120\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a first or last kiss." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Well. Here we are.\" I look around the hotel room. It's bigger than where we stayed during our honeymoon, five years before. The expansive windows display a glassy, picture-perfect sea. Dots of surfers, their boards coral-pink or sunshine-yellow, dart across the waves. Their happiness mocks me.\n\"I'm going to shower,\" I mutter, unable to untangle myself from the dark cloud hanging over my head. Jack nods but doesn't say anything. This is a dance we've danced before: when I get upset or sad or angry, I tend to shut him out. Maybe it's why our marriage is swirling the drain.\nI shrug out of my sweaty clothes and step into the warm water, letting it pound my neck and back. On our honeymoon, Jack would have stepped under the steam with me. Now, he doesn't even brush his teeth while I shower. Our love, once unable to be separated by doors, is now confined to separate rooms.\nWhen our therapist suggested this trip, as a way to \"rekindle\" the spark between us, Jack and I had been willing to try. But within a few weeks, we realized there wasn't much we could save. We'd already booked the trip. We decided to view it as more of a \"goodbye\" vacation. It seemed like a good, very forward-thinking idea at the time. Now, it seems so stupid.\nI step out into the hotel room wrapped in a fluffy towel. Jack is out there, unpacking, though we'll only be here one night. \"Oh,\" he says when he sees me standing there. He awkwardly turns. I don't tell him that he's seen me naked a million times - we both know this is different. I drip water across the floor as I walk, which will drive him crazy later.\n\"How was the shower?\" He asks.\n\"Heavenly,\" I answer.\n\"So better than that one hostel we stayed in? Where was it?\"\n\"Oh my God,\" I laugh as I remember. \"Yeah. In Nepal.\" The water had been dirt-brown, and it pooled around our feet while we bathed. It was disgusting.\nJack laughs too. \"What were we thinking?\"\n\"I don't know. We were young and in love.\"\nAt that, we both fall silent.\nI pull on a cotton T-shirt and some shorts. \"You can turn now,\" I whisper. He clears his throat and does, briefly glancing at me before continuing his unpacking.\n\"Are you really going to spend the whole time unpacking?\" I ask indignantly.\n\"What would you like me to do?\"\n\"I don't know. Maybe we could look at the beach.\"\n\"And pretend everything's fine? I'll pass.\"\nI stare at him, at his hardened face and clenched fists. He's looking longingly at the ocean in front of him, like he wishes he could swim home.\n\"Fine. I'm going.\" I say. I turn on my heel and exit the hotel, making my way down the white sand. Hot, angry tears roll down my cheeks. Not for the first time, I think, Does this really have to end?\nIt does. Jack and I have become two different people who want different things. Instead of seeing it earlier, we went on to resent each other. But that doesn't mean I don't love him. I do - and will never stop.\nI plop down and stare at the happy people around me, at their entwined hands and adoring eyes. The kind of love Jack and I once had, all-consuming. I squeeze my eyes shut. Our apartment is packed up. Tomorrow, he'll fly back to the city and move into his new place. I'll go stay with my sister upstate for a while. This trip is our once last shot at normalcy. Why does he have to ruin it?\nI feel the sand shift beside me. Jack appears, lowering himself to the sand.\n\"Did you decide to stop being mean?\" I demand.\n\"I'm sad, Marie. What do you want from me?\"\n\"I'm sad too.\" We sit shoulder-to-shoulder for a while. Finally, Jack stands and holds his hand out for me.\n\"Can I take you to dinner?\" He asks. He's trying so hard. I see his smile wavering, the tears threatening to spill. I throw him a bone.\n\"Sure,\" I say. I grab his hand, and we stand.\nWe go to a seafood restaurant. I crack my crab legs with a tiny hammer. It's my favorite thing to do. Jack watches me while I giggle. \"Remember that girl in high school?\" He asks me finally. \"Rachel Crabtree? But everyone called her Crabs, because they were convinced she had an STD.\"\n\"Oh my God,\" I snort, and wine almost comes out of my nose. \"Yes. God, people were so mean back then.\" I pop a piece of meat into my mouth. \"I'm friends with her on Facebook, though. She opened her own haircutting business recently.\"\n\"Oh really? Good for her.\" Conversation continues like this, superficial and hilted, until we get our check. Jack pays, and we go back to the hotel.\n\"Want to watch a movie?\" I ask him.\nHe nods. We sit on opposite edges of the bed and turn on a cheesy romcom, neither of us paying attention. Finally, he turns to me.\n\"You know you're the love of my life, right?\"\nI nod and swallow. \"Yes,\" I squeak. \"And you're mine.\"\nHe shakes his head, and tears start falling. \"Then why are we doing this, Marie?\" He asks me forcefully.\nI start sobbing then, the shaking, hiccuping kind. I roll over to him, and we make love like we did at the beginning of our relationship. Messy, awkward, wonderful. We haven't had sex in ages, and it really does feel new. Finally, when we're done, I stare at the ceiling. \"It's because we were lucky enough to find love while we were young,\" I say quietly. \"Just because it's over, doesn't mean you're not the love of my life. It was just meant for a short time.\"\nHe nods. I wipe my eyes. \"Can you stay with me tonight?\" I ask him. He hesitates, then nods. He slips an arm around my shoulders, and we sleep like that, tangled in each other's arms, for the last time.\nThe ride to the airport the next day is quiet. His flight leaves an hour after mine, so he walks me to my gate.\n\"I love you.\" He says to me. \"I'll always love you.\"\nI turn to him and nod. \"I'll always love you, too,\" I say. I kiss him on the lips, deep and slow. Everyone around us might think we're two young lovers.\nWhen an announcement comes for the final boarding call, I pull away. I touch my lips, hoping to savor our final kiss, and watch Jack walk away." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: They Say...\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1077\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s dying to “spill the tea” (gossip) about something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Grandma, who is this lady in this picture?\" Shan asked, looking up at her grandmother.\nHer grandmother, Sadie, stopped brushing her hair and looked down at the photo album her granddaughter held on her lap.\n\"Oh, that's my grandmother, Mama Shugga\".\n\"Mama Shugga? Was that her real name?\" Shan asked, confused.\n\"No, baby. Her real name was Bertice Anne Taylor. They say she was the sweetest one of her ten siblings, so they called her 'Shugga Anne'.\"\n\"Wow! 10? She was the sweetest one, huh?\" Shan asked, curious about this lady who she'd never met. \"She sure is pretty.\"\n\"Oh, she sure was pretty. I remember her just a little. She didn't quite look like this lady here in this picture.\"\n\"Tell me more about her, grannie. Please. What do you remember her looking like?\" Shan begged.\n\"Well, if you want to know. I will tell you.\" Sadie smiled as she saw her granddaughter look deeper into the picture.\n\"They say my grandmother was always the life of the party. I never really knew her, but I've heard so much about her. Growing up, I found myself standing in front of the mirror dressing the way I thought she would dress, all sassy like they say her personality was. I wanted to be just like her. I would sit for hours looking at that picture you are looking at now. She looked much different when I knew her. Her hair was gray, but she was just as sassy.\"\n\"They say that she never met a stranger and that she would \"sash-shay\" around her garden parties in the latest fashion. This was the 1960s. The pictures show her hair all done up with her beautiful flowing dresses. No one could ever match her beauty or her personality, at least that's what I heard. They say she knew all the latest news around the neighborhood. Those two words would begin her reign as queen of any party and her neighborhood. \"They say...\" is how she always began. People were bound to listen to what followed next. Whether it was about the new neighbors down the street that had just moved in or if it was about my granddaddy's new lawn mower. \"They say\" brought people to her house even when she wasn't hosting one of her legendary parties.\nIt was one of those \"They says...\" that changed my grandmother's life forever. They say that she brought up Dr. King's visit to Birmingham, AL. It was something as simple as: \"They say that Dr. King will be in Birmingham this week to march for our civil rights.\" You see it wasn't always about the neighborhood gossip. Sometimes it was about real things. They say that it was a regular Wednesday when her pastor and his wife had come to visit. At the end of that visit, they say she had made up her mind to march with her church and Dr. King to the Mayor's office to talk about the segregation of the city.\"\n\"They say...grannie...\" Shan said trying out the words a little for herself to catch the feel of them. She decided that she liked it.\n\"Listen to you, young'un.\" Sadie laughed a little at Shan.\nShan smiled, \"They say that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. changed the world. Isn't that right? Did she meet him? Did she really march with him?\" Shan's eyes had grown big with the mention of this famous name. She was simply amazed.\n\"Well, just listen. I'll get to that.\" Sadie explained.\n\"They say she threw one of her extravagant parties, just to make sure she had a way to get more people involved and that she made one of the biggest speeches of her life, even bigger than Dr. King, at least that's what they said. They say that she stood up with the biggest voice she could muster. She made everyone aware that they had a duty in changing the world, that it wasn't proper for the world to believe that living in the South under the segregation laws made things separate and equal because things sure were separate, but they weren't equal. They say she made people think about their children and the world they wanted them to grow up in. That it should truly be an equal place and not so much separate. It was time for change, and she knew she had to take up her courage and be that change. They say the tears flowed from her eyes when she talked about the future she wanted to see and that they had never seen her so passionate. They say the people who attended her party cried too. They agreed to join Mama Shugga at the march from the 16th Street Baptist Church to the Mayor's Office. They say when the day came to march they were afraid, but they trusted in the Lord with each step they took. They say you could hear the singing for miles in front of them and behind them as they interlocked arms in solidarity. They say that Dr. King led them in prayer too, and they were all encouraged to keep the faith. They say my grandmother was brave, that they all were brave soldiers fighting in prayer and psalms until they used high powered fire hoses on them, and they even used dogs to attack them. They say my grandmother was arrested along with hundreds of young people that day, even though they were being peaceful in their protest.\n\"She did? They didn't do anything except sing and walk.\" Shan looked at her grandmother in disbelief.\n\"Yes, baby. You are right. But they say it took all of this to turn it around. That's why you are able to learn where you learn, live where you live, and someday work where you work. They say that all their sacrifice was for you and your children.\"\n\"My children? So Mama Shugga did all this? She was something, huh?\" Shan looked back at the photo of the pretty lady who somehow now seemed much more than that.\n\"Oh, yeah, baby. That Mama Shugga was something else, but not just Mama Shugga, but so many more. She and others helped change our world! Just think! It all started with a, 'They say...'\"\nSadie laughed, and Shan did too.\nSadie began, \"You know they say she charmed a man with her smile one time and got a free car...\" Sadie smiled.\n\"Grannie...what!\" Shan laughed." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Elizabeth and Rebecca Go to a Party\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1106\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a tea party that your character is reluctant to go to." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Boston, MA December 15th, 1773\n\n“So, Elizabeth, are you going to the Boston Tea Party tomorrow evening?” The two young ladies took a break from their board games by the fireside to discuss the matter.\n“My goodness, Rebecca, I haven’t the slightest.”\n“Neither have I, and I have yet to gather the details. The town crier’s rumor segment was quite choppy today. Do you not concur? I think he has consumption.”\n“Agreed, I could barely hear him over all of that nasty coughing. I did catch that the Sons of Liberty organized the tea party- whoever they are!”\n“Oh, I know, dear Rebecca! There are so many various, social groups. I can just never keep up. Rachel heard that the theme is ‘Native Garb’. Actually, she said they are all dressing like Indians, but, 'Native Garb' has a better ring to it.”\n\"You have such a way with words, dear Lizzy! I must say though, it all seems a bit socially insensitive to me.”\n“Yes, I thought that too. A delicate matter- the natives. Maybe we should not attend. Regardless, where is this Tea Party being held?”\n“On a boat at Griffin’s Wharf.”\n“Rebecca! Griffin’s Wharf and on a boat! It’s settled, we're going! It has been so frigid out, we must wear many layers. Do you have anything with leather and fringe I can borrow?”\n“Yes! My brothers wore native men costumes to last year’s masquerade ball.\"\n\"Perfect! I will pilfer some of dear mother’s ‘war paint’ for our faces!”\n“Oh, my goodness, Elizabeth, you are so wild! Did you catch what time it begins?”\n“Yes, it starts at 7pm. Do you think they will spike the tea with rum?” \n“If they don’t, we will!” \nThe young ladies stayed up through the night planning their secret excursion. Overflowing with giggles and notions of misadventure, they spoke more of the event.\n“I heard from Rachel that Sam Adams will be at the party.”\n“Oh my! I know of him. He frequents my father's pub. Do you think he will exchange words with us?”\n“Wouldn’t that be just outrageous, Rebecca? Will Rachel be joining?”\n“No, she had a premonition about the whole thing.”\n“Oh poo! Rachel is so stuffy at times. My father says she spends too much time in the library.”\nThe next day Elizabeth and Rebecca made themselves up like Indians between the hours of five pm and six o'clock. They ironed their hair, twisting it into long braids. They smeared Elizabeth’s mother’s lipstick across their cheeks and they helped each other into the layers of leather, fringe and feathers. After tricking Gregor the coachman into escorting them to the wharf, they were on their way to the Tea Party.\nWhen they stepped out of the carriage at Griffin’s Wharf, the girls were surprised by the sheer silence that greeted them. They could see silhouettes of people on the boat, but it all seemed rather tame. No one noticed when they stepped onto the grand ship. The other guests were quite preoccupied with what seemed to be a bunch of treasure chests. There was no music, no dancing and no tea to be seen. The girls spoke in hushed whispers.\n“Rebecca, this party is a bore. Do you think they went too far with the theme?”\n“Yes, I agree, Elizabeth. I don’t understand tossing the party favors overboard either. Those look like very expensive cedar chests. Are we meant to dive in after them?”\n\"I say, abandon ship, Rebecca, rather than walk the plank.\"\n\"Agreed.\"\nDisappointed, the two young ladies slipped away into the night and back to their awaiting carriage. After Gregor had delivered them safely home, they returned to their board games and gossip around the fireplace in order to calm their nerves.\n\nWashington DC, USA January 6th, 2021\n\n“OMG, Liz, there’s some kind of rally going on right now at the Capitol building? Do you think we should get over there and check it out?”\n“I don’t know, Becca. I’m not very political. Why are you watching the news anyways?!”\n“You’re right! Lame. I’ll change the channel.” Becca switched back to Reality Girls- their favorite show.\n“Yeah, honestly, I couldn’t even tell if it was the Democrats or Republicans this time.”\n“Well, Becca, I haven’t really picked sides anyway. I kind of like the sound of the Tea Party, but I can’t figure out which team they play for.”\n“Shut up, Liz! You literally slay me, like, I’m so dead right now and buried.”\n“It looked like people are dressed up crazy over there and hanging out on the lawn. Some guy was wearing a Native American costume. So racist!”\n“Ok, wait wait, so, like, costumes and almost like a festival? Sold! Let’s do this! What are we going to wear?!”\n“Yeah!!! Why not? Let’s get weird with it! We should totally wear those Colonial dresses your mom has in that old chest in the attic. That will totally make a statement!”\n“Yes! That’s perfect! I love it!”\nLiz and Becca spent a couple hours primping. Liz wore the robin’s egg blue dress with lace fringe and Becca wore the dusty rose one. They curled their hair, teased it up and powdered it like the old wigs women used to wear. Once they had painstakingly painted moles to their stark white cheeks, they felt prepared. They called their Uber, waited 4 minutes and were on their way. When they got there they could see across the vast lawn that the crowd was flooding into the Capitol Building. \n“Oh wow, Becca! They’re taking the protest inside. Come on! Hurry up!”\n“Yeah! Let’s do this!”\n“This is crazy, Liz! You are so my bestie!”\nGrabbing up their long, layered skirts, the girls raced to the main entrance. Giddy and giggling, they rushed into the building with everyone else. Playfully, they danced around the opulent foyer of the building and felt like princesses at a ball for about 3 minutes. Winded by the running and commotion, they finally paused to take things in. Looking around they saw much more camo, weaponry and weird than they had anticipated. \n“Whoa, Becca, look at that guy. Are those zip ties?”\n“Yeah, this is getting a little scary.”\n“Maybe we should get out of here.” They slinked back toward the door and slipped out of the building.\nJust as Liz and Becca’s Uber driver showed up, two heavily armed officers slammed the door of the Capital building shut and there was a loud, locking noise. A little freaked out by the protest, the girls went back to Becca’s and watched their favorite show Reality Girls to lighten the mood." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 That and A Cup of Tea\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2081\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a conflict that breaks out over something ordinary (like tea, perhaps)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Captain Westheimer knew there was a reason he primarily stuck to coffee and hot chocolate after Stalag V C opened, and it wasn’t because tea just wasn’t available—he had plenty smuggled in for his British prisoners from Switzerland—nor was it because he didn’t enjoy tea once in awhile.\nIt was because he couldn’t stand the intense standards tea was held to among the British, and after a particularly nasty argument between the German guards and British prisoners, Westheimer vowed to only drink tea in private.\nHis superior and close friend, Major Kersting, arrived one cold evening in mid-January of 1944 with several large boxes containing both bagged and loose tea in the trunk of his staff car. “I thought you all could use a present,” he said.\n“Christmas was almost a month ago, Dieter,” Westheimer replied. “Frankly, I am surprised no one searched your vehicle. The smell is . . . quite powerful.”\n“And delightful. This is the good stuff, far from the low-quality ration tea.”\n“I gave you the names of my contacts down in Königsdorf in case of emergencies, not to do things like this! That big Christmas tree back in December was bad enough.”\n“It’s just tea, my friend. Besides, your contacts didn’t seem to mind when I asked.”\n“Be grateful they like you.” Westheimer rubbed his face. “Alright, bring that in the mess hall.” He looked out at the yard, and shouted, “Liebermann! Jahn!” while beckoning them with his hand.\nThe two jogged over. “Yes, sir?” Jahn said, saluting.\n“Help the major bring these to the mess hall.” Westheimer watched Liebermann and Jahn pick up a couple of boxes, then turned to Kersting. “I still want to know what possessed you to do this.”\n“The British do love their tea,” Kersting explained. “And as I recall, you have a new prisoner among your ranks.”\n“Private Tretheway, yes. He is still laid up in the hospital.”\n“How is he doing?”\n“Stable at the moment.”\n“Has he woken up at all?”\n“Once or twice. Both times, he was quite disoriented. We have been trying our best to make sure he is never in pain.” Westheimer looked down at the snow, remembering the night he and Private Liebermann found the British paratrooper outside the camp with a fencepost stuck inside him. The man was certainly lucky to be alive.\n“Perhaps this gift will help him feel comfortable. That, and it will make it easier to give him potions and medication when it’s necessary.”\n“I hope so.” Westheimer turned to limp toward the mess hall, then looked over his shoulder. “Are you staying the night, then? It might be a good idea to get the smell of tea out of your car, just in case the Gestapo stop you on your way home. We do not need you being suspected of being part of the black market.”\n“Oh, alright. I wouldn’t mind trying some of the tea, to be honest.”\nIt didn’t take long for word of the tea gift to reach the prisoners, who proceeded to drop whatever they were doing and jog to the mess hall. At the back of the crowd was Sergeant Plundell, who was pleading for them to keep order and be patient. His pleas fell on deaf ears, though he couldn't blame them for being excited. He hadn't had a good cup of tea in ages.\nInside, Westheimer sighed upon seeing the faces of the prisoners pressed up against the windows. “Of all the things to cause a stir,” he grumbled.\n“They probably haven’t had good tea in ages,” Kersting said.\n“I understand that, but they are not going to stampede in my camp.” Westheimer looked over at Liebermann. “Go out there and tell the barracks NCOs to line up their groups if they want tea.”\n“Line up how, sir?” Liebermann asked.\n“By rank. Lowest first. Go in order of barracks number.”\n“Yes, sir.”\nWestheimer could hear shouting outside as Liebermann and the prisoners tried to organize themselves. He gave another look to Kersting. “I sense this is not going to go over well. The British take their tea very seriously.”\n“I understand that. Why do you think I brought milk and sugar?” Kersting asked. “Besides, it’s not like I’m the one making it.”\n“Good. If you tried making it, the prisoners would just restart the war in here.”\n“I can make a good cup of tea if I tried.”\n“I doubt you could pass the scrutiny of an Englishman.”\n“Let’s see you try. Make a cup of tea the British way and we’ll see who can do it better.”\nWestheimer grinned a little. “I accept your challenge, then.”\nThe mess hall was soon filled with the smell of hot tea of all different varieties. Floral, fruity, and bitter scents mingled with each other. Once every prisoner and guard had been served, Westheimer took a pair of cups for himself and Kersting. He didn’t want to admit it out loud, lest Kersting made a habit out of bringing more gifts to the camp, but he was glad to see everyone enjoying themselves.\nThat enjoyment didn’t last long. A conversation between a couple of British soldiers and a German guard had morphed into a loud argument over the proper way to make tea. Westheimer glanced over, watching and hearing the group squabble about all the steps of making tea.\n“What’s all that about?” Kersting asked.\n“Corporal Fossey and Private Kesby are arguing with Private Weisser about how to make tea,” Westheimer replied.\n“Oh.” Kersting’s expression gradually changed to one of concern as the arguing continued. “Should we go put a stop to it?”\n“Only if they start hitting each other.”\n“It’s a silly thing to argue over, isn’t it? Tea?”\nWestheimer gave Kersting a look. “Did I not tell you earlier the British take tea seriously? I would be surprised if they did not come to blows over this.”\nAlmost as soon as Westheimer said that, Fossey and Weisser had stood up, and Fossey lunged over the table to tackle the smaller man. The crowd all turned to see the two men on the floor, swinging at each other and trying to stand. The mess hall erupted into cheering and shouting and laughter.\nLiebermann pushed his way through the crowd to pull Fossey off of Weisser. As he shouted at Fossey to get off, the British soldier whirled around to punch Liebermann in the face. An enraged Plundell joined in, shoving Fossey off and screaming at him that Liebermann didn’t deserve to be hit. Instead of listening, Fossey accused Plundell of being too friendly with the Germans. The shouting soon escalated to shoving and punching.\nWestheimer stood up, storming over to the crowd when he saw the issue clearly wasn’t going to resolve itself. The shouting and cheering was deafening, and fights were breaking out all over. He raised his staff, aiming it at Fossey, who had Plundell in a chokehold. As much as he hated using magic against the prisoners, he felt this particular situation warranted it. A second later, Fossey was floating in the air above the crowd, as if pulled up by invisible ropes and pulleys. His anger had quickly turned into shock and fright, and he started begging to be put down.\n“That is ENOUGH! Break it up, all of you!” Westheimer hollered.\nThe silence was equally deafening. All eyes were either on Westheimer or the levitating Fossey. A large red mark had formed under Liebermann’s right eye. Several in the crowd had similar marks or bloody noses.\n“Are we all children?!” Westheimer asked.\nNo answer.\n“I will take that as a ‘yes.’ I am deeply ashamed of you. Each and every one of you. Can we not settle our arguments like grown men?”\n“You can put me down now, Captain, p-please,” Fossey stammered, waving his arms a little.\nWestheimer glared at him. “No, I think I will leave you up there until I dismiss everyone, since you clearly cannot behave yourself.” He went back to looking at the crowd. “As for the rest of you, everyone who is not on night or hospital duty will be going to bed early tonight, except for those who started the fight. Fossey, Kesby, and Weisser, you will stay behind and clean the mess hall. I do not want to see any lights on in any barracks, guard or prisoner.” He looked out over the embarrassed faces. “You are dismissed. I do not want to see any of you outside your barracks until morning.”\nWhen the guards and prisoners filed out, Westheimer lowered Fossey to the floor. “You all know the rules as well as I do, and you are lucky you are under me and not some other commandant, but that is no excuse for this behavior.” Westheimer fell silent for a moment, making eye contact with all three involved. “Maybe I am too lenient. That is why you are so comfortable acting like children with no fear of consequences.”