Datasets:

ImagineIt

/

Stories

like 0

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lost and Found\n\nGenre: adventure\n\nWord Count: 2990\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a lighthouse surrounded by powerful gale-force winds." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On my last shift as a lighthouse keeper, I climbed the seventy-six spiral iron stairs and two ladders to the watch room, the number of steps the same as my age. The thwomp and snare of each step laid an ominous background score. Something wasn’t right. At that very moment, Richie Tedesco was pointing a fire extinguisher at the burning electrical panel in the engine room of his boat a few miles offshore.\n\nThe placard in the watch room read “Marge Mabrity, Lightkeeper—First lighted the depths on March 2nd, 1985, and hasn’t missed a night.” Already so close to forty years. I could still read the skies like a book. The lighthouse smelled of aging wood, dried-out moss, and the bitter acid spritz of corrosion. But out on the gallery deck, leaning against the handrails, there was the unmistakable scent of petrichor. The clouds in the distance grew taller, black shading growing across their swelling bellies, with the storm caps flattening under the weight of the system. I tasted the metallic hint of ozone on my tongue. I felt the intensity of the pressure in my ears and on my forehead.\n\nI know what you are thinking. Why had I even done it? For all those years. I guess finding lost things was always the one thing about me that was uniquely my own. And I didn’t know if I could give it up.\n\nA few miles back toward the mainland, Cappie patrolled the Long Island ports and seaways on his tug, waiting for salvage and rescue calls. There were still enough of them to get by. Especially with these yahoos taking up boating. But the seas were not what they used to be, and Cappie barely eked out a life of sustenance back on land. Lone rangers like us were going extinct in this world of ubiquitous connection and universal alienation. It was a world of gadgets now. But it turned out our kind was more needed than ever when the gadgets failed.\n\nThe three of us, in our solitary orbits, were bound on an intersecting course.\n\nHow many things had I retired from in a lifetime of retirements? However many it was, this one felt different. A transplant from Norway, full of Viking blood, I’d had a brief career on the national downhill skiing circuit. I’d hung that up for university. Then I’d hung up the mantle of a student for a job in forestry. Quit that to start a family. That transient period that seemed never-ending before the kids left home turned out not to be. My marriage ended too. And on and on. But the longest stint was my forty years as the Lighthouse Keeper at Montauk Point.\n\nIt was to be a ceremonial night.\n\nStill, it felt wrong.\n\nEven if I was pushing eighty. Who was I to buy into this twaddle about graceful exits and diminished capacity?\n\nMy thoughts were disturbed by a call on the radio.\n\nChannel 19.\n\nIt was Cappie.\n\nI didn’t want a mayday call.\n\nNot tonight.\n\n* * *\n\nRichie Tedesco was lost at sea.\n\nAs lost as lost can be.\n\nThe fire in the engine room had only taken minutes to put out, but the electrical lines were irreparably damaged. Hours later, when the last of the juice in the ship’s backup batteries ran out, Richie watched as the monitors with the electronic ocean maps and satellite-supported GPS positioning flickered and went black.\n\nRichie might as well have been surveying the moon. He had no idea of his location. It’s odd how easily we take for granted that we know where we are, never realizing how often we are hopelessly lost and don’t even know it.\n\nNight navigation is a real son-of-a-bitch. A swabbie mug untrained in navigation would be facing long odds of surviving such a calamity. And on the spectrum of swabbie mugs, Richie wasn’t even at the top of the class. But how did Richie get here?\n\nA few months back, Richie had bought a custom Sea Ray Sundancer 370 when he was promoted. Of course, he couldn’t afford the new model. He settled for a year-old model with the same look and feel, but which had been heavily used and abused by the prior owner, who was a real boater. But no bother. It was his prized possession.\n\nRichie hadn't accounted for the cost of marina dues and other ancillary costs. With the hefty loan he’d taken on the boat, he lacked the funds for all the accouterments of the boating life, things both expensive and confusing for the uninitiated seaman. These turned out to be necessary.\n\nRichie had skimped on maintenance and hired an inexperienced handyman named Louie (who was known around the marina as ‘Louie the Wrench’) to help with keeping the vessel seaworthy. A gamble that failed. Louie spent a lot more time on the phone with his bookie than with his wrench in hand.\n\nThe sun lounge and dining area in the hollowed-out front hull was what first had sold him. Richie had imagined spending long romantic weekends, with Rene, from the spring to the fall, jaunting from marina to marina, exploring the New England coast. Enjoying white wine or a martini together in the sun lounge at sundown, over a decadent charcuterie board, and raw seafood on ice.\n\nBy Richie’s calculations, this routine would somehow make up for his soulless existence earning obscene—but still inadequate-to-the-expected-lifestyle wages—spending all his daylight hours keeping his employer out of hot water by enforcing labyrinthine government regulations, effective only in the great lengths his employer was willing to go through and the great costs his employer was willing to expend to completely avoid the salutary, remedial purposes the regulations stood for in the first place.\n\nRene didn’t care about the predatory nature of the enterprise or how monotonous and unsexy the work was, but the fact that Richie was not the top dog. Not by a long shot. And there was little hope of improvement there. Five years for a promotion of title with a raise in bonus but not base pay? Rene knew what that meant long before Richie did.\n\nRene was not an adventurer. She was a social climber. Replacement Richie had a proper yacht, a newer model Mercedes, and a pricier high-rise condominium. He ran his own company doing something that sounded borderline illegal, and let’s be honest, probably was. He cheated on his taxes. Replacement Richie wasn’t apologizing for it either—it was a kick. He took what he wanted.\n\nRene spent the weekends with Replacement Richie and her exchangeable NPC girlfriends sunbathing on the deck of Replacement Richie’s yacht, surrounded by a display of designer bags and branded bathing suit pullovers and slides. The yacht stayed permanently moored at the Star Island Yacht Club & Marina (more prestigious than Richie’s Jersey City marina). The yacht was used exclusively for marina clout and cocktail convos. It never once saw the open seas all spring and summer. But everyone had a fabulous time of it and didn’t seem bothered at all.\n\nRene’s Instagram post of her engagement ring, anchoring her fates to Replacement Richie had done it. NPC girlfriend Vic was sure to comment first, for everyone’s knowledge, that it was, in fact, a 4.05-carat round diamond with a perfect “colorless” grade. The NPC’s knew on sight, like puppies who can sense one of their litter about to be adopted. It took Richie longer to find out. It was a $250K ring.\n\nIn one moment, Richie knew for certain that this romance would have no second act. He did the only thing that made sense at the time. He took to the open seas. Alone. Without telling anyone.\n\nRichie sat out in the sun lounge alone in the darkness trying to gain enough night vision to make out a landmark in the fog of dark. Richie had made all the rookie boating mistakes. The first rule of boat safety is not to go out alone. Chart a course. Tell a friend. Most people who get lost at sea stay lost. That is true on land as well. Despite getting his boating license, Richie skipped on-water training. The list went on and on.\n\nPerhaps worst of all, Richie couldn’t tell land-based lights from navigation lights from buoys and markers. He’d spent the last two hours heading further out to sea and nearly scraping the side of a three-meter-tall red ocean buoy that towered over the deck of his humble cruiser.\n\nAnd that was when he panicked and started firing off his flares.\n\n* * *\n\n“How is my best girl tonight?” Cappie asked.\n\n“Don’t be fresh with me. You old rake. You mean, with it being my last night?”\n\n“Ahh, fiddlesticks. Last night my arse. We both know you are gonna be buried on that rock, and me with you.”\n\n“As romantic as that is, I like a nice dinner and some wine before committing to a joint burial.”\n\n“Well, well. You little siren. Whetting my appetite. Marge, you’re gonna love this one.”\n\n“What is it Cappie?”\n\n“I’ve been tuned in on Channel 19 for the last fucking hour.” Cappie chuckled. His voice rattled. A deep raspy bass that hit like a fine brass-colored Scotch. It intoxicated my senses and warmed my chest off the first sip. It sang a lifetime of hard songs, but the calloused old heart was in there. He was old salt. Everything you imagined a seaman to be. Gray beard, sun-scorched skin, and a temperament mercurial enough to match the open seas. In his mid-seventies, Cappie was still fit and lean. But a little tired of a lifetime of wandering.\n\n“Sounds delightful,” I said. “Did they locate your chivalry and manners? Or have those gone the way of Davy Jones too?”\n\n“Get this. Some clueless yo-pro has been singing an off-key Rhianna playlist—Ree-ann-eh—all the way through, non-stop, not realizing his radio line is open. Must have pushed the microphone button into something. The radio went dark after sundown.”\n\n“God help us.”\n\n“You see that black squall coming in from the west? Well, this yo-pro, let’s call him Chadwick. Well, Chadwick here, he has been headed east out into the open seas, and he’s going to get clipped by that sail shredder on his way back to port, if he even knows enough to head back to port. Coast Guard has been trying to reach him, with no response.”\n\nI could hear it in his voice. Cappie’s full name was Jack “Tommy” Rogers. And Cappie was always into a bottle of his namesake. Cappie only had a few rules, and one was that he never touched the bottle until he’d finished his calls. Someone could lose their life if he broke that rule like he’d done tonight. Something serious was going on with Cappie.\n\n“How are the seas tonight,” I asked.\n\n“Seas are building. Cthulhu is growing restless. We are just chugging along on the gasoline breeze out here waiting for our damsel in distress to call for a knight in shining armor on his noble stallion or in this case a hundred-year-old tugger.”\n\n“Oh, Cappie! I didn’t know it was your hundredth birthday today. Happy birthday!”\n\n“Touché,” he said.\n\nCthulhu is what he called his tugboat. I asked once. I regretted it. To this day. Something about how his straight lines were like the tentacles of some weird Octopus god.\n\n“She’s all buttoned up, tight as a button, and I’m getting a bit high off the diesel fumes.” It was more than the diesel that Cappie was high on.\n\nI imagined Cappie out there. Be careful to avoid the reef, old man. I can see him threading through frigates, tankers, cutters, and cruise ships (like floating cities). I worry about Cappie.\n\nAnd that night, I wanted to tell him how I felt. But I tried to restrain myself.\n\nIt was a big night. No sense in complicating it.\n\n“I was afraid this was going to be a mayday call,” I said.\n\nThen it occurred to me, that maybe it was one.\n\n* * *\n\nIt was a moonless night. Richie couldn’t tell the sea from the sky. It was so dark that all that was visible was the wake of the ship drawing a white foam trail through the otherwise black void. There is that verse in Revelations where the heavens and earth pass away and there is no longer any sea. Richie didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But it had happened. All that was left was infinite negative space.\n\nRichie’s skin crawled, and his forehead dampened. The night was muggy, and an invisible cooling mist enveloped the cruiser. The only sounds were lapping waves, and the only smell was a briny whiff of sea foam.\n\nHow lost are you when you have lost your bearings and don’t know the distance to any safe harbor? Richie had not considered this before. The darkness is impartial. Absolute. Unforgiving. But in its grip, you felt that its horrors were custom-tailored, handcrafted, and made-to-measure. Just for you. Richie sure felt that way.\n\nThere was that foreboding, ominous sense. That the evils at play, which seemed resolved to engineer your demise, are the earned wages for some sin, the gravity of which you failed to appreciate. Whose wrath was stirred by your trespasses? God? Nature? Some malignant spirit of vengeance? What evil deed tipped the scales to a sentence of death? These were Richie’s thoughts.\n\nThe gas gauge became an instrument of terror.\n\nRichie cursed his reckless disregard. Why didn’t he pack extra canned goods and five more reserve five-liter fuel cans?\n\nHow could he have been so arrogant?\n\nSo foolish?\n\nAnd then, the rains started to fall, like icy darts from the heavens.\n\n* * *\n\n“Marge to Cappie. Where are you?”\n\n“Headed out to sea.”\n\n“What?”\n\n“Chadwick isn’t going to save himself.”\n\n“Cappie! You old fool. It isn’t safe.”\n\n“Don’t get sentimental on me now, you old cow. I’ve got a job to do.”\n\n“Stay safe out there, will you.”\n\nCappie barked like a dog. “Roof roof.”\n\nAnd that’s all I needed to hear.\n\n* * *\n\nNo one was coming to save him. That was Richie’s last thought before firing off his last flare.\n\nHe pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds and lit one up.\n\nRichie smoked on the sun lounge and thought about his life, which might be coming to an end.\n\nHe judged his life poorly. He hadn’t lived it. He’d bought the marketing in the pamphlet but hadn’t pursued the dream the pamphlet was selling. And now it was too late.\n\nFor the first time in years, Richie felt reinvigorated. Clear. Awakened. Alive.\n\n* * *\n\nCappie’s tugger was at full tilt, boat-jumping the waves. The gales of the squall buffeted the front visor and tossed the ship among the crests, pushing it off course, making it hard to keep a broad breach and hit the waves at a clean 45° to avoid the worst of the punch of the storm.\n\nCappie located Richie’s cruiser. And then reached it. He took out a bullhorn and tried to tell Richie he was there, but the winds were like a dark room for sound. And Richie had no idea Cappie was out there.\n\nCappie pulled up and started setting the straight wires, attaching them to the stern of Richie’s cruiser. After a while, Richie came out and realized what was happening. He stood there holding tight to the table in the galley as the cruiser bobbed in the wake. After the winch brought the ships together, Cappie came aboard.\n\n“What you doing out here son?”\n\n“Long story. Can you get me back to shore?”\n\n“Can I? Will do is more like it. First, let’s check the vessel.”\n\nWhile Cappie was on the galley, inspecting the cruiser, a sadistic gust rocked the boat and Cappie tumbled over the safety pole. Richie looked down and saw he had grabbed the ropes along the trim and molding and was rocking with the boat, his legs gusting in the winds.\n\n“Get the line from the capstan on my boat, get it to me.”\n\n“The what?”\n\n“The circular thing with the ropes.”\n\nIn seconds, Richie was back with the rope. Cappie clutched it and climbed back aboard. He slumped on the deck, breathing heavily.\n\n“Not bad son. You’ve graduated from Greenhorn to Seaman tonight. Congratulations. Now let’s get you back to shore.”\n\n* * *\n\n“Cthulhu inbound,” Cappie called back to me.\n\n“Thank God,” I said.\n\n“Chadwick’s name is Richie. Works in finance. Heartbroken Greenhorn. Can’t make this up.”\n\n“Do you see the beacon?”\n\n“Like I need a beacon to get me back to you.”\n\n“You old salty dog.”\n\n“The kid told me he’s leaving finance. Might move to Montauk. Said the sea is calling.”\n\n“God help us.”\n\n“So, are you following through on this thing?”\n\n“I’m an old woman, Jack.”\n\n“We could do it together.”\n\n“Give me a break.”\n\n“I’ll spend nights up there with you. Patrol days.”\n\n“Don’t tease me.”\n\n“I’m serious Marge. I’ll be back in half an hour. Once the emergency folks take Chadwick here to the hospital, I say we have that dinner and those drinks.”\n\n“We’ve known each other thirty years.”\n\n“You want to wait for forty?”\n\n“I just…”\n\n“Just nothing Marge. I almost died tonight.”\n\n“What?”\n\n“But my last thought was that I almost let you fucking retire.”\n\n“You almost died?”\n\n“I’ll be back in a half hour and I’m coming up there, invited or not, so get yourself ready. And you are not retiring. That’s also not negotiable, Marge. Not up for discussion.”\n\n“Where has this Cappie been all my life?”\n\n“Lost at sea, I guess. But I’m coming ashore.”\n\nI’m a modest woman, so I won’t tell you how it all turned out. But let’s just say, it’s hard to refuse an old salty dog that won’t take no for an answer." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Last Man Kneeling\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2025\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(*warning; Implied racism and mentions of slavery. *)\nTHE LAST MAN KNEELING\nThe man in the painting was nameless, but he knew three things for certain:\n1. He was depicted kneeling on a plush red carpet, his face locked in a stern expression as he gazed into the flickering flames of a grand fireplace.\n2. The artist who had brought him to life and placed him on display was known as Asher Vanderbilt, his elegant signature adorning the bottom of the canvas in golden letters.\n3. And most importantly - at night, the nameless man would come alive.\nIt was a strange transition from being a mere observer, to being an active participant of this thing called life. To go from frigid to soft. During these times, he was able to feel the soft fur of the carpet, he felt it gain weight as it seemed to push back against him. \nHe didn't know if it was a curse or not, but he found himself looking forward to those moments when he could see beyond his confined surroundings and observe the other paintings in the gallery. He noticed that while there were many vibrant and colourful paintings, he was the only figure with dark skin. \nBut this fact didn't bother him too much. He wondered if it was supposed to.\nLately, the gallery had been busier than usual. He could sense it in the increase of shadows passing by during the day and the rise in noise levels. The man noticed that he saw more black members of the public. And they were particularly interested in him. The man did not know why. Trapped in his painting, the social bonds of race- the meaning of race - had not been implanted into his brain.\nThere was one particular woman with curly black hair and bright red lipstick who would visit him daily. She would pass by all of the other more colourful paintings and make her way straight to him. She would stand with her arms crossed and her lips pursed as she studied him. Sometimes, she would even bring a notebook and jot things down before leaving. The man couldn't help but wonder what it was about him that fascinated her so much. Perhaps she was just a big fan of Asher Vanderbilt's work and admired his creation.\nAs the clock struck midnight once again, the man's mind began to wonder. In moments when he felt more human and present rather than cold and empty, he often thought about his creator, Asher Vanderbilt. He couldn't help but admire the artist for drawing him into existence with such care and detail, dressed in a comfortable dark green attire against a scenic backdrop. Did the other paintings in the gallery also think about their creators? Did they long with a faint eagerness to meet them? \nThe man, trapped in the painting from his very existence, had neither learnt of the concept of death which his owner had succumbed to. \nThat night, the man felt an adventurous streak take over. He wanted to test the limits of this newfound \"life\". Could he even step out of his painting? The thought excited him. Slowly and carefully, he climbed out of his frame and onto the wooden floor. It was strange walking on solid ground rather than the familiar red carpet in his painting. As he explored the gallery at a slower pace to avoid dizziness, some of his fellow paintings looked over in curiosity. They weren't feeling as daring today, but that just meant more space for him.\nAll the paintings shared a similar style and taste in clothing thanks to their creators. Each one showcased figures dressed in similar attire, with lavish fabrics and intricate details. The colours were mostly muted, with deep jewel tones and dark shadows.\nA sculpture stood tall and statuesque in the centre of the room, its elegant curves and sharp edges catching the faint light in all the right places. Its surface was smooth and pristine, with no visible imperfections. It didn't seem alive, fortunately. Its imposing presence made the man slightly uneasy.\nHe continued his self-guided tour of the gallery, venturing further than he ever had before. As he observed every corner of the room, one fact became clear - he was the only dark face in the whole gallery. He wondered again if he should perhaps feel something about this and paused. Well…he should feel unique. Yes. Asher Vanderbilt had uniquely created him in this overwhelming sea of pale faces. His creator had wanted him to stand out. No wonder, he captured attention from visitors. \nSpeaking of Asher Vanderbilt – his creator had quite a few pieces around the place including one titled \"The Golden Girl\". It featured a blonde woman sitting in a cosy home with a tray of tea and biscuits in front of her. The man found himself smiling at this. His creator was clearly very talented. In the back of his mind, he wondered faintly why he himself had been painted with a frown, rather than a smile like this woman. It would be more comfortable for his face if he didn’t have to frown all the time. But never mind that – at least he could smile now. \nHe was about to move on to the next painting when he spotted it; a name. The name of the woman in the picture; Gilda Mason.