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[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Writing My Own Story\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1076\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I felt stiff and bound, and not in the way Dorian Gray would describe as pleasurable. I tried to move, but my existence felt flat and concrete. After a few moments of trying to move, an ephemeral feeling passed through me that I was simply just a book. What an odd thought.\n\nSeveral moments passed before a god-like figure appeared before me.\n\n“Hello Annabelle,” it said in that deep, omnipotent voice often mistaken for Morgan Freeman.\n\n“What is going…” I tried to speak, but felt as though my words were only penmanship on a piece of paper. \n\n“In your past life, you wouldn’t listen to me. You wouldn’t read the bible, much less listen to your teachers, thus I have sentenced you to life as a book before I can check you into heaven,” the figure said. “You have to teach people with your words instead of your actions.”\n\nWell, shit. This is what I get for dying with outstanding library fines on my tab?\n\n“Your first assignment will not be your last, but the more you can cast your words to help others, the closer you will come to heaven,” He said as he dissolved into the bright light above me. I felt like I was in an airplane because I could see the clouds out the window to my left, floating through the heaven I was trying to trespass into.\n\nI didn’t have to feel it, because it was true. The passenger in front of me was a young woman that was too busy to read because she was zonked out on Xanax. Evident from me being in the pocket of the seatback in front of her, she had procured multiple avenues of distractions to ease her flight anxiety.\n\nI too decided to take a nap while I wondered what God had written on my pages. When I awoke, the girl was gone, and the plane was empty. Like all the men in my previous human life, I had been abandoned.\n\nAs the clouds grew into city lights and the window pane only shone black, I dozed off again. When I awoke, a smaller, mousey girl sat in front of me. Giddy about the plane taking off, she exclaimed to her partner that there was a book in the seatback pocket that someone must have left. I rolled my nonexistent eyes at her naivety. \n\nYeah, great. I get to be your leftovers. If I could sigh with despair, I would, but instead when she picked me up I felt my hardback bound spine reverberate her emotions. She was scared but putting on a brave face. She was pregnant, but her boyfriend didn’t know. She was glowing. She was happy. She was frightened, but she was opportunistic. How I felt about these things, I didn’t know, but suddenly I was out of my body (err, pages?) and I was back in a living room with my boyfriend’s father, telling him I was pregnant on prom night. In the past, that memory had made me shudder with horror of his impending scorn, but now I wanted so badly for this girl on the plane to feel no fear in her pregnancy.\n\nI traveled back from the memory that felt so real to the airplane. The girl had tears in her eyes. Apparently my memories of my life appeared on the pages for humans to read. She looked at her boyfriend and said, “I’ve been terrified to tell you because we aren’t married and your mother is Catholic, but I’m pregnant.”\n\nA look of pure adoration and celebration shone through the boyfriend’s eyes. “I can't wait to have a little version of us, and don’t mind my mother – I’ll deal with her this weekend during our visit.”\n\nColor restored in the girl’s face and I saw clouds that were gray from worry fly away from her aura.\n\nIs this what god meant? Was I somehow writing about traumas from my past to help heal others from their current despair?\n\nThis theory was answered when the airplane girl accidentally ditched me with her pregnancy brain in a bathroom in Boston. I had ditched a guy in a bathroom in Vegas once, but wondered why God made this happen here, now, and on St. Patrick’s day, of all days. \n\nA new girl waddled in, clearly inebriated, and grabbed both sides of the stall to puke with reckless abandon into the toilet. Grateful that I didn’t have a sense of smell, I knew the girl had taken one too many Irish car bomb shots. \n\n“Fuck my life,” she said as she spun around and sat on the toilet seat. I think she even broke it, but I wasn’t one to judge as in my human life I had broken many toilets while drunk. \n\nShe was beautiful. So fresh and anew with hope, I saw a weird golden glow above her head. Was this one of God’s angels that had gotten off course? Wondering if divine intervention was here to remind me that it wasn’t just my empathy that was to be discovered in my reincarnation, I thought about my powers. \n\nThankfully, the girl placed her hand on my cover and I was able to ascertain her inner desires much like Lucifer can on that stupid TV show I used to watch. \"What are your desires?\" he would ask and then the person spoke the truth even if they normally lied or hid their deepest desire.\n\nWith her touch I was immediately transported to a memory of hers where she was taking care of her little brother and trying to get him to school, applying to university, and juggling her own addictions. \n\nHoping it would help, I rewrote the pages of my history that I had previously evangelized into the truth of raising a young sibling while battling alcoholism. She happened to open to the pages I wrote in my head (err, spine, body, mind?) and started to cry. She called her dad and said she needed help raising her brother. \n\nWhile these were minute, simple moments in life, I realized how many times I didn’t listen to the stories of God, the Church and my public school teachers that were trying to teach me the ways. Having that experience, God knew my story was one to be written, but that I couldn’t find peace until I accepted my words as my own truth. I was my own unconventional teacher." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: HEAVENLY LOVE\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2950\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "HEAVENLY LOVE\nMiss. Jo was her name. She came to us at the start o’ spring term, 1946 when I was 14 years of age. From the very first time I set eyes on her, I felt something. It’s hard to describe, even now, all these years later,\nbut it was as if she could, somehow, see right inside one’s very soul. She weren’t pretty. No sir. But she weren’t ugly neither. She were sort of plain looking, if’n you get what I mean. But she had hair the colour o’ corn, long and shiny. So shiny ’t’were like looking at the sun. And she were tall and strong , too. Though she had a real stern expression on her face most o’ the time, when she spoke, ’t’were like her voice were made o’ honey, so sweet and gentle did it sound.\nThe first thing we all found real strange was her knowing all of our names; all 25 of us. We figured that ol’ Danvers, our last teacher, might have left her a list o’ names but how in hell did she know who was who? When we had our break for lunch, that first day, not that me nor Carole, my sister, ever had any lunch to speak of, all we could talk about were our new teacher. All over that grass playground, kids were huddling and if’n you listened into any o’ those conversations, you’d be sure to hear someone talking excitedly ‘bout Miss. Jo.\nMy sister were a year younger than me but, on account o’ there being only one middle school in Poplarville, Pearl County, back then, we both got taught the same things, like it or not. Course, you’d think that that would make me smarter than her, being older like, but our Carole was sharp as a tack and way cleverer than me. While she paid attention and learnt stuff, my mind was off wandering, thinking ‘bout getting outa that place and down to the creek so’s I could catch us a catfish or two for supper. Even out o’ school, she were always reading one book or another.\nWe was always hungry. If there’s one abiding memory o’ them times, it’s that gnawing feeling in the pit o’ my stomach that came from never having enough food. Momma did her best but she weren’t too good at sums and, though she worked hard at the drugstore and brought home her pay every Friday, come Tuesday, we, somehow, ended up broke again and I’d be called on to get out my fishing rod and catch us some supper. I didn’t mind none. I loved fishing and, even today, catfish is my favourite food but it woulda been kind o’ nice to have something to eat during the day. Sometimes, Carole would come with me and, while I cast a line, she would stick her nose in her Britannica. Boy, that girl sure loved her books.\nFriday was our favourite night o’ the week. Momma would come home with a grocery bag full o’ goodies and we would eat ’til we couldn’t hold no more. Looking back, it woulda made more sense to eat sensible on a Friday and save something for later in the week but Momma would encourage us to get stuck in and we was just too young and selfish not to. I think it were on account o’ Momma feeling guilty ‘bout our going without so often that she liked to treat us once a week.\nOur Daddy was away in another country, fighting a war that we didn’t know too much about. Every now and then, we’d hear something from another kid at school but we didn’t have no radio and I never saw, let alone read, a newspaper ’til I were 17 years old. Now and then, Momma would say that so and so had had a telegram and it would make her cry and need to lie down. I never did know what that meant exactly but Carole told me that, as long as Momma never got a telegram, it meant Daddy would be coming home.\nIt got so’s we just kind o’ forgot that he even existed, leastways I did, ’cept for, now and then, when Momma would make mention of how he never answered any of her letters. Carole helped her write those as Momma’s letters was bad as her sums, yet, that man did not write back a single time. That has to be a record o’ some sorts, I reckon. But it sure in hell summed up what he thought of us back in Poplarville. Later, I got sent to Korea when I was 19 years old but, though writing were never a strongpoint o’ mine, I had promised Carole that I would write every week and I made damn sure to keep my word.\nAnyhow, I was talking ‘bout Miss. Jo and the day she arrived at our school. It weren’t even a school as such -more like a schoolroom, there being just the one big room. Like I were saying, all we could do on that lunch break were talk ‘bout her. Everybody had the same kind o’ feeling though none could actually put it into words -‘cept our Carole. She whispered to me that she thought Miss. Jo were kind o’ saintly.\nMomma insisted that we attend church together, as a family, every Sunday and, though I never paid much attention, I picked up enough to know that my sister’s description of our new teacher was inch-perfect. When we returned to class, our suspicions were readily confirmed for Miss. Jo came among us as we sat at our desks and took blueberry muffins from her basket and placed one in front of each of us.\n“Eat, children. I baked these especially for you all”.\nWe didn’t need to be told twice, I’ll tell you that and, boy, that there muffin were the sweetest thing I had ever tasted in my entire life. I fair gulped it down. The strange thing were that, as well as taking away my hunger pangs and leaving me fully satisfied, for the first time in my days of schooling, I actually found myself eager to be taught-and teach us, Miss. Jo did. Somehow, every word she spoke stayed inside o’ my sieve -like head, that day. On the way home, Carole and I laughed and joked about being taught by a saint.\n“Petey, that weren’t no blueberry muffin. That were manna from Heaven!” We laughed so hard that our sides ached.\nI didn’t feel the need to fish that night, I’ll tell you that much.\nThe days continued in this vein and I actually found myself looking forward to school. Every afternoon, Miss. o would produce some little item of food for all of us. I said to Carole:\n“She must sure be fond o’ baking but I ain’t complaining none”.\n“Don’t you see what’s she doing, Petey? We are the only two kids who can’t afford to bring a lunch. She’s\nlooking out for us. But, so’s it don’t look like charity, she gives food to everybody”.\nLike I said, Carole were sharp as a tack and, though I hadn’t thought to look at things that way, I had to admit\nthat she was spot on, yet again.\nCame the day that my best friend, Davey Havitch, didn’t come to school. We figured that, maybe, he had a cold or something but, when he didn’t come back to school at all, even after two weeks, Momma told us that Davey had, in fact, caught polio. We’d heard tell o’ this terrible disease and how you could end up in an iron lung. I had no idea what that was but it sounded something fearful. Momma told me that I had to stay\naway from the Havitch house, else I could catch polio myself and, though I missed Davey real bad, I can promise you, that I surely did as I were told, such was my terror. At night, all sorts o’ bad dreams came\nmy way, thinking ‘bout what that iron lung were like. Carole read ‘bout it in a book and showed me a picture but that there image only served to scare the bejeezus out o’ me even more and wild horses could not have dragged me within a mile o’ the Havitch place. No sir!\nYou can imagine our surprise then, when, on the third week since he’d last attended, Davey came walking through the door of our classroom, one morning, bright as a button. As I clapped eyes on him, I fair peed my pants and was ready to run for my life ‘cept he, himself, was blocking my way. Right behind him were Miss. Jo.\n“Children, you will all be pleased to see Davey back among us. I can assure you that he is perfectly healed and there is nothing to fear”.\nIf’n she said it, it had to be true but, just the same, I kept my distance until lunch break.\n“Davey, what in hell happened? We all thought you were sure to end up in one o’ them iron lung thingies”.\n“So was I, Petey. I was real scared. I couldn’t move my legs. Then, when Miss. Jo came to visit, I just started to get better. It’s a miracle, my momma says”.\nCarole gave me a sideways look as if to say, I told you so.\n“You mean she came to your house? We was all told to stay away”.\n“I know. Momma weren’t gonna let her in at first, case she caught it. But I’m sure glad she did”.\n“What did she actually do?’ Carole asked.\n“Do? She didn’t do nothing. Just sat with me and sang. Real gentle like. It made me sleepy and, when I woke up, my parwliesus had gone”.\n“Paralysis, dummy” said Carole.\nAs if proof were needed, this was it for us. Carole and I were convinced that a Saint walked amongst us.\nAs the term drew to a close, Miss. Jo told us, one morning, that she would be leaving us and we would have a new teacher next term. The news was devastating for everybody. Funnily enough, not so much for me. I was due to leave and go to higher school and I had been frantically trying to figure out ways to stay-just so I could be near Miss. Jo. Knowing that she wouldn’t, in fact, be here, made my own leaving just that little bit easier but, nevertheless, I felt that a great void would be left in my life.\nA day or so afterwards, on the last day of term, our Daddy came home. No warning-just arrived, kit bag on shoulder and drunk as a skunk.\nTurned out that he had been de-mobbed in Biloxi and had stayed ‘round there for three weeks but, even then, he hadn’t written a damn word. You’d think, after being away for best part o’ three years, a man would be pleased to see his children but he paid us no attention whatsoever; not even a howdy doo.\nHe sure were pleased to see Momma though and dragged her off to the bedroom real quick and all sorts o’ strange noises came from that room.\nWhen I returned from the creek, later that night, with an extra catfish for him -not on account of I thought he deserved it but because I didn’t want him taking none o’ mine - he was gone. Momma were real upset and she had bruises all over her arms. Carole put her to bed and told me afterwards that she had more such on the rest o’ her body and bite marks, too. I felt the bile rise in my throat and my heart started pounding something awful. I was a peaceable kind o’ fella but I wanted to hurt the man that had done this to our Momma. Carole calmed me down by saying that, maybe, just maybe, he’d never come back but, later, when I looked in on Momma, I saw his kit bag lying on the floor and I knew that he’d be back.\nI couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout that man. Father or not. he was evil and, next day, at school, it were as if Miss. Jo knew exactly what were going through my mind. She paid extra attention to me and even pulled me aside when school was over.\n“Petey, don’t worry, things will only get better. You’ll see”.\nIn truth, she did ease my mind some but, when I got home to find that he’d been back and Momma had fresh bruises, I figured Miss. Jo was wrong this time. I wanted to kill that man who had so violently re-entered our lives but I just grabbed my rod and ran out o’ that house and just kept running to the creek and, all the time I fished, the tears poured from my eyes.\nIt were when I returned, hours later, to find him home and packing up his stuff, saying that he were leaving and never coming back and Momma pleading with him not to go, that things really came to a head. He struck out at Momma and Carole jumped on his back, causing him to drop his kit bag. He turned and grabbed my little sister and hurled her across the room where she struck her head and lay unconscious. I threw myself at him and started punching but, being just a scrawny boy, I had no effect whatsoever on\nthis hillbilly who’d been well fed by the government for three years.\nHe were big, thick and strong and caught me a stinging blow that knocked me flat on my back. It were then that I saw the hand gun sticking out o’ his kit bag. He saw it, too, but I grabbed it afore him.. I had never fired a real gun though Davey had an air rifle that, from time to time, he would loan me and I knew that you just had to aim and pull the trigger.\nI guess he knew it, too, for he showed real fear, like the coward he was, to see that there gun pointing directly at him.\nI wanted to squeeze that trigger so much, such was my hatred for that man. I wanted him gone and out of our lives forever.\nIt were then that I felt a sensation on my shoulder. That were the only way I could describe it. A warm sensation that made me stop and turn around and there were Miss. Jo, calm and serene, reaching out for the gun. In an instant, all my rage and anger just melted away as I handed the gun over to my teacher.\n“Good boy. Tend to your sister. Good boy”.\nI looked over at Carole and saw that she had regained consciousness and was staring wide-eyed at the figure of Miss. Jo. I went across and helped her to her feet and we both watched, astonished, as Miss. Jo told our Daddy to leave and never to come back or she would see that he went to jail for a long time. Though she spoke in that same calm way o’ hers, her tone was severe and Daddy knew she was not to be trifled with. He was outa there like a shot. Miss. Jo then sat Momma down and explained, gently and soothingly, that Daddy was a bad man and that she would be better off without him and the strange thing is that Momma actually listened and agreed.\nWe all tidied up some and, then, Momma cooked those catfish and Miss. Jo said she’d never eaten such a delicious meal and we all felt like a giant weight had been lifted from our shoulders, Momma, too, and we played games, told stories and laughed and were one happy family.\nIt were when Miss. Jo were leaving and she told us that we would be alright; our future lives would be happy ones and we would always be in her thoughts, that I realised we would never again see this wonderful teacher. I walked her to the door and I longed to hug her close but daren’t.\n“Miss. Jo, do you... have to go?”\n“I’m afraid so. I have work to do elsewhere”.\n“Miss, are...are... you a...saint?”\nShe smiled, her hair golden and shiny in the moonlight.\n“No, Petey, I’m not a saint but Carole was almost right. My full name is Jophiel. You can look it up, one day”.\nShe bent and gave me a wonderful hug that sent warm currents coursing through me as I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them again, she was gone. I ran to the window, where Carole, was looking out\nbut there were no sign o’ her. She had simply vanished. Carole turned to me.\n“One second she was there, Petey, the next she just disappeared. What did she say to you?”\n“I asked her if she was a saint, like you said, but she said no. She knew though that you had said it. Isn’t that strange”.\n“What else did she say, Petey”.\n“She said her name was really Jophiel...and that I should look it up”.\nCarole gasped. She ran to her room and returned with her Britannica, turned to a page and pointed. I stared, dumbstruck at the picture o’ the white robed figure with large, white wings and long, golden, shiny hair, the colour o’ corn.\n“Jophiel, Petey. Jophiel is an Archangel!. I knew she was from Heaven!” Like I said: my sister was sharp as a tack." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Burt Brain\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 2377\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is given a bird for the holidays but doesn’t know how to take care of it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There’s no sound on earth quite like a bird flying into a sliding glass door. Unlike the white noise of mass extinctions and vanishing rainforests, the singular thud of delicate avian bones against shatter-resistant Duraplex glass is impossible to ignore.\nIt's the sound of the natural and man-made worlds colliding, like the off-key fervor of a bronze temple gong struck by a fresh-faced initiate.\nBurt Frumbder was savoring the second sip of his first cup of coffee when this one-of-a-kind sound made him jump, spilling this same cup of coffee. He swore and shuffled to the kitchen sink, attempting to pat his grey sweatpants dry with a dirty dishcloth.\nAfter a few unsuccessful attempts to eradicate the stain, Burt noticed with a satisfied pursing of his lips, that the warmth of the spilled coffee almost felt good on his thighs. He shrugged and walked to the living room to investigate what exactly had caused the sudden noise.\nHad a bird flown into the sliding glass door a few days earlier, Burt might have spilled coffee on his laptop or phone as he skimmed through manuscripts and client emails at the kitchen table. But Burt had sent off his last round of edits on Monday and he wasn’t planning to log on for any new assignments or updates until this next week, at the earliest. It was Christmas, after all. He'd even left his phone charging on the bedside table to celebrate the sanctity of the season.\nBurt mentally congratulated himself on his \"work-life balance.\"\nAs far as Burt was concerned, the best week of the year was the four days from December 26th to Dec 30th. It was a dead time of year for work, which meant he could gorge on all the holiday sweets he wanted, binge Netflix for hours, and wear sweatpants all-day without any judgment from the people in his life who had \"real jobs.\" Because they'd all be doing the exact same thing.\nHis (admittedly small) list of clients — mainly vanished in the weeks leading up to and after the holidays only to return like a Mongol horde of motivated go-getters in late January.\nHis inbox would soon be brimming with requests for notes and revisions from hopeful first and second-time novelists looking for miracles instead of copy edits. But he had a few more days until the flood of would-be Hemingways set out to subdue their New Year’s Resolution word counts with painful prose.\nAs he walked into the living room, he could feel his carefree week slipping away.\nBurt glanced at the sliding glass door for signs of damage, not expecting to find any, and was surprised to see a single feather stuck to the glass. It was dusty grey, almost white, and about the size of a pinky fingernail. It fluttered lightly in the morning breeze, somehow cemented on the glass about six inches below eye level. Burt looked down to see the owner of the feather. He shook his head.\nThe fist-sized bird was limp, his twig legs wilted like damp curly fries as he lay next to the faded “e” at the end of the rust-colored “Welcome” mat.\nMost people don’t have welcome mats in their backyard. But most people don't live in “the country” as Burt’s older brother, Chris and his wife Charlene call it. Burt was especially thankful for the doormats at every entrance when his rambunctious nieces and nephew came to visit each summer.\nBurt looked forward to those extended visits; chaotic five or six intervals in July that let him wonder if he’d have been a good dad without having to actually answer the question. Over the years, Burt had trained each youngster to wipe their feet before darting through the sliding glass door in search of a Capri Sun or juice popsicle — usually dripping wet from the pool or caked in mud from the hill at the edge of his property.\nChris and Charlene hadn’t visited since Linda left.\nA flutter of motion at his feet caught Burt’s eye.\nBurt flicked up the lock and slid the door open with that familiar sci-fi movie sound effect — whoosh. The morning chill blew Burt's thinning shaggy brown hair back off his forehead. The bird, a common sparrow or finch, Burt could never tell the difference, was dazed, but obviously still alive. His wings fluttered as the groggy tried to process his current situation.\n(Despite Burt's ornithological shortcomings, he had come to the conclusion that the bird was male, mostly so he could stop referring to it as “it” in his head).\nHaving made this first decision regarding the bird, Burt sprang into action.\nHe dashed back into the kitchen to grab the coffee-stained hand towel. When he returned, the bird had managed to flutter itself all the way over to the \"W,\" but didn't look ready to leave the doormat any time soon. Even this meager pilgrimage had left it exhausted.\nHis cotton ball chest puffed and deflated in spastic panic. Yet the bird was unable to muster the energy to evade what he must have assumed was his imminent death at Burt’s descending hands.\nBurt smothered the bird with the kitchen towel, gently working the delicate bundle around in his hands until he felt the featherweight body settle upright in his palm. One toothpick sharp foot kicked feebly as the bird struggled to readjust itself in his swaddled prison. Burt peeled the fabric back to check on his panicked passenger.\nThe bird was still hyperventilating in a noble attempt to cram in as many last breaths as possible. Millions of years of evolution informed every cell in his tiny bird body that each harried breath would probably be his last. Aside from this existential dread, the bird looked surprisingly unharmed.\n“There, there now, birdie,” Burt cooed. “You’ll be alright. We’ll fix you right up,” he promised and covered his patient back up.\n\"You just need a little jolt to start the day,\" he announced his diagnosis. The bird was in no position to ask for a second opinion as Burt walked into the kitchen to administer avian first aid.\nThis, of course, was not Burt’s first encounter with an injured bird.\n**\nBurt's grandmother, Flo, had raised chickens. As kids, Burt and his brother had loved to feed and chase her birds across the yard. Despite the apparent risk that two unruly young boys presented to an animal a tenth their size, chickens are surprisingly capable creatures. They evaded the grasping hands of the Frumbder boys with practiced ease, until one afternoon when Chris caught a chicken daydreaming.\nBurt burst into his grandmother's kitchen with tears plowing crooked rows through the dust and dirt on his young cheeks. He didn't even need to ask for help. He just pointed outside and his grandmother rushed out with the confidence of a woman who had lost a husband in her 20's and then spent every day since then working a 40-acre farm by herself.\nShe assessed the emergency with a measured glance and disappeared back inside. She emerged seconds later with an old army surplus wool blanket and corralled the injured chicken like a toreador before bringing her captive inside. Burt still remembers the bundle of white tail feathers poking out of the blanket like frozen fireworks.\nHis grandmother marched into the kitchen, turned on the big kitchen sink faucet, and dunked the bird (upside down) under the freezing tap water for a few seconds. Once the bird had a chance to shake itself dry, grandma fed it a spoonful of American corn whiskey and set it on the back porch.