\nKersting quietly walked over, sitting at one of the tables while facing the group. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, folding his arms over his chest and choosing to observe.\n“What possessed you to just strike Weisser like that?” Westheimer said to Fossey. “I know tea is an important part of your culture, but to hit a man over it is absurd.”\nFossey looked torn between getting angry and crying. “I don’t know. It got heated, that’s all.”\n“The look on your face tells me there is more.”\n“Well, you know how I told you when I arrived that me and my wife own a tea shop in Birmingham? It . . . hit me that I haven’t seen her in over two years.”\n“So you decided to take your frustration out on Weisser.”\n“I did.”\n“I think it is safe to say the majority of us here have loved ones that we have not seen in awhile. That is not to dismiss your frustration and sadness, but to say that you are not alone in your suffering.”\n“I understand, sir. It boiled over tonight, and it shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for socking Liebermann. Plundell’s right. Kid didn’t deserve it.”\n“As much as I sympathize, punishment is still in order for starting a fight, not just with my guard, but with another prisoner, namely one who is senior to you in rank, too. You will spend tonight in solitary when you are done cleaning.”\nFossey was looking down at the floor. “Yes, sir.”\n“Can I trust this will not happen again?”\n“As best I can.”\n“Good enough. Alright, all three of you, get to work.” As the group walked away, Westheimer turned to face Kersting. “I am sorry you had to witness that.”\n“Witness what? The fight, or you tearing into them?” Kersting asked.\n“Both.”\n“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen. But, you were right. The British take their tea quite seriously.”\n“It started with Weisser not making tea the right way and escalated into a man missing his wife.”\n“Did I hear correctly they own a tea shop together?”\nWestheimer nodded.\n“Perhaps it’s my fault. I am the one who brought the tea, after all. I set off all his memories.”\n“You tried doing something nice for them. There was no ill intent involved.”\n“You’re right.”\nThe conversation died as the two watched Fossey, Kesby, and Weisser clean up the spilled tea and sugar around where the fights took place. Glancing outside, Westheimer was glad to see there were no lights on in any building except the hospital.\n“At least there is plenty of tea to last a month or two,” Kersting said.\n“Yes. Thank you. And do not take that as permission to do this again. I was already terrified someone was going to find out about our little black market with that damned Christmas tree and that cake you brought for my birthday. Now my camp is going to smell like tea for the foreseeable future.”\n“I thought you didn’t mind tea.”\n“I enjoy a well-made cup of Earl Grey with a bit of vanilla during the evening, but that is during the evening. In the morning, I want a cup of good, strong coffee with my breakfast.”\n“Which do you prefer, though? Coffee or tea?”\nWestheimer thought carefully about his response, then said, “Hot cocoa.”\nFossey looked up from his mopping, glaring at Westheimer. “Blasphemy!”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Blame\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2165\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with a character having a gut feeling they cannot explain." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I ain’t never forgave my Ma for selling my pony; like she ain’t never forgiven me for not telling her sooner bout’ my brother’s injury. I hate to say this, but I’m missing that pony more than my little brother, but Pawpaw said it just ain’t right to feel that way.\n\nBy the way, my name is Abigail Holts; I go by Abby. I’m twelve years old, and I now live on my Pawpaw’s Hereford Cattle Ranch thirty miles east of Wild Horse, Colorado. If you don’t know, that’s pretty much close to nowhere and HELL. Pardon my French; Pawpaw doesn’t like me saying HELL, nor writing it either.\nPawpaw tells me every day, “This ain’t no HELL. You ought to feel fortunate to end up here after what you did, girl. Ain’t nobody wants you but me.”\n\nI knew nothin’ bout’ intuition in 1933, especially livin’ on the plains of Colorado like we was. ‘Intuition’ is a new word from my grandfather Pawpaw. He said God was talking to me through it, spooky-like, just in my mind. God told me I didn’t make good choices and things through strange feelings and stomach pangs. I wish I would have considered listening to the stomach pangs I had after my brother’s accident and told my parents bout’ it. It would have been a whole lot easier cause’ a year later, and I still miss my pony and friends from Lamar rightful bad.\n\nMy folks lost their place over in Lamar because the bank took it last year when the dust storms came around. If you include the trauma of my little brother getting the lockjaw and us losing everything, it’s hard to figure how I lived through it all. But I did.\n\nMy brother Jacob and I loved livin’ in Lamar.\nI never put two and two together in figuring how Jacob getting real sick and us losing our house would ever connect. But they did. Ma said he was sick enough to die; my gut feelin’ said she was right; intuition, I guess.\n\nLike I said, I ain’t never forgave my Ma for selling Fred. I loved that black pony more than anything. I ain’t never told nobody this, but I named him Fred after a boy in school that I liked. My pa taught me how to ride him; bought me a used saddle, halter, bridle, riding crop, and reins off a girl that was selling ‘em’ cheap cause her pony died by getting itself hit by a car. My intuition was at work about buying that stuff, and then knowing it was one year to that date, May 1st 1932, my brother would cut his foot. God gave me pangs on both dates, but I didn’t listen to neither. I don’t listen well to anyone anyway.\n\nThere is not much to do around Wild Horse besides doin’ chores and chewing tobacco. I stole me some from Pawpaw’s stash because I like to chew a whole lot more than smoke cigarettes. It’s easier to hide, and you can be assured you won’t burn down the barn. Pawpaw caught me once when that hired man Dick told on me.\n“Get your ass over here, girl, and take your whippin’,” Pawpaw said, and then to humiliate me, he used my old riding crop my Pa bought me to beat my ass until it bled.\n\nShit, I couldn’t sit down for three days, and all it made me do is want to burn down his barn by taking up smokin’ instead. That whole incident made me remember when my brother Jacob cut his foot.\n\nJacob was sittin’ in the garden just a diggin’ in the dirt. He was playing with his little kid shovel by Ma’s rhubarb plants. The boy liked to dig with his shovel so much that the point’s edge became sharp and rusted. He was barefoot, and he had no shirt on either, being it was hot as HELL in Lamar even though it was only May. I was feeding my pony Fred one of Ma’s carrots I pulled up from the garden. She told me not to touch them carrots as they was for supper on Sunday, but I did it anyhows’. Like I told ya’, I don’t listen.\n\nSomehow, my gut is still hurtin’ me. It’s tellin’ me that’s why Jacob hurt himself so terrible; cause’ I stole that old carrot, and I am wishin’ now that I didn’t even consider it. \n\nWhen Jacob tried to push on that old shovel with his right barefoot, the edge of that shovel cut into him so bad that I heard the ripping sound of his flesh opening. The gash in that kid’s foot was about a hand across; four inches is a damn big cut on a small kid’s foot. I should have told our parents; I know that now, and I’ve been beating myself up over it royal good.\n\nJacob was afraid I would tell Ma, and then she was goin’ to be mad at him for digging up her garden. The wound was deep and bleeding profuse when he asked me to help him. I took some of the batting out of my jacket and wrapped it up. I told him to put on some socks and wear his galoshes to make room for that awkward bandage. We didn’t tell Ma or Pa until I had to.\n\nThree mornings later, about five, I noticed Jacob couldn’t get out of bed. He couldn’t sit up cause’ all his four-year-old muscles seized up, and he was talking funny. Jacob was trying but couldn’t open his mouth. I heard him tossing and turning all night, and he was trying to say his neck hurt by grabbin’ his throat. In that house, Jacob and I shared a trundle in a small bedroom. All through the night, he was sweating like a pig, and his head near burned my hand when I touched it.\n\nHis blond hair looked brown cause’ it was wet and stuck to his head. I got Ma when Jacob started to arch his back and shake all over. I saw our cat do that after she got attacked by a dog, and things didn’t go so well for that cat. Ma flew out of bed and put on her robe. Pa was still sleeping when Ma screamed for him.\n\nYou should have seen Jacob when I came back into our room. He had white and red foam coming out of his mouth and was shaking all over. The red on the foam was blood from nearly biting his tongue in half. I thought the devil had got ahold of him. Ma told me to get some ice and the pitcher of drinking water out of the icebox. I did.\nShe yelled, “hurry up, Abby; he is burning up with a fever.”\n\nWhen I returned from fetchin’ the ice and water, I thought Jacob would be lying there lookin’ like a pile of ashes; but he wasn’t, thank the Lord. Ma had stripped him naked. That’s when she saw the makeshift bandage; I put on his foot out in the garden.\n\nShe couldn’t pull off the bandage easily cause’ it was sticking to the bloody pus. That’s when Pa came in. He grabbed up naked Jacob and put him in the bathtub. He poured all the water and ice I brought in all over him. I was crying when he threw the pitcher at me and demanded I get him some more. I forgive him for throwing things at me cause’ that’s when Jacob could hardly breathe, and we was all in a state of panic.\n\nI was in my nighties, and Pa screamed at me to fetch our neighbor man, Mr. Blea. I had to run a half-mile barefoot, dressed in not much more than my skivvies to get Elmer Blea. He was a medic in WW1, and he had terrible hearing loss due to shell shock from fighting over in Europe. I was glad as HELL, pardon my French, that he heard me banging on his wood screen door.\n\nMr. Blea drove me back home in his red Ford pickup truck. He was in his long johns, and it only took a few seconds to put on his overalls. Elmer Blea kept himself a medic bag from his time in the Army. I’m not sure if he stole it, but it was filled with bandages, antiseptic stuff, and even needles in case you might need stitches. The old leather case had a big white cross on it, but not like the one over at the church. We ran into the house.\n\nAs soon as Mr. Blea looked at the wound on Jacob’s foot and saw it had turned black and green, he wrinkled up his forehead and told my Father he would need to drive the boy as fast as he could up to a hospital in Denver. Then he made up a fancy cleaning solution for the wound. He said it needed stitches, but too much time had gone by, and the ‘gang of green’ had set in. The damaged foot was severely infected, and the Hospital might have to amputate his leg. He showed my Father how the veins were turning black all the way up to Jacob’s knee.\n\nI never heard my Pa cuss before that day. He cussed at me, and then he cursed at God. I think I like swearing now because it is in honor of my Father. He threw my Mother’s pretty little figurine she kept on the hallway table clean into the kitchen. The figurine was fine porcelain of a pretty blond girl in a blue party dress holding her hand out to show you her diamond ring. It had been sitting on that table since I was born in 1921. I always fancied the figurine looked like me. Now it was unrecognizable, lying in a million pieces on my Mother’s linoleum floor. I was crying so hard I could barely see it. Somehow, I have always felt that shattered figurine was me.\n\nElmer Blea grabbed my Father by the shoulders, shook him a bit, and told him to get himself together. Mr. Blea told Pa that my brother probably had the onset of tetanus from getting cut by that shovel and not adequately cared for properly. I never saw Pa like that before. It was the beginning of the stress that would eventually kill my Pa. It began on that day, and it was my fault.\n\nPa was a-runnin' around like one of Ma’s chickens without its head. Ma always killed one of her older layin’ hens to eat for Sunday supper. She even killed Beatrice, a hen I liked a lot. Ma made me pluck and gut that chicken and I ain’t never forgiven’ Ma for that either. \n\nPa told Elmer that the bank wanted their thousand dollars today, or they would take our house. Father would have to decide to use that money to save our home or my brother. He chose Jacob. Times were awful, but as terrible as they were, none of us had no idea how much worse it would get. The bank did take our house, just like the Hospital took Jacob’s leg and Pa’s hard earned dollars.\n\nMr. Blea did us a big favor that day. He had bought that Ford TT in 1918, right after he came home from the war. He didn’t have any family; that truck was it. It was his pride and joy. He let my Pa drive Ma and my brother up to Denver in that truck and even packed them up a bag full of sandwiches. Ma and Pa stayed with Jacob in the big Denver hospital until the stress got the best of my Pa. I stayed with Mr. Blea until my blame took over me.\n\nJacob lay without his right leg in that hospital bed for days in what Ma told me was something called a coma. I think it took an entire week for Jacob to die; however, my perspective of time is all off as a child. On the final day, Pa took off in Mr. Blea’s shiny red truck to buy himself a pistol that he would use to kill himself. Ma cried when Jacob died but didn’t for Pa, which is unforgivable in my eyes.\n\nI miss my home, brother Jacob, and Pa, but I don’t miss my Ma much. She made sure Mr. Blea got back his truck and then sold everything we had left, including my pony Fred, and moved to California. She sent me to live here with Pawpaw, her Father.\n\nYou know what? I miss Mr. Blea and wish Pawpaw had a neighbor man like him. Pawpaw ain’t got no neighbors at all.\n\nAll we got is that stupid hired man Dick, and sometimes I wish Dick would cut himself on a rusty shovel and die too, intuition or not." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: That One Thing\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2252\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Daytime commenced on the faraway planet of Thars 74T. On this particular day, a Tharsian named Rugvart was set to be coupled with another. They were in the company of a Tharsian civil official and some family, but all that was missing was the one with whom they would couple. The other Tharsian needed that day was Bolorov, who was instead jetting fretfully towards planet Earth. \nBolorov always had a renegade streak about them, constantly bucking the laws and rituals of Thars 74T to venture to other planets and galaxies more than they should. Bolorov didn’t understand their logic in isolationist policies. Were other Tharsians not even curious about the expanses surrounding them? Bolorov felt they could benefit so much from more connection to other galactic societies. Plus after all Bolorov’s experience, they knew that settling on Thars 74T for a lifetime was not in the cards, which went against the long-standing traditions of the conservative Tharsian beings. \nIn all their travels, our Tharisan found no other place with such life and diversity like that on Earth. And especially today, Bolorov recognized Earth had something Thars 74T did not. They just couldn’t put a finger on what it was. However, veering into its atmosphere faster than usual, Bolorov had to act quickly. They activated the environmental blending so unnecessary attention wasn’t triggered. They learned to do this after some earlier run-ins with the Space Force. They also turned on the landing systems to prepare for impact. It could happen anywhere as high as some of the Earth's mountains reached. \nThe craft alighted a few moments later, abruptly but not to the point of catastrophe. They observed some of the scanners for a preliminary outlook. The data noted their situation was several hundred feet above sea level in the northern hemisphere. The local time was dusk, the temperature was approximately fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, and the weather was overcast but dry.\nFinding everything else reasonable, they had a few more things to do before leaving the craft. They put on a cloaking device that gave them a human appearance, grabbed the currency generator to have local money if need be, and collected two means of defense or protection: pepper spray, in case unruly earthlings are encountered and a Tharisan blaster, in the off-chance the planet overlords come this way.\nFinally emerging from the vehicle, Bolorov surveyed the destination. They landed within a small United States metropolis, in the grassy space of a public park. They inhaled and exhaled the earth's air, the scent of trees and grass soothing the nerves they had moments ago at the helm. Plus anywhere else seemed better than being coupled with Rugvart. \nAs they strolled from the park into downtown, they started to notice something different in the air. Earthling couples engaged in public displays of sentiment. Some exchanged gifts or tokens. The various symbols of Valentine’s Day adorned the building doors and windows they passed. Shops touted sales and merch for the occasion. Romantic music played from indistinct locations. Bolorov had to stop and drink in the aura, finding it dreamy, passionate, and amorous. They didn’t expect to find it so quickly but it's what they were looking for, whatever it was! \nBolorov continued following this unfamiliar, but wonderful, vibe until they came upon an earthling looking out of place. A man slumped on a public bench with his face towards the ground. He wore a loose tie around his neck and left his suit jacket bunched next to him. Bolorov thought this man might have even had a frown.\n“Hello, sir,” our Tharisan approached the man. “May I ask what troubles you?”\n“This is the worst Valentine’s Day of my life!” He loathed. \n“Valentine’s Day?” Bolorov asked while sitting next to him. They never heard of this day before. “Is that what today is?”\n“Yeah.” The man grumbled out loud, oblivious to the innocent ignorance. “It’s supposed to be a day to celebrate relationships, intimacy, and all that crap when, in reality, it's just an obnoxious commercial frenzy that makes you feel bad if you don’t have anyone to share it with!” \n“I’m sorry,” Bolorov tried to sympathize. “May I ask what happened to the person you were going to share with?” \n“My wife,” The man uttered, throwing up his hands as if to plead ignorance and defeat. “We’ve been married four years and I’m afraid she’s trying to leave me.” \n“What makes you say that?” Our Tharsian didn’t fully understand earthling relationships yet, but they could tell that was not good news.\n“It’s hard to say...” The man started, “We’ve been arguing a lot more over the last two years. We’re having trouble having kids which I think is a big point of contention between us. We’ve done research and seen doctors but can’t get clear answers. I want so much to be a dad and she knows it. So I think she’s taken the lack of diagnosis really hard, believing that she can’t bear a child. She’s been down on herself a lot ever since, maybe even depressed. Every other odd thing seems to trigger her now when she wasn’t like that before.” \nThe merriment faded as Bolorov listened to the man’s life story.\n“What was she like before the conflicts escalated?” They were curious. \n“Oh!” Mused the man, a smile creeping across his face as he recalled the memories. “She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen! We met at a blind date event and that was the last one I ever been on! We talked early on and I didn’t give a hoot about anyone else! She’s a researcher. She’s so intelligent but not nerdy and pretty down to earth about it all. I never knew a combo like that existed!“\nBolorov saw the man had such delight in recalling the start of his relationship. That idea playing a part in their mating rituals was peculiar to them; it was very unlike coupling rituals back on Thars 74T. On the other hand, child-bearing was one thing of earthling life they understood. Thars 74T had germination rituals--some of which have been difficult on occasion--but they didn’t compare to Earth life. On other adventures, they’ve noticed how grown earthlings have such joy and affection for their young. Seeing the young reciprocate was even more endearing at times. Bolorov recognized the concerns this man and wife had about lacking the experience.\n“...She seemed in a better mood a few weeks ago,” the man continued. “I mentioned the idea of going on a special date tonight and she seemed up for it. I even wanted to use the time to try telling her that I still want her even if she can’t have children! I really want to help her feel better. I made a dinner reservation but she canceled on me earlier! She said she was sick, but for all I know, she could really be off with a new man or starting divorce papers.” He clenched his fists and slumped back down. “I’m sorry to unload on you like this...” \n“No!” Bolorov protested, “I don’t mind at all!” Now they understood a little better why this earth man seemed out of sorts on a day like today. “I hope having a listening ear at least helped. I’m truly sorry about your predicament tonight and with your wife.”\nBolorov started to recognize something else new. They had a high opinion of the man who still wanted his wife despite the pregnancy issues. They saw this man had a commitment to his wife he intended to keep. The coupling ritual of Thars 74T worked the same way, but the deep affection earthlings had for one another is what made their “rituals” different. More still, this commitment and affection seemed to be what drove all other parts of this Valentine’s Day (in good times at least). That’s what was unknown to our Tharsian. Commitment and affection, boiled down to just one thing they didn’t know how to describe. They wanted to try exploring that thing further when the man’s cell phone rang. A beautiful woman’s photo popped up on the screen. Bolorov suspected the man’s wife was calling. \n“Hello,” he answered, bracing for the worst. “You’re what?!” The man shot up straight, his eyes widened, and his glumness quickly changed. “You’re... p-pregnant?!” He drew out, hardly believing the words himself. \n“My wife is pregnant!” The man turned to Bolorov, the joy making him tremble. “She was really sick because she’s pregnant!” They thought they saw a few tears in his eyes.\n“That’s so wonderful!” They returned the man’s smile and emotion.”Congratulations!” \n“I’ll be right home, honey!” The man said into the phone. Before ending the call, he said three words Bolorov found unfamiliar. To borrow a colloquialism, they would say it was Greek to them. The two said hurried goodbyes and the man dashed home. \nBolorov returned to the festive night, relieved that the man’s dilemma was resolved. However, they couldn’t help but imagine that same man having a young child in his arms in a few months. The pride and affection he was going to feel! They wondered if they’d meet the man--or even his family--again. \nAffection, Bolorov then thought, and those three words. That thing they couldn’t describe. They wanted to know that. It’s not a thing on Thars 74T and making it one would be difficult. The Tharsian society would shun an idea that’s not their own. Could they possibly introduce Rugvart to this concept and they learn it together? Not likely if Rugvart is stalwart to Tharsian ways...what were they to do?\nOur Tharsian paused their deliberations at a florist cart. Admiring the vibrant rouge blooms, they produced a few dollars from the currency generator to purchase a single-stem rose. While smelling it, Bolorov was further distracted by a mother-daughter earthling pair on the curb nearby. The mother seemed preoccupied with her cell phone conversation while holding her daughter’s hand. In contrast, the daughter seemed a little bored, waiting for either her parent’s attention or their destination. Bolorov had the idea to share their flower with the little earthling girl, who accepted with a smile on her face. They smiled back, warmed by the exchange.\nThe smiles and cheers abruptly transitioned to panic as the sky turned unusually dark. Wind gusts from overhead picked up, upsetting bystanders and loose material. Looking upward, they spotted the gargantuan Tharsian overlord spacecraft hovering over the metropolitan airspace. A booming vocalization sounded from the vehicle, inarticulate to earthlings as it was speaking in the Tharsian language. \n“Bolorov Wexanthra 0 Theta 51! You are in violation of galactic laws 579-3.21 among other Tharsian offenses! Surrender yourself peaceably for transport to High Council!”\nOur Tharsian was stunned at first. The cloaking device was supposed to mask his alien signature from detection along with providing a human appearance. So how did they find them? They inspected the cloaking device for any anomalies and found a planted program bug that tracked their whereabouts. \nThen they were frightened. Not so much for the consequences of their actions against Thars 74T but for the chaos that was about to ensue. While they recognized earthlings were resilient beings, Tharsian warfare was too much for humanity. No Space Force or NASA tactics would get the upper hand on their alien kind. More quick thinking had to be implemented before an intergalactic conflict broke out. \nBolorov started by aiming their blaster towards the overlord spacecraft, hoping to gain some advantage by hitting an alleged weak spot in the nose of the exterior system.\n“Bolorov Wexanthra 0 Theta 51!” The overlord voice boomed again, “Violence against the Overlords will not be tolerated! Prepare for offensive measures!” \nPlasma blasters sparked to life and bystanders were fearful now. A couple of bolts were unleashed up the block, frying structures they contacted or zapping spots onto the pavement. Amid the escalating mayhem, the mother-daughter pair got separated, with the daughter frozen in fear where she stood as a plasma bolt careened right for her. Bolorov dove to move the girl, narrowly missing contact with the streak. They ushered the girl to the other side of the street where her mother ended up and gratefully received her daughter. Our Tharsian turned back and shot at the overlord ship again, finally hitting the weak spot and malfunctioning the plasma blasters. \n“If the Overlords be in agreement,” Bolorov addressed the leaders. “Please exile me to this planet for my crimes! My only request is to consider this planet under the galactic codes Tau 3.B-19. Earth will not be targeted with violence again if its inhabitants have not provoked first!”\n“This is an accepted contingency but it will not be your final sentence,” The spacecraft voice responded. “We must confer with the planetary council regarding their ruling.”