\nSo, people in paintings could have names. \nIt may not have seemed quite the ground-breaking realisation. But the man had just assumed that nobody really had names. That only the artists themselves had names. And as he walked and looked more closely, he noted that it wasn’t just Gilda that had a name. Everyone else had a name too. Annabelle. Fitzpatrick. Lisa. Benedict. Name after name, an overload of them. \nOnly in that moment, did the man come to realise how important a name could be. And this was when he decided to rush back to re-examine his own painting. He must have missed it all those times before. Asher Vanderbilt seemed a very talented and respected artist – he must have given him a name. The man just needed to look harder. Yes. That is exactly what he would do. \nHe walked as fast as he could without getting dizzy; he rounded the corner and found himself in the familiar room gallery he had become accustomed to. His painting looked strange without him in it; a space on the red carpet right where he should be kneeling.H\nHe peered at the bottom of the frame and saw Asher Vanderbilt's name followed by a description: \"A slave playing dress up, 1748.\"\nThe man read this sentence over and over, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning; some hidden name between the vague description of ‘a slave.’ Had Asher Vanderbilt really forgotten his name? Or maybe the word ‘slave’ was enough. The man frowned a little. He had really wanted a name. And he wasn’t too sure what a slave was. \nAnd playing dress up? He glanced down at the satin material of his clothes. Did they not belong to him? Was he borrowing it from someone? And if so, when was he going to give them back?\nLost in thought, he remembered seeing security guards handing out leaflets near the entrance of the gallery. He grabbed one and hoped it would provide some useful information about himself and his circumstances.\nWelcome to the main art gallery of West Virginia! We're thrilled that you've decided to visit.\nThe words oozed with excitement as the man skimmed through the brochure. He flipped through a few pages showcasing various paintings and sculptures before coming across something more intriguing. It was a picture of that same black woman, someone he had seen frequently at the gallery in the past month. However, in this particular photo, her expression seemed harsher, almost menacing. It was not the most flattering image to choose.\nThe writing on that particular page - page 5 - was titled ‘’The Issue of The Civil Rights Movement and how it pertains to this art gallery.’’ \nAn article by Steve Crowner, dated 18th June 1963.\nIt caught the man’s eye and he began to read;\n‘You've seen it on the news. And if you haven't, then you've surely witnessed it on the streets. When I first opened this gallery, I never imagined it would become a platform for political debates. But somehow, politics has found its way here. Ada Wells, pictured below, has made sure of that. I welcome everyone into my gallery - I don't believe in segregation. So I allowed Ada, a journalist, to come to me seeking entry out of pure kindness. Little did I know she would use her visit as an opportunity to defame my name in the local newspapers because of one painting displayed here. The piece by Asher Vanderbilt from 1748 was one of his last works. His personal beliefs about race are not my concern. This is the danger with certain movements; they seek to destroy everything that came before them. This gallery stands with Vanderbilt and that's final’\nSteve Crowner's words left the man feeling overwhelmed and confused. He may not have fully understood every word, but there was definitely a heated debate about Vanderbilt's character happening beneath the surface. And that confusion itself was perplexing to him. After all, Vanderbilt was the creator of this man. He must have been a good person, right?\nThe man felt a sudden urge to learn more, but the rest of the brochure seemed quite plain in comparison. \nAlthough the biblical reference would go over his head, the man had taken a small bite from the tree of knowledge; and now there was a small crack in his worldview.\nAs he climbed back into his painting, he felt a little less proud, a little more muddled. He had climbed back in the same way as he had left it; nameless, but with a few more questions. The clothes on his skin did not sit as they once had; they lingered instead. And God knew there was a difference. If they could, they would make his skin itch. And that frown which had been painted onto his face was now very much a real one. The furrow between his brows deepened as he gazed back at the flickering flames in the fireplace.\nHe couldn’t shake off the thoughts stirred up by the leaflet. It had been a rude awakening, one that made him question everything he thought he knew about his existence and purpose.\nHe had always been content to hang from this wall and be admired by passersby. But now, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would judge him based on his creator’s reputation. The quietly shattering seedling of a realisation that Vanderbilt was not as great as the man thought he was. The quietly maddening realisation that people could be multifaceted; That Vanderbilt could paint him in one breath, paint the beautiful scenery in another and yet also have another side to him.\nThe man found himself waiting for that black woman to come again. This time when he subtly examined her staring, he would look a bit closer. He would not mistake her semblance of neutrality for admiration. Clearly she had feelings of the opposite. \nThis time when she came, he would be ready for her.\nOne last time; the man looked around at the paintings that covered the walls of Steve Crowner’s art gallery. There were portraits of wealthy families, landscapes of the picturesque countryside, and scenes depicting historical events. And then there was him – a portrait with no name.\nThe man had not known it then, but his painting had been the subject of debate locally. The Civil Rights movement had a cultural dynamic to it that was more than just legal battles. Ada B. Wells was spearheading this part of the movement. She believed it was a disgrace; if slavery was so far behind the Great Nation of the United States, then why was there still one last man kneeling?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Two Sides Of The Same Coin\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1021\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the narrator or a character saying “I remember…”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I remember my childhood in bits and pieces, like framed pictures of specific events that exist independently of all the other memories. There was the time I challenged my brother to a foot race down the steps of the rocky hill on the side of my grandfather’s house. My mother warned us to never run down the hill lest we injure ourselves. But that did not thwart us at all. We waited for her to go to work and proceeded with our plans. What else was there to do in the hot summer sun but run, hide, play, and take in all of the day’s light. There was also the time I climbed the mango tree in my grandfather’s backyard and got stuck. So I snacked on mangoes and hoped the house girl would find me before my grandfather came home. The Haitian sun was always more bearable in the shade of a tree and a cool breeze, and this tree was my favorite. It had the juiciest mangoes, branches that extended every which way, and was so full it shaded almost the entire courtyard. \nMy grandfather, a tall, lanky man with a balding spot at the top of his head that he regularly covered with a gray felt hat; a hat that looked like it had seen as many good and bad days as he had, hated when we climbed his mango tree. He’d complain that we’d shake the fruit right out and that they’d burst and spoil when they fell on the ground. Though he was a man of few words, he spoke with a deep voice; you could not help but stop whatever you were doing and listen. \nNow, as I watch my daughter play in the grass under the tall oak tree in our yard, I wonder how much she’ll remember. I wondered if this day of swinging in the shade, twirling in the specks of sunlight, and inspecting blades of grass for ladybugs would make it into the archives of her memories. I wondered if I would be part of this memory or if I would fade into the fuzzy details of the day. Nothing of particular significance happened to me on the day that I got stuck in my grandfather’s mango tree. Nothing I remember, at least. It was not the first time I had been stuck in a tree. Climbing was never the issue; it was always the trip down that scared me. And yet, I remember that moment, the juiciness of the mango, how sticky my fingers got, and the look on my grandfather’s face when he found me in the tree. \nBut the thing about memories is that the more you member them, the less reliable they become. My mother, who grew up in that house, does not remember a mango tree. No matter how much I described it. \n“Not my father’s house,” she would say. “We were never allowed in the courtyard. How would you have gotten to a tree?” She’d ask in wonderment and confusion. I’m sure, if she could, my mother would call me a liar. But, instead, she said, “these memories are not yours, dear,” and waved me off, as all Haitian parents do. As if my memories could somehow belong to someone else. It did not matter. If my memories did not reconcile with hers, it was as though they never were. \nI remember visiting my grandfather before he passed. I wanted so badly to believe my memories and hold on to that day as it was; I booked a flight and made the one thousand five hundred mile journey back to Haiti to ask him about the day he found me in the mango tree. \n“My child!” he exclaimed with a smile and a warm embrace. In his arms and the warmth of his body, I felt that it had been too long since our last embrace. “What has an old man done to deserve this visit?” His voice, scent, the breeze, and the faint sounds of life passing just beyond the house gates all reminded me of how much I had missed home. It brought tears to my eyes that surprised us both. \n“Do not cry,” he quipped “you are here now.” \nAnd I remembered how uncomfortable tears made him feel. I never understood how a military man with so much strength and discipline could handle bullets, bombs, and the chaos of the battlefield yet floundered at the sight of tears. It made me smile. We sat in silence for some time on the bench facing the courtyard, enjoying the afternoon breeze and the evening sun. \n“Do you remember the mango tree, grandpa?” I asked him.\n“You mean this one right there? That you fell off of after I told you not to climb it?” He responded affectionately while pointing at the tree that cast shade on us. \n“Yes,” I smiled. I had forgotten that part. Or maybe I had blocked it out of my memory entirely. “Mama said we were never allowed in the courtyard.”\n“The courtyard? My courtyard?” He interrupted. \n“Yes. She said,”— \n“No.” He interrupted again, this time more certain. “Not my daughter. She would not say such a thing,” he continued shaking his head. “She and the boys were always in the yard, climbing my trees and spoiling my mangoes,” he chuckled. “No matter how much I insisted or how many times I punished you, I could not keep you off of it.”\n“You mean mama, right?”\n“What?”\n“You mean you could not keep mama off of it.”\n“Right,” he replied, almost in a whisper, and looked at me as though it were for the first time. “That’s what I said. Maybe she is confused,” he continued. “Those memories aren’t hers.” \nI remember we sat in silence afterward. The evening became dusk, and our versions of events filled up the space between us. I wonder if there will come a day when I will dismiss my daughter’s recollection of her life. If this disconnect is a right of passage into motherhood, and if she will quietly accept it as I have." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Lantern of Kaamos\n\nGenre: adventure\n\nWord Count: 2985\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during polar night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The melting Arctic is a crime scene, and I am like CSI Ny-Ålesund. Trond is the anonymous perpetrator leaving evidence and clues for me to discover, like breadcrumbs leading back to him. “Jonna,” he had said, the day we first met at the research institute, “If you are going to make it up here, don’t lock your doors.” It seemed like a life philosophy, rather than a survival tip.\n\nIt is ironic. Out on Kings Bay, the coal miners came first, then the science outposts. Trond was already out here mining the Arctic when I was still just a bright-eyed undergrad, out to save nature from the ravaging capitalists.\n\nWhen we met, we both understood immediately that we were on opposite sides. I guess sleeping with the enemy isn’t out of the question when it is seventeen below. At winter’s end, we both got the tattoo “79 ° North” on our shoulders. After flask after flask of bittersweet Jägermeister Mule and a night of cross-country skiing on the fjord to observe the Northern Lights, there seemed to be a permanence in the gesture. A holiness to it. Sacramental and sacred. We weren’t big drinkers and we had used a month of drinking credits to line our shelves, to consecrate the occasion.\n\nWe had lived together in the world's northernmost settlement, located on the southern bank of Kongsfjorden, throughout the whole of the polar night. The tattoo was a memento and a reminder of that time. The promise of an unbreakable bond. Then, with the first sunrise, everything changed. As a biologist, I should know by now that what is forged in the endless night, seldom survives the spring thaw.\n\nStore Norske Mining Company was going to close the Gruve 7 mine, once and for all, and Trond would stay and find work. Plans were made. Treaties of peace were arranged. And the wartime between us seemed like a distant memory. Then the Ukraine war broke out, and the mine received a stay of execution. Trond was called back. “See you in the spring,” he had said and was gone the next day. Neither of us doubted the war would end quickly. Surely, neither side would willingly sacrifice their young for some fields of oil and a strategic port? But we were wrong. We underestimated the Soviet greed and also the resolve of a people yearning for freedom.\n\nBi-weekly video chats gave way to a weekly call. Before long it was an occasional lazy text. Finally, a message, at the end of January: “They need me to stay.” Then nothing. Soon it will be a whole year that he’s been gone.\n\nThe MS Nordstjernen cuts through the night, bound for Svalbard, and I stare out at the light of the stars. When I reach Svalbard, my Swedish colleagues, Clare, Leah, Julio, and I will document the mysteries of the polar night. Especially the variations to the krill and phytoplankton, brought on by the shedding of the light. After all this time in the Arctic Circle, I finally feel like I am off on a proper adventure.\n\nI try not to think of Trond removing his headlamp and reclining in the Gruve 7 breakroom next to the coal mining tunnels, miles below the Arctic mountains, risking his life more and more with each day underground. It would be lunchtime now in Adventdalen. Trond would have a thick coat of black dust on his forehead. Under his gloves, his hands would be doused in the dark soot, the calling card of the dark lords of the mine shafts. Trond wouldn’t bother washing up or wiping his forehead before unwrapping his sandwich. He is a true Norwegian, through and through. Savages. The lot of them.\n\nI prefer the polar night. A perpetual full moon hugs the horizon transiting in a perpetual loop like a beacon from a distant lighthouse, circling the outpost. The blue light of the afternoon fades to velvety black after midday. And on the ship, the seas sleep soundly. Kinetic energy accumulates all around us. A limitless supply of ancient sunlight, stored like grain in underground silos. Just below the concealing ice. 90 billion gallons of oil. A third of the world’s natural gas. Coal basins salt the earthen caves; pressure cookers compact the carbon in the leaves of ancient ferns. And at every level, life thrives. From the ocean bottom to the mountain peaks.\n\nBut we marine biologists are concerned with the most alluring mysteries. Krill eyeballs. Sensitive enough to see only by the light of the moon. The werewolf effect. Where all living things become more active and restless under the light of the full moon. Making sleep a scarce commodity during the whole season. Diel vertical migration. The magnetism of marine life being pulled upward by the light of the sun. Light. Like sprinkles of fish food from the hand of God, those nurturing rays call forth the phytoplankton and krill. And beneath the ice shelves, a strange world of algae, bacteria, plankton, and swarms of shrimp-like arthropods feast on the energy locked in the melting ice. Stored sunlight, and its byproducts, locked in a frozen lunch box, churned and warmed by the rolling seas. The light banquet above ceases completely during the polar night—leaving the upper levels of the ecosystem dark and void. Only the icy dance under the sea continues, unimpeded, unaware of the nocturnal slumber above.\n\nAmazingly, nature finds a way. Animals buried deep under the sea begin to emit their own light, like floating mermaids, carrying their own lanterns, searching the depths for a fresh meal, or a companion. Anything that sustains. There is also polar gigantism and marine snow. The Ice Dragonfish has anti-freeze in its blood to keep it from freezing. This too is surprising and miraculous.\n\nI imagine myself growing gigantic, my skin radiating light, my blood adjusting to the ice in my veins. At last, growing so large that I am a beacon that can even be seen from miles below the Norwegian permafrost, where Trond toils silently in the darkness of the void.\n\nThe MS Nordstjernen docks at Svalbard and we pack our bags quietly, fuel ourselves with bitter coffee and sweet cream, and prepare to go ashore.\n\n* * *\n\n“Hallå,” Clare says. “Are you ready for a hyttetur?” That means a cabin trip. We will be traveling by snowmobile, over the sea ice, out to a remote cabin in Sveagruva for some crew bonding and cross-country skiing out in the mountainous moonscape, aided by headlamps and plenty of layers, and a healthy pack full of booze.\n\nClare smiles through the biting cold and revs the motor of her snowmobile, blasting her headlamps to repel the enveloping blanket of darkness. Clare hands back a cup full of flour tortilla-wrapped sausages as if she knew how hungry I would be.\n\n“Dani, Framät,” she says to her Siberian Husky. Dani hops to his feet, from where he is lying in the snow.\n\n“Hey, ‘framät!’“ Clare repeats.\n\nDani begins racing along by the side of the snowmobile, panting happily, his breath coming out in clouds that he pierces with his gait, and which break in pieces and trail behind him like the exhaust of a locomotive. We traverse the cold ridge to Clare’s cabin for supplies, grinding through the fresh powder as a flurry of snow falls and coats our ski goggles. It is not even a mile away. Clare has the stove ready, stuffed with chords of wood. And we drink tall mugs of coffee and recline in warm blankets, in her oceanfront cabin, as the small cabin warms with fresh heat.\n\n“It is beautiful,” I say.\n\n“Wait until you see Sveagruva,” she says. “Det är bättre än himlen.”\n\n“Better than heaven.”\n\n“Vänta och se,” she says—wait and see.\n\nA few hours later, we have the trailers for our snowmobiles packed, and we are ready for our adventure.\n\nCompared with Svalbard, the coastline route to Sveagruva is terra nullius. No man’s land. We wouldn’t dare venture out in the polar night without GPS and Garmin inReach Sat Phones in tow in case of emergency. And rifles, in case of a run-in with polar bears. Glaciers border the route. Around noon, when the blue light casts the landscape in an eerie hue, we stop at cavernous ice caves carved in the glacial housing of thousand-year-old ice. If only Trond could see this.\n\n“Titta där,” Clare says, Look there, pointing at what looks like a polar bear den. It is nestled under a ridge of roots from Dwarf Birch and Mountain Sorrel, burrowing in the mossy permafrost, framing the den with walls of living iron.\n\nThe polar bear peaks her head out from her maternity den, her clipped white ears checking for sounds of movement.\n\n“Let’s call her Nadia,” I say.\n\nNadia sniffs, gimbaling her head about as she picks up a familiar scent. Nadia smells a wolverine far in the distance. Her dark black eyes scan the line of the horizon for other dangers. Finding none, she emerges, and helps herself to a snow bath, rolling about in the frozen snow of the playground outside the den. She yawns, revealing her long canine teeth, and stretches, grabbing the ground with her sharp claws and black foot pads, and slowly connecting with the earth, reclining on the snow, rolling over onto her back. Two young pups begin to crawl out and play fight, scuttling over to the mother bear and feeding from her exposed nipples.\n\n“Look at that!” I say and blurt out, “Trond would die if he could see this.”\n\n“You haven’t spoken to him, have you?” Clare asks.\n\n“Oh, no. Of course not.”\n\n“Att försvara ett fel är att fela igen,” Clare says.\n\n“Once bitten, twice shy,” I say, nodding.\n\n* * *\n\nOut here in the icy valleys of the moonlike cliffs and eerie glacial rivers, the sheer expanse of the landscape, immense, and imposing is a thing of wonder.