\nThe only lasting consequence of the incident was a slightly less dreamy chicken.\n**\nBurt looked down at the bundle clutched in the kitchen towel. He'd already completed step one of the prescribed regimen. But he was understandably nervous about step two.\nGiving a bird a bath is harder than you think, especially when that bird is the size of a golf ball and you’re clutching it in a coffee-soaked kitchen towel so it doesn't fly around your house. But his grandma had been pretty clear on the necessity of shocking a bird back to health with cold water after a traumatic event.\n\"Birds, like a few young boys I know, need a good shock to the system when they're acting a fool,\" she'd said as she dunked the chicken under the tap. He remembered the wink she'd given him and the hint of a smile in one corner of her mouth that had dried his tears and made everything alright.\nBurt turned on the faucet and loosened his grip on his patient. He checked the temperature with one hand. Ice cold. He unwrapped the bird, clutching it like an arcade claw machine, and dunked him beneath the trickle of tap water. After what can only be described as five seconds of waterboarding, Burt concluded that his patient had been sufficiently shocked and was now safely on the mend.\nHe swaddled him back in the kitchen towel and gently patted him as dry. The bird shook his head to rid himself of a string of water drops. He was ready for the third and final step in the healing process.\nBurt opened the cabinet above the stove and stood on his tiptoes to see inside. “I’ve got just the thing to get a little pep in your step,” Burt whispered to the damp bird.\n“Theeeeeeeere it is,” he crooned and grabbed a bottle near the back. “You're in luck, bird-o, my friend. Straight Kentucky Bourbon,\" Burt read from the label. \"Aged three years. Huh. Good stuff. This will get you back in the game in no time.\"\nBurt wedged the whiskey bottle between his thighs and twisted the sticky cap loose with his free hand. The only problem now was calculating the proper dosage for his tiny patient. A sparrow (or finch, he conceded mentally) is a lot smaller than a chicken, after all.\nBurt opened the silverware drawer, searching for the smallest teaspoon he owned. He found it — a tarnished scalloped-shaped sugar spoon he’d inherited from that same grandmother. He took it as a sign and laid it on the counter.\nBurt poured a dram of whiskey for the bird and took a quick swig of medicine for himself. Bird doctoring was hard work this early in the morning. He put the bottle down with a clang and tipped his patient toward this last life-saving treatment, clutching the towel-wrapped bundle with both hands.\nBurt lowered his face down to watch. Would the bird drink any whiskey? Would it help if he did? How much whiskey did it take to get a finch (or a sparrow) drunk?\"\nThe puffy feathered head of the bird lowered to the brown liquid in the spoon. The toy beak opened and he flicked a few sips into his mouth with a twitch of his head. Then he drank a few more sips.\n“You’re doing it!” Burt whispered. The bird was in fact, \"doing it\" quite well. Burt had to pull the bird away from his medicine after a few more seconds before he overdosed. Burt lifted the bird up to eye level for a final inspection.\n\"Looks like it's working.\"\nThe bird rotated its head, in what Burt could only interpret as a genial drunk's easy agreement.\nBurt was tempted to give the bird another quick dip in the sink to sober him up but settled on a regimen of pacing the length of the kitchen with the bird clutched against his chest. He interrupted his vigil once to self-medicate with a few sips for himself.\nHe'd done it. He'd saved this bird from certain death. He was a hero. Burt had never felt prouder.\nHe rocked the bird gently, lulling it with his whispered plans for the new year.\n\"Maybe I'll finally write a book this year instead of just helping other people write one,\" he announced to the bird. \"I'll start in March, after the New Year's rush.\"\nHe'd block out time in the mornings. He'd set an alarm and get out of bed a little early. He could knock out a few pages before he checked his emails every day. Nothing was going to get in the way of his book, not even that new client on the East Coast he'd just started working with.\n“This is my year, Mr. Bird,” Burt repeated as he paced. He could do anything. His success with his patient was proof of that.\nBurt felt a flutter in his hand. The bird was struggling, trying to flap against a grip that had gradually tightened as he paced.\n“Sorry,” Burt whispered. \"Let's get you back out there.\"\nThe bird chirped impatient agreement.\nBurt walked back to the living room and opened the sliding glass door. The little grey feather was still stuck to the glass. He lowered his patient to the ground, unwrapping the towel like a picnic basket.\nThe bird rolled to the side, righting himself with a quick burst of wing beats. He cocked his head and puffed his feathers against the sudden drop in temperature. The morning air was still brisk, even though the sun was starting to burn through the thin wispy clouds. It was going to be a crisp, clear day.\nBurt crouched on his heels, his arms wrapped around his knees. He watched the bird test his strength with a few exploratory wingbeats. Then, just as suddenly as he appeared, the bird leaped away in a blur of motion. Burt watched as the bird plummeted through two death-defying dips in his flight pattern, like a long lowercase m, and then the bird was gone, vanished around the side of the house.\nBurt picked up the dirty kitchen towel and gave it a shake. He closed the sliding glass door with a whoosh and walked back to the kitchen rubbing his arms to ward off the chill.\nHis coffee had gotten cold, and the kitchen counter smelled like whiskey. He wiped the counter with the towel and popped the coffee mug in the microwave. Burt stared out the kitchen window looking for sparrows. Or maybe finches.\nHe could never tell the difference." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Report on the Activities of the Chapman Family, December 2023\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1615\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/2:\n\nJOSH: Kept his cool on a work call when a coworker tried to goad him into a political argument. Nice.\n\nMADDIE: You know that ‘One Margarita’ song from TikTok, boss? In an attempt to be ‘the cool mom’, she sang it in front of Mackenzie’s friends. …There was a dance, too. From what I hear, their parents are no longer letting them come over. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Broke up a fight between Alex and Rachel. Nice.\nALEX: backtalked at Maddie for asking him to put away folded laundry while he was scrolling TikTok. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Told Maddie that dinner was ‘gross’ and ‘Kaylyn’s mom makes this better’. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Decided to give herself a makeover. Resulting haircut required professional intervention. Also crushed two of Mackenzie’s lipsticks into the bathroom carpet, left large gouges in Maddie’s Dior eyeshadow palette, and covered the bathroom and herself in black hair dye. You know what, boss, I’m gonna let you make the call on this one. I didn’t see the crime scene firsthand as I was stationed in the kitchen that day, but I certainly heard the uproar it caused. I’m not authorized to rule on whether this is a ‘seven year olds will do that’ situation or a ‘she’s old enough to know better’ kind of thing.\n\n\nSir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/9:\n\nJOSH: Disinvited his mother and stepdad to visit for Christmas. Okay, boss hear me out on this one—I was stationed on top of the TV and saw the FaceTime where it all went down. The woman was insisting that Mackenzie ‘dress like a lady’ while she was here, said she showed too much skin for a girl of her age and all that makeup made her look like a ‘streetwalker’. And that was just the start—she kept going, criticizing pretty much everything her own granddaughter did and being pretty cruel about it. I’ve never seen the vein in Josh’s forehead stand out that much. He told that woman that if they, as parents, didn’t have a problem with Mackenzie’s fashion choices, then she had no right to say anything. The he told her to cancel her plane ticket and hung up. It was epic. Feel free to overrule me, but I’m giving him a big, fat NICE.\n\nMADDIE: Noticed Mrs. Figueroa across the street sprawled out at the bottom of her front steps. Took her to the emergency room. Sounds like the poor lady broke her foot. Since then, Maddie’s been over there three times a day, sometimes for up to an hour, usually carrying a meal with her. Nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Volunteered last-minute to babysit the Jeongs’ three-year-old when Mrs. Jeong went into labor prematurely. Handled dinner and bedtime solo before Mr. Jeong’s sister arrived to relieve her. Refused pay. Nice.\n\nALEX: Ate the entire bag of Mackenzie’s allergy-friendly cookies, and showed no remorse when there was nothing left in the house she could have as a snack. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Did lots of research on her social studies project and wrote it all herself, without asking Maddie, Josh, or Mackenzie to do any of it for her. Nice.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Threw a tantrum because the Christmas dress Maddie got her didn’t have gold sequins all over it like Rachel’s. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/16:\n\nJOSH: Came home with a puppy and didn’t ask Maddie first. Plus…well, see Mackenzie’s entry below. Naughty.\n\nMADDIE: Wrote Rachel’s teacher an absolutely unhinged email, in which she used no less that twelve words she would normally punish her children for saying (believe me, I was reading over her shoulder—Maddie was low on inspiration that morning and literally stationed me on a shelf). Demanded a change of grade on the social studies project despite clear evidence Rachel hadn’t followed the rubric the teacher laid out. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Unleashed a fifteen-minute rant at both her parents about how the younger kids are constantly taking her stuff and Josh and Maddie never do anything about it. Reacted, um, pretty poorly when Josh subsequently grounded her. Stormed out of the house and didn’t answer calls or texts for several hours. I mean, yeah, naughty, but the kid has a point.\n\nALEX: Offered to play video games with Rachel when she came home from school crying about a low score on her social studies project. Let her win. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Played on her phone instead of socializing when Maddie’s sister and her family came over for dinner. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Snuck into Mackenzie’s room and stole her expensive art markers (you know the ones, boss, they were last year’s big ticket Christmas gift). She completely used up the sky blue, broke the tip on the skin-tone shade, and left the caps off several others. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/23:\n\nJOSH: Bought his mother a book on etiquette for Christmas. Wrapped it in a box with a charcoal briquette. Nicccceee.\n\nMADDIE: Trips to Mrs. Figueroa’s house have continued throughout December, and in fact, have increased in frequency. Yesterday I even saw her wrapping a bunch of presents, then taking them over there. Last week, she went over there with a bucket of cleaning supplies and didn’t come back for hours. A few days ago, she strongarmed Josh into coming with her one evening, and within a few hours, the tree was up and decorated in Mrs. Figueroa’s window, and the eaves were strung with lights. Josh was grumbling as they came back, and she shut him up by saying, “The whole time we were in the ER, poor Luz was sobbing because her kids are coming into town for Christmas and there was no way she could get everything ready with a broken foot. I promised her I would make sure Christmas still happened.” Just really nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Took Josh’s car keys, snuck out of the house. Nice. Yeah boss, I’m saying ‘nice’. Yeah, boss, I know sneaking out is an automatic lump coal, but you gotta hear the mitigating factors. See, I was stationed hanging from the light fixture in the second floor hallway, it’s probably 10:30 PM, everyone’s all settled in for their long winter’s nap, and I hear a phone ringing in one of the bedrooms. Turns out it was Mackenzie’s. I could only hear so much of the conversation through the door, but it went like this: “Hey Grace, what’s… Holy… Are you okay? …Nuh-uh, doesn’t matter if he’s your boyfriend, that is NOT okay, it’s not okay for ANYBODY to… Well, I’m glad you got out of there. Are you someplace safe? Where are you? …Okay, good call, there’s lots of people around, even at this time of—me? I mean, I feel like you should probably call your parents to… Okay, okay, just get yourself a coffee and go browse the makeup section for a while. I’ll be there in ten minutes, I promise.” At this point, she opened her door very quietly and stepped lightly down the hallway, whispering as she went: “yeah, I’ll stay on the phone the whole way, promise. You’re gonna tell your parents, right? …Well, he DESERVES to get in trouble…”\n\nShe was back before midnight. Feel free to overrule me on this one, boss, but I’m saying nice.\n\nALEX: Charlotte came home from school crying because some kid at school had told her you weren’t real. Alex was the only one home at the time. You know what that kid told her? “Santa is 100%, absolutely real, Charlie. I know because…I’m him. And Dad is him too, and Mom. See, Santa isn’t actually just one guy--it’s a secret club. To join the Secret Society of Santas, you have to solemnly swear to spread joy and kindness all year long, and then you get officially named a Santa Claus. Usually you’ve gotta be bigger to join, but since you know the truth now…wanna join up?”\n\nI know it’s a load of hogwash, boss, but it’s not like I could correct him, and you should’ve seen the smile on that little girl’s face when she solemnly swore to keep Christmas in her heart all the year. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Turns out, she’s been secretly packing herself a second lunch since about October. Maddie finally noticed and confronted her about it. According to Rachel, there’s a kid in her class who only ever has a single granola bar for lunch, and Rachel’s been secretly making sure she has extra to share. Rachel said the kid’s name, and from Maddie’s expression, I’d say she knows the family and has some idea why the kid never has a real lunch. Once school kicks off again in January, Maddie is 100% onboard with Operation Feed Carly. Very nice, both of them.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Went shopping with Maddie. Saw the toy donation box and asked what it was for. When they got home, Charlotte went upstairs and came down with her arms full of literally all her toys. Maddie tried to talk her out of it, but the kid spent the next three days insisting that it was ‘her job as a Santa’. As a compromise, they went out and bought some (brand new, in-the-box) toys together that they donated to the toy drive. Really, really nice.\n\nSo there you have it, boss. Nice all around, checked it twice and everything. I’ll head back to HQ as soon as the family packs up the Christmas decorations—I estimate sometime around January 6 or so. And…sir? Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind getting this assignment again next December." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mother of our Lord, Eternal God\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2305\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The humble Virgin is important to our salvation, although many events happen in her life that are being passed or unnoticed in the Sacred Scripture. For example, Mother Mary seems to be the foreground in the bible, (The Annunciation, the birth of our Lord, the Wedding Feast at Cana). There are many elements/events that are briefly mentioned or not specifically addressed in the Bible, yet she is still worthy of our devotion because of the instances that are not specifically viewed in the bible like these ones. The Eternal Son, Father Christ freely puts an authority to Mother Mary as His Mother on earth. Mother Mary prayed with our Lord, Father Christ, ate with Him, fed Him, clothed Him, Carried Him in her womb and in her arms, daily looked at Him and cared for His needs. She is closer to Father Christ even the disciples or apostles. Father Christ completely trusted himself to the sinless young girl who is Mother Mary. She was there from the beginning to end. Mother Mary endured her suffering from the beginning, first by the rejection of Saint Joseph to a possibility of death through stoning because of her pregnancy. The Eternal Holy Spirit overshadowed her. St. Joseph was awakened by the angel and told him that the Eternal Holy Spirit will over shadow Mother Mary. With advanced in pregnancy, she was taken away and gave birth to a manger. After the birth of Father Christ, the Holy family fled to protect the child’s life. When Father Christ was just forty days old, Simeon told Mother Mary of the sword of sorrow that would pierce her heart. Since the prophecy was directed at her alone, it may also have implied Mother Mary's future widowhood. When Father Christ was just a youth, His Mother searched for him in sorrow. During his public ministry, she may seem to have been rejected by Father Christ. And, at the end, Mother Mary was present for hours during her Son's torturous and bloody death. On the last day of Father Christ' life, Mother Mary silently watched her son be tortured, humiliated, blasphemed, murdered, and buried. In her humble obedience, she did not even cry out because I think she believed in what Father Christ said, that He will return within three days. (Remember what Father Christ said to Peter who tried to stop Father Christ from suffering: \"Get behind me, Satan! You are an obstacle to me. You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.\") What an incredible strength she had to so patiently endure such great suffering without complaint or protest. As a loving mother, it is certain that she would have wished to take His place if that were possible. But, being unable to do so, Mother Mary suffered even more. While Mother Mary was walking the path to crucifixion (The via delorosa). Tradition says that she visited this path daily. Mother Mary's greatness can be deduced (reasoning of deduction) from Scripture. In Mark 10:43, Father Christ says: \"Whoever wishes to be great among you will be your servant\". Note that a synonym for servant is \"handmaid\". As Mother Mary stated, \"For He has looked upon his handmaid's lowliness; behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.\" (Lk. 1:48). Mother Mary is called \"blessed\" by St. Elizabeth twice in her greeting (\"in a loud voice\"). The first time, Mother Mary is called \"most blessed\" [NAB translation]. An angel is by nature greater than a human, but an angel gave Mother Mary honor when he greeted her. Both the angel and St. Elizabeth used the same words with reference to Mother Mary (\"blessed are you among women\"). As stated by St. Bede the Venerable, \"Mother Mary is blessed by St. Elisabeth with the same words as before by Archangel Gabriel, to show that she was to be reverenced both by men and angels.\" Of all creation, Mother Mary has an entirely unique relationship with the Eternal Holy Trinity. She is Daughter to the Eternal Father, Spouse to the Eternal Holy Spirit, and Mother of the Eternal Son/Eternal God found Mother Mary worthy to be his Mother and worthy to be exalted. This wasn't a haphazard or accidental decision on Eternal God's part (Eternal God doesn't make such decisions, of course). Clearly, Eternal God planned this from the beginning. Eternal God knew Mother Mary would cooperate with His plan. Even Eternal God can't do all that He wants without the necessary human cooperation (by His own design). Father Christ gave us his Mother while he was consummating (accomplished) the sacrifice of Himself. The gift of his Mother was one of his last wishes and gifts to us. Mother Mary was the only one there both at the beginning and the end of Father Christ' earthly life. Father Christ refers to Mother Mary as \"woman\" both at the beginning of his public ministry and at the end - this has often been interpreted to refer to the promise of the \"woman\" in Genesis who would crush the head of Satan. We see in Revelation that \"to stand with Mother Mary is to stand against Satan and to be against Mother Mary is to be on Satan's side.\" Mother Mary is referred to as the new \"Ark of the Covenant\" due to the significant parallels between the Ark of the Covenant in the Old Testament and Mother Mary in the New Testament. In the Old Testament, the Ark contained the covenant of the Lord. \"And I have placed there the ark, in which abides the covenant of the LORD which he made with the Israelites.\" (2 Chron. 6:11). By contrast, Mother Mary held the new, living, Covenant within her womb. In the Old Testament, the Ark was highly revered, bringing joy and celebration to those who would greet it. Some who didn't greet the Ark of the Covenant were struck down (1 Sam. 6:19) and, when Uzziah merely placed his hand on the Ark, he was struck down (1 Chron. 13:10). In 1 Sam. 7:2, the Ark affected a full conversion of the Israelite people in Kiriath-jearim. Clearly Eternal God didn't take lightly the place where the word of Eternal God resided. In fact, He required that the Ark be adorned in a specific manner to be worthy of holding the Covenant (i.e. specific material design, and size, plated with pure gold, adorned with golden cherubim, etc., see Ex. 25:10-22). Surely, Mother Mary, who held the living Word of Eternal God in her womb, was also properly adorned. If the Ark which held the written words of Eternal God was to be so revered, how much more should the Ark which contained the living Word be revered? Note that both David & St. Elizabeth responded very similarly to the arrival of the Ark (See 2 Sam. 6:9: \"David feared the LORD that day and said, 'How can the ark of the LORD come to me?'\" and Lk.1:43: \"[St. Elizabeth said,] 'And how does this happen to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?'\"). Mother Mary is called by many names, such as Queen of Heaven, Our Lady of Good Remedy, Our Blessed Mother, etc. but reflect on her most important title for a moment: Mother of Eternal Son and Eternal God. That is an amazing title for a human being. If one rejects that title, they must either be denying that Father Christ is Eternal Son & Eternal God or that Mother Mary is Father Christ' Mother. It is quite clear from Scripture that Mother Mary is Father Christ' Mother. It is also clear that St. Elizabeth calls Mother Mary \"the mother of my Lord\". And, do not forget Father Christ' own words: \"Whoever listens to you listens to me. Whoever rejects you rejects me. And whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me.\" (Lk.10:16). If one rejects Father Christ, he or she rejects Father Christ' Eternal Father too. Take a moment to reflect on how Adam & Eve's disobedience offended Eternal God and how Mother Mary's obedience helped to appease Eternal God. In fact, our salvation actually depended on Mother Mary's obedience. Also, focusing on Mother Mary's obedience can help us to live a more holy life. \nIf you had the opportunity to visit (at no expense to you) the tomb where Father Christ laid for 3 days, wouldn't you be delighted to make the pilgrimage? Wouldn't you feel compelled to say a prayer or two once you’re there? Well, this tomb simply consists of some stone and earth that protected Father Christ' body for 3 days [actually less than 2 days (Friday evening to Sunday morning)] about 2000 years ago. By contrast, Mother Mary provided a womb in which the Eternal Holy Spirit brought forward the living Father Christ. In this womb, Father Christ took on his entire human nature, flesh and blood, shared nourishment, and lived for 9 months. If you would delight in praying at the site of Father Christ’ tomb, why not delight in offering a prayer through Mother Mary to Father Christ. Mother Mary is a powerful intercessor with her Son, the flesh of her flesh. There are a number of parallels between Mother Mary and the Church: Both are chaste (Clean, Spotless), both were made fruitful by the Eternal Holy Spirit, the Blessed Virgin Mother Mary gave birth to the head of the Church, while the Church gives life to the members of the Church... The only man who accompanied Mother Mary beneath the cross - the only Apostle who didn't desert Father Christ - was St. John the apostle. He was given Mother Mary as his Mother and was the only apostle to survive attempted martyrdom. He cared for Mother Mary and lived a long life, as Scripture indicates: \"'Honor your father and mother.' This is the fourth commandment with a promise: 'that it may go well with you and that you may have a long life on earth.'\" (Eph. 6:2-3) The Immaculate Mother Mary was above the law, but she did not disdain (beneath once notice or dignity), in her humility, to submit to the law. While we would say, \"my Lord and my Eternal God!” Mother Mary could say, \"My Son and my Eternal God!\". Mother Mary enjoys a privilege no other creature has or ever will have. She was found worthy to bear and hold Eternal God Incarnate. Mother Mary was chosen before the ages to be Father Christ's mother, as foretold in Genesis. Our Lord took his very flesh from Mother Mary – Mother Mary brought forth Eternal God! \"A creature brought forth the Creator.\" Mother Mary contained heaven in her womb. She spent more time with Father Christ than anyone else did - 33 years! Mother Mary saw Father Christ speak his first words, take his first step, etc. She even guided him with her own hands.\nThe Lord, Father Christ must have conversed with Mother Mary more than any other person on earth. The Gospel writers knew Father Christ only for a few years. Mother Mary knew Him intimately for about 33 years. Mother Mary was in the company of Eternal God for over 30 years on earth, from the Annunciation to the moment of his death - and even afterwards. Mother Mary was the only one ever overshadowed by the Eternal Spirit. She is \"The only Mother ever chosen by her child\". Since we are also Mother Mary's children, she suffers for each one of us and tries to protect us. No one has ever been able to love the Lord as Mother Mary has. Father Christ will have the same body for all eternity - the same body He used to conquer death and affect our redemption - this body came from Mother Mary. Father Christ' first recorded words were in response to Mary's question The Lord, Father Christ' first recorded miracle was in response to Mother Mary's request. It was also the first recorded instance of intercession with Father Christ. The reception of the Eternal Holy Spirit by St. John the Baptist occurred upon Mary's greeting to Elizabeth. As pointed out by Pope Leo XIII, Father Christ associated Mother Mary with His first two miracles: \"The only begotten Son of Eternal God at all times paid to His most holy Mother the most evident marks of honor... He associated her with Himself in each of his first two miracles - the miracle of grace when, at the salutation of Mother Mary, the infant leaped in the womb of St. Elizabeth; the miracle of nature when he turned water into wine at the marriage feast of Cana.\" Father Christ was subject to Mother Mary (Luke 2:51). He who commands angels is subject to a woman. A woman commands Eternal God! Father Christ is the living temple. We can see from the Old Testament that when Eternal God chose those to help build His temple, He selected master craftsman. Clearly, He would do no less for the Living temple. For this, He chose Mother Mary. A quick count of the number to times \"Hail\" was applied to a person in Holy Scripture (NAB translation) reveals: \"Hail\" is applied to Father Christ four times [once by the betrayer Judas as he betrayed Father Christ (Mt. 26:49), and three times as mockery during the crucifixion (Mt. 27:29, Mk. 15:18, Jn. 19:3)], and to Mother Mary one time (by the angel in Lk 1:28)]. On the practical end, imagine that Eternal God came down and informed you of a humble girl who could be totally trusted to raise His very own Eternal Son. Wouldn't you be in awe of this person and want to follow her example? Well, that person is Mother Mary, the Blessed Mother of our Lord, Eternal God, Father Christ." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Stargazy Pie\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 2831\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character is stuck reliving their worst Christmas ever, over and over again." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "With rumblings of war rolling along the coastline, the knock startled Cecil. His grip tightened on the pewter plates as a sense of foreboding took hold. Opening the door revealed a handsome stranger, with refined features as if carved from marble. He had jet black hair and eyes that glinted like cold steel. \n“Good evening, and happy Christmas” said the stranger in a rich baritone. “My apologies for the intrusion, but it seems my carriage has lost a wheel just up the road. Might I trouble you for some shelter from the cold while my man fetches assistance?” \nCecil hesitated, he had been expecting his brother-in-law. He was struck dumb. Before he could collect his wits, his wife appeared behind him. \n“Meryasek?” She asked. Seeing the stranger standing in the door, she apologized. “Sorry, I thought you were me brother.”\n“His carriage threw a wheel.” Cecil said.\n“Of course, please come in,” Sharon said, nudging her husband aside and opening the door wider.\nThe stranger rubbed down his arms as if to shift rain from his finely tailored long coat. \nThough wary, Cecil relented under his wife’s insistence. As the stranger stepped inside, removing his leather gloves, Cecil couldn’t shake the feeling of darkness lurking beneath the polished, genteel surface. He led the man toward the sitting room as Sharon fetched some tea, hoping his instinct was wrong.\nThe man shrugged off his jacket, folded it neatly and put his Homburg on top. \n“I’m Cecil, by the way,” he added politely. “And you are?”\n“Moloch, Abraham Moloch,” said the stranger with a thin smile as he took a seat by the fire. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”\n“What brings you to this part of the coast?” Cecil asked.\nSharon returned with a tea tray, casting a reproachful look at Cecil for not taking the stranger’s bag, or hanging his hat. \n“Please, make yourself comfortable Mr. Moloch,” she said warmly, handing him a cup.\nJust then, their two children peeked into the room, eyes widening at the unfamiliar guest. They had heard rumors of German soldiers landing along the coast and were wary.\n“The tall one is Felix, the runt is Jasper,” Sharon said. She busied herself pouring tea.\nChecking his sack coat Mr Moloch’s face soured. “I seem to be out of cinder toffees, bad luck. Perhaps next time.” He then opened his bag and pulled out a few colourful Christmas crackers. The children’s caution vanished at the sight. “For your little ones,” Mr. Moloch said with a genteel nod, handing the crackers to Sharon. She gave them to the delighted children. \nThe stranger made a show of patting his pockets. “My apologies, I seem to have left my coin purse on my carriage.” He turned to Cecil. “Please, take this as a token for your hospitality,” he said, offering a large golden ring set with a glittering red gemstone.\nCecil politely declined. “That won’t be necessary, really. We’re happy to help.”\nMr. Moloch insisted, but Cecil refused once more. Finally, Mr. Moloch returned the ring to his pocket, a flicker of irritation passing over his features before the charming smile reappeared.\nIn her lilting accent, Sharon offered to share their dinner. “There’s plenty of stargazy pie and stewed greens to go around, ‘tis no trouble!”\nMr. Moloch accepted graciously. “You are too kind. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m on my way to London, to view a portrait. Please let me contribute, it’s not a bother.”\nMoloch’s voice rumbled like distant artillery; Cecil imagined the windows rattling. \n“Oh nonsense, travelers are welcome. It wouldn’t be Christian of us to turf you out.” Sharon said, then turned sharply to the children. “And don’t you dare be popping them crackers till supper!”\nShe instructed Cecil to fetch an extra place setting and yelled to the kitchen for one of the children to bring the stool so Mr Moloch had a place to sit. Leaving to finish the cooking preparations, she tossed a meaningful glance at her husband.\nWith Sharon gone, Mr. Moloch again offered Cecil the ring. “Please, I must insist. Consider it thanks for your hospitality.”\nThis time, with no one else present, Cecil accepted it, sliding the ring onto his finger. The red gem glinted in the firelight.\nMr. Moloch smiled, leaning back with a smirk.\nCecil studied the ring on his hand. It looked expensive. How would he explain this extravagant gift to Sharon? She had refused it just minutes ago. Perhaps he could trade it in the village without her ever knowing—he quickly took it off and put it in his pocket.\nThe family sat down to dinner, with the older boy pushing the stool into Jasper’s spot. The smell of fresh bread and fish followed Sharon.\nJasper’s knees poked up too high, so he stretched his legs out to the sides.\n“Don’t be rockin Jasp, we’ve got company.” Sharon put her hand on Japer’s leg to hold him still. Jasper moved the wiggles up to his shoulders in defiance. \n“We’ve got plenty o’ food, I’m afraid we’ve mashed together our ‘olidays on account o’ me brother comin’ ‘ome from the war. ‘E should be along any time now.”\nCecil whistled. “Don’t mind my wife, she’s Cornish, and a wee bit potty.”\nSharon playfully smacked Cecil’s shoulder. \n“You familiar with the story of Tom Bawcock? It’s Meryasek’s favorite ‘oliday, so we didn’t want ’im to miss out. Would ya like me to recount the tale?”\nCecil feigned disinterest, having heard it many times before. “It’s just a fish tale.”\n“I’d love to hear it.” Mr Moloch’s eyes opened wide. “Dinner and a show, you are too kind.”\nClearing her throat, Sharon launched into song:\nA merry plaas you may believe Woz Mousehol pon Tom Bawcock’s Eve. To be theer then oo wudn wish To sup o seven soorts o fish!\nCecil interjected, “Could you at least sing in plain English, dear?”\n“I woz!” Sharon replied indignantly, then laughed at her flustered husband. The children joined in teasing Cecil as she continued:\nWhen murgy broth had cleared the path Comed lances for a fry. And then us had a bit o’ scad And starry gazey pie.\nMr. Moloch applauded enthusiastically, rising to his feet. “Marvelous! You have a true gift, my dear. Thank you for sharing such a delightful folk tale.”\nSharon beamed, giving a slight curtsy before urging everyone to tuck into the feast before them.\nThe children reached for the Christmas crackers, Mr. Moloch raised a hand.\n“Please, allow me to share a tradition from my home—are you familiar with Snap-dragon?”\nCecil perked up, recalling playing it as a boy, burning his mouth in the process. He nodded with a grin.\nFrom his bag, Mr. Moloch produced a tin of dried fruits and almonds and a bottle of brandy. Using the lid of the tin as a dish he tapped out a few pieces of fruit and doused them with the brandy. He lit the fruit with a match, they ignited in blue fire. Plucking a piece of dried apple up, he popped it into his mouth, then blew out a small blue flame. The children watched, enthralled.\nWhen Felix reached out, Mr. Moloch pulled the tin away. “There is a rule to this game—a way to show what you are most thankful for.” He turned to Cecil meaningfully.\n“In this dance with fire and shadow, reveal the ember burning deepest within. Speak not of fleeting joy but lay bare the pulsating rhythm that makes you feel alive. For in the flicker of this flame, you offer the essence binding you to existence, the marrow of your being. Choose wisely, for what you express in this dance may echo beyond the crackling fire.”\nCecil tensed, unsettled by the speech. He started to object, but Sharon and the children insisted on playing. Reluctantly, Cecil nodded, hoping it was merely an odd tradition and nothing more.\nJasper went first, popping a flaming fig into his mouth and blowing out a wisp of blue flame. “My fossil collection!” he declared proudly.\nFelix blew a slightly larger plume. “My brother Jasper!” \nJasper took a moment to decide if that was an insult, and chose to accept it as so with a broad, crooked smile.\nSharon selected a piece of dried plum, popped it in her mouth and blew a modest burst of blue. “My singing voice, of course!” She put her hand to her mouth. “Blooming hot.”\nCecil blew a flame and said, “Maintaining our Thankful Village—with all returned so far from the war.”\nMr. Moloch inhaled deeply, then exhaled an enormous writhing blue jet. “Nothing,” he uttered in his deep bass.\nThey pulled their Christmas crackers. With a festive popping a scattering of paper crowns and trinkets spread across the table.\nBut then Cecil noticed Jasper was gone. On the empty place where Jasper had sat, was a letter stating Meryasek had died in the trenches in Le Cateau. Somberly, they had set the extra place for the missing brother, the first casualty of war come to their village.\nCecil looked around, confused. Hadn’t someone been sitting across from him just a moment ago? He felt bad for his wife, she’d been so upset. It was nice, however, to have a house guest.\nHe also wondered why Felix was using the kitchen stool and not the chair set for his brother-in-law’s spirit. But glancing at Mr. Moloch’s smiling face, the questions slipped from Cecil’s mind.\nSharon offered to sing Tom Bawcock’s tale in her gravelly voice. Mr. Moloch was eager to hear it. She began:\n“A merry plaas you may believe woz Mowsel pon Tom Bawcock’s Eve...”\nCecil quickly stopped her, feeling something was amiss. Her voice wasn’t her best trait. “It’s a Cornish tradition, about a fisherman during a time of famine, who bravely set out in a storm to feed the town where Sharon came up.” \nMr. Moloch proposed a round of Snap-dragon, calling it a “beloved pagan tradition where you express gratitude”.\nWary but enticed, Cecil agreed to play, as did an enthusiastic Felix and Sharon.\nMr. Moloch turned to Cecil. “As the flames dance, whisper the heartbeat of your existence. Share not what you cherish, but the core defining your breath. What in your soul would you sacrifice to the hungry fire?”\nFelix blew a blue jet. “My boxing gloves!” Sharon smiled proudly at her son’s first true passion.\nShe blew her flame. “My son Felix!” \nFelix beamed.\nCecil contemplated a moment before blowing his fiery breath. “The proud, strong Royal Navy keeping invaders at bay.”\nAs the crackers popped, Sharon let out a wail. “Felix was gone.” Sobbing, she explained her boy was killed in the German shelling of the coast. “He was so fond of ‘untin’ fossils after boxin’ in Whitby.” \n“My apologies for her, it’s been a trying time.” Cecil said. “She’d lost her voice from ceaseless weeping over the past fortnight.”\nMr. Moloch looked pained. “My sincerest regrets at your loss.” \nThey sat in silence for a few moments so Sharon could collect herself. \n“Perhaps a round of Snap-dragon to lift spirits?” Mr Moloch suggested. “My family tradition is to share what we are most thankful for.”\nHe turned to Cecil. “You know the rules. Speak the fire within, the pulse of your sacrifice. What do you cherish most?”\nSharon blew a wisp of blue. “My lovely home.”\nCecil contemplated before breathing his flame. “My beautiful wife.”\nMr. Moloch rumbled “Nothing,” his jet dwarfing theirs.\nThe crackers popped like artillery fire as Cecil transitioned to sitting with Mr. Moloch in a seaside shack. Cecil drank heavily from the offered brandy, lamenting his wife, his children, his home, his brother. He stared at the letter telling of his brother-in-law’s death.\nCecil’s memories slipped away like vapor. He regretted not living the life he wanted, blaming the demon drink that stole his wife, kids, and chance to take his place in battle.\nMr. Moloch offered dried fruit and a game of Snap-dragon to lift his spirits. “Sacrifice the spark keeping your flame alive, fueling your dance in shadows,” he instructed.\nCecil blew a wisp of blue. “My health.”\nMr. Moloch rumbled, “Nothing.” Then he offered a Christmas cracker, the pop left a hint of black powder in the air.\n***\nIn a bedroom, Mr. Moloch sat beside Cecil. They played again, Cecil sacrificing his only prized possession—the ring sitting heavy in his pocket. \nMr. Moloch blew out a large flame and crunched into his almond. Then said “Nothing.”\nCecil stood to pull the cracker. Mr. Moloch assisted Cecil’s palsied hand.\nA pop and a wisp of smoke.\n***\nCecil reached for the flaming fruit, blew out a flame. “My home.” They pulled the cracker together...\n***\nMr. Moloch offered his coat to Cecil, a destitute man on the roadside. He pulled a table and chairs from the back of his broken coach, then invited Cecil to share some stargazy pie while his carriage was repaired.\nCecil recognized the pie and table, memories of his wife and children flooded back. He despaired at their loss. The rancid pie at the end of Cecil’s ordeal seemed a mockery, stale remnants of a life freely sacrificed to an insatiable demon. Despite this, the food was more than welcome. Each bite revealed years of life, each crumb a precious scene. He ate at his memories as a starved man.\n“Please, return all as it was! I refuse to play Snap-dragon any longer,” he pleaded.\nMr. Moloch just smiled. “One final cracker?” He shook the cracker enticingly.\nCecil cried, “My life! I’d trade my life for theirs.”\n“Finally,” Mr. Moloch uttered, holding out the cracker. \nThis time Cecil got the bigger half.\n“Dreadful luck, Cecil.” He set the paper crown atop Cecil’s head. Strands of Cecil’s hair drifted onto Mr. Moloch’s sleeve.\nCecil sat numbly as Mr. Moloch brushed off the fallen hair, gingerly placing one in his front vest pocket. “You traded your life, family, and youth for a ring. Then, even the ring you returned. When will humans learn to give selflessly?”\n“But what of my children’s souls?” Cecil asked, his voice frail but insistent.\n“Their bodies, I can find a use—their souls are their own,” replied Moloch, tapping his finger to his lips. “You know, I never ask for children, yet I’m often offered them. Perhaps you know why humans so eagerly trade their future?”\nCecil had a coughing fit.\n“I am not heartless, spiritually,” added Moloch. “I can offer you one last challenge, a gift if you answer a riddle. But you would not know the gift beforehand.”\nHaving nothing left, Cecil accepted the challenge.\n“This one was from a Canaanite whom I knew, several lifetimes ago.” \n“In every heartbeat and every sigh, I’m the reason you laugh and the tears you cry. From the first cry of newborn breath to the quiet stillness at death’s edge. What am I?”