\nBolorov and other bystanders watched the craft ascend from Earth’s atmosphere. Calling out that statute felt like a long shot, but it seemed to work...for the time being anyway. The human crowd cheered and expressed thanks, declaring they were saved. The mother-daughter pair crossed the street again to more properly thank their hero with a hug. \n“Is this what that feels like?” Our Tharsian wondered introspectively as they were embraced. “Is this affection and respect? I certainly want to commit myself to keeping planet Earth and its inhabitants safe, if they’ll have me. They are so interesting and now I should have plenty of time to learn more about them and maybe even that one thing!”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Expiring of Emma Hollingsworth\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2955\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with a character having a gut feeling they cannot explain." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "New England, 1815\nEmma Hollingsworth was dead alright. The carriage door must not have been secured properly for it slipped open and Emma tumbled out and hit her head on a rock. She lay where she fell as limp as a boned-fish. When the doctor was rushed onto the scene to examine her battered body and bruised head, he pronounced her expired. \nNow she serenely lay under six-feet of spring soil and a heap of sympathetic flowers. All manner of folk in town came to cry over her grave. I tried very hard to cry like a dutiful mourner, but the tears were stubborn and refused to show, which was rather rude of them considering the current situation. \nEmma Hollingsworth and I had been friends since infancy. Townsfolk knew we were inseparable. You were like to hear them say, “Wherever Ruth goes, Emma is soon to follow.” This was true throughout our childhood and remained true into our teen years. Likely it would have been true our entire lives if Emma hadn’t croaked unexpectedly. I should have been bawling my heart out at the funeral of my dearest friend, but I hadn’t shed a tear.\nEmma Hollingsworth was very much dead, so why was my gut telling me she wasn’t? \nWe townsfolk left the funeral looking like a swarm of crows. We were all clad in black, as if to leave no doubt that we were rendered utterly miserable by Emma’s expiring. \nMother squeezed my hand and smiled at me with pitying eyes. “There are times, Ruth, where tears are alright.” \n“Tears are a sin,” I said. Then I winced. Perhaps the funeral of my dearest friend was not the time to be saucy. \nMother tucked a strand of my unruly hair behind the ribbon of my bonnet. “I know how much she meant to you.” \nEmma did mean the world to me. We were like bread and butter, or a pair of mittens. One simply wasn’t right without the other. \nBut I couldn’t shake the feeling that Emma was not the sort of girl to die an untimely death. She was cautious with every step. She always wore a thimble when she sewed. Meanwhile I would prick my finger repeatedly, regretting every time that I hadn’t put a thimble on, but never learned from my mistake. She always pinned her bonnet on securely so it wouldn’t fall off. She carried around a little safety satchel under her skirt. It contained healing herbs, rolls of bandages, a pocket bible, a bell to ring for help, and a small knife to protect herself from wild animals and men. She was always prepared for the worst, but always optimistic that she would never have to face it. How could a girl who stepped so carefully into the world die in such a way? A girl like Emma should have lived long past myself who, flighty and wild as I was, was likely to blunder my way to the wrong side of the grass at some point or another. It hardly seemed fair and it certainly didn't seem real. \nThere was a reception at the Hollingsworth home after the funeral. In the dining room there were appetizers. The Hollingsworth’s housekeeper had made Emma’s favorite, apricot marmalade cakes, which was rather cruel seeing as Emma couldn’t eat them. \nSomething resembling a shrine was set-up in the parlor. A painting of Emma done when she was a child rested on top of the piano Emma only played when her parents reminded her how much they had paid for the piano. Emma was the only girl I knew rich enough to have her portrait painted. The brush strokes perfectly captured her round face and soft smile. Little trinkets beloved to Emma surrounded the portrait, including her diaries. They sat open for anyone's perusal. \nIt irked me to see Emma’s privacy disregarded in such a way. Emma was not only a dutiful journaler, but a passionate one. She confessed the thoughts of her heart to two things, me and her diaries. Likely Mr and Mrs. Hollingsworth believed their daughter was so sweet and innocent that her diaries would only be an honor to her good character, but even sweet, innocent girls write sinful secrets in their diaries from time to time. \nFrances Neighbor, a girl my age, was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as she read a page of Emma’s diary. I resisted the urge to snatch it out of her hand and bludgeon her parents over the head with it until they took their daughters' privacy into consideration. \n“What a tragedy,” Frances sobbed as I approached. “Look, here Emma wrote about her future children, but she’ll never have any!”\nI didn’t look. “Emma won’t be happy when she finds out people have been reading her diary.” \nMy words were enough to silence even Frances Neighbors pathetic wailing. As she stared at me with wide, confused eyes, I realized what I said. \n“I meant Emma wouldn’t be happy if she were alive and saw her diaries being read. But she won’t. Because she’s dead.” I laughed awkwardly, making it all worse than it already was. \nWhile nobody was looking, I took Emma’s diaries and dropped them behind the piano so no one one else could explore Emma’s secrets. \nIt was no surprise when I couldn’t fall asleep that night. That day I had attended the funeral and reception of my dearest friend and laid lavender on her grave, yet despite all irrefutable proof, my gut was still telling me that Emma was not dead. \nI allowed myself to explore the possibility. Perhaps she had a twin no one knew about who had died. Or maybe it was all a ruse created by Mr and Mrs. Hollingsworth and there wasn’t anybody in that coffin at all. No one had seen her dead body aside from her parents and the doctor. \nNeither seemed very plausible, but I couldn’t feel sad over Emma’s death until it felt real to me and I couldn’t shake the feeling that tomorrow I would hear her knock on the door right between the hours of breakfast and dinner like I did everyday. She would embrace me in a hug that always smelled of lavender and we would galavant through town, arm in arm. I would plow ahead and blunder into awkward situations, and Emma, with all her caution and gracious social skills, would get us out. \nI fell asleep only to wake a few hours later at midnight in a fever-like sweat. I’d heard Emma calling my name. But when I looked around the room, there was no Emma. Only moonlight. \n“Of course she’s not here,” I muttered to myself. “She is dead.”\nA thought struck me. What if it were all a dream? What if Emma’s death was only a nightmare? What if everything that had passed since Emma fell from her carriage were just figments of an overactive brain? The thought washed over me like spring rain. It all made sense. It was natural to have nightmares of losing the ones you loved. But how could I be sure?\nIt hit me like a cannonball. I would go to Emma’s grave. If it were all a dream, then naturally the grave wouldn’t exist. \nNighttime escapes were a specialty of mine. I’d roped Emma into a few. I rolled softly out of bed so as not to bounce the feather mattress and wake my siblings slumbering beside me. I pulled on stockings to soften the shuffling of my feet and tiptoed through the house, wincing at each creaking stair step and outspoken door. \nThe moon illuminated my path. In the woods, the trees whispered gently and owls called out to each other. I passed the church with candles glowing in the window. Right behind the church was the graveyard, surrounded by a toppling gray stone wall. \nI climbed over the wall and into the home of the dead. The ground was mossy and soft. When we were younger, Emma was afraid the soft ground would give out and we would fall into the arms of a skeleton. \nEmma was buried somewhere in the middle of the graveyard. When I saw the tall grave of the Hollingsworth ancestors, my stomach twisted. Emma’s grave, if it was there, would be just behind them. I turned the corner. \nThough there was no gravestone yet, the pile of fresh flowers marked where Emma was buried early yesterday. \n“It can’t be,” I whispered. I took two steps forward, then fell to my knees at the foot of Emma’s flower bed. “It can’t be.” \nA rush of sorrow made my throat swell and ache. Tears did not just fill my eyes, they flooded down my cheeks. I clutched at the fresh flowers, crushing them in my fists, and buried my face in my hands. My Emma was dead. \nThrough the pain and misery howling through my heart and mind, there was the soft jingle of a bell. Too overwrought to pay it any mind, I dismissed it as a delusion of sorrow. But it kept going. So distant, yet so urgent. It was as if it were coming from the ground.\nI dropped the crushed flower petals as if they had scorched me. My tears came to an abrupt halt. Blurry eyed, I stared at the grave before me. The only explanation for a bell to be ringing beneath the ground was for someone beneath the ground to be ringing it. And the only people under the ground were dead. Or at least they were believed to be. \nUnwilling to be fooled by the desperate, and somewhat insane, hopes of a saddened heart, I pushed aside the heaps of flowers on Emma’s grave and put my ear to the fresh dirt. The ringing continued, as faint and desperate as ever. \nAll at once I knew; that gut feeling which had felt like a betrayal to the memory of my dearest friend was not just a feeling, but truth and intuition telling me she was still alive. \nI’d heard tales of people being buried alive before. But I’d never fully believed them. It was the kind of people dismissed as happening to someone else. Sure, it might have happened a few towns over, but it would never happen in our town. But it was happening right now. \n“I have to get her out before she suffocates.” \nI clawed desperately at the dirt as quickly as I could. Dirt flew in every direction. Some hit my eye but I impatiently rubbed it away. After several moments of digging with my hands, I’d made merely a dent. I wouldn’t be able to do this myself. I looked around. Sitting in the shadows cast by the moonlight was a small shack just outside the graveyard wall. This was where the gravedigger lived. \nWhen I knocked wildly on the door, Mr. Grant appeared. He was bleary eyed and cranky. \n“Someone die?” Mr. Grant demanded. “If so, I start digging at dawn. No sooner. The body will keep overnight.” \n“Yes.” I amended myself. “But no. Emma Hollingsworth. She was buried yesterday, but she’s not dead.” \n“Say what?” Mr. Grant leaned his ear towards me. \nPanic was rising in my chest like a flood. “There has been a mistake. She’s alive!”\nThe gravedigger stared at me. “What you on about?” \n“She's alive! I can hear her ringing a bell!” \n“Where in tarnation would she get a bell?” \nI opened my mouth, then closed it. That was something I hadn’t considered. Where would she get a bell? I was about to declare that didn’t matter right now, but then I remembered. \n“She always carried a satchel under her skirt with a bell in it for safety. You need to help me dig her out or she will suffocate!” \n“I can’t dig up a grave!” said the old man, appalled. \n“That’s your job!”\n“Only when there ain’t anyone dead in there yet! I ain’t a criminal.” \nI clenched my fists in frustration. Emma was dying beneath the ground at this very moment. “You will be if you don’t help me!” \nIt took a little more convincing, and a few threats, but finally Mr. Grant agreed to help me. \nWe stood atop the soil of Emma’s grave with spades in hand. \n“Forgive me, Lord,” said Mr. Grant, looking up at the stars then plunging his spade into the soil. \nSide by side, we began to dig Emma out. As we dug, the ringing became more and more audible, though Mr. Grant insisted he couldn’t hear it. \nIt was nearly daybreak when we hit the coffin. A dusty pink sunrise was beginning to set across the sky as we pulled Emma out, cold, clammy and breathless after a night six feet under the cold ground. She fell into my arms, clinging to me as if she were drowning and I were a lifeboat. I hugged her back, fiercely. \n“I didn’t know where I was. I thought I was going to die,” she sobbed. All I could do was laugh in utter relief. \nAlthough I would have been happy to stay there in my friend's arms, which smelled as much like lavender as ever and not at all like a dead person, there was business to be attended to. First, Emma’s parents needed to be informed of the miracle. Mr. Grant carried Emma, weak as she was, home. Her mother fainted clear away when she saw her pale, ghostlike daughter on the doorstep in the gravedigger's arms. Which gave us a second reason to call Dr. Froth. The first reason was to demand an explanation on how he’d let someone be buried alive before their time.\nEmma, weak from multiple near-death experiences, was brought to bed with a cup of tea and apricot cakes leftover from her funeral reception. I told her I would come visit her again after I had “heard what that damn doctor has to say.”\nDr. Froth was flabbergasted. He insisted that Emma had been dead as a doornail when he examined her. The Hollingsworths sent him from their home in disgust. \nThey turned to a doctor who hadn’t sent their daughter prematurely to the grave for answers. He was a doctor from a city a few towns over. He admitted that being buried alive was not as uncommon as one might hope. He determined that the cause of Emma’s erroneous death was an injury of the head which had rendered her unconscious temporarily, although it was unclear why no one had detected a pulse. It was safe to say the Hollingsworths would never go to Dr. Froth again. \nWhen I returned home, weary from the whirlwind which had proved my intuition to be stronger than I’d ever given it any credit for, I found my family at breakfast. \n“Ruth, where on earth were you?” demanded Mother as I entered the kitchen still in my nightshift and covered in dirt. \n“I was visiting with Emma.” \nThere was a clatter of spoons as everyone looked up at me.\n“Ruth,” said Mother gently. “Emma is dead.”\n“Nay,” I said. “She is alive.” \nIt was not an easy thing to explain. My family thought I had finally gone insane. But soon Mr. Hollingsworth came by to explain the whole story. He said he didn’t want anyone to see Emma and think she was a ghost then expire as well. And, as words from an adult are always more believed than those of a teen, my family accepted the truth. \nEmma was bed-ridden for a good week before her headaches ceased and her bruises healed. Meanwhile, rumors circulated around town. The worst of which was that Emma’s parents had intentionally buried their child alive, and the most exciting was that I could raise people from the dead. \nWhen Emma was fully recovered, we were back to our old haunts and went collecting wild flowers the first day. \nAs we gathered daisies in a big wide, sun dappled field, we both made a solemn vow to each other. I looked Emma straight on and said, “I swear, if you ever die, I will let your body decay for a week straight before burying you.” Emma repeated the oath. We embraced, then continued collecting flowers as if promising not to bury your friend until their body had rotted away was the most normal thing in the world. \nThat was not the only thing we did to ensure someone did not suffer the same as Emma did. Though she did not let on much, Emma was greatly affected by that one night she spent in the darkness of her coffin, trapped, alone and nearly suffocating. \nI went to the town leaders to advocate that the town should take precautions to ensure no one else was buried alive. I thanked the Lord that Emma always carried that satchel with her. So many times I had teased her for it, but it had saved her life in the end. From that day forward every person in our town was buried with a large cow bell in their coffin. Later, the town provided safety coffins being used in other places. These coffins had cords attached to bells above the ground so the person in the coffin could ring for help. This was far more efficient than a bell beneath the ground. \nYears into the future, many people would question our tale. How could a girl spend a whole night under the ground and not suffocate? How could the other girl have heard the bell from six feet under? The science didn’t agree. Our story, the expiring of Emma Hollingsworth, would join the many questionable stories about people who were buried alive." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Words Left Unsaid\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1545\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Boss, we got a shipment of gowns!” The orderly approached me holding a box. \n\n“Gowns? That can’t be right. Let me see.” \n\nThe young man handed me the box clearly labeled, but I knew the contents were not the rare surgical gowns as we hadn’t even attempted to order them in a while. Our small supply was washed and rewashed to the point of becoming tattered. The usable ones the patients wore, the others ripped into strips for bandages.\n\nMust be the personal order from my transport guy, I realized. What a dumbass. Why would he label them gowns when that could create a stir? \n\n“Thanks, young man. Back to work, please,” I instructed the orderly.\nTaking the box into the back supply closet, I placed it on a shelf for examination later. I couldn’t hide it too long for fear the contents needed refrigeration. I would have to wait for a quiet time.\n\nMy shipment arrived with no time to spare and for that I was grateful. Although forgotten or unknown by most, it was Valentine’s Day. Those who did remember the obsolete holiday were sure to ignore it or celebrate it in the utmost of secrecy. \n\nDetermined to remain optimistic, I turned my thoughts to the special night I had planned for Celia. After a lifetime of friendship, I was finally going to make my feelings known to her. I had no choice, as I couldn’t go on seeing her day after day as my feelings grew deeper. Life was short and can change in a heartbeat. After years of deliberation, I felt secure in my decision.\n\nWas it possible that she had feelings for me as well? We had dated a bit back in college but that was put on hold when assigned to work at the same hospital. The rules of conduct were strict and the punishment stricter. Not wanting to jeopardize our futures we had agreed to put any personal feelings aside. It would be worth it, we agreed, as our careers skyrocketed, eventually heading up the most successful OB/GYN team of surgeons in the country.\n\nThat was before.\n\n*\n\nI’ll never forget that horrific day when my keycard wouldn’t open the door to my wing. “What the fuck?” I swiped again and again to no avail. \n\nTurning to the nurse’s station, I attempted to approach the staff when they scattered past me, eyes looking anywhere but back at mine. What in the hell was going on?\n\n“We’ve been defunded,” Celia’s voice came from behind. “Follow me.”\n\nDefunded? I was dumbstruck as I followed Celia down into the parking garage. She got in her car as I got into mine and I followed her blindly. We drove along to where? The boondocks, as far as I could tell. Anywhere, USA.\n\nHours later her sleek black car drove onto a farm. A massive door to the barn opened automatically similar to a garage door opening when you pull up the driveway. This was no garage, I noted, as I followed Celia in, the barn doors closing behind us. \n\n“What you are about to see stays between us. Understood?” She looked me in the eye looking dead serious. \n\n“Of course.”\n\nClearing off some hay she opened a trap door and down we went through the dark dusty staircase. On the landing we stopped. Celia put her bags down, took off her coat and slipped on a white jacket that had been hanging on a hook, handing me one as well. I put mine on silently, heart pounding. Whatever Celia was going to show me was huge.\n\n\n\n“I want to be someone,” Celia had said, sipping her coffee. We were on an actual date back when we were college freshmen.\n\n“You are someone.” I didn’t want to let on my true feelings, what an amazing ‘someone’ she actually was.\n\n“No. I mean someone. Someone who makes an impact. Changes the world.” Her words could have sounded corny, cliché, but Celia wasn’t that type. She had really meant it. Maybe it was destiny. We didn’t know it at the time. \n\nAre some people exceptional? I’ve always wondered about that. What makes an Olympic athlete? An inventor? What separates them from the average? Will? Determination? Something more? Celia had that something more.\n\n\n\nWe went down yet another set of stairs to a world I couldn’t believe.\n\nBright lights, white walls, metal carts filled with shiny instruments. And people. A waiting room of people, mostly women and children, appearing distraught and haggard.\n\n“What in the world?” I looked at Celia, an older version of that girl drinking coffee, an exceptional woman who still made my heart flutter.\n\n\n\n“Dr. Joe, are you okay?” The orderly interrupted my trip down memory lane. How long was I standing there lost in thought? Once again, alarmed at the speed of my life passing me by, I felt reassured that tonight was the night to confess my feelings to Celia. If not now, then when? It was 2044 for crying out loud, I wasn’t getting any younger and life wasn’t getting any less cruel.\n\nMy thoughts drifted back to that package delivered earlier, the chocolates and wine for my Valentine’s Day surprise. The holiday had been discontinued, considered too frivolous for the dictator, but there were those hopeless romantics who celebrated anyway. The select few taught the younger generation to secretly embrace it with plans to bring it back once the dictator was gone.\n\nI prayed for a quick end to the tyranny, at the same time feeling the walls close in on what we had built over the years in hiding. Celia was a wanted woman, defying the rules of the land, refusing to turn her back on those in need. I knew her vulnerability, the target on her back for leading this cause, but we couldn’t let that distract us. Our focus had to remain on the patients and providing them the health care that they desperately needed.\n\nI snuck a look at the box marked gowns, ripped open a corner and saw the finest chocolate. What a treat this will be! I smiled knowing I held in my hands contraband, feeling quite rebellious. Not drugs, not weapons, but a banned box of chocolate. Buried even deeper was a bottle of wine the likes of which I hadn’t seen in ages. The dictator had ransacked collections, his men going house to house with the intent of destroying and pillaging. This special delivery had taken months to orchestrate relying on my intricate network.\n\nGowns. Why would someone put that label on a delivery to a farm? I shuddered, suddenly terrified. Who would do that? If it got into the wrong hands or was seen by the wrong set of eyes it could be the end. Everything that Celia and I had built was in jeopardy. I thought of the women who journeyed across the country in silence, our teams strategically placed to guide them through the checkpoints. Now both patients and staff were potentially threatened by that one word on the label.\n\nI said a little prayer for our safety, for the women, for the children, for our country. Please let this end soon. My calling had always been to save lives but even I couldn’t help the occasional dark thought of assassination in my angriest hours. I pictured looking him in the eye finally feeling vindication after all the years of abuse and torture he had inflicted. I fought that urge when it reared its ugly head. Celia was my guiding light; I couldn’t let her down.\n\n**\n\nWe sat in the candlelit room at the end of the corridor, a room no one knew existed except Celia and me. The table was covered with the best fabric I was able to find in the storage room, the red wine and chocolate displayed on the small round table emulating a café. \n\nHer eyes sparkled with happiness, perhaps a reflection of the candles but hopefully something more. She once again had the youthful expression on her now aging face. The years had not been kind to her. To me, however, she will always remain the beautiful girl sipping coffee when we were young.\n\nIt was time. I took her hand. “Celia. I want to let you know how I truly feel. It’s been an honor knowing you. But more than that. You are my one true lo …”\n\nMy words silenced by the door flying open, a gun pointed at my romantic setting.\n\n“Noooo,” I screamed, throwing myself in front of Celia but not quickly enough as she fell to the floor, a puddle of blood spreading out from beneath her.\n\nGowns. That one word a tip-off to someone that we were there. All of my carefully made plans turned into a nightmare. Celia’s entire life mission to save people dissolved in the blink of an eye. It was all my fault.\n\nI saw red, the color of Celia’s blood spilling out on the shiny floor, and the color of my rage. In one move I grabbed the gun and escaped after one fatal shot to the heart. I was on my way to do what should have been done years ago. The tyranny would end tonight." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Senses\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 3001\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with a character having a gut feeling they cannot explain." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There were still a few hours left until Private Liebermann and the rest of the guards of Stalag V C had to wake up ahead of the prisoners, and wake them up for roll call. Moving onto his stomach, Liebermann reached under his bunk, taking out a small clock and squinting in the darkness. It’s nearly three . . . I should get back to sleep. Shifting onto his back, Liebermann stared up at the boards of the bunk above.\n\nAfter a few long minutes passed, something started to feel off. Confused, Liebermann looked around the barracks. Every other guard was sound asleep. He watched Sergeant Nagel turn onto his left side and bury himself in his blanket. Private Seiden above him had been breathing evenly the whole night. Corporal Viermitz was asleep on his back with one arm over his face, mouth open and snoring loud enough to wake the whole camp. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.\n\nQuietly getting out of bed, Liebermann crept over to a window. The camp was covered in a fresh layer of snow. The night guards were still making their rounds. Again, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Despite that, Liebermann felt compelled to check.\n\nAs he pulled his boots on, a dull knotting sensation started in his stomach. Something’s wrong, he thought, taking his wand out of the sleeve of his coat. Anxious, he threw the rest of his gear on.\n\n“Hey, Fritz, what’re you doing?” Private Jahn whispered from the bunk next to him.\n\n“I’m going to check on the prisoners,” Liebermann replied.\n\n“Why? The night guards are keeping an eye on them.”\n\n“I don’t know. Something feels wrong. I can’t get back to sleep.”