\n\nNature’s imagination is vast. Almost as vast as the reaches of space. And her colossal moods seem big enough to swallow galaxies. Dazzling displays of light and dark are her trademark. In all her mercurial palettes. Polar night, for instance. You have to seep in the emancipating darkness long enough to appreciate being pulled out into the overbearing light.\n\nDark and cold. They go together like warm coffee and cold cream. One hides all mundane things, leaving only the magical. The other strongly warns of nature’s power and cautions against overindulging. After all, all magical things are deadly. Polar bears. Ice drifts. Plunging temperatures. Packs of wolves. The reorienting wind that blows where it wills. Loneliness. Regret. For every magical night filled with the Northern lights is an evening where the seas hurl daggers the size of Buicks at the land and send icy gusts with murderous intent after every creature that crawls, slithers, or walks.\n\nIn the darkness, though, we can see what is never visible in the light. The light of a thousand distant suns. They blink their celestial eyes like eyelids, squinting to catch a glimpse of an oasis in an unimaginably vast desert of ice.\n\nWhen polar night descends, the Nordic country blows away the sun like a dandelion blown out of a child’s hand. Then a month later, it returns. Blue twilight is a reminder that days are real. A long sunrise without a sun. Soft and pink. Painting the world in cold pastels. We shudder at the feeling that comes when the sun at last returns, anticipating its coming; knowing that it is like seeing the sun for the first time in your whole life.\n\nAfter what seems like an eternity in my own thoughts, clinging to Clare’s coat and hugging her for warmth, we arrive at the cabin, which stands enormous against the landscape.\n\nLeah and Julio have traveled ahead, and are busy dusting off the drifts of snow, filling the water tank, hauling in dry chords of wood for the furnace, and readying our sanctuary for a long weekend.\n\n* * *\n\nI look at my cell phone. The little green bubble says, “I know you are over this. I don’t know what I did or what happened. But I worry about you and hope you are well, my love. You are thought of… often.” Three weeks ago. Long enough to stop hoping for a response. But one never knows.\n\nLike the sun’s rays that seem lost forever in the long travail of the polar night, things that feel lost forever can return suddenly and unceremoniously, crying out that they were never gone at all, but always there just out of reach, only inches below your line of sight, sending out diffuse blue signals as evidence of their constancy.\n\nThe question hangs pregnant over the proceedings, and I know it is coming before she asks.\n\nClare hands me a mug of hot cocoa that Julio prepared for us, complete with floating marshmallows, as we crowd inside and unpack our bags.\n\n“Kommer du att stanna till våren?” she says. Will I be staying for the spring? That is the question. But I haven’t decided.\n\n“Do you think I should stay?”\n\n“But of course.” She smiles with her teeth glistening in the blue twilight. “You must, bebis. You are part of our Grabbarna now.” I guess I am part of the gang. Science nerds gone Ernest Shackleton.\n\nWe have found so much out about the world below the ice. Yet there is so much more to discover. How do the Krill find phytoplankton? How do those little energy packets survive in the sunless reaches throughout the polar night, with nothing to nurture them in the cold season? How does life continue in darkness? How do the winds of the jet stream re-circulate energy into the Arctic realm?\n\nThis is a true hyttetur. No plumbing, no running water, and no electricity. Leah lights candles throughout the cabin. Julio fires up the generator, which we will use sparingly for heating water. And also stores little propane tanks for the camp stoves. Leah comes outside in her down jacket with a bottle of Italian Grappa.\n\n“Skål,” Leah says, passing the bottle around. I take a long swig and the fire of the burning liquid coats my throat and warms my chest, reminding me that there is still some life within me. Leah starts blasting some EDM beats which echo off of the canyons of ice chortling through the Arctic valley.\n\nI was going through my e-mails while we played Monopoly with hand-crafted Harry Potter figures. And I was thinking of Trond. Worrying. As usual. Then I saw an e-mail from Trond. I debated for an hour whether or not to open it but ultimately gave in.\n\n“I don’t know why I’m writing you this. Why I am writing now. Kongsfjorden is different than I remember. It seems that everything has changed. Reindeer sleep by the trams, out on the graded snowbank, which is pitched so they are shielded from the wind. I never noticed before.\n\nWe gathered today in Fruene to talk about what happened to Peter. ‘We who live in the north in darkness, we know how much the light means,’ said Pastor Skaaheim at Peter’s mass. Sigurd, Jakob, and Luka were down with me in the tunnel when it happened. We met with Mayor Olsen and he represented Peter’s family in the union negotiations. He used to be our spokesman before he became Mayor, you know. At $45 a ton, it hardly makes sense anymore to mine coal. Looks like the Greta Thunberg brigade has won at last. Congratulations. We submit.\n\nThis is how it happened. We had cleared out of the mine for the day. Right in the middle of the polar night. But the glacial melt had been flooding the mineshaft. It was so bad that the conveyor belt was going on the fritz. Peter stayed back in the shaft with a pump to clear the flood water out. Just like that, in an instant, the South wall caved in. An avalanche of rock collapsed on him. We spent the night with an excavator trying to find him in the dark. We tried TNT. Wedges. Everything. We never found his body. It is now three days his body has disappeared underneath the frozen rock. We’ve re-opened the tunnel, but search and rescue is still looking for Peter’s remains. It is almost like he disappeared into thin air. I keep thinking, it could have been me. And we would have never spoken again. Anyway. I don’t know why I’m writing you. Say a prayer for Peter.”\n\n“Skål,” Leah says again, seeing the dower look on my face.\n\nAnd she passes the Grappa bottle around the table, where Dumbledore has just passed Snape to buy Park Place. I take a long gulp.\n\n“Whoa cowboy!” Leah says. But I need a moment.\n\nI walk out into the polar night, my crampons crunching the deep snow. I gaze at the belligerent moon which stands at the far end of the world, taunting me. At once so close I feel that I could reach out and touch her. And still so far away that the incalculable distance and icy traverse, are borderline infinities. Not unreachable, but damn near to. Like the past.\n\nAnd right here and now, I finally understand the polar night. I can’t return to the Kongsfjorden I’d known with Trond. And Trond can’t stop being a miner. All that has happened has irreversibly changed us, like the creatures adapting to the abiding polar night. I take out my phone and write back the only true thing I can think of. “I want to see you. I am in Sveagruva for a hyttetur. Nothing is the same without you.”\n\nAnd at that very moment, a small crown of yellow against the horizon displaces the blue twilight and the sun returns." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cell 3.47\n\nGenre: adventure\n\nWord Count: 2356\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a type of prison cell." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Cell 3.47 was situated on the third floor of B wing in Stocken Gate prison, slap bang in the heart of London’s east end. Known as The Gate, the prison had a reputation for being a tough place to do time. The inmates behind the doors at The Gate endured long cold winters in the Victorian slammer that had been condemned many times but had always escaped closure. It was harsh, it was hard, and it was overrun by rats.\nPaula Pritchard was the sole resident of cell 3.47, but due to the rodent crisis she was rarely alone. All her schemes to see to them perish had failed miserably and she had to accept that while they might have won the ultimate war, her hatred of the vermin would ensure that her battle against them raged in perpetuity. After all, she had time.\nPaula was serving life for murdering her husband after he cut their TV wires in 1986 causing Paula to miss the Eastenders Christmas Special. She was still bitter; there was no catch-up TV back then. In fact, she had more remorse for that than she did for the murder, which wasn’t convenient when it came to trying to persuade the parole board to release her, so she had stopped bothering to try.\nInstead, Paula put all her efforts into ensuring that she was in sole control of the contraband that was bootlegged into The Gate on a daily basis. Somewhat against all the odds, she had turned out to be an exceptional entrepreneur with incredible business acumen but would never win a Women In Business award. As she got into bed now, she plotted her next scheme for fulfilling the cocaine orders that always started to pile up at this time of year. The girls in The Gate knew how to celebrate Christmas alright.\nRita watched and waited from her vantage point on the top of the bookshelf. Paula’s eyes were getting heavy, she would be out for the count soon. Rita could be patient, no problem. You learned that as a prison rat. Sometimes tactics were everything. She swung her back paws and applied a little face cream to her tail. One of the best things about living in cell 3.47 was that Paula’s customers often paid in canteen. This meant a reliable stock of snacks, beauty products, paper, and easy access to all manner of things that were dispensed from the canteen hatch. Rat heaven.\nPrison life for a rat could be easy but you had to have your wits about you. There was a constant supply of water in the steel lidless cell toilet. Pritchard had tried many times to deny Rita and her crew access to that but had never succeeded. In any event there was a small sink on the wall, and the tap constantly dripped. The sink was big enough for a family of four rats to take a bath, and Rita had even seen a water birth be facilitated in it by the alternative lifestyle rats who lived behind the skirting boards in the staff room in the segregation unit, also known as The Block.\nAs soon as Pritchard fell into her doubtless drug induced sleep, Rita tucked into a packet of Cheetos. Delicious. Pudding was a packet of Cadbury’s hot chocolate which she’d had her eye on since it had arrived this morning. But during the daytime the rats didn’t come out so much. It was at night when they got their business done. After dinner, Rita was helping to coordinate the digging of a new tunnel after the maintenance team accidently poured concrete into the main thoroughfare between B and C wing.\nShe watched as Roly gnawed his way into a pot of noodles. He glanced up and nodded to her with his mouth full, powder from the noodles coating his whiskers. She winked at him fondly. They had been together for five litters, and still they flirted liked newlyweds. Roly was a big old unit, a rat who’d eat all night if he could. He wasn’t quite as exacting as Rita when it came to menu choices, and last week had eaten a whole box of tampons which had sent Pritchard into a rage when she’d discovered the mess in the morning.\nRoly didn’t care, but it had almost killed him. He hadn’t been careful enough and a piece of plastic applicator had got lodged in his gullet. Rowena, unable to get her paws around him to perform a Heimlich manoeuvre, had jumped on his furry white chest to clear his airway. Rita had been beside herself and if it hadn’t been for her daughter’s quick-thinking Roly would have been toast. But within two hours Roly was reaching for an Oreo and telling the tale as if he was the hero to most of the rats on the third floor. They’d all laughed and patted him on the back.\nThe next day Pritchard was crashing around the cell, cursing about not being able to find any coffee sachets (Rita had swapped them for a packet of cotton wool with Riccardo from healthcare), and generally being her bad tempered, vile self. Rita knew that at times like this it was better to give Pritchard a wide berth than risk her wrath which knew no bounds especially when it came to rats. Plastic cups and cutlery fell to the floor, books were cast aside and make up thrown all over the place as the fruitless search went on. Rita, Roly, and Rowena went for a nap in their nest behind the wall, tummies full and whiskers cleaned.\nIt wasn’t until much later that they peered out and saw Pritchard behaving most strangely. She was dressed in nothing but an Avengers T shirt and a pair of woolly socks and appeared to be batting imaginary insects away with this week’s edition of Prison News. She uttered something incomprehensible about jungle fever and then proceeded to attempt some kind of Scottish jig. The rats knew that Pritchard was hallucinating, they had seen it with so many inmates’ countless times. They smoked too much Spice and simply went doolally. Sometimes it went further than that and a heart attack wasn’t that uncommon, but Pritchard didn’t seem to be that far gone despite the pantomime that was being played out before them now.\nRat word got out and several others came to watch the show. Ruby from the canteen had even brought popcorn, but it was salty, so Rita didn’t bother with it. Just before Pritchard was about to climb up to the bookshelf to launch herself into what she believed to be a luxury swimming pool but was in fact her prison issue laundry basket, something caught her eye. The rats froze. Pritchard picked up her radio and launched it full force into the spectating crowd of vermin. Rita watched in horror as the plastic transistor hurtled in slow motion towards them. There was no time to react, and with an almighty smash it landed on Roly. Within an instant two things happened. Pritchard vomited all over the floor, and blood began to seep from Roly’s head. His pink ears drooped, his breathing slowed.\nThe rats rallied round, hitching Roly’s sizeable frame onto their shoulders and scuttling into the B wing tunnel with him. By now Rita was sobbing, her tail in her paws. Rowena squeaked instructions as fast as she could, but it seemed that Roly could not be saved. His wide black eyes still gleamed as he gazed into Rita’s tear-filled ones. ‘I love you Rita Rat’ he said, and then he was gone. Rita felt like her world had fallen apart. Riley and Rose from education ushered her to their nest. She let them. She let them feed her syrup on a Q tip and then she slept a fitful sleep with Rowena at her side.\nThe next day Rita felt numb, but she went back to cell 3.47, where Pritchard’s vomit still pooled on the concrete floor, ice forming on it in the mid December chill. Even the family of rats from security hadn’t fancied that. Pritchard herself was akimbo on the bed, oblivious to it all.\nRita stopped crying and looked at Pritchard, that mean tempered woman who had ruined Rita’s life. There was only one thing Rita wanted now. Revenge. And everyone knew that revenge was a dish best served cold.\nThat night a meeting was called, chaired by Ricky from recycling. He even had a clip board. Hundreds of rats were there to hear what he had to say, while Rita sat quietly beside him with a tissue balled tightly into her fist. A plan was afoot. Pritchard was to get her comeuppance. But were the rats in? ‘Hell yes!’ they shouted, hats and snacks thrown into the like confetti. The excitement grew, and after the meeting, they divided into groups according to their wings and floors. Bigger departments like the laundry would help with logistics and coordination. If the drugs dog from rehab was to be believed and trusted, they had exactly two weeks to go before the cell spin.\nMeanwhile, prison life went on. Paula spent hours in cell 3.47 taking orders and singing along to Last Christmas which played on repeat on the radio which she had recently acquired as a replacement by breaking Kelly Gorman’s little finger during a game of pool. She could see her breath when she sang, that’s how cold it was in here. The kettle was on the boil constantly, and for once her hot chocolate and coffee supplies were not being pilfered every night. Odd, but good. If the Christmas trade was as good as anticipated, she reckoned she’d have enough cash to bribe Officer Willis into putting her in for a transfer to a modern prison where she could learn to play tennis and grow old gracefully.\nEvery night the tunnels were full of rat traffic. Never before had such an effort been orchestrated to help one of their own. Rita was beyond grateful but didn’t know if they could pull it off. But for Roly, she was prepared to try. The day of the cell spin finally arrived. The day when every cell at The Gate was searched, with absolutely no prior warning given to the prisoners who were made to stand on the landing while specialist teams went through their cells with a fine toothcomb. The one thing the rats didn’t know was the time of the spin. But Reece from The Block said not to worry. Everything was in place and Ricky was all over it like a rat rash.\nRita spent the whole day watching Pritchard. It didn’t take her long to realise that Pritchard must have been tipped off about the cell spin, because over the course of the morning all manner of drugs, mobile phones and weapons were dispatched out of her cell by officers who were on Pritchard’s pay role. No matter. The rats had a plan.\nAt two pm precisely, the alarm was sounded and an announcement over the tannoys boomed out, telling all inmates to exit their cells immediately. Rita’s whiskers twitched in anticipation as the rats behind her began to file into cell 3.47, sim cards under their arms. They dumped the sim cards and left, and a steady stream of rats continued to do the same. Rita had no idea how many sim cards were now piled up under Pritchard’s bed. Hundreds maybe? Collected from every mattress, nook and hiding place imaginable that the inmates at The Gate could dream up, over two weeks the rat teams had found them, stored them in the tunnels and brought them here today.\nPritchard’s face when the officer swept the sim cards out from under the bed was an absolute picture. She went from aghast to betrayed, shocked to furious in less than half a second. But ultimately, she was confused. And angry. Very angry. Two officers took her by the arms and hauled her down to The Block while she screamed her innocence and how she was being stitched up. Rita couldn’t have hoped for more. How the kingpin had fallen.\nThat night cell 3.47 was theirs alone, and everyone wanted to come to the party. There were rats in the bed, rats on the TV tuning into channels, rats in the drawers of Pritchard’s clothes, and rats hanging from the shelves and bars on the window. Rachel from kitchens had even managed to get four whole boxes of cornflakes up from the basement. They ate and partied until the early hours. Rita had cried as she made a thank you speech, and her heart felt like it might burst. In the morning it was Christmas Day, and this time there was no need to hide at daybreak. Pritchard would be cellular confinement with no windows three floors down and would not be returning any time soon.\nSomeone turned the volume back up on the TV. ‘Look!’ cried Rowena. ‘It’s a rerun of the 1986 Eastenders Christmas Special!’ The rats were quiet. None of them had been alive on the day that over 30 million viewers had tuned in to watch Den handing Angie her divorce papers, but they had heard Pritchard ranting about it their whole lives. What a shame, thought Rita, that Pritchard was going to miss this episode yet again. That temper of hers really had cost her dearly.\n\nPrison News\nKeeping you behind bars, but not in the dark\nHMP Stocken Gate is to undergo a full security review after an inmate, who will remain nameless for legal reasons, was found with 347 sim cards in her cell. The CPS say that the occupier of cell 3.47 was taunting the authorities by collecting this precise number of sim cards and making no attempt to conceal them. She is accused of running the biggest bootlegging operation ever seen in British prison history and faces a 61-count indictment. She has been transferred to the maximum-security facility in Market Deeping where she will remain in solitary confinement until her trial." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Divine Bloodline\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1270\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that weaves together multiple lives through their connection to a particular tree." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Divine Bloodline\n“How can you tell the Tree is a girl, Gran?” The shea butter applied to my scalp in neat little rows slid onto my forehead and mixed with beads of sweat as I sat on the front porch between my grandmother’s knees. Every Sunday, we took my braids down and washed my hair. Then Gran braided it right back up again, greasing my scalp as she went. I can’t imagine a Sunday that we didn’t spend together, managing the mane that fell past my waist. It took all day, but the best part was sittin’ on that porch, listening to her tell stories about our family and the land that provided for us over a hundred years. The oldest member of our family is The Tree, who we simply referred to as She or Her. It’s fitting because She isn’t limited to being called one thing, She is everything.\nHer roots reached up from the ground and looped back beneath the soil at odd angles that tripped you up if you tried to escape – even from over thirty feet away. If you didn’t know her and dared to venture towards her massive trunk you might not make it out alive. Gran told me She’s been here since the beginning of time, always adding a new fact that she deemed age appropriate for me to obsess over for weeks until I appeared ready for a new story.