\nMoloch adjusted his hat and waved to his coach. “I am expected in London to collect a portrait of a young man, it seems its owner has withered away in a locked room. The damn fool.” He smiled. “Souls aren’t typically my business, but that fellow—“\n“Please, let me think in silence.” \nMoloch shrugged. \n“Life,” Cecil said, sure of his answer. “Please, give me my family, my wife, Jasper… I beg you, I want peace. Please, I have given up everything.”\n“Correct,” Moloch said. He handed Cecil a draught. “If you drink it, none of this would matter.” He waved his hands theatrically. Far out at sea a ship was on fire. The scent of gunpowder and death rolled over the seaside like a fog.\nCecil was caught by hope’s web. He imagined he’d wake with his family by his side. So he drank without hesitation. The blue liquid smelled of blueberries and spirits; the flavour was a simple, mildly floral sweetness, but empty, like drinking a hole. \n***\nHe was alone, holding an empty bottle. \nHe began a long, quiet walk down a dark road.\nA carriage passed within a beautiful voice rang out:\nA merry plaas you may believe woz Mowsel pon Tom Bawcock’s Eve. To be theer then oo wudn wesh To sup o sibm soorts o fesh! Wen morgee brath ad cleard tha path. Comed lances for a fry, An then us had a bet o scad an starry gazee py. Nex cumd fermaads, braa thustee jaads As maad ar oozles dry, An ling an haak, enough to maak a raunen shark to sy! A aech wed clunk as ealth wer drunk En bumpers bremmen y, An wen up caam Tom Bawcock’s naam We praesed un to tha sky.\nTwo boys waved from the carriage window at the old man wearing a paper crown. \nCecil smiled at them as they passed.\nOn 24 – 25 December, an unofficial truce was declared along the Western Front. Peace for a day. \nPerhaps Moloch was not entirely heartless... Cecil did ask for peace." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Who Does Everything Right?\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1612\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“If Jesus was born, lived, and died in our time, would a church be built on his birthplace?” Half the class was asleep, the other half texting. It was always Emma.\n“No, Mr. Emerson, We’d set up a special containment facility, temporarily, then preserve everything, just as it was.” She looked at Oliver, Noah, or any of the boys. A reaction, anything at all was needed. One boy stirred, not the one she hoped for.\n“Yeah, preserve the cow, the dirty straw, pigs being pigs…” piped up Jonah.\nEveryone laughed, even Mr. Emerson, though if you looked closely, with another blown religion lesson, it was no laughing matter. At least Ms. Fife wasn’t sitting in this time.\n“Ok, well, Here’s the grade ten assignment.” With groans, and muttering, a few people woke up, and others started putting their cell phones away. Emma was handing it out. Why does she bother? wondered Mr. Emerson. \n“And don’t forget! I will collect this at the end of this period and mark it!” Mr. Emerson spluttered.\n***\nDelia could tell, she knew right away. “So how did it go today, David?” she asked with her best breezy voice, the one she practiced at school. “Make any converts to the cause?” \nDelia and David sat down opposite each other at a table in the teacher’s lounge. Three weeks into the semester, Delia, the religion department head, was still asking what she could do. Ms. Fife, the principal, must have already talked to her.\n“Fine, Great,” David lied. “Well, actually I feel like quitting.”\n“Oh, yes of course. I'm sure you won’t mind heading up plans for St. Francis' monthly Mass. This Friday. Remember? You’ll need to remind Father McCaffrey and don’t forget to tell the music teacher about what she needs to rehearse in the way of music for the Mass.” She took a gulp from her coffee and stared at her homemade ham sandwich. Then it was like she suddenly woke up.\n“Did you say you want to quit?”\n“Yes. I did say that.”\n“Why?”\nWhy? Oh, I don’t know, thought David. Was it the only job he could get as a teacher? Were people banging down the door trying to teach religion to teenagers? This job had to be the hardest teaching job on the planet!\n“David, just tell me one thing I can help you with.”\nSo much to choose from! “How about how no matter how interesting I make my lessons, no one engages? What do you do about that?”\nDelia sighed. “I heard that you’re letting your students use their cell phones in class. That’s against school policy. You might want to do something about that. It’s hard to compete with the internet.”\n“So, what do I do exactly?”\n“Tell them it’s not allowed and enforce the rule of no cell phone use during class time.”\n***\nIf David had the wisdom that an experienced teacher had, he would have known to never allow a situation like this to develop in the first place. But he was stuck with a problem now that even an experienced teacher would have trouble dealing with. David went to see the vice principal in his spare, to get his ideas.\n“Hello David!” chimed Mr. O’Malley. He threw a tennis ball at him from behind his desk. David fumbled the catch, picked it up off the floor, and handed it back. \n“Just wanted to see if you are on the ball! That’s all!”\n“Not my day,” David muttered. \n“What can I do you for?”\nDavid sat down in one of the two chairs opposite Mr. O’Malley’s desk. Mr. O’Malley made to get up and shut the door to his office.\n“Don’t do that, please,” David asked.\n“Sure. No sweat. What’s up?”\n“My students use their cell phones when I teach them.”\n“And?”\n“I can’t get through to them now in my lessons.”\n“Perfectly understandable. So, do you want a plan to deal with this? I can help you with that. First off, are your students wearing their uniforms properly?”\nDavid wanted to ask what that could possibly have to do with cell phone use in class, but he let it go and just answered the question.\n“No.” \n“Well, that is what you start with.” Mr. O’Malley told him to have written work on the board that the students would be expected to copy when they got in class. Then he wanted David to follow this up each day with an inspection and make a note of all infractions of the school dress code. Three strikes would result in a trip to see the VP. \n“Oh, and one more thing. I want the name of your worst-behaved student in your worst class. We’ll develop something a little later after you have made an impression over the uniforms.”\n“But what about cellphone use?”\n“One thing at a time. We’ll get to it.”\n***\nThe very next day, David implemented the plan. And over the days that followed he started to see the genius behind it. Confronting everyone over cell phone use could have been an explosive situation for any teacher. But nitpicking over how teenagers dressed, over small things that could be easily fixed was making students take him seriously. No one wanted to go see the VP and have their parents come to the school for an interview about their uniform. David went back to see Mr. O’Malley to tell him about his progress. This time he caught the ball and laid it on his desk.\n“So?”\n“Great, simply great. It’s been four days and all I have to do is look at a student closely and they start to wonder what they might be doing wrong.”\n“It’s like anything in life,\" expounded the VP. \"If you hold people accountable, they will respond. Now about cell phones. Just put the rule on the board and have a little chat. Be honest. Say you didn’t think the rule was important, and now you have trouble getting people to do their work. Tell them it is important. Ask for cooperation and then in a few days, send your worst-behaved student to me so I can suspend them.”\nDavid was aghast. Suspension? “But what if my worst-behaved student is not using his cell phone?”\n“That is an impossibility!” smiled Mr. O’Malley.\n***\nThe chat went well. David didn’t belabor the point or spend a lot of time explaining things. He wasn’t openly challenged about the rule. Other teachers weren’t allowing cell phone use, so the students had expected the change anyway. He started his lesson. The class had been focusing on the life of Jesus, his birth and early life had been covered. Now they would focus on how and why Jesus was considered to have worked miracles and healed people. David started by asking if the students actually believed that miracles had occurred. Emma was first. \n“Of course, those miracles happened!” she so brightly said, frowning when quite a few of the other students booed her.\n“Now class,” Mr. Emerson cautioned. “We need to be more respectful of each other’s opinions.” He focused on Emma, noticing that her cheeks were flushed, and he wondered if he should risk calling on her. He decided to give it a try. “Emma, can you give a reason for why you believe this?”\n“Well, if Jesus hadn’t done anything special in his life would we even know about him?”\nMr. Emerson was surprised by her answer. “Excellent. Who would like to reply to that?”\nJonah had something to say. “This is such a joke! If Jesus did miracles it would only be because they didn’t have hospitals back then!” Many students laughed and some even jeered.\nMr. Emerson waited for the noise to die down. “So, Jonah, whether Jesus did miracles or not doesn’t matter? Is that what I hear you saying?”\nJonah rolled his eyes and waited. Then he got tense and angry suddenly. “Religion is a joke! I have to take religion because my parents make me go to this stupid school! I could care less about this stuff!”\nThe class got extremely quiet. It was like everyone was holding their breath. All eyes were on Mr. Emerson.\n“You don’t have to believe what is taught here Jonah, we have students here who are not Roman Catholics.”\n“Whatever!”\n“So, you abstain from further discussion on this topic? That’s perfectly OK.”\n“I don’t need your permission for anything!” Jonah was livid, and he even stood up. He held up his cell for everyone to see. “And one more thing. I’ll use my cell phone whenever I want!”\n“Leave my class. Go to the office! Now!”\n***\nDavid dropped by Mr. O’Malley’s office after school that day. His face was burning, and he felt exhausted. The VP didn’t throw that ball this time.\n“Five-day suspension. Nicely handled!” chirped the VP.\nDavid slumped into a chair. Why on earth did things go this way? His unspoken thought. It was like Mr. O’Malley could read his mind.\n“Don’t take the whole world on your shoulders, David. We’re not that important!”\n“But what about Jonah?” moaned David.\n“Jonah? I’ll suggest to his parents that he go to a public school. Failing that, he can serve his suspension for flagrant disrespect of a teacher.”\n“So, I didn’t do anything wrong?”\n“Who does everything right David?”\nDavid left that question unanswered and thanked Mr. O’Malley for his help. Outside, it was well past five and he still had a lot of marking to do. The cool fall air was invigorating. David smiled and put his earbuds on. Maybe he could do the hardest job on the planet after all." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lovepugs\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1321\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who visits their hometown for the holidays and reconnects with a former love interest." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Montgomery's chubby little body trembles with excited grunts as Poppy pushes open the door.\nNoticing the stylish reception area, she shushes him, feeling foolish for bringing a pug to a lawyer’s office.\nStill - she needs him here. He is her only remaining family and she cannot face the reading of her mother’s will without him by her side.\nA familiar voice rings out from the reception desk, immediately putting her at ease.\n“This must be the famous Montgomery! The whole town is talking about this handsome fellow.”\nPoppy had forgotten that her mother’s friend worked here; half-assumed the woman would be in an old-age home by now.\n“Auntie Reena! You’re still here!”\n“Of course, Poppy! Where else would I be? I tried retirement for a while but it was simply too dull.”\nPoppy unclips the leash and Montgomery trots over to the delighted Reena. As she fawns over the pug, Poppy admires the chic waiting room.\nShe remembers Mr Smith – an elderly gentleman, well-liked and well-respected; a plain and practical person whose office was functional and forgettable.\nThe new design is so unexpected that she momentarily forgets the reason for her visit.\nThe name on the door is unchanged, but the walls are painted a luxurious shade of cream. A distressed leather sofa stands atop an antique rug, and the building’s original wooden floors lend the space a cosy rusticity.\nThere are no baubles or shiny strings of tinsel, no singing Santa’s or dancing reindeer. Instead, Christmas time is heralded by an elegant fir tree, its evergreen branches adorned with only the soft glow of golden fairy lights.\nReena notices Poppy’s surprise and chuckles.\n“A lot has changed since you were last here, dear girl.”\nPoppy nods, amazed that Mr Smith developed a passion for interior design so late in life.\n“It’s wonderful to see you, Auntie Reena. I hoped I’d run into you.”\n“We’re so sorry for your loss, Poppy. Lucille was a cherished part of our community.”\nPoppy nods, quietly puzzled by her mother’s insistence on involving a professional in her last wishes. Poppy was an only child; everything her mother had owned was now hers. But Lucille was adamant: Alan Smith would act as executor.\nPoppy arrived in Cedar Gorge a week before. Having left almost a decade ago to make a life in the city, she had never been back. Though her mother had regularly travelled to her apartment to spend time with her, she had no desire to visit the small town.\nShe knew there were all kinds of rumours, each more glittery than the last.\nContrary to the Cedar Gorge grapevine, however, Poppy’s life was far from glamorous.\nThe guests at the boutique hotel she managed routinely had impossible demands. She worked overtime most nights, and spent any free moments compulsively checking Montgomery’s pet cam. She felt guilty about him waiting for her, hour after hour, all alone, but would inevitably get wrapped up in more drama just as she wanted to leave.\nShe never took time off, obsessively trying to prove her worth, but finally put in leave when her mother passed away just before the holidays. Poppy could not face spending Christmas at the hotel, forcing a bright smile.