\n\n“What feels wrong?”\n\n“I don’t know. Something . . . just feels off. I can feel it in my stomach.”\n\nJahn sighed. “Do you want me to come with you?”\n\n“I’ll be fine, thanks.” Liebermann tucked his wand in his belt before leaving the barracks. The dry winter air stung his face. The icicles hanging down from every building were growing larger. He glanced over at Captain Westheimer’s quarters, noticing all the lights were off. Surely if something were wrong, Westheimer would sense it. At the same time, Liebermann started to wonder if this feeling he was having had nothing to do with magic. Perhaps it was something else entirely.\n\nSnow crunched beneath his boots as he walked across the camp to the prisoners’ barracks. As quietly as he could, he opened the door to Barracks One. A single candle was lit in the center of the building. Everyone inside was asleep, except for one.\n\nLiebermann looked up to see Sergeant Plundell staring at him. “Are you alright?” he whispered.\n\n“Yeah. I just can’t sleep,” Plundell whispered back. “Something—”\n\n“Feels off?”\n\nPlundell nodded. “You feel it, too?”\n\n“That’s why I came here. Is everyone alright?”\n\n“I think so. Everyone’s still breathing. It . . . feels like somebody died, or is about to die.”\n\n“We should go talk to Westheimer.”\n\nPlundell sat up. “While he’s sleeping? Are you insane?”\n\n“He’ll probably know what to do. Except . . . I don’t know if this is at all related to magic. I think it’s worth a shot.”\n\n“I think you’re risking getting your head torn off.”\n\n“Could you come with me, then?”\n\n“Alright.” Plundell climbed down his bunk, putting his winter clothing on before following Liebermann outside. The two walked up the steps of Westheimer’s quarters, and Liebermann pulled a keyring from his pocket.\n\n“I won’t be surprised if he takes this away from me if this all turns out to be nothing,” Liebermann said.\n\n“When did you start feeling this?” Plundell asked.\n\n“About a half-hour ago. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. Something feels horribly wrong and I can’t explain why.” Liebermann unlocked the door, letting Plundell inside before closing the door behind him.\n\nThe commandant’s office felt different at night. It was dark, aside from moonlight spilling in through the windows. Liebermann was uncomfortable with going into Westheimer’s private rooms without permission, but he wanted this answered. The knot in his stomach felt like it was slowly turning into lead.\n\nThey had to go through Westheimer’s living room and library before reaching his bedroom. Liebermann’s heart was pounding as he opened the door. Westheimer was sound asleep in bed. If he’s still asleep, it must be nothing. We’re in big trouble.\n\nHis curiosity and desire to end the tight, heavy feeling in his stomach won over. Liebermann gently shook Westheimer’s shoulder. “Sir. Sir, wake up.”\n\nSuddenly, Liebermann was staring at the end of Westheimer’s cane. The old man was sitting up in bed, reaching over to turn the lamp on. “What the absolute hell are you two doing in here?!” Westheimer shouted.\n\nLiebermann stammered. “W-We’re sorry, sir! We need help! S-Something’s terribly wrong somewhere—”\n\n“Slow down!” Westheimer lowered his cane. “I do not appreciate being woken up at this abysmal hour, but knowing both of you, you would not have done this if it were not urgent.”\n\nSwallowing hard, Liebermann recounted what he felt in the guard barracks, as did Plundell. Westheimer gave a heavy sigh when they finished. “So, let me get this correctly. You both feel as though . . . something, something indescribable, is wrong.” He pointed to Plundell. “You feel as though somebody has died.”\n\n“Is dead or about to be,” Plundell replied.\n\n“If you don’t feel it, it must not have anything to do with magic,” Liebermann added.\n\n“No. I was sleeping peacefully until you two barged in.” Westheimer rubbed his face. “Let me get dressed and we will figure out what the problem is.”\n------------\nIt was closer to four in the morning when Liebermann, Plundell, and Westheimer left the commandant’s quarters. As they checked each building in the camp, the ache in Liebermann’s stomach had grown worse. Maybe I’m just sick, he thought. I can’t be. Plundell feels like there’s something wrong, too.\n\n“Are you alright, son?” Westheimer asked.\n\n“I-I don’t know,” Liebermann replied. “My stomach’s been hurting ever since I started feeling like there’s something wrong.”\n\n“What kind of hurt?”\n\n“It started as a very dull pain, and . . . it’s gotten worse. Now, it feels like someone’s driven a spear through the right side of my abdomen.”\n\nWestheimer pulled off one of his gloves to feel Liebermann’s forehead. “No fever. Have you thrown up at all?”\n\nLiebermann shook his head.\n\n“I think we can rule out your appendix, then.”\n\nPlundell spoke up. “Maybe it’s not physical, sir. This sounds mad, but . . . perhaps it’s related to whatever’s wrong. He's feeling someone else's pain.”\n\n“Empathic pain is generally limited to psychic witches,” Westheimer explained.\n\n“And I’m not a psychic,” Liebermann said.\n\nPlundell’s gaze switched between the two men. “It’s worth a guess, though, if nothing else is wrong. How do we test it?”\n\nWestheimer walked Liebermann along the perimeter of the camp. “Pay close attention to how you feel, son.”\n\nLiebermann nodded. As they came to the southeasternmost corner of the fence, he felt almost nothing. “It’s weakest here,” he said.\n\nThey kept walking. Liebermann wrapped his arms around his stomach as they came up the west side of the fence. Westheimer gently squeezed his shoulder, helping him forward. At the northwest corner, Liebermann was blinded by pain, nearly falling to his knees. He felt as though someone had taken that spear again and was shoving it deeper and deeper in.\n\nWestheimer looked at Plundell. “You were on to something. We will have to go outside the camp.” He looked back down at Liebermann, holding him steady. “I do not want you to suffer, son, but this is the only way we can figure out what and why this is happening. Can you do this?”\n\n“I don’t know, sir,” Liebermann moaned.\n\nWestheimer pulled him away from the fence. “I have an idea.”\n\nThey went to the camp’s motor pool. Plundell was ordered back to the barracks, and Liebermann was helped into the sidecar of a motorcycle. Westheimer grunted as he swung his injured leg over the bike itself.\n\n“We’re going to wake the whole camp, sir,” Liebermann said.\n\n“I have a feeling I know what the problem is now,” Westheimer replied. He handed Liebermann his staff. “Hold this, son, and do not, under any circumstances, throw up in my direction.”\n\nThe night guards opened the main gates, letting Westheimer drive the motorcycle out of the Stalag’s perimeter. He turned somewhat sharply off the road and into the snowy woods bordering the north of the camp.\n\nThe pain returned with the force of a tidal wave. Liebermann gripped Westheimer’s cane with one hand and held his stomach with the other. “Northwest, sir. It’s strongest northwest.”\n\nThey left the forest and entered a vast field. The field looked like a sheet of paper after the midnight snowfall, untouched by anything except the tracks of animals. That made it easy to see the dark stains of blood that started just outside the forest bordering the western edge of the field. Westheimer followed them to a dark heap in the snow.\n\nLiebermann was struggling to even stay conscious. Seeing the blood made the pain worse. His hands were shaking, and he wanted to cry out. Tears streamed down his face. When the motorcycle came to a sudden stop, Liebermann saw the figure laying in the snow, surrounded by blood.\n\nUnable to hold back anymore, Liebermann leaned over the sidecar, throwing up violently. The force of vomiting exhausted him tremendously. His hands kept shaking, but he forced himself to look.\n\nWestheimer was already kneeling by the figure. “A British paratrooper!” he called to Liebermann. He swore upon seeing part of a fencepost sticking out of the paratrooper’s stomach. “And he is badly injured.”\n\nStumbling over, Liebermann was awash with relief, but tears continued to roll down his face. “Is he dead?”\n\n“No, but—”\n\nThe paratrooper’s eyes opened. He screamed and tried moving away from the two. “Fucking Germans!” he hissed, fumbling for his revolver.\n\nWestheimer switched to English. “We are not going to hurt you. Relax and stop moving.”\n\n“I’d rather die than go with you!”\n\n“Not on my watch, young man.” Westheimer looked up at Liebermann. “I have to wrap both ends of the wound before we can move him. Can you go back to camp and get Corporal Wenzel? Go! Hurry!”\n\nLiebermann tossed Westheimer his cane before hopping on the motorcycle. He kept glancing over his shoulder, unable to understand why he felt the paratrooper’s pain. It dwelled on his mind as he returned to the camp to wake up Corporal Wenzel.\n\nHe raced back to the scene as quick as he could, though his mind was elsewhere as he tried answering Wenzel’s questions about the extent of the paratrooper’s injuries. One word made itself clearer than all others in his mind: Why?\n\nThey stopped near Westheimer and the paratrooper, who had stopped fighting and was lying on his left side with a twisted grimace of pain. Liebermann knelt by him, wondering why he suddenly felt responsible for this man, this complete stranger.\n\n“How on Earth did he survive this?” Wenzel asked.\n\n“I am not sure, but he will die if we do not get him indoors,” Westheimer replied. “Can we safely move him?”\n\n“Have you tried pulling the post out?”\n\n“No.”\n\n“Good. Leave it in for now. Liebermann, can you hold this man on your lap for the trip home? Do not try to take the post out, and just hold him steady.”\n\nLiebermann nodded, careful to avoid touching the fencepost as he sat in the sidecar with the paratrooper. “Just hang in there, alright? You’ll make it.” I didn’t sense you for no reason, did I? He squeezed his eyes shut as they rode back to camp, praying this wasn’t all for nothing.\n------------\nIt was impossible to go back to sleep when Liebermann was ordered back to his bunk after getting cleaned up. He was exhausted, but concern and confusion over the British paratrooper remained at the forefront of his mind. Why was it me who felt him? I don’t even know who he is. Was it the only way he was ever going to get any help?\n\nJahn shifted in his bunk when Liebermann returned. “So, what happened? You were gone awhile.”\n\n“It was a British paratrooper outside the camp. He accidentally impaled himself on a fencepost. I don’t know how he survived, but Westheimer and I got him to the medics’ building.”\n\n“Is he going to be alright?”\n\n“I think so. Westheimer said conventional medicine alone isn’t going to help. He’s brewing some healing potions right now.”\n\n“Does he need help?”\n\n“I offered. He told me to get some sleep. I can’t.”\n\nJahn sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “I’ll stay up with you. You sound like you’re in shock.”\n\n“I just don’t understand how or why this happened. I’m not a psychic warlock.”\n\n“Well, it might not have anything to do with magic.”\n\n“I thought that earlier, but . . . it doesn’t make sense.”\n\n“It probably never will, but it happened. I’ve noticed you’re very intuitive, but you’re also highly sensitive, emotionally, to other people.”\n\n“I’ve never thought of myself as sensitive.”\n\nJahn nodded. “You may not think it, but you are.” He shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing.” He was quiet for a moment, laying on his bunk looking deep in thought. “Perhaps it’s a gift you have. Something you didn’t realize you have until now.”\n------------\nAfter morning roll call, Liebermann headed right to the hospital. Wenzel was pacing with a clipboard, and glanced up when he saw Liebermann come in. “Everything alright?”\n\n“I’m fine. I . . . want to know how the paratrooper is doing,” Liebermann replied. He braced himself for the worst news.\n\n“He’s going to be alright. It’ll take time, though. I’ve never seen anyone survive being impaled like that.” Wenzel looked at his clipboard. “Muscle and tendon damage can heal easily, but what has me worried is the damage to his internal organs. I was in surgery with him for several hours trying to make sure there were no splinters left behind after taking the post out. The fact that he’s still alive is incredible.” He sighed. “I just hope he continues to pull through.”\n\n“Did you get his tags?”\n\nWenzel reached into his pocket, pulling out two small chips, one round and one octagonal held together by string. “His name is Austin Tretheway.”\n\n“May I go see him?”\n\n“If he’s asleep, don’t wake him.” Wenzel led Liebermann to the post-operation room. There were several beds, and all were empty except for one. The paratrooper was laying partly propped up in it. A thick mass of bandages covered the entry and exit wounds on his back and stomach. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing evenly.\n\nTaking a folding chair and placing it next to the bed, Liebermann was lost on what more to do other than sit and think. Obviously, Tretheway wasn’t awake, so he couldn’t really say anything.\n\nAs he delved into his thoughts, Liebermann was pulled from them by Westheimer entering the room. He stood to salute, but Westheimer gestured for him to sit.\n\n“I’m sorry I’m not at my post, sir,” Liebermann said.\n\n“You are not on rotation today, because I knew you would be distracted,” Westheimer replied. He held up a tiny bottle of a pale blue liquid and shook it a couple of times before taking the cap off. “Hold open his mouth, please.”\n\nLiebermann gently opened Tretheway’s mouth. Westheimer poured the contents of the bottle in, and carefully tipped Tretheway’s head back so it went down his throat. “What is that?” Liebermann asked.\n\n“Regeneration potion,” Westheimer explained. “It will assist in repairing the damage done to his muscles and organs. I forget you were never taught how to brew potions.”\n\nLiebermann shook his head. “Am I going to be punished for last night, sir?”\n\n“No. Why should you?”\n\n“I barged into your quarters and woke you up.”\n\n“You saved this man’s life. No sane officer would punish you for that.”\n\nThere was a minute or two of silence, then Liebermann said, “I talked to Jahn about this, but I want to ask you; why did this happen? Why did I feel Tretheway’s pain?”\n\n“What did Jahn say?”\n\n“He said it may not make sense, but it probably never will and it was meant to happen regardless.”\n\n“He is probably right. Try not to dwell too much on the ‘why’ and ‘how.’ The point is that it led to you saving Tretheway’s life.” Westheimer glanced at the sleeping paratrooper. “I have already told the Red Cross about this, and they are taking care of alerting the British government. For now, Tretheway can rest and recover.”\n\n“This isn’t serious enough to send him back to Britain?”\n\n“Technically, it is, but like I told Wenzel, Tretheway will need more than surgery and rest. With the damage done to his intestinal tract, it is likely that he will not be able to eat properly for several months. His weight will plummet like a stone.”\n\nLiebermann looked down at the floor. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”\n\n“World War I. Battle of St. Quentin Canal. A sergeant was bayoneted in the stomach by an Australian soldier. He probably would have survived without my help, but I did not want to take the risk. The same applies here to Tretheway. He will survive without magical aid, but I will not have a prisoner die on my watch.” Westheimer stood up. “I had best get back to work.” He leaned on his staff, looking down at Liebermann. “I suggest you find something to distract yourself. Tretheway will be alright. You cannot sit here all day.”\n\nNodding a little, Liebermann got up as well. As he left the room, he looked over his shoulder, silently hoping Tretheway would pull through." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Engagement of Emily Baldwin\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1032\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a successful marriage proposal, or one that goes horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Clint:\nEngagements. When do you do them? Where do you do them? How do you do them? On Valentine’s Day, the holiday of joy and love commercialized to sell chocolate, flowers, and jewelry with a ring in a glass of champaign? During a gathering of family and friends where you can make some grand announcement with a long-winded speech? Traditionally at the place where you met, down on your knees looking for the right words to make the moment epic for your beloved. I guess there is no right time, place, or way, but it all seems so cliché.\n\nI knew it was time. I have been seeing Emily exclusively for two years. I love her. I am enchanted by her voice, he motions, her looks. I desire her. She makes me laugh. She challenges me mentally and emotionally to be more, do more, and see the world through a different perspective. She supports me in all my ventures and ideas. She listens to me, cares for me, respects me, loves me. I need this woman to always be in my life. I have to ask her, and I have to ask in the perfect way.\n\nI made reservations at Alfonso’s, a quaint little Italian place in little Italy. She loves the ambiance, the lowly lit room where each table has its own candle. A violinist serenades you while you wait. Emily watches as if she can see the music coming off the violin, dancing harmoniously through the air just for her. She enjoys the banter of the sommelier as we sample wines to go with the dinner we order a la carte. After that its drinks and dancing at the piano lounge where she can show off her lengthy, finely fashioned, athletic form for all to admire.\n\nI already have the ring picked out. I thought it was going to be easy to select an engagement ring for the woman I love, but there was so much to it. How many carats? Round cut, princess cut, marquis cut, and more. Gold, white gold, or platinum? What kind of setting? I paced the sales floor, peering through glass display cases, comparing each ring’s quality, appearance, and price. My indecisive nature drove the sales lady to rub the bridge of her nose and sometimes her temples as she watched customer after customer come and go satisfied with the service they received from her fellow salespeople. I paid no mind. The selection had to be perfect. Her commission be damned. After hours of searching, I finally decided on a two-carat marquis cut with white gold and a bridge accent setting. I hope she loves it.\n\nLastly, I picked up a few gifts to set the stage for my proposal. I already feel the lightness in my stomach and the jittery sensation that creeps through one’s skin when they are nervous. Hopefully, she will be talking about this proposal for generations to come.\n\nEmily:\nI never really knew how I wanted to be proposed to. I definitely did not want my engagement ring anywhere near my food or beverage for fear of choking – it would be just my luck. I sure as hell didn’t want some big to-do where my boyfriend forces me into the spotlight as he yammers on and on about life and love – I'm anxiety prone. If a man ever proposed at a sporting event the answer would be, no – get real. I didn’t know how I wanted to be proposed to, but I knew the man I would say yes to would put some serious thought into it, make it special, memorable. I knew I wanted to tell the story proudly to family and friends and to people I would meet throughout my life. I not only wanted to be surprised, I wanted to feel the love radiate in the moment.\n\nI have been seeing these three guys for some time now. They all know that if they want me to themselves, they are going to have to put a ring on it – if I let them. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to settle down. I spent Thanksgiving with Thad, and Christmas with Barry, so Clint got Valentine’s Day. I never thought Clint would be the one to propose. I kind of expected it from Thad, having dated him the longest, or Barry, being the neediest. But Clint, he was my good times bud. He was the one that swooped in and out, taking me to fancy places, never pressing for sex whereas the other guys lived for Netflix and chill, acting like I was a high they couldn’t get enough of, constantly seeking my time.\n\nSo, I was surprised when on Valentine’s Day Clint was sitting in the driveway rudely laying on the horn. It’s not typical of him, and it’s not like we were late for dinner. I stomped outside ready to give him a piece of my mind when I saw him holding the sweetest looking Golden Retriever puppy with a red bow tied around its neck.\n\n“Call him,” he says, setting the puppy on the ground.\n\nExcited with a puppy crush, I kneeled down and started coaxing the little guy my way in octaves I didn’t know I could reach. The chubby little furball bounced my way with his tail wagging, his ears flopping, his tongue hanging to one side, and those sad looking brown eyes steeling my heart. I scooped him up and he showered my face with little puppy kisses as I ruffled his soft golden fur. Then I felt it. Laced into the ribbon that formed the bow was a stunning two-carat diamond ring. I look up towards Clint who was down on one knee with a dozen red roses held out in front of him.\n\n“Emily Baldwin, will you marry me?”\n\nI laughed. I cried. I ran to him with the puppy in my arms saying, “Yes, of course I will, yes!”\n\nHe took me in his arms and between the fiancé kisses and the puppy kisses I felt like the most loved woman in the world and the night was just getting started." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cosmo the Magnificent\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2877\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character makes a living faking psychic powers. One morning, they wake up with real ones." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In the twisted and complex world of carnival performing artists, Cosmo the Magnificent could be found on the bottom rung of the ladder of his profession as a psychic. His seances and psychic paraphernalia was as amateurish and fake as any on the Midwest Circuit during the early 1930’s as national interest in the occult reached its zenith. \nBorn in a small town in Oklahoma town forty some years ago, he was christened Earl Patrick Landers. As soon as his legs could carry him he left home and became a member of Zyicendeld Traveling Circus or Ziggie's for short. Yogart Zyicendeld, an immigrant from Slovenia, was as close as anyone could come to Robert Louis Stevenson's immortal Long John Silver from Treasure Island. He even sounded like a pirate when he spoke with his thick Slavic accent. Unlike the famous literary pirate, Yogart was not missing his leg, but the same could not be said for both his heart and soul as popular belief held that he had bartered them away a long time ago as part of the deal when he purchased his circus from the devil. Often in a foul mood, he would shake his fists at all of his performers as he passed by them each morning as they traveled from North Dakota to Texas and back again during the spring, summer and autumn.\nNow in his eighteenth year with Ziggie's, Earl sat staring in the mirror as he applied his pancake makeup so his white face would not appear as white Hamlet's ghost while he was running through his act in the third ring. The third ring was on a platform and was close to the audience so they could see and appreciate his sleight of hand routine. The routine had been done so many times, he knew it by rote and it often felt tired and boring. Dead Mother was by far his fan favorite routine. He would invite his dead mother to join him onstage where they would engage in a spirited conversation which usually ended in an argument that left the audience in stitches. Dead Mother was an image of a veiled old woman projected on a screen behind him with Kim Voltheim adding the voice of Dead Mother. Still of all his showmanship, it was his seances and tarot readings after the show that brought the money rolling in for him.\nThere was only one drawback and that was his predictions were wrong over eighty percent of the time. His promotion guaranteed the opposite, so it was little wonder that some of his customers got riled especially when his forecast concerned his customer's financial future. And as it turned out, it was a dangerous time to miscast such affairs.\nHe had become the psychic who could not predict the future. It was an inside joke among the rest of the crew and it hurt. He would never let on to such a thing because spending over two hundred days a year with them, any sign of weakness or pain would become a target for ridicule. Carnies were not known for their empathy or sense of compassion.\n\"Loved Dead Mother last night.\" Benson sat in the chair next to Earl and began to apply his clown makeup.\n\"Thanks.\" Earl managed to sigh as he began applying his eye makeup.\n\"You oughta Stick to that.\" Benson used broad strokes to paint his face white, \"The other stuff just doesn't have that swing.\"\n\"Right, swing.\" He pointed his finger at the clown and pretended to shoot a pistol at him.\nThat evening everything went flat. The projector malfunctioned and Dead Mother was a complete flop. Some of the gimmicks also did not work during the séance and all of his customers demanded their money back. Kim obliged their request in order to prevent a riot.\n\"Everyone has an off night.\" She flopped down in a vacant chair near him.\n\"Seems to be a more common occurrence lately.\" He put his aching head into his hands.\n\"Nobody really knows the future. I think it's for our own good.\" She takes a healthy swig from her flask and offers some to Earl. He shakes his head.\n\"If I could see into the future, I'd be doing my own bit on Vaudeville.\" He winked at her. Though she was half his age, she was pretty with her bright brown eyes and dark hair that curled right at her shoulders. With her hourglass shape and fishnet stockings, she was fun to look at, he thought as she got up and left the tent.\nAh the tent, his home away from home most of the year before he'd drift back to St. Louis where he'd hibernate at a flop house until spring. In his twelve by twelve space enclosed by canvas walls, he would exist and perform as the show traveled from town to town each with a grange hall and silos that reached to the blue skies like the hands of God.\nMany of the carnies felt, if he was the genuine deal, he would not have been married six times. Something should have told him, \"Let's not go down this road again.\" But temptation was like Dead Mother, the premise was seemed very promising, but the results never changed. It was the one thing he seemed he could count on. \nCollapsing on his metal collapsible cot, he was asleep and did not hear the rumble of the thunderstorm that was approaching from the north. The place where they had camped for the night didn't even have a proper name. Some of the locals referred to the place as hog excrement, but using a much cruder phrase. The ground was marshy due to the Platte River flowing over flat hard ground. \nThunderstorms were common in this area. The lightning would spider web across the ebony night sky followed by the cannon of thunder. No matter how loud the cannon sounded, Earl did not stir a muscle wrapped in his cozy blankets.