\n“Simple, baby girl,” she replied as she slid a rattail comb across my scalp. I closed my eyes and relished the minty tingle that the occasional wind brought to us while she told me, again, about the family history Mama should be telling me had she not ran away. I wasn’t old enough for that story yet, but that never stopped me from asking on Mother’s Day or my birthday. Or any day.\n“You can tell she is a WOMAN because she’s lived longer than anything and anyone who’s stepped foot near her. This tree been watching us our whole family’s lifetime- over our great-great-great grandmothers when they were your age and getting strong enough to help when needed. She’s seen a lotta life, and even more death. She comforts the heavy hearts and bears the weight of our sins; sins no man can handle on his own.” She snorted to herself and for the first time I became aware that I didn’t know any living male relatives.\nShe pauses to take a sip from her iced tea and a drag from a cigarette she rolled herself. “There will never be a time anything of male blood could bear the weight of a woman, which is why they seek to destroy. You see She wears chips from man’s axe, but she still stands. Fire couldn’t bring her to her knees. One, one hundred plus men have hung from her branches and none have yet to string her or any woman living among her roots.”\nSometimes I think she can read my mind. Gran, not the She. But She probably can too.\n“And that’s why we never have to leave, because she provides as far she can reach.” I recited this with Gran after the end of each tree story. I left home for school and the occasional outing, but that was about it. I didn’t make many friends because the town knew about our strange female coven and most kept their distance. Everything else I gleaned from the world came from the screen of my iPhone gifted to me for my birthday. \nOur home was its own bustling community where people came to us and everything we could ever want was, just like Gran said, the Tree provides as far as she could reach. Deliveries were left at the gate separating our Paradise from the rest of the peasants around us. Living on land that shared its ever-changing mysteries never made me long for the world outside until now. I rode horses and took care of farm animals all day, we lived on land owned by our ancestors, it’s a rare miracle that despite the Oklahoma Land Run and Trail of Tears, our family managed to defend our Tree and everything around her.\nWeeks after my thirteenth birthday while watching makeup tutorials I felt an unfamiliar feeling that I’d been preparing for since I turned eleven. I rushed to the bathroom and nearly screamed when I saw what I’d hoped for- my first period. I’m officially a woman.\nI called to Gran with the good news, and she nodded solemnly. I saw on tiktok that people had period parties and assumed she needed time to plan so I went back to my cat eye videos, hoping she chose Black Forest, the canned cherries made more sense than a boring red velvet.\n“Come on, girl, we goin' on a walk.” Gran opened my bedroom door and motioned for me to get up. Her light grey dress grazed the floor and her waist-length braids swung behind her, making her appear more Celestial than usual. I jumped up and joined her, leaving my phone behind.\nShe didn’t have to tell me where we were going; She’d been calling all morning.\nI caught up to Gran and she handed me a bag of candles. I guess the cake was already there, but I also worried that she might not know about how they celebrate the beginning of becoming a woman in this century. I don’t think people her age even gets periods anymore.\n“Don’t worry ‘bout what I do and don’t get.” She pushed me forward and I tripped over a root that I’d never noticed before. Gran giggled to herself and took a drag from her cigarette.\nThe walk took nearly ten minutes to reach Her, but the land spread around her almost like a red carpet; allowing a view that felt and looked more beautiful as you inched closer. Warm wind lifted the hair on my arms and thin silvery clouds parted to brandish a full, pink moon.\n“Strawberry Moon,” Gran’s eyes twinkled as she lifted the sleeve to her dress, revealing a large tattoo on her arm that looked almost identical to the moon in the sky. Got this when I was 37. It means something different for me every year. It felt like seeing her for the first time. A tattoo sleeve from the top of her shoulder to her wrist boasted that I’d failed to notice in my fourteen years of life. Was my Grandmother, with her dreadlocked hair and tattoos exciting before she became a grandmother? I couldn’t imagine her existing before me.\nWhen we finally approached the base of Her massive trunk Gran lit a bundle of sage while I placed the candles around a small space facing the moon- it would have taken hundreds to completely circle Her and the thirteen candles to signify my age made Her look enormous but still somehow, incredibly feminine. The glow almost seemed to dress Her in shadows that would have scared me had I not become a woman today; it excited me. \nWe sat beneath Her outstretched branches and the moonlight played a soundless rhythm that danced with the nighttime sounds. The creek full of fish that I jumped into fearlessly all summer long rushed in the distance, the leaves rippled like tiny flags in different octaves and the animals sang in tune.\nAt that moment I realized that whatever I felt coursing through my veins skipped a generation. If Mama held an ounce of what I felt from this divine bloodline we inherited, she never would have left 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: The Interior Life of Ruck\n\nGenre: adventure\n\nWord Count: 2788\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a non-human character." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I backpack.\nNamed Ruck. Store person put me on shelf. She say I “handsum”. I not know what it mean, but she make happy face when she say, so must be nice thing. \nNothing to do while I sit here but lots to look at. After I see sun come up from outside window two times, I feel little bored. I feel little empty, like I hungry.\nBut I not wait long. Young man come, he look at me. He lift me from shelf, take me to store lady, who ask him if he want me “in a bag”, which make them both laugh. We go outside, he sling me on back. What a feeling! I move so free! I then rest on his back. I still empty, but it feel nice to use my straps. We go forward, away from store. \nI miss nice store lady but I like outside more. I like being on back.\n—\nOwner name Kafka, I hear him say. I learn Kafka a “uhcountant”. He work with numbers. He use heavy machine to help make sentences from numbers. At end of each sentence, he take short break, then start next sentence. He write lots of number sentences on machine. I think one day he write book (book is like many papers, put together with gloo), like ones I carry, or ones I see at his home.\nWe spend lot of time together. Every time we go out, it new “uhdventure” (fun work, but makes no money) for me. Kafka not tell me where we go, I find out right before we leave home. It fun game for me to guess where we go from the things he give me to carry. When he bring his uhcountant things, I know we go to office. When I carry snacks, water, spray for “bears” (animals that hike but not carry backpacks), I know we go hiking. When I empty, I know we go get food from store (different store than where I from) to keep at home. I not eat store food. I not hungry when I carry things.\nHiking my favorite.\n—\nWhile Kafka at work, I read the things left inside me. Sometimes these are small things I can read, like receipts and snack labels, but they interesting because they important enough for me to carry, so I read them to learn why so important to Kafka that I work hard to carry and keep for him. I not upset, I just wonder, because I have lots of time to think while we at his “office”.\nMostly I read his books that I carry. But because he an accountant, his books are more numbers than words. So I think I slow to learn words. I like words, because they give me way to understand Kafka and to think better. Numbers not help me very much yet.\nBooks heavy, but are my favorite thing to carry. I read them and read them again.\n—\nAt work today I read a very different kind of book. This one didn’t have many numbers in it. And it was very different than the accounting books I normally read. It was more of a fun story, but I don’t know yet if the story is true or not. It was about a wizard boy named Harry, and if it is true, then I wonder if Kafka has any friends from the school of magic. How fun and curious it would be to meet someone who has a bag that can store as many things as it want. I’d like to meet that bag, what a fun trick! Sometimes when I’m so full that I can’t fit anymore, I feel a bit bad because I know Kafka needs me to carry more. He gently squashes all his other stuff down to make room for more stuff, and I feel guilty. I would like to learn how to make more room. Unlimited room! I have much to learn. \nIf not a true story, then I wonder why someone would write it?\n—\nWhen we don’t go to Kafka’s work, I carry stuff that feels different. Like today we went on a picnic and we brought along “homey” things (things that are softer, things that feel like they are from home, borrowed from home, and when you have them with you, you feel like home is with you).\nI carried a soft blanket, a “journal” (a book that Kafka sometimes writes his stories in, but ones with no numbers), a pencil, sunglasses, a little bottle of lotion, a salad with separate dressing (it took a lot of effort to keep the “dressing” upright!), some napkins, and an empty bag. Not a bag like me, but a smaller one, a plastic one that seemed disinterested in whether it was carrying books or garbage, whether it was empty, or wrinkled to death with folds.\nWhile we were lying on the blanket at the park — I feeling a blissful stillness in a sunbeam, feeling alive from the earthy tree air that travelled across us slowly — Kafka made a new friend who was also laying in the park, a blanket and a patch of grass away from us.\n“I’m Kafka”, Kafka said, flashing a smile.\n“I’m Jeannie”, she smiled back.\nI wonder a little if Kafka knows my name. It was a nice day, lots of work and lots of play.\n—\nSundays are crisp and best enjoyed when they begin in Kafka’s “Dodge” (a type of car that is used for going to and from the city), and are followed by a day-long hike. \nCar rides are as fine as paper towel, but truth be told, I am still not used to facing forward while also moving forward. It’s a strange sensation, perhaps like a human walking backwards while facing forwards. But knowing that we’re about to spend the day hiking is enough to distract me from the strangeness.\nThis morning though, I was in a bad mood.\nUsually seated in the first-mate seat of Kafka’s Dodge, keeping him company, I was demoted this morning to an afterthought in the backseat on account of new company. Not even in the middle backseat, where at least the three of us would form an equilateral triangle, reassuring by virtue of its equity and impartiality, but rather in the seat behind Jeannie, furthest from Kafka, where I’m forced to stare at the back of the chair that used to be mine.\nSitting there, behind the open window instead of next to it, the gush of air tumbling into the back seat, crushing me with the force of its weight, made me want to “vomit” (when you hurl the contents out of your body because you don’t feel well). \nI tried to look mad by squishing my face the way I sometimes see Kafka do, but my attempt at shapeshifting was futile, because I’m too much on the outside who I am on the inside, which is rumpled stuff. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because the sanguine rockmelons upfront were preoccupied laughing at unfunny jokes.\nWhen we got there, wherever there was, Kafka heaved me out from the backseat. Determined to not willingly become part of a scalene love triangle, I made myself as heavy as possible and Kafka grunted.\nBut it’s an odd thing. Despite my resolve to weigh down the buoying levity of their romance, to bring it back to earth, something got the better of me when we began hiking. My work began, the work of keeping their possessions safe and present, and my bitterness dissolved into the solvent air of the forest. I am a sentimental creature, easily overcome by the poetry of sticks, twigs, trees, and earthy air. \nI felt bashful of the jealousy I felt earlier, but I also felt reinvigorated, filled as much with purpose as I was with pasta salad, the two counting on me. I am the difference between well-prepared loving adventurers, and once-lovers torn apart by nothing other than the mundane rational problems of unpreparedness.\nLater, all of us tired, we plopped down on a jagged rock whose redeeming quality was that it was large enough to seat us all in a forest that had no other chairs. We needed a break from the sun and the walking, and from the bugs too, but enamoured by our company, the bugs insisted on taking a break with us. \nLike a magician with their trusty hat, Kafka pulled out whatever it was that they needed; snacks, hydration, and afterwards, we all laughed at things that are only funny when you feel an overwhelming lightness.\n—\nWe hiked everywhere. For a whole year, here, there, everywhere, even across the ocean, where people spoke languages I’ve never read (though often the numbers looked the same there as they did back home).\nI could tell you of forests and cities; of ships, planes, trains, and bikes; of heat, of wind, of sand; of bugs and of birds. But there was one moment in particular while we were hiking off the Ligurian coast that was revelatory for me, when a truth about my kind gobsmacked me over the hood.\nAs with most prophetic moments, it happened simply, without ceremony, and only in retrospect do you realize that it was something you’ve been waiting to know. And often that realization is an answer to why you are the way you are, and why you sometimes inexplicably feel alone in the company of others. (Or so I’ve gathered from the books Kafka and I have read, I don’t have many revelations of my own to draw from, but it seems to be a sort of universal phenomena that makes us all ironically alike.)\nAnyways, during one of these hikes, in the silence of the morning, Kafka and I passed by another backpack and their human, who nodded at us as we crossed paths, the strangers going onward into our past while we went onwards into theirs, the other backpack and I continuing to face one another for longer than most humans would feel comfortable holding a gaze with one another. This stranger backpack was well worn, one of the eldest I ever encountered. It had aged gracefully without becoming fragile, a marbled patina having formed on its leather surfaces, adventure imbued into its fabric.\nIt was then that it dawned on me; that backpacks live looking backwards. You’d think it would be obvious, “back” is even in the name of my kind, but it took me living a dozen Fodor’s for this to really sink in.\nWhen humans walk, they walk towards something. Objects ahead of them become bigger and bigger, at their largest before suddenly they disappear forever. Being able to march forwards towards the unseen, unencumbered by what they leave behind, makes them ideal explorers.\nBut when we as backpacks travel, it’s the opposite. Things start out at a scale hyper quixotic to a little backpack, become smaller and smaller, until eventually — they don’t disappear — they just become infinitesimally small. What’s more is that I always know how much longer I have to appreciate something before it fades away, the correlation between time and visibility made predictable, like a sunset. \nWhat does that make a backpack, whose motion is forward but is always looking back? What do you call someone or something that savours the past, bidding everything it passes a long and reverent goodbye?\nA poet, a journalist, a cartographer, perhaps? Whose role it is to chronicle their loved ones’ life and adventures? Not on maps or on paper, but within the memory of our materials. We remember whatever is worth remembering before it fades away - like the smell of pine, the salt of creek water, the sap and dew of the trees we rest on - and imbue it in our fabric. We absorb and reflect the experiences of our humans, forming a tapestry of their lives.\n—\nWe’ve been back home for a while, and so there’s been less hiking and no travelling, and more time spent at Kafka’s office. Fewer stories about Harry Potter (which I’ve since learned are “fiction”), and more stories about numbers (which I’ve since learned, I’m not the only one who doesn’t enjoy reading such stories). \nI’m not complaining. I know I speak often of how much I love my work while we hike and travel, but I can appreciate a break. I wouldn’t mind trying out one of these “spas” I keep reading about (a place where they spot clean your fabric with cucumbers), but for now it’s nice to have predictability in the possessions I carry, and to simply lay motionless in a climate-controlled environment for hours, or even days at a time.\n—\nI’ve noticed some peculiarities this past week, some of them as contradictory as salt and pepper. \nI’ll start with the exciting news. I’ve been carrying around fewer accounting books this week, and have instead been entrusted with Yosemite Falls travel books checked out from the library, which Kafka has been devouring at lunch time. The anticipation of another trip, our first in a while, sends a chill of excitement up my padded spine. For all my talk about rest and relaxation, it turns out I’m just a fisherman who misses the sea.\nAnd while the fibres of my fabric, once clean and crisp, have softened, gently sanded down by the tide of adventure, I feel as durable and capable as ever.\nThere is a contradiction that has left me confused, however. I’ve noticed a few anomalies at home, traits inconsistent with how Kafka has usually behaved before a big trip. Ordinarily, we would both sit in the living room, and see what all we were capable of carrying. And though I’ve tried to signal to Kafka and Jeannie that I was ready, if not eager for this ritual, I’ve been left to idle while they plan.\nBut I chalk it up to experience; we have more confidence in what to pack, how to fit and carry it all, and being able to improvise with the unknown since you can never pack everything. That’s what aging is really all about; you no longer carry around the weight of the permutations of everything that will go wrong.\n—\nI should have seen the signs.\nAt first they were subtle. For example, Kafka used to gently and carefully clean my fabric, dabbing at me gently with Dawn dish soap and warm water; always warm, never cold, never hot. Warm with a precision that he seldom demonstrated for anything except numbers. Then recently, he became ambivalent about the temperature of the water, then he stopped caring about the soap, before finally he stopped caring about cleaning me altogether.\nAnd in the past couple weeks, the clues became so obvious that I now feel stupid for not recognizing them sooner. Kafka and Jeannie began talking of me “wearing out”, which at the time, I assumed to mean they were getting ready to wear me “out”, as in outside of work, outside of the normal routine, outside of the comfortable but now lethargic sanctum we had all cocooned ourselves in. Now I see that “wearing out” is a human idiom, as in I’m being “worn away”, fading into the distance, like the trees and sticks that I used to enjoy watching become infinitesimally small until they only existed in my memory. \nSo I am a “horcrux” now, a slice of Kafka’s soul, living outside of him. At a store, to be precise, filled with things. Not new things like where I grew up, but old things. Old things that would ordinarily be beautiful, like the backpack I saw on our hike off the Ligurian coast. But now, placed outside of their work environment, compacted in between other old things, sitting empty on a shelf, trying to catch a stray sun beam but having to pathetically settle for fluorescent lights, we all looked decrepit and humiliated.\nI feel like vomiting, but can’t because I am empty. I am hungry, have nothing to read, and my arms are stiff from not moving.\nThe store keepers here are unsympathetic, as are the patrons, and we all move about as though we are discarded by our Kafkas. \n—\nAdam, a red-headed boy of six or seven, walks into the store. He picks me up, and - now that I know more of accounting than he - pays for me at a depreciated value. \nWe walk outside into a bright white world, and he slings me over his shoulder. Little Adam walks onwards, and I, on his back (and just as big), begin chronicling 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: Souls in the Sky\n\nGenre: adventure\n\nWord Count: 2880\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone looking for a sign in a dark sky." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Zack Kaudjak was crossing the open snow laced fields of the Yukon River with his fourteen dog Iditarod sled team as the sun began to set below the birch tree line at three in the afternoon. The days were short during the first week of March which meant the temperature would be dropping nearly forty degrees below zero. He was prodding the team hoping to make it to the Galena rest stop by dinner time. Wrapped in a thermal body wrap, seal skin gloves, mukluks, his extremities still felt the impact of the cruel wind as his sled dipped and dodged his way along the frozen trail. \nBorn in the small Inuit village of White Mountain on the Seward Peninsula, Zack was a citizen of two worlds, that of his mother’s side of the Inuit and that of his fur trapping father from a Scandinavian heritage. When Zack was just seven years old, his father Bjork fled the village for greener pastures leaving him alone with her mother Ahnah in the small isolated village. While still attending mission school, Zack began raising malamutes and Siberian Huskies. \nBurt Zymuski, his history teacher with a thick Russian accent told Zack, “Do not waste your time with them Huskies. They are strong, but they do not have the temperament for Iditarod.”