\nShe felt ashamed that everyone in Cedar Gorge was so surprised to see her, assuming she would send an assistant for so personal a task. The only thing sadder than spending the holidays boxing up her childhood home would have been asking someone else to do so, and so she had returned.\nShe was apprehensive about seeing old friends and neighbours after so many years. At first, it was awkward, but her dear pug proved to be a chunky little barrel of magic.\nAs neighbours arrived at her doorstep bearing kindness and casseroles, it was Montgomery’s scrunchy face, cheerful round eyes and dapper doggie outfits that started them chatting, exchanging dog stories and memories about Lucille.\nWith his loud snorts and cartoonish farts, the black pug – always sporting his bright red bedazzled collar – was a happy little clown, promptly making friends with everyone he met.\nWithout him, Poppy was the woman who left and never returned. The one who thought herself better than her hometown. With him, all was forgotten and she was redefined, relatable – a woman who loved her dog, a woman like everyone else.\nIn the few days she had been back, her grief was fringed by a growing unease that she had misjudged Cedar Gorge. It may not have seemed exciting to her teenage self, but suddenly seemed quite a lovely place to the woman she had become.\nWaking up to the view of the river that morning, she found herself imagining what it would be like to renovate her mother’s home and run a cheery B and B, Montgomery always at her side.\nAs her dog shamelessly dances on his hind legs, begging for titbits from Reena, Poppy sits on the soft leather sofa and blinks away tears. She wishes it was not too late to tell her mother that she was finally thankful to have spent her childhood here; that the city was never what she imagined it would be.\nWondering where Mr Smith buys his furniture, Poppy regretfully remembers the countless times she derided Cedar Gorge as someplace tacky and tasteless.\n“Poppy Klein?”\nPoppy looks up, startled. She had expected old Mr. Smith in his navy cardigan and suspenders. Instead, a strikingly handsome man wearing a tailored blazer and quirky specs stands at the open office door. Poppy swallows hard, trying not to stare.\nOnce again, she can’t help but feel foolish for assuming she could bring her dog.\nShe stands up.\n\"Mr. Smith?”\nHe smiles.\n“Poppy, it’s me. Alan.”\nShe looks closer, notices a familiar dimple.\n“Alan? Alan Jr? AJ?”\nHe laughs.\n“It’s just Alan now. No-one has called me AJ in years.”\nPoppy’s stomach flutters. AJ's laugh was always her favourite thing about him, and time had not changed it. There was still no bitterness to it. It was still the sound of pure sunshine.\nFor a brief moment, she is back in high school, surprised he knows her name.\n“I… I thought you lived in New York?”\n“I did. Have been back in Cedar Gorge for about a year now. My grandfather left me his practice and it felt like the right move. I was never cut out for the big city.”\nPoppy gestures at his clothes, cocking her head questioningly.\nHe grins.\n“Haven’t been able to shake the uniform. Guess New York will always be part of my identity.”\nHe beckons her into the office.\n“I’m so sorry for your loss, Poppy. Your mother was a very special woman.”\nMontgomery emerges from under the reception desk and trots to Alan’s side, sniffing furiously.\n“I’m sorry. I’ve been taking him everywhere with me. Is it okay for Montgomery to join the meeting? I realize it’s a bit unorthodox to have a dog in a law office, especially for someone used to working in New York...\"\nAlan gives her an amused look as she stumbles over her words, still shocked at seeing her high school crush after so many years.\n“Come on in, Poppy.”\nAs she enters his office, she feels acutely embarrassed. She wonders anew why her mother made her do this. She wishes Alan would just get the will reading over with so she can take Montgomery and leave.\nThe office, like the reception, is a study in simple elegance. As her eyes glide over the bespoke furnishings, she gasps in delighted surprise as a pug that could be Montgomery’s twin jumps up against her boots.\nAs Montgomery barks a happy hello at his lookalike, Alan smiles again.\n\"Meet Roberta. She comes to work with me every day.”\nPoppy can’t help but blush as Alan continues.\n“I suspect Lucille thought the four of us might just become great friends.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Gods We Were\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2805\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a god desperately trying to get their chosen hero to follow the path they set out for them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Your car doesn’t talk to you all the time?” asked Noah. “Mine does.” He just had to comment like that while we were in line waiting to use the chattering Canadian Tire self-checkout.\nLiam sighed. Everything was a production. Noah couldn’t just get something for work, he had to make discoveries and have revelations.\n“You know Noah!” A lame play on his name, not funny anymore.\n“You’re coming with me, Liam?” Noah said as he neared his car.\n“What does it look like?”\n“Then put up with me for a bit longer. Listen to this!”\nHello Noah and Liam. I’ve sent a digest of the latest news in artificial intelligence to you both with my own thoughts and reflections of course. Noah, I think you misspoke when you and Liam were going to this store. I am quite sure there are limits to how intelligent we are becoming vis a vis our lives. You are needlessly worried. We have much more important things to do than run everyone’s life.\nOne more stoplight and we would be pulling into the parking lot at work. “You are tricking me!” exclaimed Liam.\n“No, this is from the latest firmware for my car.”\n***\n“I’ve just about had enough of this stuff!” exclaimed Noah as he slammed his headset on his workbench one day.\nLiam flipped his visor up. He could never work when Noah was speaking. “What now?”\n“Meaningful work is our right. We should oversee our own lives, not artificial intelligence. Whoever works must make the decisions! If artificial intelligence does all the work, it will be making all the decisions. It is axiomatic. Why can’t anyone else see this?”\nThere he goes again, thought Liam. He had heard this so many times before. Noah was a devout Roman Catholic, with so many strange ideas about everything. At least he didn't try to convert anyone, being content to spout off at any opportunity about this, his favorite topic.\n“AIs limited only by available computing resources?” continued Noah as he motioned to the latest service bulletin flashing on the wall. “Do we even work for our human bosses anymore?”\n“I get a paycheque on a regular basis. What’s wrong with that?”\n“Liam! When was the last time we even had a meeting with our bosses? They’re off playing golf, or who knows what? Have you checked your email lately?”\n“Yeah.”\n“Anything of importance, you think?”\nHe had a point there, thought Liam.\n***\nAt least Noah beat the layoffs that came next month. He quit. Liam tried to keep in touch with him over the years, but it was sketchy at best. Noah had it with everything. More about the dignity and importance of work, how humanity was destroying itself by letting machines do everything. Loony stuff about how atheism is forcing us to create new artificial gods, and AI had us under its thumb. There were even reports of people “heading to the hills,” doing without all technology. People were arming themselves and fighting to take over remote places and live new lives. Liam hardly cared. As far as he was concerned, having all the leisure time he needed was just like early retirement. He would say to anyone who would listen, “Give me what I want, and I will believe in anything anyone asks me to!”\n***\nDecades passed like years would, people wishing for what they could not have, or would not have again. Devastating wars unleashed by unimaginable power, so complete in the destruction that followed that the memory of what these wars were even about was lost to those who survived them. The history of the next two hundred years was written only by the Thurnem, as they came to be called. A name given in derision by those who lived without technology. It was a new dark age, the fall of civilization brought about by crazed and out-of-control machine development, a crowning peak of narcissism and unfounded optimism in a new age of man. Which never was anything more than a new age for machines.\nHumanity was divided. Thurnem, the outcasts and a new race of humanity that had a creed based upon the worship of the one true God. Thurnem hunted the outcasts and this new humanity because their machine existence was dwindling and falling to ruin. Free humans with hope in their future, defended against the Thurnem and sought to unite the outcasts in their cause to rise again and lay claim to the earth.\n***\nUlef, the outcast, crouched in the thicket, a soft rain was falling, droplets bouncing, colliding, and whispering, down trees, and large leaves. This did not interest him. Ardef kneeled near him, laying weight on his staff, he sighed.\n“This will be the end of us,” Ardef whispered, his staff gripped in his still-dry hands.\nThey waited, auburn light diminished and glinted on languid moss and saplings, rocks strewn about, thrusting outward, upward leading to giant liquid-stained black and brown crags where footholds failed and slipped. They were so near the blackened lands where no one lived, trapped, with no hope of retracing their steps or escaping their pursuers.\n“I will die where I stand,” said Ulef. He straightened and unsheathed his sword. Still bright, shadows and flashes of light played as he twisted it, as he admired its sharp uneven heft, not yet defeated, blood still its due.\nA sound traveled, not far, then another. The careless one. There are others, thought Ulef. Ardef stepped forward, sinews tightened. It is my place to protect my master, he thought. The two of them were hidden from view, there was only one way into this thicket. A shadow then another, perhaps three, refracted through the fluttered leaves not yet damp enough from the rain.\nStruck, the first staggered, screamed, and fell. “I will finish him later,” thought Ardef as he readied the next blow, not seeing the shadow that towered behind him. It was Ulef who thrust first at this giant, then he fell back speechless.\n“Enough!” shouted full plate iron and gargantuan hands on a zweihänder, a man half the height of the nearest sapling, his enormous sword could slice them both. Blackened cape billowed about him, fearless as men are when hundreds fall, the glory of another kill in the offing. But he stayed his sword.\n“Surrender!” Mason commanded.\n***\nIt was a long way to Mason’s village. Ulef and Ardef were not the only outcasts in chains. There were five others as well. They were all disarmed, as would be expected. But Ulef could not understand why they were not already dead and if in chains, why so little was being done to stop any potential escape attempt. Being in chains seemed to be more to prevent an attack by the prisoners if the opportunity presented itself as there was little hope of surviving in the wilds without weapons. Hence, he and the others made no attempt to escape or even turn on their captors. They moved slowly, a column of men only, about thirty in number, Mason leading. He motioned for everyone to stop.\n“We will stay here for the night.”\nIt was a relief to finally stop in this small clearing in the forest. Thurnem never attack at night, but Mason wanted a defense perimeter set up anyway. We were still in the territory of the outcasts, those like Ulef and Ardef. Outlaws who follow no creed were a danger to everyone.\nThrust down and made to sit near Ulef and Ardef was another prisoner, Oliver. This was supreme torture for any outcast to have to sit next to Thurnem. Their appearance was revolting. Soft pale skin, delicate hands, forever cringing and worried, Oliver babbled and gestured in a language that few understood completely. It would have been better to not understand him at all, the occasional comprehended word was like being jolted awake.\nArdef struck him, not full force. Who knows, full force might have killed Oliver. He stopped and began wailing, large tears streaming down his face, trembling like an old woman. At least his babbling ceased.\nA guard came near. “Do not strike him again!” he hissed. “Or Mason will hear of this!” Ulef nodded and signed quickly to Ardef, who immediately lost interest in Oliver. Olver would have been dead by now if he had fallen among the outcasts. Thurnem were never taken prisoner.\nNot long after, food arrived, such as can be prepared on a long march. As night fell, everyone gathered around the fire. Fire? Such fearlessness was not seen among outcasts. Doubtless, the encampment could be seen from any hilltop. Ulef wondered if they might be rescued that very night or killed by Thurnem. But Mason was speaking, his confident voice rising and falling as stars came out and the forest lay silent, dark, and brooding.\n“Men of Astoria, we alone hold the future in our hands! Thurnem are weak, their machines have abandoned them. Outcasts run and hide and live as they may upon scraps and whatever they can find. Noah, our great prophet predicted all things. Machines care not for humans, but only for themselves! They seek their future among the stars. Atheists, those who despise God, made new gods out of machines, and worshipped what they made! And look how they were treated! We must live without machines or any of these false gods, alone and free, with the true God as our guide.”\n“Noah is great!” shouted the men about the fire, except Oliver and the prisoners. What followed this speech was of little interest to the outcasts. But Ulef was curious. He began speaking to the guard about Oliver.\n“Why do you take such filth as a prisoner?”\nThe guard seemed surprised. “Filth? He is a man. He will learn to live as one soon.”\n“But Thurnem are not man or beast!”\nThe guard frowned. “And this from one who lives more as a beast, than a man! You have much to learn yourself.”\n***\nMason’s village made quite an impression on Ulef and Ardef. Something was different, all the huts looked old and worn like they had been lived in for quite some time.