\nThen it happened. Lightning has no feeling or sense of direction. It is governed by the laws of nature. The wires that hung loosely between each of the tents attracted a bolt of lightning. The force of the energy from the bolt blew up the generator and snaked along the conductive wires. It just so happened the path the surge of electricity went into Earl's tent as he slept and sparked up the metal frame that cradled him. He sat up in his cot. He did not see the smoke that escaped from his ears, because if he had he might have died of fright.\n\"What the Hell?\" Was all he could manage. His graying hair was standing straight up from his head. There was a tingling still running renegade through his extremities.\n When he staggered out of his tent, the sun was breaking like an egg over the bruised horizon. \nThe Chuck wagon was cooking breakfast. The ground was soggy from the rain in the storm. He stopped for a minute.\nSmoke. Flames. Hotel in town. People screaming unable to get out safely.\n\"Hey Earl, what's up?\" Cookie the chef asked as he scooped breakfast onto a plate and handed it to Earl.\n\"Do you smell it?\" He asked, holding his plate.\n\"Smell what?\" Cookie sniffed and shook his head. \n\"Smoke. Smells like something is on fire.\" He answered as he started to shake.\n\"Seriously? I just got done cooking breakfast.\" He chuckled, \"All I can smell is grease.\"\nHe put his plate down near Kim who was just finishing her breakfast.\n\"You smell it doncha, Kim.\" He asked before taking a fork full of SOS on his plate.\n\"What the mud, mold and mildew?\" She lit a cigarette to have with her coffee.\n\"No, the smoke.\" \n\"What smoke?\" She blew the match out, \"Are you getting on me about my habit?\" \n\"No, it smells like something Is on fire. Like a building.\" He seemed shaken. Kim had never seen him rattled like this before.\n\"Maybe I can borrow Yogart's car and see for myself.\" He put down his fork.\n\"Are you out of your skull? He wouldn't let you borrow his car if Chicago was on fire.\" She laughed as she got up and left him sitting there with a strange expression on his face.\nGetting the car keys was the easy part since Yogart never put them away. The road to town was challenging as it snaked and swerved along the river. Charleton was the small town nearest to their camp, but everything looked peaceful and normal. The police station was no bigger than a phone booth, but he parked his boss' car in front of the building.\nA fat man in a policeman’s uniform sat at the only desk in the tiny room reading a newspaper. Looking up, the rotund officer asked, \"Can I help you?\" \nThe question lacked a note of sincerity, but Earl stepped forward, \"There's going to be a fire at the hotel.\" \n\"And why do you think...wait a minute aren't you Cosmo the Magnificent?\" He sat up, putting the paper aside. With a stern expression, \"Only you weren't so magnificent last night.\"\n\"Sorry, but the hotel is going to burn down and a lot of people are going to die.\" \n\"Who says so?\" The large man asked with a definite expression of doubt on his face.\n\"I had a dream and-\" \n\"I've got better things to do-\" He began.\n\"Like what? Humor me. What do you have to lose? Sit here and watch the grass grow?\" Earl shrugged.\nRolling his eyes, the officer got to his feet, \"I should run you in, but I am kind of bored.\" \nTogether, they walked out of the office. The hotel was just a couple buildings away. The desk clerk put away his bottle of whiskey when he saw Officer Payton saunter into the fleabag hotel with a stranger. \n“Can I help you, Officer Payton?” He asked, smiling.\n“Sure can Shep. This guy here thinks the hotel is in some kind of danger.” He jerked thumb toward Earl.\n“I see.” He nodded.\n“I figured I’d give him the courtesy of having a look around.” He shook his head to let Shepherd Rotterham know he figured this would be a waste of time. \n“Where are the fuses?” Earl asked.\n“Follow me.” Shep led him into the basement which was no more than a small room with nothing but a couple of busted chairs and a fuse box. Unlatching the fastener, the metal door swung open. No soon had this happened when one of the fuses blew sending sparks arcing in every direction. Some of them managed to light a chair on fire. “Son of a b---.” \nShep did not have time to finish his final word as flames began to lick up the walls of the small room. The three of them ran up the stairs and began beating on doors to wake the customers. As the sleepy people poked their heads out of their room in a variety of sleepwear, Shep began yelling, “Fire! Get out!” \nThe hall quickly filled with thick black smoke. Shep, Officer Payton and Earl managed to help everyone out of the hotel safely as the two fire trucks arrived, but by the time they were able to hook up their hoses, the roof collapsed and the Good Nite Hotel was no more, but everyone had managed to make it out safely.\n“Cosmo, this town owes you a great debt in saving the lives of these folks.” Officer Payton declared.\nThe evening’s performance at Ziggie’s was standing room only. When Cosmo the Magnificent took the third ring, he received a standing ovation. Later there was a line that wrapped around the fairgrounds of people to have their fortunes read.\n“Am I gonna get Maybelle to marry me?”\n“Am I gonna have a bumper crop this year?”\n“Is my daughter gonna have a healthy baby?” \n“Am I gonna get good grades in school this year?”\n“Am I finally gonna be able to leave Charleton this year?”\n“Is getting a new tractor a good idea this year?”\nAll the questions he was asked were about things only they cared about. But Earl was having other premonitions that disturbed him, especially Yogart selling the circus to an investor who would give all the members of the company their pink slips. Being out of work was a death sentence to most of the carnies who had no other employable skills. He saw the great winds sweep across the Midwest especially in Oklahoma and Kansas where the Dust Bowl would make the lives of the people miserable in the Midwest. \nWhy had God given him this gift? Was it a gift since with it came the horrible visions of the future. It was not a pleasant picture either. Battleships were being bombed. People in Europe were disappearing in camps where they were murdered by the millions. People of Japanese descent were sent to internment camps in this country even if they were born in the United States. Black people were subjected to subhuman treatment in many places. There would be changes in the climate of the world due to unrestricted consumption of the earth’s resources. \nEach night he would have a new nightmare about the future. Some of the nightmares he did not understand, but the message was clear that the future was not as bright as he had hoped. But he would keep that secret to himself. \nHe would tell them what they wanted to hear knowing that most of it was a lie. It was no different really than when he had no idea of what was going to happen in the future before the thunderstorm. If he told them the truth he saw, the customer would not wish to hear the reality, because it was not what they wanted to happen. He was wise enough to know if he wanted to keep collecting their money, he was under an obligation to give the customer what he or she wanted. Each night he would drink himself to sleep hoping to keep the restless spirits quiet. \n“Why so glum?” Benson asked as he was removing his clown make up after a show.\n“I dunno, just feeling a bit uneasy.” Earl answered as he lit a cigarette.\n“We are making a killing, because of you and your psychic abilities.” Benson glanced over at him with half his face still covered in white grease paint. \n“Yogart is thinking of selling the show.” Earl sighed.\n“What? That’s looney. He’s making a fortune.” Benson stared bug eyed at him. \n“He’s getting too old to travel…so he says.” Earl tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it out with his foot.\nZiggie’s was pulling up stakes about six miles from Wichita when Yogart called a meeting to announce that this would be the last swing through the Midwest. At the end of the season Ziggie’s would no longer be in business. Benson burst into Earl’s tent in a violent rage. After nearly beating Earl to death, he runs out never to be seen again by the rest of the crew.\nMost of the bruises and contusions heal, but knowing that this would be their last year, made Earl morose to the point he could no longer do his act as Cosmo the Magnificent. \nWhile in Pierre, South Dakota, a late summer thunderstorm swept in. A bolt of lightning struck a tree near Earl’s tent. The bolt arced and sent a current of electricity through his metal framed cot. \nWhen he awoke, he felt very rested. He did not have any of his usual nightmares.\n“How ya doin’?” Cookie asked as he handed him a plate of biscuits and gravy.\n“Pretty darn good. My shoulder does not feel stiff and some of my bruises are healing.” He sat at the portable table that was the cafeteria.\n“So whadda make of this being our last gig?” Cookie sat at the table with Earl. Earl knew he wanted to hear Cosmo the Magnificent speak about what he was seeing in the future, but what was strange is Earl did not have a clue. He saw nothing. The future was as black as the prairie night. \n“I guess we're gonna have to find new jobs.” Earl said as he swallowed. There were lumps of flour in the gravy as Cookie was not so good at mixing ingredients. \n“Well if that don’t beat all.” Cookie hissed. He wasn’t sure if he was more disappointed in the bleak future or the fact that Earl’s answer did not seem to answer the question the way he hoped it would.\n“I’m gonna probably find my way back to St. Louis.” Earl nodded as he dumped his nearly full plate into the garbage can. “I have no idea what’s gonna happen after that and frankly I kinda like it that way.” \nThat evening after their final show in Pierre, Earl Patrick Landers grabbed his valise and walked to the railway station where he would ride a boxcar with a dozen or so other riders toward St. Louis. \nOn his metal cot lay the turban he used to wear when he was Cosmo the Magnificent." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Premonitions of War\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2049\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose intuition is always right — until one day it isn’t." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was October 31st, 1942, and instead of enjoying Halloween festivities with his friends and family back home, Keith was on a boat heading overseas. World War II was in its third year, and the German army, lead by their leader, Adolf Hitler, had already taken control of much of the occupied territory in Europe.\n Private Keith Jackson, held onto the side of the ship as it rocked back-and-forth across the Atlantic Ocean. His stomach felt as if it had been churned up in a bucket and then stomped on. Keith had only finished boot camp a week prior, and he was terrified of what he was to face once they reached The North African coast.\n They reached land on November 7th in the town of Morocco. It was a culture unlike anything he had ever seen. Now occupied by France, the country was filled with allied forces and refugees from across Europe; many of which were grouped together in abandoned dance halls which would be considered unsafe by most standards.\n Morocco had a large slave population as well, something that Keith was against, coming from the Northern States. It took all the willpower that he could muster, to not react when he saw these slaves being mistreated.\n His platoon was brought to an allied base where tents were erected across a vast area that sat atop a hillside. From there, he could see for miles in any direction. It offered a great vantage point for spotting the enemy. Troops marched in and out of the base on a regular basis with their rifles perched at ready over their right shoulders.\n Many of the local merchants set up carts and makeshift stands outside the base selling food and local crafts. They wore long white garments that Keith was told were called, Djellabah, a light-colored robe with a hood. On their heads they wore a red Fez, a cylindrical hat with a black tassel attached to the top, and on their feet, they wore what resembled slippers. Keith had mistakenly assumed that this was their bed attire and laughed when he first spotted them.\n After being assigned a barracks to sleep in, he was ordered to report to the commanding officer, Colonel Pomeroy, a soldier as tough as they come. His chiseled jaw and muscular physique intimidated Keith slightly. When he spoke, everyone listened. His voice seemed to amplify over the sound of vehicles and the hundreds of soldiers that surrounded them.\n Colonel Pomeroy notified Keith and the rest of his platoon, that they would be shipping out the following day to Algeria where they would hold the border of Tunisia to the northeast. So much for getting settled in, he thought.\n After a day of briefing and preparation, Keith was finally able to get some rest. He laid on his cot inside the barracks and tried desperately to get to sleep, but anxiety started to take over his thoughts as he considered the fact that he may not make it back home.\n The following morning, his Sergeant came into the barracks blowing a whistle, waking everyone up and ordering them to get dressed and packed up, because they were moving out in fifteen minutes. Keith jumped to his feet but was still unsteady after a restless night, and nearly toppled over. The Sergeant stood at the foot of Keith’s cot and barked out orders. Keith hurriedly got dressed, made his bed, and packed his gear. The troop then headed outside where a truck was waiting to transport them to Algeria.\n They came to a stop in the town of Ouenza, close to the Tunisian border. A railway ran through the town that carried supplies for the allies. Keith’s troop was ordered to protect the railway at all costs.\n While making his rounds along the tracks, Keith heard a male voice shouting out his name. At first, he considered it was the dry heat causing him to hallucinate, but then a figure came into view. A man in his early twenties approached Keith with his right hand extended in greeting. Keith recognized him immediately as one of his friends from school, Scott Calloway.\n “How the heck are you?” Scott asked as he shook Keith’s hand vigorously.\n “Scott, I can’t believe it’s really you! What are the odds of us finding each other half-way around the world?”\n “Hey, Keith, after you finish your rounds, I want to introduce you to some of my pals, alright?”\n “Sure, Scott. Sounds great.”\n As promised, Keith joined his friend after he finished with his duties and was introduced to a group of soldiers from all over the United States. Each with their own story of lives they left behind.\n “So, fellas, I need to tell you a secret about my good friend, Keith. Back in our hometown, Keith was known to be something of a psychic. You know, he could predict the future, and stuff like that. So, anyway, people all over town used to come to him to find out all sorts of things. You know, like if they were going to find true love, or get a job. Stuff like that.”\n Keith was annoyed by his friend’s candid approach on a subject that Keith would have preferred to keep secret. Sure enough, as soon as the soldiers heard news of this phenomenon, the questions started coming.\n “It doesn’t work quite that way,” Keith stated. “I can’t just predict things out of the blue whenever I want. I have these dreams that come true most of the time. That’s all.”\n The men were disappointed that they couldn’t find out about their futures, but at the same time, they were intrigued, and slightly spooked out with Keith’s gift.\n It wasn’t long before word of Keith’s ability spread throughout the camp, and he could hear the murmurs as he walked past the other troops. Even his own platoon started acting strange around him. He soon felt like a freak and an outcast, just like back at home. He thought he could get away from all the backtalking by joining the army, but now it had come back to haunt him.\n The following morning, Keith woke suddenly, sitting straight up in his bed. The soldier on the cot next to his asked him what was wrong. Keith informed him that he had a prediction and needed to speak with the commanding officer immediately.\n Lieutenant Donald Barker, or, “Bulldog” to his friends, allowed time to hear out Keith. The rumors of Keith’s predictions had reached him as well, and he wanted to see if there was any truth to it.\n “Have a seat, Private. I’m told you had something important to tell me, so spit it out already.”\n “Yes, sir. That is, it could be important. I had this dream last night that showed the German forces were going to be moving toward Casablanca, Oran, and Algiers. The allies need to protect from land and sea if they are to defeat the Nazis in this battle. There will be German U-Boats hiding out there somewhere.”\n The lieutenant stared at Keith with an unrevealing look. He stayed silent for a few minutes as he paced the floor behind the table he used for a desk. Keith could hear the sand blowing against the tent walls outside and a bead of sweat formed on his forehead. Eventually, Lieutenant Barker spoke.\n “Son, normally I don’t give into this hocus pocus mumbo jumbo, but I just got word this morning from a source I have at military intelligence, and he mentioned rumors of German forces headed this way. I am going to take a chance and notify the base that they should watch those towns you mentioned. If there is any sign of anything out of the ordinary, I will recommend an aggressive force be put in play.”\n As predicted, the Nazi troops tried to take all three of the towns that Keith mentioned, and by the time the battle had ended, the British army had lost nearly six hundred soldiers, the French lost almost 1,400, and the Americans, being led by Major General George S. Patton and Rear Admiral Henry Kent Hewitt, ended up with over five hundred dead. During the battle, the allies captured several German vessels at sea, and sunk eight of the U-Boats. The allies had won.\n Word of Keith’s prediction of the battle reached beyond his allied base; it soon reached top officials in military intelligence as well. They asked to be kept up to date on any future predictions.\n Suddenly, Keith was no longer an outcast. Everyone wanted to shake the hand of the man that turned the war around.\n The next prediction did not happen until February of 1943. Keith saw that the next battle would take place in the Atlas Mountains in west central Tunisia, at a place called Kasserine Pass. This two-mile-wide pass between the mountains was host to a fierce battle. The allied forces, consisting of the United States, Free France, and the United Kingdom, fought over a fifty-mile stretch against the German Panzer Division and the Italian Centauro Armored Division.\n Tanks fired off shells in all directions as troops tried to gain ground on foot. The inexperienced American infantry suffered terrible losses at the hands of their enemy by the time it ended. 3,300 soldiers were killed or wounded, including Keith’s friend, Scott, who took a bullet to the head. In total, there were more than 10,000 casualties, but with the help of the British forces, they were victorious.\n Keith had been promoted twice by the end of the battle and was now a Corporal. His fear had been replaced with a dark entity that seemed to be filling his mind with hatred for the enemy. He was no longer the timid young boy from Nebraska; now he was a killer of men. He was completely desensitised.\n The predictions continued, and his fame within the allied forces continued to spread worldwide. Even the enemy began to speak of this young man that predicted the battles. During the next several months, he led allied victories in Sicily, then Italy, and then a major battle in Normandy, France between June 6th, and July 24th of 1944.\n 1,200 planes led an airborne assault on German-occupied France while over 5,000 military personnel led an amphibious assault from the English Channel onto Juno Beach and four other beaches along the coast. Thirteen allied countries joined the fight against the Germans and Italians.\n By the time the battle ended, both sides had suffered over 200,000 casualties, but once again, the allies were victorious, shooting down more than 2,000 of the enemy aircraft and destroying around 2,000 or more tanks.\n The allies continued to run the enemy forces out of France, and kept pushing them back, first through the Netherlands, and then across the German border.\n Keith’s predictions had all come to fruition, and he received a letter from Dwight D. Eisenhower himself, commending him on using his gift for the cause. He even recommended Keith as a Medal of Honor recipient.\n His next prediction showed he and his fellow brothers in arms going back home. He woke with a sense of hope.\n On April 30, 1945, word came over the wire that Adolf Hitler had committed suicide, sensing an impeding defeat.\n It was May 8, 1945, and word of a complete surrender traveled worldwide. The war was over, and the allies had won.\n Keith and his platoon were finally heading back to the United States. They hitched a ride on one of the Navy’s light cruisers and were just outside Plymouth, England on the edge of the Celtic Sea when a series of explosions took place. The ship had struck several mines hidden near the surface of the water.\n The ship quickly began to take on water and all crew was ordered to abandon ship. Keith scrambled to find himself a life preserver, but none could be found. The ship started to capsize, and Keith found himself toppling uncontrollably over the edge of the port side and into the icy water below.\n As he surfaced, Keith looked up to see the ship plummeting down upon him, and all he could think of, is that this was the first prediction he ever had that did not come true." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Special\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1128\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She sits in the front of my desk\nIn the start of my freshman high school year\nI never knew if she noticed me\nSo I sat quietly in fear\n\nI saw her walk in on her first day\nShe didn't look me in the eye\nBut I knew she was something special\nAnd I had no idea why\n\nWe passed each other in the halls\nYour classic high school budding romance\nI wish I could just talk to her\nBut I didn't want to blow my chance\n\nI was enrolled in music class\nWhere I always played my guitar\nBut one day I had an idea\nThe best one I'd had by far\n\nOne day in the school courtyard\nWhen just a few students were talking\nI sat waiting patiently\nUntil I saw her walking\n\nShe sat down by a friend at a picnic bench\nI saw her stop to eat\nThen when she got comfortable\nI stood up on my seat\n\nI took the guitar off my back\nI took a deep breath that was long\nThen her and I met eyes\nAnd I began to sing my song\n\n\"Over every river.\nOver the great blue sky\nOver every crop's summer field\nIt could be just you and I\n\nEverytime I look,\nInto those bright blue eyes\nI see something maybe you don't\nGirl I ain't telling you lies\n\nYou were meant to be mine\nI was meant to be yours\nSince the day I saw you\nI knew heaven open up the door\n\nTo give me the most beautiful girl\nIn the whole entire world\nAnd ain't nothing going to take me from you\nCause your special\"\n\nThe whole courtyard was silent\nAnd she was sitting amazed\nThen she got up from her table\nAnd came over my way\n\nI felt my heart beat faster\nI don't know what to do\nI had the courage and wits to stand up\nBut but now I had no clue\n\nShe came up close to my face\nThe courtyard was as quiet as could be\nI blushed and began to stutter\nAnd she simply said,\n“See you tomorrow at the cafe at 3:00.”\n\nThe next day had arrived\nI get all nicely dressed\nMy family of course teased\nBut I just wanted her to be impressed\n\nI arrived at 3:00 no later\nI looked for her at all the tables\nThen I saw her in a yellow dress\nSo beautiful there are no perfect labels\n\nWe talked and laughed and shared our hobbies\nWe were so much in tune\nShe also told me, “My name’s Bobby.”\nAnd I said my name was “Haroun.”\n\nAfter the first date\nThere were many more\nAnd one day on a evening picnic\nAnd sang to her as I did before\n\n\n\"Over every river.\nOver the great blue sky\nOver every crop's summer field\nIt could be just you and I\n\nEverytime I look,\nInto those bright blue eyes\nI see something maybe you don't\nGirl I ain't telling you lies\n\nYou were meant to be mine\nI was meant to be yours\nSince the day I saw you\nI knew heaven open up the door\n\nTo give me the most beautiful girl\nIn the whole entire world\nAnd ain't nothing going to take me from you\nCause your special\"\n\nYears had went on\nAnd then came the day\nAfter lots of preparation\nI made her my fiance\n\nLater at the engagement party\nI sang her my song again\nThen later at our wedding\nI sang it as a husband\n\nBut someone was invited\nWho we didn't really know\nFriends of friends of friends of friends\nI think his name was Bo\n\nHe pulled me aside\nAnd gave me an offer\n“Play that song on the station.\nand get paid for you and her.”\n\nI waited a couple days\nAnd then I told her about the guy\nWe really both felt hesitant\nBut she said, “I think you should give it a try.”\n\nI met him at the station\nAll prepped up and ready to sing\nIt was on all the radios\nFor everyone’s listening\n\nIt started playing in the cars\nThen it popped up more online\nI hope that this didn't take away what was special\nFrom this song of mine\n\nIt played in the grocery stores\nIt played in the mall\nIt played In the doctor's office\nIt played at halftimes in football\n\nIt played as alarms\nIt played as ringtones\nIt played in movie trailers\nIt played in everyone's home\n\nWhen I thought I couldn't take it anymore\nI was hired to sing on a stage like it was a banger\nWhen I got to singing\nMy heart slowly filled with anger\n\nI saw my lady in the concert\nAnd when I looked her in the eye\nI felt my heartbreak and two\nAnd I took the mic and just said, “Bye”\n\nThe whole crowd stood in silence\nThen there was an uproar\nI just couldn't care less\nIf people said, “Encore!”\n\nBobby ran behind the curtain\nAnd pushed between the guards\nShe saw me sitting down and saw me hurt’n\nSifting through some cards\n\n“What are those?” she asked solemnly\n“It's what we used to send each other.\nThose days of when I sent you my song\nAnd it wasn't just a bother.”\n\nShe bent her head down and took a breath.\n“Hun, there is something you need to remember.”\n“What is that?” I asked, exasperated.\n“That we are together.”\n\nI put the cards beside me\nAnd wiped away a tear\nDid it really matter\nIf my song was the best of the year\n\nWe both made a mistake\nThat was sure\nWe didn't care about the money\nLike we thought we did before\n\nWe got up and left\nAnd drove all the way back where we were meant to be\nI pulled out my guitar\nAnd sang to her quietly\n\n\n\"Over every river.