\n“I do not agree.” He told his teacher even though Bert had run the great race eight times before settling in White Mountain. \n“Hmmph.” He nodded at the veracity of his young student. “Prove me wrong, malchik.”\n“I have a team with six Husky pups.” His brazen bravado impressed the older man.\n“Oh I see.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Do you want some help?”\n“Sure.” He smiled up at Burt.\n“I will get them ready.” He winked as Zack walked out of his classroom. \nTrue to his word, Burt Zymuski knocked at Zack’s cabin door on an early Saturday morning as the summer slipped away to the equinox and the Fireweed began to go to seed. The wind from the Bering Sea blew the seeds into the air, covering the land like the snow that would follow in a few weeks. \nAhnah answered the door when he knocked, smiling, she replied, “You must be Mr. Zymuski.”\n“I am and your Russian is well polished.” He bowed his head.\n“He is waiting for you. So excited.” She ushered him inside as the wind already had a harsh bite to it. \nZack took his teacher to his kennel behind the small cabin he and his mother lived in. The dogs were already baying and yelping when they saw both of them enter the crudely built shelter.\n“They do appear to be well-cared for.” He squatted down to pet an affectionate malamute pup. \nWhen his runner hit some ice, it broke away from the sled. Applying the brake, he called out to his team, “Whoa. We have to take a break.” \nHe knew that none of them wanted to stop. The wind was beyond frigid. He pulled his sled into a wide culvert that would shield them from the harshness of the deadly Arctic wind. Retrieving his missing runner, he found it where it had broken off, but he would have to remove his gloves so he could reattach it. Two of the dogs surrounded him so he could do this task without feeling the bite of frostbite which was with them at every bend in the trail. He knew as he reattached his runner that three sled teams were already just hours away from Nome, the red lantern and prize money. Most likely he would not finish the race in the money, but his goal was just to finish. He could brag that a twenty year old was capable of enduring the thousand mile marathon. \nHe managed to run his naked hand across Amak, his lead dog’s mane. “We may have to spend the night here, girl.” \nHe would remove the netting from his sled where he had packed his tarp and sleeping bag. As the temperature dropped to forty below, he would make sure his team and he were sheltered enough to survive the blistering cold wind. \n“Gonna be a really cold one gang.” He began to put up his tarp. “You guys better dig into the snow.”\nMost of his team of a dozen dogs had already dug into the ice to shelter them from the night wind. Without his head lantern, the wilderness would be so dark, he would not be able to see his gloved hand in front of his face. In Galena, which was still about thirty miles due west beyond the mountain pass slowly disappearing in the darkness, he would have a warm place to spend the night and a hot meal and some chow for his team. \nIt did not take long for Zack to fall into a deep sleep.\nHe was sitting in a kayak close to the shore. His head slowly moved to his right. Alka was sitting in his kayak. He had the stock of his Springfield rifle resting on his shoulder with his finger on the trigger. When his grandfather aimed his army issued rifle, he never missed. \nHis grandfather told him that he was issued the rifle when the United States Army was afraid the Japanese were planning to invade Alaska. As it turned out the Japanese did invade Attu and took a whole village prisoners of war before the army sent troops that included some Inuit volunteers like Alta to repel them from Attu in June 1942. The Imperial Japanese Army would never return. \nA few yards ahead was his target, a full grown male seal bobbing in the icy water. \n“Two.” Alta whispered as he took aim. The seal submerged into the brackish slushy water. Zack sat as still as a statue as he had been taught to do by his grandfather.\n“Three.” He said as the seal reappeared. The rifle sounded. There was a splash of water. The seal had been shot right between his black eyes, a quick instant death. “Tulok, get the seal.” \nUsing his Inuit name that means god of the warriors, he pointed to the carcass of the seal now floating in the waves. Always quick to obey his grandfather’s instructions, Zack grabbed the lifeless animal behind the flippers, wrapping his hands around the seal’s corpulent chest and pulled him into his kayak. His Alta removed his knife from his belt and sliced down the center of the seal’s body. White blubber flowed from the opening.\n“Good, plenty of good meat.” He smiled, running his fingers through the warm blubber. “You always count to three before pulling the trigger, because his lungs are full of air. I waited and now we have plenty to eat.” \nHis eyes fluttered open. He had to relieve himself as the wind continued to blow whistling through the dwarf birch trees. The snow had piled up on his tarp making it difficult for him to exit his warm shelter. Three of his dogs had curled up nearby while the rest of them had tunneled in the snow. It was well below zero Zack calculated as he emerged to relieve himself. Cold did not seem adequate enough to describe the biting Arctic wind. \nIt took him about an hour to get his sled packed, but the granola bar did not seem to fill his growling stomach. He scanned the faces of his dog team. “Guys, we will be in Galena in about an hour. They will have breakfast for you.” \nAhead was the mountain pass. The trail through the pass was well known as the difficult part of the trail. But he knew once they got through it, Zack knew the trail would be a lot smoother for the rest of the way even though Nome was still a couple of days away. \nKnown as the Heartbreak Pass, Zack noticed Lusa, one of the team, was struggling to catch her breath. He slowed the team to a stop. Lusa lay immobile in the snow. \n“What’s the matter, girl?” He asked as if she could answer him. He gently ran his hand over her panting chest. Slowly he undid her harness and lifted the female Husky from the snow. Placing her comfortably into the sled would slow them down even more, but at this point it did not matter to him. Tears filled Zack’s eyes. His tears froze to the skin on his cheeks. Lusa panted as he started the team once again. The sled jerked to a start as they began a slow steady climb up Heartbreak Pass. \nHis team was hungry, but Galena was still over an hour away as they climbed the steep pass. \n“If you wish to run your team in The Last Great Race, you must be ready to have your heart broken many times.” Alta told his grandson after Zack told him of his intentions to enter the race. \n“Yes grandfather, I want to enter the race next month.” He answered. \nZack had no idea that his grandfather would pass away just two weeks later. In his grief and mourning for his grandfather, Zack decided to wait a year before entering the Iditarod. Deeply affected by his loss, Zack got out his sled and took Alta to his village according to Inuit tradition. While he was staying with his aunt, the Aurora Borealis appeared above the village. As he watched the emerald green wave overhead, Zack knew that his grandfather had made it to the next world. His aunt affirmed his observation. Even with her gentle assurances, Zack still felt the empty space in his heart his grandfather had left him with. \nShadows were already long when he got to the end of Heartbreak Pass. Stunted birch and pine trees greeted him when they appeared through the mountain pass. Lusa was still struggling. Zack cursed himself for not making it to Galena where he could get care for his young Husky pup. As the darkness began to swallow the scenery, Lusa breathed her last. Zack could not shed any tears at her passing since his tears would freeze to his face. The rest of the team sensed the loss as Amak started to howl. The rest of the surviving team joined in howling, mourning their fallen teammate. \n The wind picked up as its icy grip covered the land. Bursting across the sky, the Northern Lights illuminated the sky. Soon the souls of the dead would dance across the sky like his grandfather used to tell him when he was a boy. \n“Tulok.” He heard someone call him. The voice was familiar to him as he rolled from his sleeping bag, “Tulok!” \n“Grandfather.” Zack’s voice was thick with sleep.\n“I am here.” \n“I need you.” Zack sat up.\n“I am with you always.” \n“I need you. I lost one of my dogs.” Zack felt his eyes gloss over with tears. \n“Do not cry, Tulok. These things happen.” \n“I miss you.” Zack could not stop the flow of tears.\n“Step outside. You will see me.” \n“Alright.” Zack found his way out of his encasement. When he looked to the sky, he saw the familiar emerald wave swirling in the night sky. “Grandfather, are you there?”\n“I am.” \n“I need your help.” He bowed his head.\n“I will guide you.” \n“To Nome?”\n“Is that where you really wish to go? You can end it at Galena. Your team is hungry and exhausted. You too, are in need of some rest.” \n“I did not come here to quit.” He said defiantly.\n“You are not quitting, you are doing what’s best for you and your team. A good leader knows when that time has come to pass.” \n“I want to get to Nome.” Zack stamped his foot into the ice as he used to do as a child.\n“At what cost? You will have other chances to prove yourself.” His voice began to fade with the wind rushing through the canopy of trees. The sky turned emerald green. \nAt what cost? Lusa was one of his favorite pups. He had fed her from the bottle when she still had her eyes closed. She would run through their small house and his mother would tell him to take her outside.\n“It’s too cold.” He would whine.\n“And let you two ruin what little we have here.” She would shake her head.\n“So how is your pups?” Mr. Zymuski asked Zack after class.\n“They are great.” He nodded. Mr.Zymuski helped him acquire some of the pups in his team including Lusa. \n“I knew you’d be a good pack leader.” The teacher clasped Zack on his wide shoulders. “One day you will make me proud.” \nMr. Zymuski was the closest Zack had to a real father and so when the “Mad Russian” as he was known among the rest of the mission school passed away a few months later, Zack vowed to complete the race. \n“I am a failure.” He thought to himself as he got ready for the final leg of the trail to Galena. He sighed deeply since he knew Galena was roughly the halfway point of the Iditarod, but it was apparent that he would not make it to the finish line. As the town of Galena came into view, Zack could not fight this overwhelming feeling of failure. He had let his grandfather down. He had let Mr. Zymuski down as well. \n“Hey kid, I hate to tell you, but three teams have already crossed the finish line.” One of the men from the checkpoint greeted him, “I’m Mr. Tanner from the checkpoint. What is your name?” \n“I’m Zack Kaudjak.” He answered.\n“Got it.” He checked it off on his clipboard. “Well, are you going to continue?”\n“No sir. I lost one of my dog team in the pass.” He shook his head.\n“Happens.” Mr. Tanner put his clipboard down on the table next to him. The small cabin was warm and comfortable, “Does your team need some grub?” \n“Yessir.” Zack nodded.\n“Coming right up.” Mr. Tanner walked into the kitchen area where they stored the dog chow. \n“So you lost one of your dogs, eh?” A woman dressed like one of the men in overalls and flannel shirt, “My name is Marge. I scratched this morning for the same reason.” \n“Sorry.” Zack bowed his head.\n“It’s nothing to be ashamed about, kid.” She sat in one of the chairs at a table. Zack noted she was just about his mother’s age, “Join me.” \nHe sat down in the chair next to hers.\n“What did you learn out there?” She smiled as she sipped her coffee.\n“That it’s harder than I thought it’d be.” He confessed.\n“There are mushers a lot more experienced than you, who still find this one of the most difficult things they’ve ever done.” She laughed. “Including me. I’ve never quit anything. First time for everything.” \n“I’ve let everyone down.” He frowned. \n“No such a thing.” She shook her head, “When you’re out on the trail it’s just you, your team and God. No one else.”\nShe was right. Zack knew it for a fact. When he was burying Lusa in the frozen solid ground in the pass, he said several prayers as he interred her in the earth. He felt a hand on each shoulder. When he looked up he saw his grandfather. “Tulok, I am so very proud of you.” He turned his head and saw Mr. Cyzewski smiling down at him, “You done good, da.” \n“Well, I have to get ready for a flight home to Wyoming.” She sighed. “I’ll give it a shot next year. Whadda about you?” \n“We’ll be here.” He smiled. He couldn’t help it. She made him feel much better about not making it to Nome. “I’ve had a rough time on the trail. I’ll be wiser next time.”\n“Me too.” She stood up, “Gotta go.” \nMr. Tanner said so long to Marge as she walked out and then approached Zack, “Hey kid, we got a transport leaving to White Mountain in the morning.”\n“Sounds great.” He nodded.\n“Good, I’ll put you down for it.” He checked his clipboard as he walked away.\n“Zack, you’re home.” His mother greeted him when he walked in the door, “Did you see that Aurora Borealis last night?”\n“Yes, I did.” He put his bag down.\n“I prayed for you every night.” She hugged him. \n“I know.” He choked back some tears as he felt the warmth, “I lost Lusa.” \n“I heard.” She held him out at arm’s length.\n“I felt horrible about scratching.” He confessed.\n“No one will blame you for what you did out there, no matter what.” She had tears in her eyes. “We are so proud of you. So proud.” \n“”I love you mama.” He kissed her on the cheek, “I have to get my dogs settled in.” \n“You do what you have to, Zack.” She watched him as he walked out the door. \n“Be back in a shake.” He waved as she closed the door. It was really cold out there. \nHe skipped to the kennel in the back of his house. He was greeted warmly by his team with tongues and tails wagging." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Across the Karman Line\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1136\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who risks their life to take a photo." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Aiysha could feel her heart rate quickening as she climbed higher into the atmosphere, her pulse echoing in her ears like a distant drumbeat. The sensation of weightlessness began to envelop her as the altitude increased, a subtle but undeniable reminder of the immense power of the world around her. She momentarily shut her eyes, instinctively seeking solace in the darkness behind her eyelids, a momentary respite from the overwhelming rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Inhaling deeply through her facemask, she tasted the stale air, the familiar metallic tang mingling with the faint scent of recycled oxygen. She held it in for a moment, allowing herself a brief pause to collect her thoughts.\nWhen she opened her eyes, she instinctively pulled the HOTAS control back, executing a high alpha maneuver with practiced precision. The craft responded eagerly to her commands, its sleek form slicing through the thin veil of the upper atmosphere like a knife through silk. With a surge of exhilaration, she felt the familiar G-forces pressing against her body, her muscles tensing reflexively in response to the dizzying ascent. Despite the reassurance of her G-suit, she couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered at the edge of her consciousness, the fear of losing control in the face of the unknown.\nThis wasn't her first trip beyond Earth's atmosphere, not by a long shot. Technically, she was an astronaut, trained and certified for missions beyond the confines of the planet's atmosphere. But that was a detail she couldn't freely discuss, not with anyone outside the tightly-knit circle of engineers and scientists who comprised the secretive world of skunkworks research and development. As a test pilot for one of the world's most advanced aerospace companies, her flights were strictly confidential, especially those that crossed the Karman Line, that invisible boundary that marked the edge of space.\nIt struck her as somewhat amusing, in a darkly ironic sort of way, how there was no discernible difference between being above or below the line – no booming sounds, no dazzling lights or shimmering trails to mark the transition from one realm to the next. It was just an arbitrary line drawn in the sand, significant only for its implications in the realm of legal and regulatory frameworks, a dividing line between the jurisdiction of aircraft and spacecraft. International law had yet to definitively define the edge of space or the limits of national airspace, leaving such matters to be determined on a case-by-case basis by the powers that be.\nTo the bureaucrats back at base, she was just another test pilot on another routine flight, gathering data and pushing the boundaries of aerospace technology in the name of progress. But secretly, she knew that her mission was something far more significant, far more profound. She was testing a new scramjet design, a revolutionary propulsion system that promised to revolutionize manned spaceflight, enabling her craft to breach the atmosphere and endure the harsh conditions of space for a minimum of 90 minutes, perhaps even longer if all went according to plan.\n\"Test pilot my well-rounded behind,\" she muttered under her breath, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she spoke. \"Astronaut, that's me.\"\n\"Sparrowhawk 11, we didn't catch that, can you repeat?\" came the voice of the mission controller crackling over the comms.\n\"Affirmative, ACS,\" she replied, her tone professional and composed despite the surge of frustration that bubbled beneath the surface. \"Sparrowhawk 11, bearing 142 and ascending. Mission parameters confirmed.\"\n\"Copy that, Sparrowhawk 11,\" came the response. \"Mission is a go. Godspeed.\"\nShe felt a surge of pride swell within her chest at the acknowledgment, a small but significant reminder of the importance of her mission, of the sacrifices she had made and the risks she had taken in the pursuit of knowledge and discovery. And yet, there was a part of her that couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret at the secrecy that shrouded her profession, at the countless girls back in the Bronx who could benefit from knowing that someone like them was soaring through the stars.\nBut there were undeniable perks to her covert profession, she reminded herself. The thrill of witnessing the swift transition from the boundless blue of Earth's sky to the star-speckled blackness of space in a matter of seconds was a privilege shared by few, a demonstration of the ingenuity and determination of the human spirit. And with practiced skill, she reached for the camera that she had stashed in her flight suit, ensuring that no classified materials or instruments would be captured in the clandestine snapshots that she would take.\nThese photographs, she knew, would one day serve as her retirement package, a tangible reminder of her years spent in service to her country and her species. They would be hailed as a tribute to the indomitable spirit of exploration and discovery that drove humanity ever onward, ever upward, toward the stars.\nAlone in her cockpit, she couldn't help but marvel at the beauty and vulnerability of the planet below, a fragile oasis suspended in the vast expanse of space. The curvature of the Earth stretched out before her like a work of art, its intricate patterns and delicate hues a stark contrast to the harsh emptiness of the void beyond. Each click of the camera felt like a silent declaration of her presence, a testament to her bravery and determination to capture the unseen, to explore the unexplored, to push the boundaries of what was thought possible.\nAs she continued her ascent, her mind wandered to the implications of her secret missions, to the discoveries that lay concealed behind the cloak of secrecy. What marvels awaited humanity beyond the confines of Earth's atmosphere? What wonders lay waiting to be uncovered in the vastness of space? These questions fueled her resolve.\nMinutes slipped by in a blur of excitement and contemplation, each passing moment a demonstration of the boundless potential of the human spirit. And though her journey was shrouded in secrecy, she knew that her contributions would one day be acknowledged, her photographs standing as a lasting tribute to humanity's quest for knowledge and understanding.\nFinally, as she began her descent back to Earth, a smile crept across her face at the thought of the reactions her photographs would provoke when they were unveiled to the world. For now, they remained a secret shared only between her and the vast expanse of space, a reminder of the infinite possibilities that awaited those bold enough to venture into the unknown. And as she guided her craft back towards the welcoming embrace of the Earth below, she knew that her journey was far from over, that the stars still held countless secrets waiting to be discovered, waiting to be shared with the world." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Last Man Kneeling\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2025\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(*warning; Implied racism and mentions of slavery. *)\nTHE LAST MAN KNEELING\nThe man in the painting was nameless, but he knew three things for certain:\n1. He was depicted kneeling on a plush red carpet, his face locked in a stern expression as he gazed into the flickering flames of a grand fireplace.