\nOver the great blue sky\nOver every crop's summer field\nIt could be just you and I\n\nEverytime I look,\nInto those bright blue eyes\nI see something maybe you don't\nGirl I ain't telling you lies\n\nYou were meant to be mine\nI was meant to be yours\nSince the day I saw you\nI knew heaven open up the door\n\nTo give me the most beautiful girl\nIn the whole entire world\nAnd ain't nothing going to take me from you\nCause your special\"\n\nShe rested her head on my shoulder\n\nAnd we both knew what was truly special\nIt wasn't any of the money\nIt wasn't that at all\n\nWe both had each other\nAnd as I caringly held my wife\nThen she whispered to me\n“We're what's special in our 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: Smell of the Holidays\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1675\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with one or more characters shouting “Happy new year!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Waking up to that rank stench never seemed to ever get any easier. All the deafening sounds eventually faded into a muted cacophony. The tremors reverberating through the earth became a gentle stir. The shouting, the screaming, the filth and the dreariness. All of it was easy to become accustomed to with time. Only those green enough not to have experienced it found it unsettling or even shocking. But the smell? It reminded the primordial parts of the brain what the true purpose here was. The creature comforts from the civilized world certainly helped. Tea made you think of home. Shaving razors and handheld mirrors assisted in fooling oneself into believing it was all right and proper. But that creeping odour infesting the olfactory nerves never seemed to relax. It never seemed to fade; it was ever present in every aspect of one’s existence out here.\n “Bring that there over here, fellas,” a distant voice shouted as two men in drab uniforms shuffled past. Evidently, they were not perturbed by the smell. No one seemed to be, at least they didn’t show any outwardly signs that it bothered them.\n “Just me,” I whispered, lowering my head into my tin of beef stew. The stench almost overpowered the terrible hunger and made one’s pangs seem like a second thought. Almost.\nLittle metal fireflies began streaking over the night sky, making whistling sounds as they went. The thud when they landed was anything but pleasant, but at least it was far removed from one’s own circumstance. Every so often a man with fancier clothing would shout and wave his hands like a maniac. It was normal here. The roar was forming into a single loud white noise. There was no differentiating each individual sound anymore. This giant wave white of noise descended upon everyone. Audibly almost nothing could be detected. A man was huddled in the foetal position and gripping his ears in a far corner, while others shouted at him, but to no avail. On the other end, men began clambering towards hastily placed wooden ladders. The crescendo seemed to be steadily nearing.\nOne of the fancier clothes came up and slapped my tin of stew away. He had a long moustache which curled on either end. He was very large and seemed rather disturbed. Physically, the man seemed to be shouting, his mouth was agape and his countenance was obviously unhappy. But there were no detectable sounds emerging from the man. It was almost as if his voice had been snatched away. This, however, did not prevent him from continuing on with this futile endeavour. He gripped a whistle which was dangling around his neck and began blowing. The small metal whistle pierced through the cacophony and suddenly every man in sight began throwing themselves over the tops of the ladders placed all around. The man with the fancy clothing continued blowing the whistle as others joined in. There were several other men who had also been evidently given this novelty. He was swivelling his head around in every direction and even pulled out a pistol, firing a single shot into the air. He then proceeded to grab me and without much exertion toss me towards the direction a ladder. I tumbled and fell into another man who had his back turned. He briefly looked back at me on the ground behind him, then proceeded to climb up the ladder and disappear beyond the edge. Where was he going?\nFancy clothes man again picked me up and thrust me towards the direction of the ladder. I obliged and gripped either side, immediately receiving a splinter in my right thumb.\n“Climb!” came a barely audible shout in my left ear. “Climb you stupid…” a large explosion behind us muffled the man’s already barely audible shouts. The ground slowly grew further away as I moved up the ladder. Already I could see a thick wall of smoke in the distance ahead, with men gingerly walking toward it. Invisible shockwaves shook my body as I pulled myself up. The senses were immediately overwhelmed.\nSound. Touch. Sight. And of course, the smell. It seemed stronger as I dragged myself over the edge. All the other senses formed into a single solitary mass of dread in my mind. Swirling around and making me feel dizzy. The sense of smell somehow remained separate from the rest.\n“Get your…”\nBOOM\n“… and pick up your…”\nBANG\n“… you damn little…”\nThe ground shook with a thousand man-made detonations as the fancy clothes man behind me shouted obscenities from behind the edge. I began to crawl, fighting every urge in my body not to proceed. Left arm forward, left leg forward. Right arm forward, right leg forward. A man in the distance fell over as if intoxicated. The rank smell invaded my nostrils and numbed my body. It seemed to emerge from the land itself. Looking far off into the distance, I noticed more men fall over like unsteady bowling pins. I was paralyzed and weary from the stench. I recognized it finally. The smell of death. I put my head down in the mud and went to sleep.\n*\nThe stench again awoke me as much as it put me to sleep. My eyes made out some figures scurrying about tending to men lying on beds. Some were motionless, others were wildly gesticulating. Both groups had bandages somewhere on their bodies. I slowly lifted my body from the bed as a nurse came over.\n“Not so fast, we still need to check you out for some injuries.”\nShe pulled out a chart from the edge of the bed and began combing over the details.\n“Even if those injuries aren’t visible.”\n“I’m fine,” I replied reflexively. I wasn’t sure if I was but nothing seemed to be missing or damaged.\n“Well, I’ll go ask the doctor.” She placed the chart back in the metal flap at the edge of the bed and disappeared into the crowd of injured and those who were caring for them.\nIt would not be until several weeks later that I was released. Released back towards that smell of death that suffocated me. Here at least the smell was slightly fainter. The men were injured, but seemingly still alive, albeit barely. But there? There it was the dead that organized the mood for the day. There is where I was headed.\n*\nI arrived in mid-December. The stench had somewhat faded due to the cold but still lingered in the air. The mood was calmer, one could hear regular sounds. The men in fancier clothing didn’t bother the boys so much. My birthday would be early next year. But like Christmas, it would be spent here in the trenches with the others.\nThe days that past almost felt like home. We got deliveries of extra food and drink. We had heard Jerry singing Christmas carols, so our boys had joined in as well the following day. I never joined in myself, but just watched from a distance. I watched as one night a fellow from Staffordshire lifted his head and peered over the parapet.\n“What are you doing,” one of the men singing carols whispered. “They’ll get you!”\nBut the man, seemingly having had too much to drink, continued over the top and disappeared over the edge. We all waited for the inevitable shots to ring out but none ever came. All of us crawled over to the edge and peered out. The man was upright and slowly stumbling forward with both arms raised at shoulder level. Men were also emerging from the opposing side. Arms raised, gradually moving forward. I pulled myself up higher to catch a better glimpse of what was going on. My footing gave way and I almost tumbled down towards the trench but caught myself at the last moment. A fellow down below me helped me up and over the parapet. He pushed me with enormous force and my face hit the soil. Face in the mud yet again, a familiar feeling.\n“Ye alright up there?”\n“I’m fine, thank you,” I replied. Before lifting my face from the muck, I realized something. The stench was gone. I continued to hold my face to the frozen ground. It was remarkable. For a moment I was somewhere else.\nSound. Touch. Sight. And of course, the smell. They were all changed. I lifted my head from the ground as the same man who helped me up past by. Again, he repeated his inquiry into my well-being and I reassured him I was fine. I looked up and saw a line of men on both sides emerging like ghosts from a graveyard. The lads were singing Christmas carols and bringing Jerry some gifts. I began walking across to them standing there in the middle, my feet felt like clay sticking to the ground. It seemed the war had stopped. Tobacco, beer, wine, biscuits. Christmas had arrived and with it the smell of the holidays. The stench was gone. I could almost smell mother’s cooking.\n “Merry Christmas, Jerry!” came a shout from one of the machine-gunners. The Jerry response was equally jovial, although I couldn’t have been sure exactly. After both sides had sung their carols, a football seemingly emerged out of thin air and began to be kicked. All of us had a jolly good time. The killing had ceased. I was certain it was the last of it. Christmas wasn’t spent in the trenches; it was spent with comrades on both sides. I will be coming home soon, I’m sure of it. As the night came to an end, we began to return our quarters in the trenches. The fancy clothes men had been given order to return us.\nJerry's side also did the same. One of them shouted at us from across the field, “Merry Christmas!” It seems he had learned this little bit of English and its meaning. We shouted Merry Christmas back, then in unison all the lads added “and a Happy new year!”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Moment in Time\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2888\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people who don’t know each other but bump into one other on New Year’s Eve (either once or every year)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was New Year’s Eve, 1940, and I was in New York visiting my sister. The air was brutally cold, and I wrapped my wool scarf tighter around my neck as I gazed out at all the people surrounding me. Cheeks were rosy, eyes were sparkling, and there seemed to be a smile on each face, but I also sensed unease on every expression. There was talk that America couldn’t hold off much longer in joining the war in Europe, and after the first world war, everyone was terrified of another.\n Someone bumped into me then, and I looked up into what I thought at first to be a familiar face, only to realize after a quick intake of breath that it wasn’t him. Nodding his head apologetically, the man continued to push his way through the crowd, and I watched him go with a sigh.\n Why do I have to see him everywhere I look? I thought, reaching up to adjust my hat.\n Frank had been my high school sweetheart; we’d started dating in the tenth grade, and by graduation, he’d already proposed and we’d set a wedding date for August. I’d been so caught up in planning the wedding that I hadn’t noticed how he’d begun to withdraw, and when he broke up with me right before July 4th, I was totally unprepared and my heart was crushed.\n “You need to get away for a while, Ada, and come for a visit,” my sister had written to me last month. “Why not come up for the new year? We’re going to watch the ball drop in Times Square, and I know you’ll have a good time.”\n I’d been hesitant at first to make the trip by myself, and I’d wondered how it would feel not to celebrate the New Year at home, but I was glad I’d decided to come; it would have been too painful to stay at home. Abigail, my sister, kept saying I needed to forget Frank and move on, but I was afraid. If one man hurt me, wouldn’t another?\n “You’re not from around here, are you?”\n Turning in surprise, I looked up to find a handsome young man smiling pleasantly down at me. His eyes were a soft shade of blue, and I remember thinking they were the kindest eyes I’d ever seen.\n “I…how do you know that?” I stammered, eyeing him skeptically.\n “Even with the scarf, gloves, hat and coat, you still look like you’re freezing,” he replied, his eyes sparkling.\n Unable to stop my lips from twitching, I laughed lightly and said, “You’re right; I’m from Georgia. You’re very observant.”\n “Only when it comes to pretty ladies,” he grinned.\n My cheeks flushing, I glanced away and cleared my throat awkwardly, ignoring the way my sister kept eyeing me.\n “I’m Nate,” the young man spoke out again as he reached a gloved hand toward me. “What’s your name?”\n “I’m Ada,” I replied, accepting the handshake. His hand was twice the size of mine, and through our gloves, I felt the warmth of his fingers as they wrapped firmly around mine.\n “Ada, we’re going to get some hot chocolate,” my sister said, motioning to her husband. “Would you like us to bring you some?”\n I nodded, watching as the two pushed their way through the crowd, leaving me alone with the stranger.\n “You’re lucky to have family to spend the holidays with,” Nate said, his voice wistful as he, too, watched my sister and brother-in-law’s retreating figures.\n “Don’t you have any family?” I asked, tilting my head slightly.\n Nate shook his head, a look of sadness coming into his eyes. “No, I was raised in an orphanage, so I never knew my family; I don’t even know what my real name is.”\n My heart clenching, I said softly, “I’m sorry, Nate. You…you were raised here in the city?”\n “Oh, no, I’m from New Jersey,” he replied, smiling down at me as the sadness quickly passed from his eyes. “Now that the depression is finally over, I decided to celebrate extra this year by coming to see the ball drop; this is my first time seeing it.”\n “Mine, too,” I replied with a smile.\n We continued to talk, and time seemed to stand still as the conversation flowed effortlessly. We discussed the long trip from Georgia to New York, my family, our favorite books, and Nate had just broached the subject of the war when my sister and brother-in-law arrived back at my side with the promised hot chocolate.\n “We also brought a cup for you,” my sister said with a friendly smile as she handed Nate the steaming cup of chocolate.\n His eyes lighting with surprise, Nate took the cup and said, “Thank you; that was very thoughtful.”\n It was almost time for the countdown, and I was finally starting to feel the excitement of the night. The crowd kept pushing Nate and me closer, and each time our shoulders bumped, we would smile shyly at one another.\n Finally, the countdown began, and I could barely contain my eagerness as I joined in. The sound of thousands of voices joined together sent chills down my spine, and I clutched my sister’s hand as we cried, “Three…two…one. Happy New Year!”\n The shouts, the lights, the magnificent shining ball…it all filled me with a giddy sense of wonder and happiness that I hadn’t felt in months. Everyone around me was hugging and kissing as they welcomed in the new year, and I blinked in surprise when Nate leaned closer and pressed a kiss against my cheek.\n “Write to me, Ada,” he said warmly, our faces only inches apart. “I’ve got to return to New Jersey tonight; my train leaves in twenty minutes. May I have your address?”\n I was caught completely off guard by the request and hesitated. Would it be crazy to write to a complete stranger, especially after everything that happened with Frank? I would be setting myself up to be hurt again, but there was something in Nate’s eyes that made me pause. In the depths of those two soft blue pools, I saw strength and honor and integrity, and I felt deep in my soul that I could trust him.\n “Alright,” I said softly, and the look of pleasure on Nate’s face made me smile.\n We wrote to each other for ten months, and I quickly realized that agreeing to write him was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. In the pages of our letters, we shared our lives, thoughts, dreams…and our hearts. I told him about Frank, and he told me more about the pain of being raised in an orphanage without any family or anyone who truly loved him. I found myself responding to this man, one that I’d only met once, in a way I never had with Frank, and I looked forward to every letter he sent. I kept each one in a special box and read them hundreds of times. Nate touched me in a special way and seemed to understand me better than I understood myself.\n “I want to see you again,” he wrote to me in November. “You’re not by any chance coming back to visit your sister for the new year, are you? If not, I’d like to come to Georgia to see you, if that’s okay.”\n With excitement filling my chest, I told him that I was, in fact, planning to visit my sister again the following month.\n “Meet me in the same place we met last year,” he wrote. “When I saw you for the first time that cold night so many months ago, I knew you were special, and I want to relive that moment again.”\n I agreed, but a couple of weeks later, destiny took its own course. Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, America joined the war, and Nate left to fight in Germany. I was heartbroken and wished that we’d had a chance to see each other one more time before he left, but that just wasn’t meant to be. So, we wrote more letters. He told me about the war and of the many struggles a soldier faced, but I knew he didn’t tell me everything.\n “One day, when this war is over, I want to see you again, surrounded by all the lights and laughter of Times Square as we pass from one year to the next. I want to feel your presence beside me, and I want to see your beautiful smile as delight in the moment fills your face. It’s all I dream about, Ada; it’s what keeps me going. Promise you’ll meet me there some wonderful New Year’s Eve, when life is peaceful again and I can hold you in my arms the way I wanted to that first night.”\n I treasured his letters like precious gifts, and with each passing day, I realized more and more how much I loved him. The thought of seeing him again propelled me through each day, and dreams of his beautiful eyes guided me through the night. When his letters suddenly stopped after the invasion at Normandy in '44, my heart stopped as well, and life became very dark and dreary. I did everything I could to find out what happened to him, but it seemed that he’d simply disappeared.\n I went back to Times Square for New Year’s Eve in '45, after the war ended, but he wasn’t there. I stood in the exact same spot as before, when I first met him, but his face wasn’t among the others crowded around me. I even waited until well after midnight, when all the partying had finally begun to die down, but still he wasn’t there. The night was dark, and my world was even darker.\n Thirty years passed, and at times it felt as if life crawled by agonizingly slowly, while others it flew by at an alarming speed. Frank made his way back into my life the summer of '46 and managed to see me through some of my darkest days. It’s strange how he was the one who hurt me the first time, and if not for him, I never would have met Nate. Because of that, I forgave him for hurting me, and we were married a few days before Christmas. He suggested going to New York for our honeymoon, but I couldn’t; in fact, I haven’t been back since that last New Year’s Eve when Nate never showed up.\n Until now.\n It’s 1975, and as I stand in the midst of the crowd, I think of all that’s changed. When I was here last, I was a brokenhearted young woman with no clue of what my future held for me. I didn’t know I would end back up with Frank, and we’d go on to live a happy life together with two wonderful children. You may ask if I ever thought of Nate during these last thirty years, and the answer is “yes”. I often wondered if he’d died at Normandy, and if he had, was his body ever shipped home? Then I was reminded that he had no true home, and no family with which to be buried. During the times that I would think of him, I would hold my children close and thank God for my family. My life might not have turned out like I thought it would, but I’d still managed to find happiness. I guess I’ll always wonder, though, what life would have been like if Nate had been there that night to meet me.\n “Ten…nine…eight…”\n In just a matter of seconds, a new year would be upon me, and I wondered what it would hold. Frank had passed away two years ago, my sister was spending the holiday with her husband’s family, and our parents were gone. My children had wanted me to stay home and spend the holidays with them and their families, but I’d told them there was something I had to do this year. I needed to come here one last time, to say a final “goodbye”.\n “Two…one…happy New Year!”\n The claps, shouts, whistles, and dazzling lights were so much the same that I fought against the tears that suddenly flooded my eyes. How had I gone from a girl to a woman in her fifties in such a short amount of time?\n “You’re not from around here, are you?”\n The words floated past my ears and I smiled softly, the sweet memory filling me with warmth. I closed my eyes, relishing the moment, when I suddenly felt a warm and familiar presence beside me. Turning, I looked up into those same soft, blue eyes, and everything around me faded into the distance as my world began to spin.\n “It’s really you,” he whispered as two tears slipped down his cheeks.\n I couldn’t say anything at first; all I could do was stare at him. He’d changed…grown older…but it was him. Reaching out, I rested my hand lightly on his arm and whispered, “You’re alive.”\n He pulled me into his arms, and the fireworks that exploded over our heads were no match for the pounding of our hearts. We stood that way, clinging to each other like only a few moments had passed since our last meeting, instead of thirty-one years. How could all the feelings I’d had for him come flooding back so quickly, so easily? I felt overwhelmed and overjoyed, and I raised my head to look up into his dear face.\n “I waited for you,” I whispered, my throat tight with emotion. “But you never came.”\n “I was injured at Normandy and was in a coma for months,” he explained, reaching up to touch my cheek gently. “When I finally woke up, it took over a year for me to heal. I asked one of the nurses to write to you, to let you know I was alive, but she forgot to send the letter and never told me.” His face was filled with pain at the memories from so long ago, and I rested my hand against his heart as I listened. “When I didn’t hear back from you, I thought you’d moved on, and when I finally made it back to the United States, I went to Georgia and discovered that…that you were engaged to Frank. So, I left.”\n “Why didn’t you say something?” I asked, my heart breaking all over again. “If only I’d known.”\n Taking a deep breath, Nate took both of my hands in his and said, “I didn’t want to cause you any unhappiness, Ada. I knew that you’d loved Frank once before, and I’d never told you how I truly felt about you, so I had to let you go. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”\n Wiping the tears from my eyes, I asked, “Did…did you ever marry?”\n “No,” he replied, a wistful expression crossing his face. “I couldn’t love anyone else after knowing you.”\n “How is it that you’re here tonight?” I wanted to know, my heart in my throat.\n He smiled then, his blue eyes growing even warmer. “I’ve come here every New Year’s Eve for the last twenty-nine years and relived the memory of when I first met you. When I saw you here just now, I couldn’t believe my eyes. You’re just as beautiful as I remember.”\n Suddenly, a look of darkness passed over his face, and Nate stepped away. I felt cold and confused as the warmth of his presence moved from me, and when I reached out to him, he shook his head.\n “I can’t, Ada,” he said, his eyes full of sadness. “No matter how much I love you, I still can’t have you. You’re married and have your own family, and I’m okay being able to see you again and just knowing that you’re happy. I guess it was never meant to be for us, but I’d like to thank you for agreeing to write me that cold night so long ago; your letters kept me going, and I’ll always cherish them.”\n He turned to go then, his shoulders stooped, and I quickly reached out to grab his arm. When he turned to look back at me, I dropped my hand and shrugged, tears filling my eyes once again.\n “Frank is gone, Nate,” I said in a raspy voice. “He was a good husband, a wonderful father to our children, and my best friend. I’ll always love him and cherish the years we had together, but just like that first night I met you, I think my heart is ready to heal and move on. I’ll admit that I’m frightened, but I’m willing to try if you are.” Stepping forward, I took his hand and said softly, “I fell in love with you a long time ago, Nate, and I don’t want to lose you again.”\n A beautiful smile lit his face, and although everyone continued to cheer and sing and dance all around us, it felt as if we were the only two people in the whole world. Pulling me into his arms, he said softly, “I don’t want to lose you again either.”\n With a sigh of happiness, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek as I whispered, “Happy New Year, Nate.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dragons and Roses and Bridges and Atoms: A Mike Dodge Mystery\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 2994\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a place that’s frozen in time — literally or metaphorically." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "January 1/Pasadena\n“The great illusion…”\nThe problem with being the scientist’s granddaughter. Out close to $2,000 to bring in 2024 with aged beef and not-so-well-aged strangers and an oldies DJ somewhere in age between the prime rib and the Boomer-Plussers in a Claremont Double Tree conference room with a cash bar and a 9 p.m. Times Square ball drop so we could pull it together at 5 a.m. for the Pasadena bus.\nNot that I minded. It was probably Grandma’s last New Year, and she cashed in her Make-a-Wish on a parade. Grandma had never had much use for parades, fireworks, fairs, festivals, TMZ, or Survivor. “If there were the slightest chance of non-survival, I might be enticed,” quoth Gran.\nBut while it seemed surreal to be bundled up and packed into a set of bleachers along Colorado Boulevard fronting Pasadena City College, on a chilly SoCal morning at the dawn of a new year I was all but sure would end poorly for everybody, Gran seemed hyped.\nShe’d offered a few acid observations on the succession of religious proselytizers and doomsters and I swear even Hare Krishnas who preceded the floats and horses and flag corps. “’Jesus will return,’ huh? Hope he finds a parking spot,” she recited as a scuzzy-looking Father Time with a megaphone and a nearly life-size crucifix rousted street corn and sweatshirt vendors. After 25 years in the federal labs, Grandma winced slightly at the roar of the B-2 flyover and stood for the Marine color guard only at my prodding. But once the City of Alhambra’s beaming dragon lumbered down Colorado, she was the little girl from Ohio I’d always theorized. Or so I thought.\n“What is?” I half-shouted. She had what I guess you’d call a beatific glow -- she usually clocked in between judgmental severity and cynical amusement, and it was a little chilling. But I’d made it out over the rolling color commentary from the millennial giving me free spinal shiatsu with her bony knees.\n“Electrons into atoms into molecules into matter into lavender and cranberries and mums and lettuce into dragons and planets,” Grandma chanted. “Into beautiful girls and withered crones and nattering chattering amazons.”\nA pair of kneecaps withdrew as supersized Hoda Kotb abruptly stopped cataloguing the 20,000 flowers that went into creating the illusion of an imaginary beast. I snarted a giggle as I looked back to Grandma, but her expression had already shifted to something analytical, anxious? She’d slipped into this state a couple of times on the trip – at Lake Havasu, over morning breakfast. \nI wrapped an arm around Grandma’s skinny shoulders and squeezed. She patted my mittened hand briefly. Indulgent affection was her love language, and I turned back to the Japanese marching band and rhinestone cowgirls.\n“Of course,” Gran muttered a second later, “it’s all in the lighting.”\n\nThe third-floor room was tiny, but Gran settled onto her side of the queen with a satisfied half-smile as I surfed for Bang or Seinfeld or ultimately some local news.\n“You had volunteers working 24 hours a day the last few days,” the tanned dude in the signature white Rose Parade suit told an enthusiastically nodding newswoman in the shadow of a rapping plant-based crocodile. “It’s all mapped out – every square inch of each float is diagrammed, almost like a paint-by-numbers, so volunteers know exactly where to place each petal or fruit or seed mosaic or even seaweed sheet …”\n“We’ll see all this tomorrow morning,” I said, digging around the comforter for the remote. Grandma threw up a crinkled hand, and struggled for the bedside table.\n“Get me a pen and some paper!”\nI located a pad next to the mini-fridge. Gran scribbled emphatically, causing the clock radio to dance on the table, then laid back against the pillow.\n“Early morning tomorrow,” she piped. “I’m going to hit it.”\nJanuary 2/Claremont\nA mariachi band busted in on us, and fumbled for a light switch. My brain kicked into gear as I stumbled to the desk and shut off the damned 5 a.m. alarm. I gently patted Grandma’s shoulder.\nAtoms are constantly on the move, making lamps and beds and widescreen TVs and moderately attractive girls and feisty Grandmas, but whatever force made Gran Gran had left the building. I had an ugly cry until the manager and the EMTs arrived.\nThe formalities were a godsend. The paramedics and cops established Gran’d probably just expired post-date, and the hotel manager helped me pull it together enough to make the calls – Mom and Dad, the funeral chain’s pre-arranged L.A. pickup/transport service. The tour director gratefully left without me to hit Floatfest and the Golden Corral on schedule. The manager hooked me up with Enterprise, bagged up some cookies, and sent me off toward the 15 up to the 40 with excruciating detail. Sometimes, life’s a Fred Armisen/Bill Hader sketch.\nCalizona Tours sent a man out to release my Subaru from the chainlink lot behind the Havasu main drag. I got as much condolence as I needed from the monotony of the two-lane down to Quartzite and the mindless chaos of the I-10 back into Gilbert. \nThe weight settled back in as I turned onto Melville Bay and into Palm Shadows with a crumpled sack of cookie crumbs and Sam Smith doing the drive-time wrap.\nJanuary 5/Gilbert\nMom and Dad assured me it wasn’t in any way my fault. About five times by lunch, in fact, between speculating on the stress of long-haul travel on the excessively old and lamenting the costs of Grandma dying out-of-state and for my impulsive birthday/bon voyage gift.\nThe old guy with the pie showed up around 3 on Friday. Cargo shorts and red Skechers and a Rick and Morty T-shirt.\n“Turkey pot pie today for lunch, and I made way too much filling,” “Mike” explained. “Then Sarah told me about Barb, and I thought with everything going on…”\nDad had enough class not to point out that the only folks who might pop in were digging out of a foot of Toledo snow.\n“Dodge,” Dad grunted after Mike limped off. “Illinois snowbird – used to be a reporter of some sort, and one of the guys told me he was even involved in solving some murder here a couple years back. Though he strikes me like he couldn’t find his fat ass with a mag lite and GPS.”\nJanuary 7\nI took Tiger along – Mom told me Mr. Dodge made over him “like some brain-damaged eight-year-old.” Which was probably just what I wanted. I found him on the back patio of Unit 125, snoring slightly in a cheap anti-gravity lounger with a black hoodie pulled over his eyes.\n“Tiger, no!” I said sternly. Mike snorted, pulled the hood back, and grinned as he felt with his bare foot for a lost sandal.\n“Ti-grrrrrr!” he called. Tiger’s tail-stub twitched insanely, and Mr. Dodge kneeled on the concrete nose to muzzle with my pit baby. It took him about two minutes, and I began to wish I’d brought my gait belt..\n“The pot pie rocked,” I said, waving the clean pie plate. “Thanks for bringing it over. It was really kind. Ah, there’s something else.”\n“Yeah, I thought,” Mr. Dodge smirked. “Sarah’s friend in 131 thinks I’m her on-call IT guy, so I fake-sleep when anybody comes up the walk. ‘Sup?”\n\nMike brought us a couple bottles of Walmart water, and his wife appeared in the patio window. He shrugged, and Sarah, I assume, rolled her eyes and waved before disappearing.\n“Gran was 91. She moved in with Mom and Dad a few years back – she and Mom had some old baggage, maybe Grandma’s fault, and Dad thought they’d just leave her with Aunt Lacey in Ohio when he came out here to golf 24/7. We both needed time away.”\nMike swirled his water. “Yeah, I always feel your dad thinks military school would do me a lot of good.”\n“Ex-Marine. They shut down my nursing home back home – a couple orderlies were abusing patients, and the bosses were faking patient records – I moved here to get my RN. Dad doesn’t let a day pass without letting me know my poor judgment and lack of ambition are why I’m a 28-year-old CNA.” \n“My daughter started as a CNA,” Mike noted, taking a swig. “You should ask your dad why he only got to senior bank VP by 55. You know what? Don’t. Now, your grandma and I, we always had some pretty intriguing Happy Hour conversations. Though she could be a real Drano-drinker.”\n“Gran could be a lot, but she grew up in the Depression, had to put up with all kinds of patriarchal BS getting her degree from Stanford and working with the boys’ science club during the late ‘50s. She actually met Oppenheimer once. Why she wouldn’t go to the movie– said Barbie might have been a destroyer of worlds, too, but the dance numbers were cool. Mom thought it was a jab, and Dad didn’t get it. We were sorta sister black sheep.”\n“Which brings us to what?”\n“Dad said you were some kind of, well, detective. Grandma was acting a little strange before, you know. Not normal old lady strange. We’re watching TV New Year’s night, and she gets real worked up, like something just hit her. She wrote herself a note.”\nMike’s left eyebrow arched, but he waited silently until I pulled the folded Double Tree notepaper out of my jeans. He jumped for it like the last slice of pizza.\n“And you got no idea what this means,” Mike finally asked.\n“Something seemed to be eating her the whole trip. At least after Lake Havasu.”\n“London Bridge is there, right? Sarah wants to see it someday.”\n“Havasu was the takeoff point for the tour, but we got in a day early. Gran didn’t seem real excited about the bridge until we stopped at the Visitor’s Center. There’s all kinds of pictures there of the bridge and that chainsaw dude bringing it over in the ‘60s.”\n“McCullough.”\n“That guy. Anyway, I had to drag Grandma out of there – she was staring at a sketch of the thing, like she was hypnotized.”\n“Had she ever been there before?”\n“Grandpa died in ’65 -- I think Grandpa thought the whole science thing was a phase or something, and when it wasn’t, he started drinking himself to death. Mom said one time he called Gran a whore in front of her and Aunt Lacey. So the point is, Grandma never traveled after he died. Before that, most of her work was in New Mexico. It was her first time at Lake Havasu.”\nMike scanned the note again. “Okay, tell me everything. I mean everything.”\nJanuary 12\nGrandma came home, at least the really stubborn molecules the good folks at Repose couldn’t charbroil away. The box sat next to me on the backseat, and as the Telluride rolled down Baseline, Gran edged closer. She’d insisted on straight “incineration” with no graveside, no screwtop vase, and no bagpiped scattering to the sea or sands. No muss, no fuss, no UPS back to Toledo.\n“So what do we do with her?” I asked.\nMom’s head turned slightly. “Asked her one time, and she said some nonsense about wanting a ‘Hiroshima service,’ which I couldn’t find anywhere online.\n“So I guess the patio shed,” Dad grunted.\nI hugged Gran Concentrate to my hip.\nJanuary 14/Gilbert\n“Scientific truth was going to make us so happy and comfortable,” Kurt Vonnegut once said. “What actually happened when I was twenty-one was that we dropped scientific truth on Hiroshima.”\nGrandma’d turned me onto Vonnegut when I was 14. Mom acted like she’d found porn instead of Slaughterhouse Five in my schoolbag, and Dad called Kurt a commie, which made me lose my shit, putting Vonnegut on the no-fly list. Grandma drove me to the Toledo main branch, found me Breakfast of Champions, and quoted Father Kurt.\n“I was 12,” she said.\nThe rain cancelled Dad’s day on the course and Mom’s shopping, so I settled in behind one of the terminals at the Southeast Regional library branch. “5D50” turned up a 1998 Chevrolet muffler, assorted model drill bits and keys and front axle-pressure sensors, and 50-sided dice. Gran had never been a gambler or a gamer, and I couldn’t find any scientific significance.\nGran was a Cold War scientist with a chip against the government, the military, nukes. Was 5D50 some secret file number, an Indiana Jones warehouse shelf where they’d stored some doomsday weapon along with the ark? I stuffed my notes in my backpack and started to log out before reconsidering, Googled “Hiroshima” and “Nagasaki,” snagged a lonely copy of Cat’s Cradle, and set a course for the Dana Park Panda before my shift.\nJanuary 20/Tempe\nMike texted while I was in my 11 o’clock class. I found a bench outside Edson.\n“Heading out of town next few days with Sarah, but may be onto something.”\nHe’d cut and paste what looked like a Wiki entry:\n“…In 1968, the bridge was purchased from the City of London by Robert P. McCulloch. However, McCulloch only had the exterior granite blocks from the original bridge cut and transported to the United States for use in the construction of a new bridge in Lake Havasu City, a planned community he established in 1964 on the shore of Lake Havasu.”\nI began to wonder if maybe Dad hadn’t been right about Mike Dodge’s ass.\nJanuary 24/Gilbert\nI hate IKEA, from the ABBA-rynthine show-maze and the Warehouse of Lost Hope. But the Swedes made a fine Smorgashloppen.\nI didn’t know my bookcase’ name, but I quickly realized something was amiss. I sucked on my Jamba Juice and reviewed the instructions. After Oasis Assisted Living promised me an RN slot after graduation, I’d put down a deposit on a place just north of the I-60 ramp on Val Vista and broke it off with my existing landlords. I took Grandma along; nobody cared.\nAt least the Scandinavians and us stubborn bastards could agree on numerical systems, and I carefully pulled a couple lock screws and double-checked the numbered schematics. And lost my Allen wrench.\n**\n“Your grandma was a woman of science, a cynic by nature, but something meaningful was lodged under the surface even as her memory started to punk out. You mentioned her obsession with Hiroshima. Heard of ash shadows?”\nI was starting to get Mike’s rhythm, I think. “When the Bomb went off, the bodies didn’t totally vaporize. The flash of the bomb was so quick and intense it turned concrete and stone white except for the shadows in its way and the vaporized residue in the shadows. What’s that got to do with this?”\nBlack Dia de Los Muertos tee and gray sweats today – my guess, Target loungewear. Mrs. Dodge was doing taxes, but when I popped by unexpected, she handed me off with a Diet Decaf Coke.\n“They’re scattered across Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Like markers, freezing that day, that tragedy, in time. Like that day was burned into your grandmother’s mind, among other individual moments and events. When you took Barb to Lake Havasu, to the Visitors Center, it triggered another marker. \n“When the original London Bridge was dismantled in England to ship to the Port of Long Beach and Lake Havasu in 1968, 10,246 granite stones were numbered for precise reassembly. When Grandma wandered into the bridge gallery, she locked in on the centerpiece — a map of every numbered stone. It unlocked a reference point she never realized existed.”\n“A reference point to what?”\n“I called the Visitors Center -- the diagram is of the east side, facing the Lake Havasu business district. And the bridge folks sent me photos.” He cast one of the .jpgs to a big-screen Sony opposite us. “That diagram gave Barb a focal point for a fading or faded memory. Then, learning how the Rose Parade floats were assembled, it clicked into place. She had a guide for relocating her memory, but she needed to lay in the flesh and bones. In this case, I’m guessing a photo taken at the bridge, during her research days after she married your grandpa.”\n“I told you, she never visited Lake Havasu.”\n“So that puts it before 1968. Barb was a physicist during the Cold War. I’d think somebody in your family can tell you when she visited London, and Aunt Lacey can search any old scrapbooks. If we’re talking about a news photo, a photo of some scientific symposium, then you got the web or social media. You have a specific location – the left side of the first arch on the northeast end of the bridge.”\n“But what am I looking for?”\nMike leaned back and grinned. “What do you think a young woman abroad might keep from her hard-drinking, insecure, resentful husband? Maybe her one romantic adventure in a life of cold, rational science? A bittersweet episode that made seeing real life as an illusion preferable?”\nGran, I thought, a little shocked, a little impressed. “You know, in the end, do I really want to know?” \n“Maybe your takeaway’s on a subatomic level,” Mike suggested. “Pull apart the petals and seeds and tissues and bark, the moorings and connective arches and the lintels and decorative flourishes; the cracks and fault lines and design flaws that threaten the integrity of the overall structure.”\n“Deep,” was about all I could say.\n“I used to cover high school sports — florid metaphors helped disguise that I mostly didn’t know what I was doing. Plus I get a little melodramatic when the Zoloft wears off. Put it this way: People aren’t more than one thing — we’re potentially anything, if the conditions are right. Leave your shadow how and where you want it. Call it a lesson from Gran.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ordinary World\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1042\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone seeking a fresh start after a difficult year." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ordinary World\nBy John Merino\n\n I haven’t tasted whisky in ten years. Warmth is reaching up from my insides, a pleasant burn that pushes against the late December air sliding across my bare arms. The flavor isn’t pleasant, but it’s a discomfort that’s all my own, a bitterness I’ve chosen to taste. This bar patio is my home for the next few hours. I don’t know where I’ll go or where I’ll sleep when they close, but right now this seat is mine, this drink is mine, the table and the ashtray on top of it and the cigarette smoldering inside the ashtray are mine, this warmth and bitterness and cold skin are mine. My name is mine. I can still feel its coat of dust, a decade of age collected from the bottom of a yellow file, but its mine again. In time it will gleam again. When the guard gave it back to me this morning, before slipping it into the back pocket of my jeans, I pressed it hard to my chest like a dear friend I thought was dead. The pretty bartender was kind enough to overlook the expiration date on my I.D. Chipped away print shows it as September 8, 1998.\n\n Nothing is the same. I shouldn’t feel this good because nothing is the same. My gums and hair are receding, dragging my beautiful city along with them into my head, shrinking them into memories to fit the small space inside my skull. The Manhattan skyline grins at me from across the water, a set of broken teeth too expensive to replace. The violence of age is everywhere. Nothing playing from the speakers is familiar to me. Sounds that feel made up the moment I hear them crash into others just as weird and fake as the ones before. They lunge at me too quickly, screaming lyrics too loud to understand. I hurt in places that used to propel me painlessly across sidewalks, through doors, over fences, and into the unoccupied arms of women. Fingers that once curled with luxurious ease around the handle of a gun now snap and crackle like old popcorn around my double bourbon, and the dark center of creation between my legs tumbles over uncomfortably inside my too-tight jeans, and around me people rummage in their pockets every few minutes and stare into little boxes of light that occupy them so completely it seems like nobody, not even someone with a pistol, will ever get their attention again. Everything creaks like the old boards underneath my shoes, wheezing under the weight of things heavier than usual.\n\n I hope this hope I feel is deeper than the booze in my glass, which is almost all gone. A swell of glass at the bottom of the tumbler pushes up through the sloshing amber liquid like a terrible new volcano. The wrinkled ten in my wallet should be enough for one more drink. Intoxication like I’ve never known before has set in, and I’m not even drunk. Please Lord, let me swing forever inside this hammock, this net of the new moment, this cobweb of the enormous present, the one I’ve struggled in from the moment of my birth. What I feel is all I have. No other school on earth will admit me anymore. My felon feeling is all I have left.\n\n Stumbling over to her in an unfamiliar new freedom, the pretty bartender, now more beautiful than I ever could have imagined, gives me a new glass of bourbon, one that I don’t deserve. People are leaving for home, opening new places for the night that is rushing in faster than the clock will permit, and the bar is growing bare, the backs of the tables and the legs of the chairs beginning to stand upright in the prison-bar hostility of a place closed to every respectable person. Will I be locked up again? I can’t go, won’t go, inside again. Whatever it takes, whoever I have to kill, I will make it back to the patio, back to my seat, back to my ashtray, back to my cigarette, back to my home.\n\n Sweet relief has come over me. The clock over the pool table in the corner says I still have a whole three hours left before the year two thousand and four can claim me. New wars may wage themselves without end, bombs may explode around me, newspapers may bleed with endless tragedy, but I have been given a second chance to move among them and live as myself inside this great city that I know will outlive the new century. As I plop back into my chair, guitars and voices I recognize are playing out of the old bar speakers now, tugging at the old century inside me, telling me things will be alright. I am truly sorry for the things I’ve done, sorry enough to cry, but the tremors of my distress won’t shake loose any of the knots now strangling the world.\n\n Whisky is going down my throat again. A long-dead author, in a book I’d snatched from the prison library, called it an “amber restorative.” How right he was. Old wooden boards fence in the patio, but the gate into the parking lot stands open, inviting me into the night, inviting me to live, inviting me to find a new home. Whatever change was left over from my wrinkled ten I left as a tip for the beautiful bartender. It wasn’t even close to enough, but I still gave to her as much as I could give right now. I used to always save a little something for myself, but I can’t any longer. Other people are what I need now. Someday when I am even stronger, I will come back, and give her the payment her deep, wounded, work-drained eyes demand. Now I’m staggering out of the bar and into the cold air coming in from the new year, and the wise old voices of the radio are shepherding me into the uncertain future.\n\n“But I won't cry for yesterday\nThere's an ordinary world\nSomehow I have to find\nAnd as I try to make my way\nTo the ordinary world\nI will learn to survive.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Aurora\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1788\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone witnessing — or trying to witness — a celestial phenomenon." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Giant teardrops lay shimmering on the cold sand. Leo examined them from every angle, marvelling at nature's artistry. \"Look, Dylan, you can see where the iceberg split from.... I think it's called The Breiðamerkursandur glacier. \" He knew exactly what it was called and took great pleasure pronouncing it correctly. Dylan, who was more enthralled by his phone than by Diamond Beach, barely regarded the prodigious jewels. He stuffed the device back into his pocket just as his Father turned around. They only landed the previous day, and 'Dylan, get off your phone' has already become the holiday tagline. Leo felt his jaw clench.\nBite your tongue. You have to spend the week together, don't make things tense.\nThe kid didn't know how lucky he was. Leo would have killed for this trip when he was sixteen. Had he come here with his own Father, as initially planned, they would've spent the week hiking, fishing, and exploring, just like they used to. However, Dylan, who seldom left the confines of his room, could barely manage their mile-long walk to the beach.\nAs the dimming sky mirrored itself in the crystal lagoon, Leo felt a pain of sadness. The Northern Lights would soon be visible, that Celestial dance of luminous waves. But His Father, whose love for 'Aurora' began after seeing it on a postcard he received from his brother, wouldn’t be here to witness it.\nFor his seventy-fifth birthday, with no signs of failing health, Leo surprised his Dad with a trip to Iceland. The stoic man lit up like a child and called the gift a “dream come true.\" He was so set on going even a sudden heart attack couldn't dissuade him. Reality soon set in, however, and he passed on a week later. Before he died, he asked Leo to honour their trip and \"give my love to Aurora. Bring your boy along with you.\" Leo knew it would be a painful journey, but he kept his promise.\nAs they stood on the ice-bound beach, Dylan's chattering teeth click-click-clicked like an engine struggling to start. The harsh Icelandic gale was gathering strength, testing the endurance of their windproof coats. Dylan jumped at Leo's suggestion that they retreat to their cabin. If not for his son's obvious discomfort, however, Leo would have gladly stayed longer. They trudged through the dense blanket of snow, Dylan cursing the claggy ground as it enveloped his feet. Leo treated their trek as a workout, swinging his burly legs with exaggerated vigour. However, his stride was broken by the many 'rest-breaks' they had to take. He wondered how a lean sixteen-year-old could be so unfit but thought better of commenting on it.\nAfter a mile or so, they arrived at the cabin, their wind-slapped faces burning bright red. Leo slipped his hand from his woollen glove. It felt like operating an arcade claw machine as, with stiff, numb fingers, he fumbled for the keys. A rapid drumming sound pecked in his ears as Dylan, shivering on the timber deck, tapped his foot with growing impatience. Leo shot him a nettled look before unlocking the door. Dylan dashed inside and made for the kitchen. The sweet creak of press doors opening prompted Leo's burgeoning appetite.\n\"Good idea, \" he hollered, yanking his foot from the vamp of his boot, \"I'm starving. Make me one as well, will you?\"\nDylan emerged from the kitchen empty-handed, save for a long white cord. \"Just grabbing my charger, phone's almost dead.\"\nBy the look on his Father's face, you'd think Dylan had used the cable as a whipping rod. But the day's irritations had taken their toll, harmless pebbles rapping against the glass until finally it cracked.\n\"You've been glued to that stupid phone since we got here; what's so important that it can't wait a week? \"\nThe words shot from his mouth with the ferity of a snapping rubber band.\nDylan stuttered a reply. \"There's just some stuff going on.\"\nLeo threw his arms up in a wide gesture. \"Look around you, this is going on, but clearly, you're not interested.\" He shook his head. \" I don't know why you bothered coming at all.\"\nDylan's eyes were glassy. \"Because Mam asked me to.\"\nWas that supposed to be funny? What's wrong with this kid?\n\"Fine,\" said Leo, \"Forget the whole thing. We'll leave tomorrow, how about that?\" Before a shocked Dylan could reply, Leo stormed into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.\nHe collapsed on the bed and sank into the foamy mattress. Already, regret was pouring in. This wasn't Dylan's fault; Leo had expected too much of him. It was like casting a mouse into the sea and telling it to swim. Perhaps they should leave tomorrow; the delicate threads of their relationship were stretched enough already.\nAs he turned on his side, burying his cheek in the feathery pillow, his Father's face flashed in his mind. Aurora. He glanced out the window as black clouds were cloaking the sky.\nIt’ll be impossible to see her unless those clouds clear.\nIt didn't matter. He had to try.\nAfter a brief and nonrestorative rest, Leo braced himself for the barbarous night. Once more, he donned his Winter gear, adding a fresh pair of fleece socks, and squeezed into his hiking boots. As he trudged down the hall, he spied Dylan in the living room, hunched on a futon, head buried in the screen. Leo cleared his throat. \"I'm going to see the lights. You can come if you want.\"\nDylan didn't budge, throwing his Father a cold side-eye. He then rose from his seat and retreated to his bedroom. Sighing, Leo shambled to the hall, grabbed his gear bag and rooted out a headlamp. He strapped the elastic band around his crown and clicked the rubber button. A beam of blue light bounced off the walls.\nIt might be the only light you see tonight.\nHe unfastened the latch, gripping the door before the wind slammed it back.\nToo late to turn back now.\nAs he stepped onto the snow-slushed deck, a heavy thud sounded behind him. Dylan emerged from his room wearing similar gear, though his boots were clearly a size too big. Leo pursed his lips as a broad smile broke through. \"You sure? \" he said, gesturing outside.