\n2. The artist who had brought him to life and placed him on display was known as Asher Vanderbilt, his elegant signature adorning the bottom of the canvas in golden letters.\n3. And most importantly - at night, the nameless man would come alive.\nIt was a strange transition from being a mere observer, to being an active participant of this thing called life. To go from frigid to soft. During these times, he was able to feel the soft fur of the carpet, he felt it gain weight as it seemed to push back against him. \nHe didn't know if it was a curse or not, but he found himself looking forward to those moments when he could see beyond his confined surroundings and observe the other paintings in the gallery. He noticed that while there were many vibrant and colourful paintings, he was the only figure with dark skin. \nBut this fact didn't bother him too much. He wondered if it was supposed to.\nLately, the gallery had been busier than usual. He could sense it in the increase of shadows passing by during the day and the rise in noise levels. The man noticed that he saw more black members of the public. And they were particularly interested in him. The man did not know why. Trapped in his painting, the social bonds of race- the meaning of race - had not been implanted into his brain.\nThere was one particular woman with curly black hair and bright red lipstick who would visit him daily. She would pass by all of the other more colourful paintings and make her way straight to him. She would stand with her arms crossed and her lips pursed as she studied him. Sometimes, she would even bring a notebook and jot things down before leaving. The man couldn't help but wonder what it was about him that fascinated her so much. Perhaps she was just a big fan of Asher Vanderbilt's work and admired his creation.\nAs the clock struck midnight once again, the man's mind began to wonder. In moments when he felt more human and present rather than cold and empty, he often thought about his creator, Asher Vanderbilt. He couldn't help but admire the artist for drawing him into existence with such care and detail, dressed in a comfortable dark green attire against a scenic backdrop. Did the other paintings in the gallery also think about their creators? Did they long with a faint eagerness to meet them? \nThe man, trapped in the painting from his very existence, had neither learnt of the concept of death which his owner had succumbed to. \nThat night, the man felt an adventurous streak take over. He wanted to test the limits of this newfound \"life\". Could he even step out of his painting? The thought excited him. Slowly and carefully, he climbed out of his frame and onto the wooden floor. It was strange walking on solid ground rather than the familiar red carpet in his painting. As he explored the gallery at a slower pace to avoid dizziness, some of his fellow paintings looked over in curiosity. They weren't feeling as daring today, but that just meant more space for him.\nAll the paintings shared a similar style and taste in clothing thanks to their creators. Each one showcased figures dressed in similar attire, with lavish fabrics and intricate details. The colours were mostly muted, with deep jewel tones and dark shadows.\nA sculpture stood tall and statuesque in the centre of the room, its elegant curves and sharp edges catching the faint light in all the right places. Its surface was smooth and pristine, with no visible imperfections. It didn't seem alive, fortunately. Its imposing presence made the man slightly uneasy.\nHe continued his self-guided tour of the gallery, venturing further than he ever had before. As he observed every corner of the room, one fact became clear - he was the only dark face in the whole gallery. He wondered again if he should perhaps feel something about this and paused. Well…he should feel unique. Yes. Asher Vanderbilt had uniquely created him in this overwhelming sea of pale faces. His creator had wanted him to stand out. No wonder, he captured attention from visitors. \nSpeaking of Asher Vanderbilt – his creator had quite a few pieces around the place including one titled \"The Golden Girl\". It featured a blonde woman sitting in a cosy home with a tray of tea and biscuits in front of her. The man found himself smiling at this. His creator was clearly very talented. In the back of his mind, he wondered faintly why he himself had been painted with a frown, rather than a smile like this woman. It would be more comfortable for his face if he didn’t have to frown all the time. But never mind that – at least he could smile now. \nHe was about to move on to the next painting when he spotted it; a name. The name of the woman in the picture; Gilda Mason.\nSo, people in paintings could have names. \nIt may not have seemed quite the ground-breaking realisation. But the man had just assumed that nobody really had names. That only the artists themselves had names. And as he walked and looked more closely, he noted that it wasn’t just Gilda that had a name. Everyone else had a name too. Annabelle. Fitzpatrick. Lisa. Benedict. Name after name, an overload of them. \nOnly in that moment, did the man come to realise how important a name could be. And this was when he decided to rush back to re-examine his own painting. He must have missed it all those times before. Asher Vanderbilt seemed a very talented and respected artist – he must have given him a name. The man just needed to look harder. Yes. That is exactly what he would do. \nHe walked as fast as he could without getting dizzy; he rounded the corner and found himself in the familiar room gallery he had become accustomed to. His painting looked strange without him in it; a space on the red carpet right where he should be kneeling.H\nHe peered at the bottom of the frame and saw Asher Vanderbilt's name followed by a description: \"A slave playing dress up, 1748.\"\nThe man read this sentence over and over, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning; some hidden name between the vague description of ‘a slave.’ Had Asher Vanderbilt really forgotten his name? Or maybe the word ‘slave’ was enough. The man frowned a little. He had really wanted a name. And he wasn’t too sure what a slave was. \nAnd playing dress up? He glanced down at the satin material of his clothes. Did they not belong to him? Was he borrowing it from someone? And if so, when was he going to give them back?\nLost in thought, he remembered seeing security guards handing out leaflets near the entrance of the gallery. He grabbed one and hoped it would provide some useful information about himself and his circumstances.\nWelcome to the main art gallery of West Virginia! We're thrilled that you've decided to visit.\nThe words oozed with excitement as the man skimmed through the brochure. He flipped through a few pages showcasing various paintings and sculptures before coming across something more intriguing. It was a picture of that same black woman, someone he had seen frequently at the gallery in the past month. However, in this particular photo, her expression seemed harsher, almost menacing. It was not the most flattering image to choose.\nThe writing on that particular page - page 5 - was titled ‘’The Issue of The Civil Rights Movement and how it pertains to this art gallery.’’ \nAn article by Steve Crowner, dated 18th June 1963.\nIt caught the man’s eye and he began to read;\n‘You've seen it on the news. And if you haven't, then you've surely witnessed it on the streets. When I first opened this gallery, I never imagined it would become a platform for political debates. But somehow, politics has found its way here. Ada Wells, pictured below, has made sure of that. I welcome everyone into my gallery - I don't believe in segregation. So I allowed Ada, a journalist, to come to me seeking entry out of pure kindness. Little did I know she would use her visit as an opportunity to defame my name in the local newspapers because of one painting displayed here. The piece by Asher Vanderbilt from 1748 was one of his last works. His personal beliefs about race are not my concern. This is the danger with certain movements; they seek to destroy everything that came before them. This gallery stands with Vanderbilt and that's final’\nSteve Crowner's words left the man feeling overwhelmed and confused. He may not have fully understood every word, but there was definitely a heated debate about Vanderbilt's character happening beneath the surface. And that confusion itself was perplexing to him. After all, Vanderbilt was the creator of this man. He must have been a good person, right?\nThe man felt a sudden urge to learn more, but the rest of the brochure seemed quite plain in comparison. \nAlthough the biblical reference would go over his head, the man had taken a small bite from the tree of knowledge; and now there was a small crack in his worldview.\nAs he climbed back into his painting, he felt a little less proud, a little more muddled. He had climbed back in the same way as he had left it; nameless, but with a few more questions. The clothes on his skin did not sit as they once had; they lingered instead. And God knew there was a difference. If they could, they would make his skin itch. And that frown which had been painted onto his face was now very much a real one. The furrow between his brows deepened as he gazed back at the flickering flames in the fireplace.\nHe couldn’t shake off the thoughts stirred up by the leaflet. It had been a rude awakening, one that made him question everything he thought he knew about his existence and purpose.\nHe had always been content to hang from this wall and be admired by passersby. But now, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would judge him based on his creator’s reputation. The quietly shattering seedling of a realisation that Vanderbilt was not as great as the man thought he was. The quietly maddening realisation that people could be multifaceted; That Vanderbilt could paint him in one breath, paint the beautiful scenery in another and yet also have another side to him.\nThe man found himself waiting for that black woman to come again. This time when he subtly examined her staring, he would look a bit closer. He would not mistake her semblance of neutrality for admiration. Clearly she had feelings of the opposite. \nThis time when she came, he would be ready for her.\nOne last time; the man looked around at the paintings that covered the walls of Steve Crowner’s art gallery. There were portraits of wealthy families, landscapes of the picturesque countryside, and scenes depicting historical events. And then there was him – a portrait with no name.\nThe man had not known it then, but his painting had been the subject of debate locally. The Civil Rights movement had a cultural dynamic to it that was more than just legal battles. Ada B. Wells was spearheading this part of the movement. She believed it was a disgrace; if slavery was so far behind the Great Nation of the United States, then why was there still one last man kneeling?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Not Your Perfect Heist\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1583\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about an art thief who is struggling to commit the perfect heist." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I don’t know if perfect heist is the best way to frame what I finally accomplished last Thursday.\nMy name is Beans and that’s what I prefer to be called; don’t put a mister or doctor or reverend or any other term of endearment in front of it. Just Beans.\nQuick history since I know you are wondering. People who read are always nosy as all get up. So, here’s the scoop. Since I was little my daddy used to tell me and everybody who met me that I would never amount to no more than a hill of beans. Then he’d make me wear white starched shirts with stiff collars and told me a man has to dress for success.\nI’d say, “but Daddy you tell everybody I won’t amount to no more than a hill of beans. Why do I got to dress up?”\nHe’d say “It’s up to you what that hill of beans is worth, Son. Don’t never let anybody tell you what you worth. You be the beans that everybody wants to be around because you got it going on. Your great great granddaddy was a third cousin to a brother named George Washington Carver way back in the day. Carver didn’t have squat…no mama, no daddy, nothing or nobody to brag about. He just quietly went about doing what he was put here to do. He worried every plant, seed or leaf he could get a hold of until he figured out what they were here for and before long folks was calling him the plant doctor. Pretty soon he had folks using peanuts for over 300 different things and using soybeans to manufacture paint.”\nMy daddy told me a version of that story so many times that I wouldn’t wear sweats or cutoffs or such anywhere but around the house. That story also perked my interest about paint and it didn’t take long for me to see what I could cook up with some paint and a homemade canvas. We had a storage shed behind our little house in Hillsborough, California USA and I turned that little place into my own little art studio. I didn’t know much of anything going in but I made it my business to dib and dabble until my creations even made me take a second look.\nThe day I graduated from middle school, my Daddy said, “Beans, you got to bring home some bacon too. Get you a job.”\nI don’t know if you know anything about this town of Hillsborough in northern California but it wasn’t like it was a place where a brown skinned 14- year old like me could just walk into a store and say You hiring. Shoot, the whole time I was at Crocker Middle School I didn’t see anybody anywhere that looked anything like me ever.\nBefore you go to the internet I’ll tell you myself. Hillsborough is one of the richest towns in America and the reason we had a little house there was because my daddy inherited it from the folks he worked for. Mama worked for the Willford family while she was going to Cal Berkeley and Daddy said they cried like babies when she left to take a teaching job at Menlo College. She might still be here if she had stayed at the Willford’s but that’s another story. Don’t even ask.\nDaddy and Mr. Willford loved restoring classic cars and when Daddy would pick up Mama from work he just kept coming to the Willford’s house earlier and earlier so he could talk shop with Mr. Wilford. Mr. Willford must have had ten or more cars at the house and Daddy said even more in storage. When Mama left the Willford’s they hired Daddy to help around the property but mostly with the cars. The Willfords were way up in age and my Daddy drove them around and took care of them until they left here. They never had kids and they left the property down the hill and a couple cars to Daddy. Daddy said the Willfords died up to their necks in debt but he was grateful for the unexpected blessing.\nIn my mind I had my whole summer planned out after graduation. I was going to sleep late, grab a bite and head to the shed to turn out masterpieces. Getting a job was not anywhere on my mind. I know one thing though. I knew better than to protest. Nope. I hopped on my bicycle dressed in my white starched shirt that Monday after graduation and headed downtown. I figured Safeway or 31 flavors might just give me a chance to shine and neither of them gave me the time of day. They both said ‘Ccome back when you’re 16.’\nI thought to myself, they don’t know my Daddy. I cannot go home without a job. I biked up that hill to Crocker sweating like a smokehouse to see if they had something for me. Ms. Kavorski, the guidance counselor, made me wait for an hour but then let me come in her office so I could watch her look on her computer for job openings. I was hoping they would let me tutor some 6th graders or something but she just shook her head and said “Sorry but you have to be 16 to work in the school district”.\nThen she put on her counseling hat and asked me what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I said, “Well I’ve been painting for two years and I have a shed full of masterpieces. The last two should be in that San Francisco Airport Museum but they probably have an age limit too.”\nThen I said, “Ms. Kavorski could you please tell me what is so special about 16?\nShe looked at me and said “Do you have a lawn mower, dear?”\nI thought to myself, If I am really a descendant of George Washington Carver then I ought to be able get my paintings into the airport museum and earn enough to shut Daddy’s mouth for a couple of summers.\nOut loud I said, “Ms. Kavorski, this is Hillsborough. Folks here hire professional landscapers to push the mowers. I can’t compete with them.”\nShe said, “Mr. Davon, I appreciate your gift of gab and your desire to be productive but I have a plane to catch so you’re going to need to scoot so I can get out of here.”\nI was too through and said, “Please, please remember to call me Beans, Okay. My name is Beans and thank you for your time. I’m headed down town to the Coffee Shop and I am going to tell them all the reasons they should hire a kid named Beans to do all their grinding.”\nI did get that job and worked a bunch of summers and even some school breaks for years and years. Daddy was thrilled to have his son earning his keep. I also kept painting and knew that it was just a matter time before my art masterpieces were displayed in museums not just here but all over the planet.\nYup, that was my dream and every time I looked up and saw a plane I’d say oh yeah my time is coming.\nFast forward to last Thursday night. After I dropped Daddy off at the airport I couldn’t just pull off. The policeman kept waving me on but I just sat there thinking there is no better time than the present to make a dream come true. I popped open the trunk, grabbed my latest masterpiece entitled “Mule Dung Rides Again” and my tool box and sprinted into the airport like I was late for a flight. I didn’t care about Daddy’s 1966 Mustang or the policeman. I just headed on foot in the direction of the airport museum on a mission.\nI was all the way out of breath when I got to what looked life an office or information station for the museum. I didn’t have any questions and I didn’t need any information. I just looked about for the best spot for my masterpiece, grabbed the right tools from my kit, broke a little glass that stood between me and my dream and very carefully removed the present display and made room for my “Mule Dung Rides Again”. I very meticulously set my work on the easel previously occupied by a work whose time was up and my work looked magnificent. It was at that moment that I understood beyond measure what my Daddy meant when he said a man should dress for success. I looked at my masterpiece and just stood there with my right hand pointing to my painting. Art by Beans right here, right now.\n I didn’t even see the broken glass nor did I hear the footsteps of security or police or anybody. In my mind I had arrived and those footsteps running toward me were adoring fans coming to see Beans’ greatest work ever.\nIt was a moment in time and I didn’t mind the handcuffs nor the brutal way they hauled me away. In my mind I now stood in the shoes of Picasso or Carver or any of the greats. What would come would simply come.\nAn epic moment I’ll call it and as I said earlier probably not a moment one would call a perfect heist, but certainly a moment worth sharing, don’t you think?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Lady of the Last Star\n\nGenre: adventure\n\nWord Count: 2939\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was considered a fact, that there are more stars in the universe, than human souls that ever lived in it. This statement is no longer true. Most of them died, or rather, were killed, leaving entire galaxies in darkness. But some said, „some” meaning the very last of humanity before even they met their end, that some stars still spark like diamonds in dessert sands. Across uninhabited planets and carcases of nebuli, their light guides a certain, troubled soul. And the darkness, right on its tail.\n Through the cosmic void, she was dashing hastely, the nimble comet that she was. Dodging her way out of an asteroid field, she was the only source of light there. Her name was Kori. And she was running away. From something that wanted to snuff that light out.\n The girl held on to her glider, aiming its beak between gaps, barely tight enough to squeeze through.\n The darkness that pursued her didn’t bother with avoiding obstacles. It would burst and consume them in its endless form. Grasping with its glassy claws and jaws that ate black holes.\n Kori threw her hand out, gattering stardust, charging her exo-suit and glider, stretching her fuel thinner and thinner. She was going faster, emitting ice clouds from the glider’s engine. She needed a boost. Altough, the source of that boost was nowhere to be found.\n She was slowly running out of light. The girl felt as her suit stretched and deformed from the pressure of the beasts’ breath.\n Beep. Close, but not close enough. Asleep, turned off, hidden.\n Whichever way she tried to ride in, the creature flowed in that direction like a raging canal of water. Pushing amidst the field, Kori grabbed a Luxdux from her belt.\n Beep, beep. The stardust flowed through her gauntlets into her fingers, charging the machine and emitting great whiteness that bounced all over the asteroid field.\n Beepbeepbeep!\n There it was. A fallen star. Awakened! But...\n She didn’t get to blink, before the light got smothered by the colossal jaws of the beast.\n Right in the glistening body of the creature, formed by husks of planets, glued together by darkness, she was drowning. Grasping against matter that was both liquid and form, digested cosmos that was swallowing her.\n She couldn’t breathe, didn’t know if she was even capable of, like in a dream. With the last of her senses intact, she found the star, cold and asleep. So, the girl made a decision. She pumped the star with fuel to its limits, feeling its shake tear the ebony skin of the creature. She put it in a pocket inside her chest. A flash appeared, her glider jumped into gear and with enough power, she punched through the belly of beast.\n She was gone. Gone, but not safe. Not for long.\n Drifting amongst dead celestial bodies, wondering how she herself was even alive. Laying down on her glider.\n Awaken.\n Her back jumped from the metal board, just as her hands jumped across her exo-suit. Like a skeleton outside of her flesh, it cracked in a couple of spots. Her mask, googles, gauntlets, valves and small pipes running with gas and helium. The girls’ heart pumped with euphoria. For a second, she was glad to be alive in this cosmos. Then realisation struck her.\n She was still alone.\n Wait, she murmered in her head. The reason why she found that star in the first place. Kori grabbed two things from her back. A canister, filled up to half with stardust and a small, metal block, shaped like an hourglass. Grains of dust were slowly pouring off of it.\n She wondered. Whether preserve the spare stardust or use it to boot up the machine. After rolling her eyes, she exhaled deeply and turned on her gauntlets.\n Such a small thing. It better be worth it.\n The block of metal turned on. With a simple, holographic face sticking out of the miniscule screen.\n The stardust in the canister depleted immensely, and she still needed to load up her glider. After detaching the run-down star from her chest, she connected it to the container to atleast make up for the loss in fuel.\n The small machine bopped its head intensely, barely hovering over the board in any form of balance.\n ­„INTERSTELLAR ROBOTIC INFORMATICAL SYSTEM activated” the robot spoke as smoothly as the nano-metal he was made of.\n It spoke. And she heard it. How? They were in the void. No way for them to understand each other, nor for her to gasp with shock.\n Kori widened her mouth as the robot saw only her mask that looked like a jellyfish. Words wanted to escape from her mouth but… she seemed to be unable to even squeal.\n „Please, accept my apology, as I automatically connected myself to your communication device, as well as your neural scan”. His voice was gentle and eloquent, yet still boyish, like a well-mannered child.\n „Uuhuh”, she mindlessly spilled, not able to accept a different voice in her head.\n „If you prefer, I can communicate with you through your neural scan, without the need for vocal cords”.\n „I-uh… I remember how to… How to speak!” she outraged, almost pushing the bot off the glider.\n „I beg your pardon then, miss Kori” he bowed, putting his right hand behind his back and the left one to the side, fingers curled with just the pointing finger upwards.\n „How do you know my name?!” her gauntlet started sparkling, as her fingers formed a glowing fist.\n „Your name is in my programming” he turned his bubbly head, unaware of the girls’ gesture. „Also, I am connected to your mind”.\n „Right. I’m not really… cool with that.” she shrank in posture.\n „Fair enough” she immediately heard him again through the comm in her mask.\n „I guess, it’s only fair for me to know… your name as well, don’t ya think?”\n „Again, fair enough” the robot nodded.\n „What’s your name then?”\n „INTERSTELLAR ROBOTI-\n „I ain’t rememberin’ all that, you small moon” Kori snapped her fingers against his head. „How about… IRIS?”\n „I… like it. If you want to call me that, then so be it” IRIS accepted his name with grace.\n „Great! Now, IRIS. Find me a star” the girl grabbed him by his hands and turned him around to face the void.\n „I was just looking at one, madam” his head turned back to her and his body right after it.\n „I mean a real star\" she laughed. \"You know, the one to use for space travel.”\n The thought occured to her. She laughed. It came so naturally to her, she didn’t even notice. She laughed again, giggling like a child, trying to squeeze words through her teeth.\n IRIS smiled, once more not understanding the girls’ behaviour.\n „I know what a star is”.\n „Congratulations, small moon. Now find one. There aren’t all that many left out there and you were made to sniff’em out like a Sirius”.\n „Why?” IRIS shrugged.\n „What why?” Kori did the same gesture.\n „Why are you looking for a star?”\n „I… have a mission. That’s all I know. Don’t really care ‘bout it, but.. someone’s gotta do it.” she swept her legs along the board and left them dangling.\n „Restarting the universe”. His holographic eyes widened.\n „Yup.”\n „You don’t seem happy about it”.\n „Why would I?” She turned her head away from his destructively child-like stare.\n „The universe is a beauuuutiful thing” IRIS spinned around in awe.\n „Was. Maybe. For a bit. Don’t really know”.\n „It still is”.\n „Listen, I don’t know what kinda world you remember but this ain’t it no more. It’s just a big corpse with a parasite in it” she hugged herself.\n „Orsus” IRIS stated. „That’s how my creators named him”. He added after noticing the girls’ confused stare.\n „Your masters… Can you lead me to them?”\n „Gladly!” IRIS jumped, lifting himself off of the glider. Fortunately, Kori catched him and put him back on the board. „Thank you kindly” he bowed again.\n „Lead the way then, little moon” she loaded the glider with some dust. Still enough for a jump or two.\n „Can’t wait to see humans again!” IRIS tried to jump, but immediately pulled himself back to Kori’s arm. Instead of flying away, he set up the coordinates for his creators’ location, as well as for a star in the same area.\n Kori remained silent with the void. She bumped the leftover star in order to power up her board, took a quick glance at her helper. Fully aware of the stardust inside of him gradually fading.\n „Keep your eyes open, IRIS, you’re gonna love that sight!” she attached the bot to her belt.\n „But I don’t need to bl-\n As a whistle across a forest, as white paint splashed with onto a black canvas. Like dipping your head in perfectly cold water. And right when you lift it up from the depths, you’re somewhere completely else.\n „Where are we?” Kori gasped in wild confussion. But also with… enamourment.\n This area of space had light. Different from stars. Deeply blue, with a bit of green. Waves upon waves of light, devouring each other.\n „We’re at the…” IRIS already prepared himself to be interrupted again.\n She leaned further, almost on the verge of the board. But that sight was worth it. „This is the edge of the universe!”\n A veil of purple nebuli, one of the eyes of the cosmos, tearing itself apart and regrowing, feeding the waves. And yet, no new stars were being born. In this place, the infite became finite.\n „Still no new stars at this eye” she sighed. „But the one we’re looking for should be close enough”.\n „From my scans, the star you mentioned should be… there” he pointed to a drifting wreck at the end of existence, holding itself together by its metal veins.\n Getting aboard the shuttle wasn’t a problem. It still had a functioning entrance. The metal door shivered, letting them inside Moses, as it was written on the scraped walls. The darkness seemed almost bright to the one outside. The only glow went off from Kori’s exo-suit. No other sound reached their ears except the howl of the glider, on which Kori was still riding.\n „Why won’t you step off from the machine? IRIS asked, tiptoing next to her.\n „My legs are tired” she growled.\n „From what?”\n „From not using them”.\n IRIS went silent and stopped in his steps.\n Kori sighed and turned around.\n „Let me help you” his arm was reaching her from the ground, just below her knee.\n She gave him a cold stare, but then… quickly changed it. Not for something much different, no. She lowered herself and grabbed him carefully, putting him on the board. Then, she put one foot on the ground, pushing herself with it further and further.\n „What’s the last thing you remember from your times?” the girl asked the robot.\n „Humanity conquering the stars. Enslaving them, until they started running out of them. Discovery after a discovery, not a single rock in the cosmos left unturned. That’s why I was created. To find the unfindable. And so, here I am, walking across the halls that birthed me, instead of venturing beyond the edge of the universe, like a proper machine should. Ironic, isn’t it?”\n „Mhm” she nodded, confused but weirdly enchanted by his words. „Poetic”.\n „In a different life, I would be a poet. Describe every, beautiful sight that the universe holds” he smiled. „What about you?”\n „I remember… this uniform. This mask. My mission. Not much beyond that.” she answered, losing her tempo for a step.\n „Did you ever take it off? If I may ask…” he forgot himself a little.\n „I don’t think so, no. I can barely remember my face. Not too keen on seeing it again”.\n They stopped in front of a ripped open door. Burned metal and flesh, smells so pungent that even a robot could feel their bloody aroma. IRIS’s radar started beeping, the stars’ signature should’ve been here. But the only things they found were a broken cage and a group of skeletons, laying on the floor. The cadavers, long dead, crystalized in their form, almost chrome. The last sign of their existence being dried up bloodstains.\n Kori jumped off from her glider to look upon the chamber in which the star should be held. She tried lifting the shards from the ground, putting them back, but to no avail. She punched the cell with all her might, not feeling a scratch.\n She heard a buzzing noise and so she found the source of it. A holo-reader, still working. With one, last message from beyond their cold graves. Kori had no mercy for the „play” button, but fortunately, she didn’t destroy the apparatus. A tall and skinny silhouette appeared in front of her, wearing long, brown hair and a metal, left arm.\n „I record this, truly hoping that this will not be our end. Nor yours” the figure stated grimly. „My name is Adam Henry DuBois.” he bowed, putting his right hand behind his back and the left one to the side, fingers curled with just the pointing finger upwards. „I am a scientist. And truth be told, an optimist. Enough to hope that our actions may finally bring something good to the world. I don’t have much time. You must find IRIS, and with him – the Forge. Beware of the Primordium – the beast that took away Earth’s light. Stay strong, Kori. And...”\n The message ended.\n Kori stood there, staring into the wall. It didn’t seem real. Nothing did. Just a mess without a solution. Her knees were crumbling, hands shaking, almost losing the grip within her gauntlets. For the first time, she felt the weight of her suit. The burden of it.\n „They’re beautiful” IRIS’s voice finally broke her, as he climbed on a desktop, near one of the chrome skeletons.\n „Beautiful? How can you say something like that now?” she felt the need to cry, but not a single drop on her cheek.\n „Even in death, they found something to strive towards. We are alive. What will we do now?”\n „Pff, yeah, you alive”. She leaned on the table heavily.\n „I beg your pardon?” his head raised as if he was raising an eyebrow.\n „Nothing. Just tired.” She waved him off.\n „Then why are you doing it?”\n „Because someone has to”. Kori scratched the table harshly.\n „That is not a logical argument. What reason do you have for it?”\n„None!” she snapped at him. „There is no reason! And if there’s no reason for it, then there’s no reason for me to even be alive! What other choice do I have? I don’t care what the world will look like if I succeed. I don’t care if I'll succeed. As long as I have something to do. Nothing more to it.” Her voice broke.\nKori lost IRIS from her seight. But then, she felt his small arms around her leg.\n „You seemed like you needed a hug” he said calmly.\n „Let’s…find this forge” she smiled.\n Already outside of the spaceship, prepared for another jump, they noticed clear, dark signs across their field of view. The darkness was coming back.\n „One more jump, IRIS, get ready.”\n „Rea-\n Fwoosh!\n They reached their final destination. The Starforge. Older than the universe itself – Methuselah.\nPrimordium got to them faster than Kori expected, they had to hurry.\n The greatest of the stars was not asleep, but dead. And it needed to be brought back to life. So it could bring the universe back.\n Flying through the ribcage of the celestial body, they found its core. The anvil that needed power. Kori ran to the stone-like battery, in need of filling up.\n „Kori” IRIS whispered, hearing a thunderous crack. The planet being slowly devoured.\n The girl loaded the canister with stardust to the battery. All that she gathered. Not even half of what was required.\n „Damnit!” she shouted, breaking the stars and adding them to the source.\n Ground beneath them started shaking. She knew there was no running away from it. She took the engine from her glider, also sucking the stardust out of it.\n Kori screamed. Only IRIS could hear her. And it was enough.\n The bot stumbled near and put his hand onto the battery. Slowly giving away the dust that fueled him.\n „IRIS, stop!” she tried to rip him from it, but he wouldn’t budge.\n „It’s okay” he said, as the last grains of dust left his body.\n Kori held onto him, pressing him to her chest.\n „Be with me until every star goes dark” IRIS said to her ear. „And so, when the universe ends up black and hollow… I will still atleast hear your voice… And feel your hand in mine.”\n His metal body clang near the core. An empty husk of a friend.\n Orsus had her. Shattering down walls around them, it cornered her like a wolf trapping a sheep. The crystal teeth being the last light that she was meant to see. She stood up proudly before it. She was no sheep. But a phoenix.\n Kori found her purpose. Putting all her strength, she loaded the battery to the maximum. Her suit started breaking, while the shadow, for the first time, cowered in fear. Now, she was her true self. A living star.\n Methuselah was born anew. The light that emanated from Kori destroyed Orsus. The battery overloaded, two stars mended into one and finally… they burned all that was left of the previous universe.\n On that day, a new star was born. And many more after it." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Shot Caller\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2498\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is convinced they’re going to be betrayed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Every morning when I open my eyes one question looms on my mind, who’s going to try to kill me today. That is the question that every prison Shot Caller faces. My name is Benny Hughes, and I’m serving life in prison. You see I caught my wife in bed with my best friend. I know I could’ve let it go. But fuck that. No way I was going to live in a world where those two were going to stab me in the back and live happily ever after. This was the last time somebody was going to betray me and get away with it. So I tricked those tricks who were trying to trick me. I acted like I knew nothing and I followed them to their rendezvous at the nearby motel. I waited until they got naked and into it. Then I kicked in the door. I wanted to see the look on their faces when I caught them in the act. I wanted to feel their fear. I wanted to hear them explain why they did what they did. I wanted them on their knees, begging for my forgiveness. But I wasn’t in a forgiving mood. After all the crying and pleading, I put a bullet in the head of both of them. Now here I am, prisoner 409187. \n Two things I did the moment I got to prison. First, I immediately linked up with a gang. I had no choice. Loners don’t survive in a maximum security prison. Second, all personal feelings and emotions, I buried them deep. Because there’s no friends behind bars, only alliances. I’m surrounded by liars, killers, thieves, rapist, and sociopaths. If these motherfuckers sense any weakness, they’ll use it against me. So the number one rule of prison, trust no one.\nWith that being said, my head was on a swivel. Something my processor didn’t do. It got out that he was dry snitching to the guards. So one day another prisoner lured him into a conversation on cell block A. That’s on the first floor, just under the catwalk. What he didn’t know was two guys had a floor buffer on that catwalk above him. And they dropped it on his head. Snapping his spine. Till this day, I look up every time I leave my cell.\nAfter ten years, and a lot of dead bodies, I became the prison Shot Caller. The warden and guards are the gate keepers, but I run this prison. Like the other day, I woke up late and I was hungry. So I waived to the guard to open my cell. He did. Then I went to the end of my cell block and nodded at the guard. He opened the door. Then I walked down the corridor to the next guard station and nodded again. The next guard opened that door. Then I got to the kitchen and I walked passed some white guy in a fancy suit with a bad comb over. I shouted to the cook to fix me a cheese burger. The guy in the suit had a confused look on his face as he walked over and asked, “Who are you? And who said you could get a cheese burger?”\nNow when you first look at me, I can be unassuming. I only weigh about a hundred and sixty pounds. I’m about five ten, average height. I got smooth brown skin. My departed wife said I had beautiful eyes. So I’m under estimated. But that has worked toward my advantage. Whoever said don’t judge a book by its cover is goddamn right. Anyway, I smiled and answered his question, “My name is Benny Hughes, and I’m the regulator of this prison. Who are you?”\n“I’m the new assistant warden, Jonathan Franklin. And what’s a regulator?” he asked standing tall and blocking my path toward the kitchen.\n“Well, Mr. Franklin, regulator means I run everything in this prison. You see there’s 1700 inmates in this prison. All under my control. And there’s only about a hundred guards and staff. And none of you are allowed to have guns inside the prison walls. So while the staff controls the gate, we control the cellblock. So as the regulator, I choose out of those hundred guards and staff who gets to leave here alive every day,” I said, then I stepped closer and looked deep into his eyes, “And if you would like to leave here alive, you’ll make sure I get my burger.”\nThe air went out of Mr. Franklin’s chest as his shoulders slumped. This cowboy stepped out of my way and yelled to the cook, “Get this man his burger.”\nIt’s funny that I was a nobody on the streets. A regular guy working a shit job. Being fucked over by everyone in my life, including my wife and family. Always craving respect and loyalty. And I had to come to prison to get it.\nI ain’t going to lie, I enjoy the perks of being a Shot Caller. I get what I want when I want it. I have the ultimate respect. I’m treated like a king or a Caesar behind these walls. But just like a king or Caesar, there’s a harsh reality a boss has to face. There is always someone who wants to take your throne. So I got really good at reading people. I could look at someone and tell what’s their agenda, their limits, their mindset. If their lying to me. I have to be able to see what’s coming at all times. \nWhich brings me to my current situation. I’ve had this eerie feeling that something ain’t right. A bunch of strange looks from motherfuckers in the unit. A slight change in mannerisms. And like I said before, I’ve become an expert at reading people. Prison is routine. When people’s routine start changing, I notice.\nLike me for example. Normally, I get up at 6am, get dressed, and stand in front my cell for morning count. I keep a small shank in my Keister. My bad, that’s slang for I keep a blade in my ass to all of you on the outside. Only time I don’t, is during visitation because that’s the only time we get stripped search. Next, I eat breakfast with my crew at the same table, fourth to the right of the entrance. I usually don’t eat that slop, but I still go to show my face. Then, I take a shower. I usually have two guys watching my back. A necessary evil. The shower room is where you’re most vulnerable. There and taking a shit. That’s why I always take a shit with my boots on, and my shank tucked inside. Just in case something pops off. After that, I go out to the yard and hold court. Prison has more politics than the White House. It could be as simple as somebody ate at the wrong table, changed the TV without asking, or a Mexican used a black toilet. And unlike democrats and republicans arguing, if these things go left, people die. So maintaining the balance and keeping order ain’t easy. I listen to people’s beefs, and rule appropriately. Then I exercise for a little. Finally, I go to the TV room and kick back and relax.\nWith things being a little off lately, I decided to flip the script. I started eating while they were showering, watching TV while they were in the yard. And know I kept my shank in my hand. I don’t give a damn if the guards find it and throw me in the hole. I’m not taking no chances.\n I’ve been looking at everyone closer. And the one that’s most on my radar was, Devin. Devin was my second in command. And he was one of those two guys that dropped the floor buffer on my predecessor’s head. Devin was darker than a closet with the lights cut off. Which oddly enough, allowed his mouth full of gold teeth to really stand out in a sinister way. He’s tough as a nails, a body like that wrestler, the Rock, and a stone cold killer. He’s got two hot ones on his record, that’s why he’s here for life like me.\nHe finds me in the library and walks my way. His steps are heavy and emphatic; like he’s trying to step on a cockroach. I felt a lot of cold stares from him lately, like the one he has now. Walking up beside me, he talks in a very low tone.\n “Benny, I need a word,” he said picking up a book and pretending to read.\n “What’s up?”\n “Those Aryan bastards have been pushing blow up on C-block again. A clear violation. We need you to settle this.”