\nDylan nodded. \"We promised Grandad.\"\nOnly then, as a rush of relief flooded in, did Leo realise how scared he felt venturing out alone. Hearing Dylan's words filled him with not just pride but warm companionship.\n\"Okay, \" he said, \"ready when you are. \"\nThe two voyagers lumbered their way through the frosty terrain. Leo gripped his phone with a gloved hand, staring at the topograph he had installed the night before. \"We're heading north\", he said, shouting over the yelping wind. \"That's where the lights shine from.\"\nDylan, taking long, irregular strides, offered a shaky thumbs up.\nEach step was a battle against the blustering gale. Still, had they been able to see their footprints, they'd realise how far they'd walked. Perhaps it was this thought that struck Leo as he made a sudden halt. \"What is it?\" asked Dylan. The wind had begun to settle, though the sky was no less murky. \"I don't get it,\" said Leo. \"We've been walking north for twenty minutes. According to this, the sky should have cleared.\" His eyes were fixed on the screen as if his steely gaze might sway the elements. Dylan's hand covered his mouth, but Leo could see the laughter in his eyes. \"What's so funny?\" he said.\nDylan chuckled aloud. \"Who's glued to their phone now? \"\nLeo couldn't help grinning. \"Smart ass,” he said, nudging his son on the shoulder. It was clear from Dylan's face that he had more to say. Leo didn't probe. It felt like approaching a baby deer; one wrong step could scare him off. A few steps later, Dylan said, \"Sorry about today. There's just... \" he squirmed his lips, perhaps regretting that he opened them all, \"stuff I needed to check. \"\n\"Stuff,\" said Leo? choosing his words delicately. There was a long pause before Dylan piped up again.\nThomas had a party at his house last night; I saw the pictures online. Kelly was at it. I think she and Thomas... \" He looked away, either out of embarrassment or anger.\n\"Who's Kelly? \" asked Leo.\n\"Just a girl I know,\" said Dylan before shaking his head and declaring it \"doesn't matter.\"\nLeo said, \"If you like her, you shouldn’t let this throw you off.\"\n\"I said It doesn't matter.\" Dylan kicked the snow, sending a white spray into the air. \"Thomas is tall and sporty; all the girls love him, including her.” Whatever he was feeling, he tried to mask it with a thin-lipped smile before walking a few steps ahead. Leo stalled for a moment, peering at something behind him. He smiled to himself and then caught up with Dylan. \"I know it's disappointing,\" he said as they continued their journey.\n\"Dad, I don't... \"\n\"I mean The Northern Lights; I don't think we'll see them tonight.\"\n\"Oh,\" said Dylan.\n\"It's those big clouds,\" said Leo, \"they don't let you see the sky as it is.\"\nDylan gave a dispirited grunt.\nLeo continued on, \"Of course, the attraction of the magnetic field might not be strong enough here. Attraction is strange that way, ebbing and flowing in weird directions. It doesn't always make sense. \"\nLeo couldn't be sure if Dylan was even listening. Still, laying a hand on his shoulder, he said, \"Sometimes nature isn't fair, but that doesn't mean we give up. Let's head back, warm ourselves up and hope things go better next time.\"\nDylan's face looked small as he shrank into his large hood. \"Okay, Dad,\" he said, forcing a smile. However, as he turned around, his pale eyes lit up like stars.\n\"Then again,\" said Leo, “sometimes we get lucky.\"\nFar in the distance were The Northern Lights, a streaming prism of purples and greens winding across the marble earth. Dylan erupted into joyous laughter.\n\"I was so set on going north because that's where the light comes from,\" said Leo, \"but it's a big sky; if you just stare in one place, you might miss something.\"\nThe cold which had gnawed at their bones vanished as they stood transfixed.\n\"Grandad would have loved this,\" said Dylan.\nLeo smiled.\n\"We're not really going home tomorrow, Dad, are we?\"\n\"You think you can manage a whole week if this?\" said Leo, giving him a challenging look.\nDylan gazed at Aurora as she sailed towards the heavens. \"I think I'm getting used to 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: Honeymoon for One\n\nGenre: holiday\n\nWord Count: 1547\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a bar that doesn’t serve alcohol." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "This trip hasn't been at all what I expected. I was supposed to be coming here for a romantic honeymoon in the Tuscan countryside. Instead, I'm here alone, hanging on through sheer spite and honestly with the help of a few overly priced but delicious cocktails from the plane. There aren’t enough Bloody Marys or Mimosas in the world for finding out that the groom is still in love with his high school sweetheart. I mean really, what the fuck? \n\n\n\nWell, at least when he left, he was oh so kind and let me keep the all-expenses paid trip to Italy. Why were they already paid again? Oh, that’s right. Because I paid for these tickets and I’m having this vacation. First order of business is figuring out how the hell to get out of this airport. Six years with this man and he never once mentioned that he might still possibly be holding a flame for someone else. I think he brought up her name once the entire time we were together. He basically left me for a ghost. That romance he had as a teenager? He said he wanted those feelings back. Ha! Good luck sir! \n\n\n\nI’d bet money (enough to cover this entire trip) that his high school love is married with three kids by now. At least I hope she is. I can’t wait for when he comes trying to crawl back to me with the “I’m so sorrys” and the “I made a big mistake” but by then it’ll be too late. I’ll be a changed woman by then. I’ll have spent time in a foreign country, away from whatever grip it is he has on me. I’m fully resisting the urge to immediately check his socials. What if he did find her and she’s gorgeous and they look happy together?\n\n\n\nOh God. I hate that I feel this way. He’s making me into someone that I’m not. When we met, I was carefree and fun and I certainly never imagined feeling this bitter. I spent most of my twenties with him. He knowingly took some of the best years of my life! But, you know what? There’s nothing I can do about that now and I’m going to make myself a promise. As of this moment, I’m promising myself that I am going to have the best time of my life on this trip. I deserve it! Starting here and now. At this confusing airport.\n\n\n\n“Excuse me … uh, un bar?” I ask an older gentleman passing by. He looks me up and down and points directly behind us without saying a word. “Oh, grazie!” I say and amble happily down the hall with my one bag strapped to me. I’m cute and I’m fun, I remind myself. If I weren’t, that man wouldn’t have checked me out like that! Or maybe he was judging me for going to the bar this early. Hard to say. I keep walking for a few more seconds scanning for the bar, but I don’t see it anywhere. I pass by a small cafe and double back. “Uh, hi there.” I smile at the hostess. “Buongiorno.” She says, but she never looks up at me nor does she smile. “Um, scusa, I’m looking for uh, un bar?” I press on. \n\n\n\n“Si, questo è un bar. Preferisci stare o in piedi?” I curse myself for not spending more time studying the language before coming, it’s just that I was more than a little distracted. Is she asking me about my feet? I’m confused, is there a dress code? She said it’s a bar but it looks like a cafe. Maybe it’s both? Oh God, what if she means my shoes are considered hideous here and they don’t want to let me in? “Scusa signorina! I’m so sorry about my Crocs. It’s just that I was on the plane and they’re so comfy and I well, I should’ve thought better of it or changed them before I got off the plane. Scusa!” \n\n\n“Okay, ti farò sedere a un tavolo allora. Da questa parte.” I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s going to seat me! I’m in. Looking around, I only see other people drinking coffee, but I don’t care. I’ll be the lone American drunk. No one knows me here anyway. At least, that’s what I tell myself as she leads me to a table. “Grazie.” I thank her as she points to a table. It’s a table meant for at least two people, so I sit in one chair and put my bag in the other. I’m going to make the most of this. I take out my phone and begin typing out a text to Mom. “Hey Mom, I made it safely. Not my proudest moment but I’m already at the bar! Love you.” She quickly responds.\n\n\n\n“Oh, good Honey. I'm glad you made it. I wish you would’ve let me come with you! You know I worry about you traveling alone. Drinking all by yourself in a foreign place?! Call me!!” I smile and place my phone on the table and then jump a little bit because I hadn’t realized that a man is standing right next to me. A very good-looking Italian man.\n\n“Ciao Signora, vuoi un cappuccino o macchiato oggi?” I don’t know much Italian, but I do know he’s asking me if I want coffee and that he thinks I’m old by his use of signora. “Um, no thank you!” My cheeks feel hot. I lean closer to him and half talk, half whisper, “do you have anything stronger?” His eyes light up a little. “Aaah, sì sì. Stay here, I will be right back.” He speaks English! I’m so relieved to hear my own language spoken that I relax a little in my chair. I grab my phone again and text Mom.\n\n“I’m alright! Promise. I’ll call you once I get to my hotel, okay? Love you!!!.\" This time as the bartender walks back over to me I’m able to fully take in how gorgeous he looks. He’s so tall and muscular and right when I start imagining how his hands would feel around my waist … he sets down a small cup in front of me. It looks like a white teacup. I glance inside at what he’s set down and realize it’s a few shots of espresso. I begin to laugh as the aroma reaches up to my nose. He looks puzzled. “Signora?” He cocks his head and chuckles a bit with me. “I’m sorry!” I let out a very sexy snort and then immediately put my hands over my face to hide my embarrassment.\n\n“Signora, do I need to call the crazy cops for you?” I look up at him and he’s smiling widely at me. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe you should call the crazy cops for me today.” I say and my stomach is starting to feel sore from laughing. I decide maybe I should explain to him. “I thought I was ordering alcohol.” \n\nThis time he really looks puzzled. “You thought you would order alcohol at the bar?” Yes, yes that is exactly what I thought. \n\n“Signora, bar is for espresso. You are looking for sbarra or ristorante.” The realization hits. I’m at a coffee shop. A coffee only shop. They call them bars here. I feel a little extra dumb now sitting here with this beautiful man while I’m wearing my baby blue Crocs and trying to order alcohol at his cafe. “Oh my God, I should go! This is so embarrassing.” I take a few dollars out of my bag and place them on the table. “Here, wait. Also, that won’t cover it. Put your money away.” He says. I stand next to the table and wait for … what exactly? A few moments later he returns with two larger mugs.\n\n“Here, sit. Why don’t you tell me your day?” He moves my bag out of the other chair and sits down across from me. I protest, “you don’t have time for that! Aren’t you working right now? Please, you’re being too nice to an old woman like me.” Now it’s his turn to burst out laughing. “Old woman? Conosco i miei polli and you are not the old woman.” I’m taken aback. “I thought you thought I was old? You called me Signora?” He smiles. “Signora is a sign of respect for a woman you do not yet know and as you say, I am at work after all.” I slowly slide down to sit back in my chair. He’s brought us two lattes. He must get a lot of American customers because it’s made exactly how I drink them at home. I meet his eyes and begin to spill the whole story. \n\nI don’t know what all I’ll be learning while I’m here. I’m not sure if I’ll spend any time at all with this man outside of this bar. All I know is that for once, the uncertainty feels good and for a moment, I feel like who I was before this all happened. I’m not worried about what’s waiting for me when I get home. After all, l’amore domina senza regole. I’ve heard that it means, ‘love rules without rules.’" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cactus Conundrum\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2561\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character setting an unusual New Year’s resolution." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The final day of 1943 was a dismal one—gray, snowy, and cold. The Christmas attitudes of goodwill and kindness to each other was still prevalent among the German guards and their British prisoners as they sat at a table in the mess hall, playing cards and chess and enjoying the last of the Christmas cookies.\n“Does anyone set goals for the new year?” Private Kesby asked, breaking the silence. “Is that a thing here in Germany?”\n“It is, but it’s not something I do,” Corporal Viermitz replied. He looked at his fellow guards. They were shaking their heads, except for one.\n“I’m planning on learning a new spell,” Private Liebermann said with his mouth full.\nSome of the British soldiers laughed. “Oh?” Private Wraight said. “Are you going to learn how to pull rabbits out of top hats?”\n“No. I’m going to learn how to grow cacti in any soil.”\nSergeant Plundell grinned a little. “Grow cacti? That seems . . . silly.”\n“Would you rather I learn how to make them come to life and chase people around the camp?”\n“You do that and Captain Westheimer will have your head,” Viermitz said without looking up from his cards.\n“Exactly.” Liebermann gave a big, goofy smile. “It’s perfectly harmless, and it’ll add some color to this dismal place. Who wouldn’t want to see some lovely tropical plants in here?”\n“Until you learn to grow coconut palms, I won’t be impressed,” Wraight said.\n“I can do that next.”\nPlundell cleared his throat. “Serious question, how exactly does a witch or warlock learn a spell?”\n“The same way you learn how to drive or ride a bicycle. Lots of practice, and using the correct tools. In this case, just a wand.” Liebermann held up his wand, which was made of wych elm wood. “It’s easy if you’re born into it. For someone who’s new to sorcery as an adult, it’s a lot harder, but still possible if you give it a lot of effort.”\nPlundell wasn’t interested in learning any spells, but he was curious to see how Liebermann’s endeavor to learn how to grow cacti would go.\n------------\nJanuary first of 1944 was the beginning of things returning to normal around the camp. The Christmas decorations were coming down, and the cheer was starting to fade. The poor weather meant everyone was inside longer than they were outside. Boredom became a bigger issue than it already was.\nIt made watching Liebermann practice growing plants more entertaining than it would normally be. For Plundell, watching someone actively practice their magic was fascinating. He had watched Westheimer perform magic quite a bit over the last few months, but the commandant was an experienced warlock. Plundell had called him a “master at magic” before, but Westheimer denied it.\n“I am average,” Westheimer had said, “I know nothing that another witch or warlock my age would not know. What I do is only impressive to you because you were not exposed to this at a young age.”\nPlundell couldn’t deny that. Everything Westheimer and his warlock guards did was impressive, because he had never seen it before.\nLiebermann had cleared snow away from a patch of ground, and was waving and jabbing his wand at it. Plundell stepped outside the barracks to watch, sitting on a bench by the door. There were sparks and magic dust puffing from Liebermann’s wand. He was completely silent, aside from the occasional grunt.\n“Is all magic nonverbal?” Plundell asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.\n“Most of it is,” Liebermann replied. “It requires a lot of mental fortitude. That’s why we teach it young.”\n“Were you like Westheimer? Did you run away from your culture?”\nLiebermann shook his head. “My parents weren’t like the other witches in our village. They had to run away from home when they wanted to get married. To keep me safe, they taught me everything they knew.”\n“I’m a bit surprised you’re not on the frontlines in Russia or Italy.”\n“Westheimer told you that most of the guards here aren’t fit for combat, didn’t he?”\nPlundell nodded.\n“Remember how I mentioned that I had an encounter with a poltergeist? That was in France in 1940. Obviously, I couldn’t tell any of my commanding officers what had happened. They wouldn’t believe me, so everything was chalked up to combat fatigue. I was labelled ‘unfit for service’ and sent to become a guard at a POW camp. I was actually at a different camp before this one. The commandant was a very nasty fellow. Private Seiden was there, too, and that was how we became friends. He was picked on a lot because he’s anemic and can’t be given too strenuous a task. Basically, he and I were seen as ‘weak links.’”\n“How did you manage to get transferred here?”\n“Luck, I guess. Both myself and Seiden were sent to Westheimer shortly after his camp was set up. He knew I was a warlock right away. That made it easy to trust each other.” Liebermann was quiet for a moment, waving his wand again at the ground. “I’m surprised myself that you approached him so boldly after the radio incident. Every other prisoner talks about how intimidating he is.”\n“I really wanted to know what happened. That’s why. I was afraid of him, too. It wasn’t just because he’s German. Something else felt . . . different.”\n“Even people without magic can get the sense that there’s something off or different about us, no matter how much they’re convinced magic isn’t real.” Liebermann jabbed his wand at the ground. Grass sprang up. “Well, that’s not what I wanted.”\nPlundell smiled a little. “You’ll get there.”\n“You’re the only one who didn’t laugh, so, thank you.” Liebermann waved his wand, making the grass disappear. “I’ll practice more another time. Should get back on duty before Sergeant Nagel catches me.”\n------------\nOver the next several days, there were random plants springing up all over the camp’s exercise yard. None of them were cacti. Eventually, though, cacti began to appear. The ground was marred where Liebermann had made his creations appear and disappear, which angered the groundskeeper, who went around swearing in German as he tidied the yard.\nThe cactus conundrum came to a head when Westheimer hosted a visit from Major Kersting, his superior and a close friend. His staff car entered the gates of the camp—and stopped in front of an enormous saguaro cactus.\nKersting was no stranger to magic, but this was certainly one of the strangest things he had ever seen. What were cacti doing in a frigid, northern country? And in early January, too? He stepped out of his car, looking around the camp. Cacti were everywhere. All different species of cacti. Big, tall ones and short, squat ones as well. Most eye-catching were the ones with bright, pink and yellow flowers sticking up out of their tops.\nHe looked over to see Westheimer stepping out of his quarters. The old man’s pipe fell out of his mouth upon seeing the cactus forest, and shouted, “What the hell are these damn cacti doing here?!”\nAll eyes, guard and prisoner alike, turned to Liebermann, who was raising yet another cactus from the ground.\n“He’s completing his New Year’s resolution!” Private Wraight yelled at Westheimer from his place on a barrel outside the barracks.\n“Private Fritz Liebermann!” Westheimer bellowed. “Get over here right now, young man!”\nLiebermann flushed red with embarrassment before heading over to Westheimer. His eyes widened upon seeing Major Kersting. “Sirs,” he said, nervously.\n“What—” Westheimer turned Liebermann to face the cactus forest, “is that?”\nLiebermann bit his lip. “It’s my New Year’s resolution, sir.”\n“Your New Year’s resolution was to grow cacti in inconvenient places?! Please explain to me what was going through your thick head when you thought that was a good idea!”\n“All I wanted to do was prove I could do it. I let it get out of control. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go remove them now.”\nWestheimer sighed heavily, raising his staff and making a wide sweeping motion. The cacti disappeared in a cloud of magic dust. “You are sentenced to cleaning the latrines. No help from anyone, including prisoners. Get to it. Now.”\nKersting watched Liebermann walk away. “New Year’s resolution, huh?”\nWestheimer shook his head. “Waste of time and breath on an already pointless holiday.”\n“I wouldn’t call New Year’s entirely pointless. Some people enjoy it.”\n“I do my reflections and that is it. I do not need to do anything else other than switch the damn calendar around.”\nKersting shrugged. “I will admit, I think you were a bit hard on Liebermann.”\n“He should consider himself lucky that it was you who pulled in. Any other German officer would have questioned every member of the camp for hours, and once they found out some of us possess magic, we would be put to death. This camp might seem like a haven, but it could be shut down at any moment. He could have put us all in danger.\"\n------------\nPlundell entered the prisoners’ latrine an hour later to find Liebermann on his hands and knees with a rag and bucket in one of the stalls. Not wanting to ruin his work, Plundell stayed in the doorway. “Is everything alright? I heard Westheimer was angry with you.”\n“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Liebermann muttered. “I get carried away too easily. Always devolves into him yelling at me that if his operation is discovered, it’ll be because of me.”\n“I’m sorry.”\n“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I’m the one who messed up.”\nPlundell was quiet for a moment. “I meant, I’m sorry Westheimer yelled at you.”\n“Don’t. I deserved it. I really could put this place at risk of being found out if I keep doing stupid stuff like that.” Liebermann dipped his rag in the bucket of soapy water, not making eye contact with Plundell. “Just wanted to make people smile, that’s all. I hear about warlocks who dedicate themselves to doing fun things with their magic, making people smile and laugh. They use their magic to entertain, and . . . I can’t. I’m stuck here. I couldn’t even do anything special for Christmas aside from the pendants. I couldn’t make dancing snowmen or light up a tree or anything.”\n“Westheimer did his best for us this year.”\n“I know, but it’s hard to do more when you’re worried about the Nazis coming in and ruining everything, especially when you know that your punishment could very well be death.”\n“But you’re tired of everything being so depressing.”\n“Exactly. That’s why I grew the cacti. I just wanted to see some color. I wanted to make people happy.”\n“If it helps, you made me happy just by letting me watch you practice.”\nLiebermann looked over his shoulder. He hesitated for a moment before smiling a little. “Thanks.”\n“This isn’t going to last forever. We’ll all be back home before we know it.”\n“I certainly hope so.” Liebermann kept cleaning. “All I want is to go home.” He stopped, staring down at the wet floor. His body tensed, and Plundell noticed a tear rolling down his nose. “That’s it. I just want to go home.” He sat with his back to the wall, and wrapped his arms around his legs, putting his head on his knees and sobbing.\nPlundell pushed aside the bucket of water to kneel in front of Liebermann. “Mate, don’t cry. It’ll be alright.” When he didn’t get a response, he put his arms around Liebermann. Almost instinctively, Liebermann hugged him back, his sobbing muffled by Plundell’s coat. It eventually subsided, and the two pulled away.\nLiebermann’s face was red and wet. Sniffing, he dried his eyes with his sleeve. “Sorry.”\n“Don’t be. I’ve had nights where I’ve cried myself to sleep over homesickness. I-I don’t know if it helps, but . . . I don’t want you to feel alone.”\n“Thank you.” Liebermann took a deep breath. “I should finish the latrine, and you should go before Westheimer catches you and assumes you’re helping me.”\nNodding, Plundell stood up. “You’ll be alright alone?”\n“Yes. We can talk more later.”\n------------\nSitting in his bunk, Plundell read through his Christmas mail again. There was one from his parents, one from Monnie, and several from cousins and friends. He had certainly been hoping to see everyone, as he managed to do every year. The letters and care packages were certainly appreciated. In a way, though, the distance made it feel as though Christmas hadn’t happened.\nWhen everyone else in the barracks retired to their bunks, Plundell lay awake, flipping through the cards he was sent. He jumped a little when the barracks door opened. Some of the POWs glanced over to see Liebermann walking in.\n“What the hell is your problem? Roll call’s not for another nine hours!” Wraight shouted.\nLiebermann ignored him. “Plundell? Are you awake?”\n“Yeah. What’s going on?” Plundell slid his cards under his pillow.\n“Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”\nNodding, Plundell dropped down from his bunk, and pulled his boots and jacket on before following Liebermann outside. “Is everything alright?” he asked.\n“Yes. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to give you something.” Liebermann pulled out a small, empty flower pot from one of the oversized pockets on his greatcoat. He squatted to scoop some dirt into the pot, then handed it to Plundell. He made a circling motion with his wand over the pot, and a small tree sprouted from the dirt. “Miniature oak tree. I know the oak is the tree of England, so . . . I wanted to give you something to remind you of home.”\n“Do I have to water it?”\nLiebermann nodded. “It will stay little forever, so you’ll have it forever.”\nPlundell gently turned the pot around in his hands. “First the pendant, now this. I should get something for you.”\n“Don’t. I figured if I’m going to teach myself to grow plants out of nothing, I should at least grow them for a purpose other than proving I can do it.”\n“Still, you’ve been doing things for me, and I haven’t really done anything for you.”\nLiebermann was quiet for a moment, looking out at the rest of the camp yard before looking back at Plundell. “I consider you a friend. I wasn’t expecting anyone to talk to me after Westheimer’s scolding.”\n“I just thought it was strange everyone was getting upset over a bunch of cacti.”\nLiebermann grinned a little. “It is strange, I’ll agree with that, but it had more to do with the fact that I let it get out of control. I should have stopped and thought about what could have happened if someone Westheimer didn’t know came in.”\n“So, we all got very lucky, then?”\n“We did. We’ve had brushes with disaster before, but we . . . I need to make sure we minimize them. Westheimer’s right to be concerned about my ability to control myself.”\n“Just don’t beat yourself up to the point where you don’t even have confidence in your abilities anymore.” Plundell put his hand on Liebermann’s shoulder. “Make that your New Year’s resolution. Confidence and self-control. Both will make you a much better wizard, and a much better person.”" } ]

Subsets and Splits

No community queries yet

The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.