\n I look at him, mulling over his words. Then he adds, “I know you’ve been avoiding the yard lately. If you want I could have the meeting in the kitchen, after dinner. You know I got your back, homie.”\n “Cool. Make it happen,” I respond with a nod.\nDevin raised an eyebrow and asked, “You good homie?”\n“Yeah, I’m straight.”\n“You sure? You seem a little distracted lately. Anything wrong? You can always tell your boy. You know we go back like wave caps and hair grease,” he joked.\nI forced out a smile and gave Devin some dap, “I’m good. Just got somethings on my mind.”\nDevin nodded his head with a big grin flashing those gold teeth again. While slowly backing up, he said, “Alright. But I know what you need. A good drink. You in luck. D-Mack hooked me up with some orange peels the other day. I’m gonna whip up a brand new batch of pruno tonight. Meet me at my cell later. It’ll be just like drinking a bottle of Thunderbird on the block. We gonna get fucked up tonight homie.”\n“Cool,” I said as I laughed along with him. \n And there it is. Henry Hill was right. Your murderers come to you as friends with a smile. If I go to that meeting, I’ll end up with a knife in the back. I knew it was coming. I just didn’t think it would be Devin holding the blade. Doesn’t surprise though. Like I said, number one rule in prison, don’t trust anyone.\n I went back to my cell to find my cellmate, Tory, on his bunk reading a magazine. Tory was a country boy. Quiet and soft spoken. I remember the night he arrived. He was scared to death. I could hear him crying in his bunk. Curled up in a ball, not coming out of his bed for days. A naive kid caught up with drug dealers and taking the fall. I took him under my wing because he was the perfect cellie. Weak and none threatening. I could get a good night’s sleep without worrying that he’ll try something. He also made the perfect messenger boy.\n “Tory!” I said walking into the cell after looking in every direction first.\n “What’s up Benny?” he replied dropping his magazine and hopping to his feet. \n “Do you know about a beef with the Aryans selling blow on C-block?”\n He shook his head, “Everything cool as far as I know.”\n “That’s what I thought. Get word to D-Mack. Devin is going to be in the kitchen after dinner. I want him taken out.” \n “Wow. Okay,” Tory said walking out the cell to relay my message.\n I breathe easy. I get to live another day. I grabbed Tory’s magazine and kicked back on my bunk. A couple of hours passed and Tory comes back in. Looking like he just saw a ghost. There was a long silence before the words spelled out of his mouth, “It’s done.”\n I stood up and patted Tory on the shoulder, “You did good. You’ve been a good soldier. I appreciate that.”\n “Thanks,” Tory replied with his head down.\n “You need anything? Anything at all.”\n Tory just shook his head. “Not at the moment.”\n “You’re a good kid. You keep your head down. You do as your told. Keep it up. One day you might walk out this place.”\n “Yes sir,” he replied with a sappy smile. As he walked away, he turned back and said, “Say, you’ve been posted up in here all week. Why don’t you go with me to the day room? Watch a little TV. Your favorite show is coming on.”\n “Yeah, Family Feud does come on tonight. C’mon,” I said leading the way.\n We walked down the hallway. It was cold and dreary like normal. The sound of my boots on the concrete floors bounced off the walls, which was a little weird. This hallway was always busy and full of chatter. Then I noticed on my left, a white boy moping the floors. The only person in the hallway. To the right we were about to pass the broom closet. I looked at the guy, then I looked down at the floors and they were still dry. By the time I put two and two together, the door to the closet swung opened, and I was snatched in before I could blink. One guy grabbed my left arm, one guy grabbed my right arm. I felt another arm go around my neck from behind. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. The guy pretending to mop the floor pulled out a shank and stood next to Tory.\n “What the fuck is going on!” I yelled.\n Tory’s sappy smile turned into a sinister grin. His normally soft spoken voice became magnanimous as he explained, “Earlier you asked me if I wanted something. I wasn’t entirely truthful. I did want something. Your crown.”\n “No way your ass will get away with making a move like this! My boys will cut you to pieces,” I snapped trying to break free.\n “I don’t think so. The only person that was still on your side was Devin. And you just had him killed. With you out the picture, I’m the logical person to take over. I’ve already been your mouthpiece for years. They’re use to taking orders from me,” Tory stated with a wink and a smile.\n Then the white boy next to him plunged his shank into my abdomen again and again and again. So many times that I lost count. Then they threw me down like a wet rag and ran out the room. Lying in a pool of my own blood, facing certain death, my whole life flashed before my eyes. All I think about is that I don’t want to die. I can’t believe how big a fool I’ve been. I threw my life away because I couldn’t let things go and move on. I killed somebody for nothing. And somebody killed me for nothing. I pushed everyone away. And know I’m dying alone. I guess you get what you give in this life.\n The End" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Great Hunter\n\nGenre: adventure\n\nWord Count: 1829\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The great hunter, Orion rose in the Southern sky as night fell; Winter was coming. The mountain peaks tipped with snow earlier than usual; wind-chilled nights chased away the warmth of the day in camp. Falling amber leaves drifted to the ground and the berry crop had ended. It was time to move to the Great Plains in the warmer South away from the winter shadows cast by the mountains.\n\nAs night fell the tribe gathered around the roaring fire to prepare for the migration ahead. The last of the food had been dried and packed away. Smells of roasted trout told everyone dinner was ready. This would be their last dinner together for a few nights as Hoa and the other five hunters would stay behind to find deer for the trip ahead. \n\nElder Tia would lead the tribe out at dawn heading up the mountain trail for their new home. They would stop to gather food and resources along the way. It was unknown when they would meet up with the hunters again. With everything ready to go the tribe nestled down under the furs by the flickering coals for the night.\n\nThe first light had the camp moving. Hoa reached out wrapping his arms around his wife Lai with a warm hug, touching foreheads as they muttered their safe travel blesses to each other. His heart was heavy as she joined the tribe. Her long brown hair tied back with plats and wood beads hung down over her fur shawl. He tossed his pouch of arrows over his shoulder as he watched the tribe slowly disappear into the trees. Lingering on, he hated seeing her leave, he stood there staring into the forest. His thoughts were broken when his brother called out. Spinning around the hunters had already left. Grabbing his deer skin kit bag he jogged over to join them on the side trail. \n\nWhile they were all heading for the same destination, the six hunters had to deviate to the grasslands to find deer. They silently dashed along the forest trail their eye was drawn to any that looked like food or wildlife wanting them for food. They stuck to the familiar tracks as the dense woodland was dark and damp.\n\nIt took a few hours to reach the bluff where they would spend their first night; dropping off most of their supplies made running on the hunt easier. Hoa sat on a rocky outcrop overlooking the plain, scanning the horizon trying to work out their next move. “They have left early.” The midday sun lit up the dry grasslands randomly dotted with wildlife but the big herds of deer had moved on. “Should we keep moving?”\n\n“It will be getting dark soon,” replied his brother Lu.\n\nHoa nodded, “We still need something for dinner.”\n\n“Well, sitting there won’t catch us anything.”\n\n“If we don’t get anything today, we will move on toward the Pass tomorrow and catch the deer migration there,” Hoa said as he straightened his knife belt and grabbed his longbow.\n\nQuietly, they made their way down the slope, sticking to the shades while ensuring they stayed downwind of the grassland. Hoa stopped to tighten his leather ankle straps as the loose rocks slid out from under his feet. Grabbing nearby saplings gave him the confidence to move quickly on the uneven slope. He was the eldest of the hunters; his legs ached trying to keep up with his younger brothers.\n\nDown on the edge of the grassland, hiding out in the shadows next to an old tree, they panned the area for prey. A rabbit would bob up and down occasionally in the long grass. Lu fired off an arrow at a moving bundle of leaves and heard nothing. He waded out to see what he had achieved, “Bugger,” he replied as he held up a clean arrow.\n\nHoa got to his feet, “Stuff this, let’s move closer to the river.”\n\nThe sound of the water running over the rocks drowned out a lot of animal calls. As they crept along the tree line Lu said, “Hey, over there.” \n\nA small half-grown deer had been left behind. Hoa stopped as he turned to the two hunters on his right, silently he waved his hand giving them directions.\n\nSuccess; Hoa looked down as they showed thanks and prepared the animal. “That won’t feed many.”\n\n“It will do us for the trip,” Lu said.\n\nThe shadows were getting long as the sun sunk behind the hill, the heat of the day was dwindling. “Better get back to camp before dark,” Hoa said as he tied the deer legs to a long stick for carrying.\n\nClimbing up a slippery slope carrying even a small animal was difficult. They arrived back at the bluff as the last of the light waned. It didn’t take long to get the fire lit and dinner cooking. A temporary shelter of branches and hides would keep them dry for the night. Hoa made his way out onto the outcrop as he scanned the mountains to the south in the wild hope of seeing any sign of a campfire from the tribe. He whispered the safe travel blessing again. The hills sat heavy in the darkness; distant howls of wolves would break up the silence now and then. He pulled his fur over his head as the icy wind rolled down the valley. Every year the tribe did the same venture but watching his family walk away never got any easier. The sky was crystal clear, the Milky Way drifted overhead surrounded by millions of stars each one guiding them on their quest.\n\n***\n\nThe birds started chirping a first light. Hoa gave his sleeping brother a shove, “Come on we have a big day ahead of us.”\n\nLooking up the rocky slope, the peak was so far away. I doubt we will make it before dark. Hour after hour of trudging uphill over slippery loose rocks. Each step required his body to power down through each leg. Now and then, he would have to stop to catch his breath and look out over the valley to see how far they had travelled. Leaning on his spear he breathed heavily, he looked back along the ridge; dark clouds rolled over the crest followed by distant sounds of thunder. As he stood there the clouds grew closer, “We won’t get to the ridge before that storm hits.”\n\nLu who was further up the slope said, “There is a cave up a bit to our left.”\n\nAdrenaline pushed the fatigue aside as everyone rushed to get away from the approaching storm. Looking further up the slope the craggy overhang was in sight. Large drops of cold rain started to fall as the thunder shook the hills around them. Hoa’s heart was already racing and the claps of nearby thunder made it skip a beat. With one last scramble, they burst into the cave, dropping everything on the floor. Collapsing back against the rock wall, they gasped for air. The darkness slowly crept across the entrance as the storm came over the hill. \n\nRain pelted down outside the cave as lightning flashes lit up the entrance. The wind howled past the opening. While the rock cave offered some insulation from the cold, it was dark. Hoa glanced down at the stick he was holding, “We don’t have a lot of firewood.”\n\nThey sorted through their small carry bag of kindling and the branches they were using to climb the slope. It was enough for a small fire suitable for light and some cooking. The storm lasted for a few hours. Sometime during the night, the last of the wood was burnt out. Lying in the darkness, Hoa couldn’t sleep, they had such a long way to travel and they hadn’t caught any food for the tribe. He made his way outside; the storm clouds had given way to a starry sky. Orion the great hunter stared down at him, calling him back to the hunt. Dawn was hours away but Hoa had a new energy, an urge to get underway.\n\nIt didn’t take much to motivate the other hunters as they couldn’t sleep either. Heading off into the darkness Lu asked, “Which way?”\n\n“Up, the Pass is under the Great Hunter,” Hoa replied as he pointed towards the constellation Orion.\n\nThey reached the ridge in time to see the golden rays of the sun break over the crest. The Pass sprawled out below them, rocky slopes gave way to forests, a river and grasslands nestled between two mountain ranges. Finally reaching the flat ground, relieved that the trip down the mountain was easier than the climb up they decided to set up camp near the river not far from a large herd of deer.\n\nAfter a quick refreshing jump into the icy river, Hoa filled up his water carrier ready for a day of hunting. Scanning the hills he looked for any sign the tribe had made it to the pass. At least the next ridge is not as high as the last.\n\nAs the late afternoon shadows crept in, Hoa blessed their catch of the afternoon. Two good-sized deer were being cleaned up and prepared for transport by the other hunters. “This should last until we are set up on the Great Plains.”\n\nHe stood there thinking about the tribe on the plains for Summer. When smells of smoke and roasting meat drifted past him. He took another sniff and it was gone. Must be my stomach imagining dinner.\n\n“What is cooking?” Lu asked.\n\n“Nothing, we haven’t lit the fire yet,” Hoa replied. I didn’t imagine it. His face lit up as he ran out into the clearing. Smoke wafted up through the trees further up the river. “They're here!” He yelled out across the plain.\n\nFinding his reserve energy, he sprinted up the river with two brothers not far behind. As he made his way through the trees his smile was beaming. The tribe was busy setting up shelters and preparing dinner. He quickly scanned the camp, “Lai,” he called out. She looked up; the arm full of firewood she had gathered hit the ground as she ran towards him.\n\nWith the tribe back together after four days, they decided to grab a couple more deer. It would be easier to carry them with more bodies doing the lifting. The tribe spent the following night at the pass before heading off the following morning. After several hours of climbing, they reached the crest. Hoa sighed with relief as mountain shadows opened up to the golden grasslands of the Great Plain. A large wandering river flanked by woodland and savanna filled with wildlife. Orion had safely led the tribe to their homeland for the Winter. And when Orion sinks below the horizon again, they will follow the deer back to the north as their ancestors had done for generations.\n\nThe End" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Shootaround\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1100\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The fire sun overhead warmed the intermittent breeze, which brushed against Jimmy’s cheek in a sultry way that sparked mortal desire, and in turn, his need to be desired.\n There she was, at the free throw line, knees slightly bent, the basketball balanced perfectly in her right palm.\n Her shooting form was…eloquent.\n Better than his, if Jimmy was admitting the truth, now or back in the day, in college. Whispering the truth to yourself can be tough, but revelatory.\n The ball rolled off her fingers, creating the right amount of revolutions that propelled it over the cracked lane of the playground court and through the iron hoop and chain-link net.\n “Yee-haw!” Kay-Kay crowed, drawing the momentary attention of toddlers and their moms at the nearby playground equipment as her long braids trailed behind her head. “Now that, my man, is how you take a free throw.”\n “You know, the one thing I like about you is your modesty,” Jimmy deadpanned.\n She smiled. And not just the kind of, “I’m being friendly” smile.\n There seemed to be more to it. Something that made him consider the possibility that her feelings about him mirrored his own of hers.\n Maybe it was the way her cheeks were raised, causing deep dimples of her chocolate skin to form under them and on either side of her mouth.\n Or the way her deep coffee eyes flashed like the beam of a lighthouse, and somehow accentuated the swirl of her hips.\n It had been awhile for Jimmy.\n There had been women over the years, sure, alluring, enticing creatures with clear skin and riotous hair that had overridden his necessity to put basketball first.\n But never had one replaced basketball.\n None had ever come close to that.\n Except Kay-Kay, and not because she was a basketball coach herself, the head of the girls’ program at Chicago’s tony Barton School, and Jimmy’s boys’ program counterpart.\n She was his voice of reason, his confidante. Had been for years, around since the time they both started in their roles at the Barton School in the late 2010s.\n He stole looks at her. When she bent over to pick up a basketball, for example, though it was never crude; simple admiration. Or when the sun created shadows on her cheeks, like it was right now. Her long fingers, almost like a pianist’s. Her voice.\n “You awake over there?”\n Her voice.\n “Yeah, I’m awake,” Jimmy replied, now wondering if he was blushing. He adjusted his Ray-Bans and tugged at the collar of his Golden State Warriors t-shirt, the deep sweat stains producing a modicum of self-consciousness.\n She wore a gray Property of Barton School t-shirt with red lettering, red shorts that said Barons Coach Staff on the right leg, and white Nikes with a crimson swoosh. Her shapely nails were florid, painted a similar shade of red.\n And at that moment, Jimmy tried to hide the fact that he had never seen anyone more beautiful.\n He had to hide this, because of the implications.\n School—and specifically, the athletic director, Thomas Peck, of whom they both referred to pejoratively as Pecker—wouldn’t consent to a staff romance, even if they were both at the literal top of their games. In March 2021, in the first Illinois state basketball tournament since the onset of the pandemic, Jimmy led his team to the boys Class 4A state semifinals.\n Kay-Kay had one-upped him, taking her team all the way to the girls Class 4A finals, before losing a tough title game in overtime.\n So their combined on-court success was celebrated in the administrative offices and staff rooms of the Barton School, not because it stood on its own, but because it translated to increased enrollment. Which translated to tuition and fees. Which translated to new and better facilities, like a state-of-the-art weight room that had been installed after the 2021 season. \n And the cycle went on.\n Always enrollment. Always the dollars.\n But a staff romance? Strictly forbidden, according to the Barton School employee handbook and Peck’s by-the-book reputation. \n “Shoot from right where you’re standing, white boy,” Kay-Kay said, smiling. “Betcha can’t make it.”\n Jimmy stood at the cusp of the three-point line on the far-left corner.\n The ball bounded toward him on one bounce from Kay-Kay. He caught it and made a show of palming the ball in his right hand toward the basket. The ball created a sort of eclipse of the sun that was traveling downward in the late afternoon on the opposite side of the Logan Square court.\n “I’mma make you cry,” he said to her. She laughed instead.\n Without touching the ball with his left hand, he lifted the ball and let it sail toward the goal.\n Nothing but the bottom of the chain-link net.\n The ball bounced once, twice, before coming to a complete stop right under the backboard.\n He looked at her, she at him.\n They both bolted for the ball and arrived at the same time.\n “Mine!” she screeched as she grabbed the ball with both hands, which again brought the attention of the moms at the playground equipment.\n “Nope, nope, nope,” Jimmy said, getting his hands on the ball, brushing hers, and turning the dispute for the ball into a near tug-of-war.\n Now Jimmy was sure he was blushing.\n He also noted for the first time a tiny tattoo under Kay-Kay’s left ear, of a Christian cross and the numbers 2-24-18.\n “Who do you think you are?” she said, now standing and laughing, but still holding the ball tight to her chest.\n The moment, then, devolved. It slipped under the waves of normalcy, of the normal life that Jimmy had always figured was his lot, involving acquaintances and basketball, but nothing more. Certainly, he would be alone, but he’d have his game, and his reputation, and his forthcoming championships, which would lead to a college gig and ultimately the NBA.\n But maybe not. \n He longed for this woman.\n He longed for this moment, that it might never end, that he could climb into it and cocoon himself.\n She made it worth living.\n “You all right?”\n Her. Beautiful, magnificent her.\n A Nubian queen.\n “I’m fine,” Jimmy said, not letting go of the ball but drawing it closer to himself, and in turn drawing her closer to him.\n Their eyes found each other, and he felt another warm summer breeze kiss her cheek.\n “Okay, it’s yours,” she said, turning away and chuckling as she ran back to the free throw line. “Let’s play horse.”\n The moment had passed, but there would be others.\n He sensed it, and found solace in it." } ]