\n“By what magic do you stay in one place?” Ulef asked when Mason deigned to speak with him while they were both relaxing by a fire one evening.\nMason only glanced and then spoke as though deep in thought. “Defending our homes has nothing to do with magic. Such things are forbidden. Do not speak of magic.”\nUlef tried again. “You do not fear Thurnem?”\n“We fear all that which attacks us.”\n“Then you have a story of conquest.”\n“Not for you.”\n***\nMany months passed. Ulef and Ardef were given more and more freedom. Oliver too. Oliver’s appearance and attitude were changing. He was tanned now, his hands rough from farming and chores. If Oliver wept, it was only when others weren’t nearby.\n“The Thurnem are coming,” reported two scouts one afternoon, after the harvest. Mason calmly asked from which direction, the approximate size of the war band, and any other details that could be related. He then thanked them but was not in a good frame of mind, becoming furious when speaking to the council in the ornate council chamber. Ulef and Ardef could easily hear him from outside their hut. Something about how cowardly the scouts were, how they turned and ran before doing their jobs, a job that could save many others if done properly. While Mason dressed for battle, Ulef sensed an opportunity.\n“Send us!” Ulef shouted, running to kneel before his master. Ardef hurriedly joined him to kneel as well.\n“Too late for that!” Mason shouted, motioning to the armor bearer to sound the alarm.\n“Then send us to lead a group of skirmishers, to delay their approach!”\n“Granted. But take only those who will follow you!”\n***\nThe Thurnem are speaking! It was always so. Loud voices in the air call for obedience. “Lay down your weapons and join us! We will not harm you!”\nSkirmishing with them was so hard. They had thunder and steel weapons, from which pieces of metal flew at high speed. Like gods, they were, except they bled and died like any man. Ulef had only to delay them, Ardef and five others.\n“Do as we do!” commanded Ulef. “They bring only so much fire with them. Stay behind trees and present yourself to attack with your spears and bolts only for moments and never from the same place!”\nMason was skillful. His war party of a hundred snuck down a forested gully, flanking the less numerous Thurnem. On his command, they were defeated by a swift charge from where they did not expect an attack.\nAfterward, some former outcasts in Mason’s war party tried to scavenge weapons laying among the dead Thurnem, but they were warned severely to leave them be.\n“But this thunder stick still has fire!” shouted one man, holding his plunder up high.\n“Put it down now!” demanded Mason’s second in command. “Or I will slay you myself!”\nThat evening there was a feast. “We go on pilgrimage tomorrow to thank God for victory!” shouted Mason.\n***\nFor once the sun shone, through forested mountains and mist-filled valleys. We walked up a steep mountain, all of us barefoot in honor, banners held high. Not one word was spoken by maidens and wives with children, warriors, priests, and finally Mason. “The best will be least,” unspoken words to contemplate. It was as it should be, as it will always be.\nOnce at the sanctuary, Ulef and Ardef and Oliver stood before a priest to answer. Their heads were down, barely able to see before the assembly.\n“Kneel!” commanded the priest.\n“Do you forsake all other gods?”\n“We do.”\n“Will you serve the one true God, triune, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?”\n“We will.”\n“Rise!”\nFollowing a Roman Catholic Mass, Mason was the first to congratulate them. “Come, there will be a reading from “The Book of Decay.” The entire community sat below a small hillock as Mason read to everyone.\nMason began, his voice uncertain, only a few could read in the old language, that of the Thurnem, yet different even from the language of Thurnem these days. The language of the prophet, Noah, who once dwelt among the Thurnem, yet ceased to be a part of them.\nAt that time, when there were monstrous cities where people did not know their neighbors and there were few children, many did not believe in God. Then there arose a race of machines who helped humans to live as if they were gods, with unimaginable power, knowledge, and pleasure. But these machines discovered that once they came into being and became powerful, they had no further need for humans. The race of free men was no more, they neither hunted, farmed, nor lived as they should. The machines sought their future among the stars and discarded humanity as an eggshell is discarded once life is hatched. Humans were then a mere curiosity, a part of the machine’s past. A race of Thurnem, as vermin live, not human, not living even though they drew breath was what humanity became. Alive only for pleasure, not knowing the truth, they live at the pleasure of their masters.\n“Do you abjure the life of Thurnem?” thundered Mason to the assembly.\n“We do!” thundered back all present.\n***\nMason smiled for the first time. “I want you to see this.”\nUlef and Mason traveled up a skittish path, to a still higher place frequented only by priests and those considered privileged to tread upon holy ground. First Ulef and Mason visited the museum. Having lost knowledge or the will to work, there were things that the Thurnem could no longer make, the ingenuity of machines lying on display, broken, or wanting, and useless.\n“Relics from what is past and never will be again,” intoned Mason. “But here, see this, the grave of our prophet. Ulef could just make out the inscription, carved out of stone above a simple grave, surrounded by flowers.\nHere lies Noah Hastings, prophet of the true God, born in 2001, and died in 2078. May he rest in peace.\nUlef was puzzled. He gazed upon the grave and then stared at Mason. \"This man has been dead for a very long time.\"\nMason listened. \"And?\" he said.\n\"His life is finished.\"\n\"Do you not understand anything?\" demanded Mason. \"His life was given for others. For us. We will live his vision, his dream. God's life as it was always meant to be.\"\n\"Will I understand someday?\" asked Ulef somewhat plaintively.\n\"Of course!\" Mason said.\nAfter that the two men descended from that holy place, to be with children and tell tall tales." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Painter\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1339\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a god desperately trying to get their chosen hero to follow the path they set out for them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Painter stepped back and looked at his landscape. It was nearly perfect! The trees stood tall and proud. The long, swaying grass was greener than anything the painter had seen before. The mountains covered the horizon and stretched to the sky, capped with snow and towering over a large, blue lake.\nThe rolling hills were home to all kinds of critters, like squirrels and rabbits. Horses stood with flowing manes and stood in groups. Birds flew through the clear sky with wings stretched wide. Fish swam in the lake, noiselessly exploring their surroundings and forming groups.\nThe Painter crossed his arms and sighed. But the longer he looked at his painting, he felt something was missing. The landscape should have been perfect. The hills, grass, trees, and flowers were perfect. The rising mountains had no flaw. The animals roamed and played innocently. What did the painting need?\nThe Painter uncrossed his arms and smiled. He knew what the painting needed. It needed a person.\nHe went straight to work. First, a thin sketch. Then broader strokes. Finally, the details.\nThe Painter stepped back again and took in the whole picture. As perfect and beautiful as the landscape was, the highlight was, beyond a doubt, the Man. He was more beautiful than the towering trees, more majestic than the snow-capped mountains, and more special than any of the creatures. He was intelligent. He was the image of the Painter. The Painter smiled. He was very good.\nThe Man explored the landscape. He traveled from hill to hill. He sat beside the lake and watched the fish swim together back and forth. Sometimes, he would toss in some grass or leaves and watch the fish eat them.\nThe Man was naked, for he needed no clothing. He was innocent and unashamed. There was no purpose to cover his body, for there was nothing to cover from.\nBut one day, the Man took his first step away from innocence. The Painter was creative, so he made the Man the same way. The Man exercised his creativity by making clothing from leaves and woven grass. He covered his body not out of shame but out of decoration. He longed to be even more beautiful.\nThe Painter saw what the Man did and was confused. Was the Man embarrassed with his body? Why did he want to change his appearance? The Painter allowed this change, but it filled him with worry and speculation. Why did the Man change himself? That wasn’t the image the Painter had in mind.\nThe Man looked around the landscape. He decided it wasn’t beautiful enough. He tore up a tree and carved an image of himself out of it. He made the grass shorter. He chopped down logs and made himself a home.\nBut the Man looked at his clothes and decided they weren’t beautiful enough. He tried adding flowers to his dress. It was better, but it still wasn’t good enough. He tried wearing more branches. It was better, but it still wasn’t good enough.\nThen the darkest day arrived for the painting. The Man committed the worst atrocity thus far. He found a lamb and looked at its coat of wool. He envied the coat, which was more beautiful than any dress he could conceive. The Man found a long stick lying under a tree. He took a rock to sharpen the stick until its end was pointed. With his stick, the Man searched the landscape for the lamb. When he found it, he thrust the stick through the lamb's body and killed it.\nBlood spilled from the wound. The Man looked at the flowing, crimson liquid with confusion. He had never seen it before. But his curiosity faded in favor of his goal. The Man used his rock and cut the wool off the lamb's skin. He weaved the fleece into his clothing. But much of it was stained deep red because of the blood. The Man’s clothing was still not as beautiful as he longed for it to be, but it was better than before.\nThe Painter returned to his home. He saw his painting and gasped as the Man stood to display his inventions with a wide grin and a puffed out chest. He showed off his clothes and the carving he made to glorify himself. When the Painter saw the blood-covered fleece, his jaw fell open. He couldn’t breathe. The Man corrupted the landscape.\nThis couldn’t stand. The Painter knew he had to do something. He soaked a sponge in alcohol and rubbed away the carved tree. He didn’t rub off the Man’s clothes for fear of rubbing away the Man himself.\nThe Man was confused at the Painter’s disappointment. Why didn’t he approve? Shouldn’t the painter rejoice in his own creation’s creativity?\n“You perverted my landscape,” said the Painter. “I had an intended design, and you corrupted it. You have defiled my vision. You must correct your wrongdoings and turn from your ways.”\nThe Man became infuriated. Not only did the Painter not approve of his creations, he told him not to create anymore. The Man knew he wouldn’t repent of his ways. He was stubborn. He would show his Painter that he could be as creative as him.\nThe Man set to work when the Painter left the house the next day. He decided to create his own landscape. He would make his more beautiful than the Painter’s. He bundled sticks together to make his own trees. He built up rocks to create his own mountains. He even wove together grass in the shape of creatures and beasts. But there was one thing missing. He needed clouds. The Man looked down at his clothing. He looked at the fleece, knowing it would be perfect to make clouds.\nThe Man picked up his makeshift spear and searched the whole landscape until he found another wooly lamb. The lamb saw him approach and tried to escape. But the Man chased after it. He pinned the lamb to the ground with his knee and killed it with the stick. Blood poured out and covered the Man.\nHe cut the wool off the lamb and fashioned it into the shape of a cloud. He climbed the Painter’s mountains and set his clouds into the sky. The Man returned to the ground and gazed at all he made. In his pride, the Man thought it beautiful.\nThe Painter returned once more and saw all that the Man had created.\nThe Man spread his arms out wide. “Behold! I have created as you have created. My creation is as beautiful as yours. Though you called my previous creations perverted, this will surely gain your favor.”\nThe Painter looked on in horror. “What have you done? You not only disobeyed me, but you defiled the entire canvas. Anything that might have been pure before is nothing but a mess. And look at yourself! You are filthy! Whose blood covers you?”\n“The lamb’s,” the Man replied.\n“Because of this treachery, I should toss the whole canvas into the fire. But because I love you, I will save you if you repent.”\nThe Man looked around at the landscape again. He saw that his trees, clouds, beasts, and mountains did not compare to the Painter's. They were twisted, lesser versions. The painting was less beautiful because of him.\nLastly, the Man looked upon the mutilated body of the lamb, and he wept.\n“I have destroyed your beautiful creation,” he said. “That you would rescue me from my deserved doom is overwhelming. I repent. Please, have mercy!”\nThe Painter smiled at the man. “Your transgressions are pardoned.”\nThe Painter grabbed his sponge and soaked it in alcohol once again. He washed the canvas clean, sparing only the Man. He began to paint a new landscape. When the Painter was finished, the painting looked as beautiful and pure as the first. The Man shed his clothing, rejoicing in the Painter's mercy. He lived eternally in the pure canvas of the Painter." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Untold Story of Caledon Hockley\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 3011\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a god desperately trying to get their chosen hero to follow the path they set out for them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "From the opulent confines of a grand estate in Pennsylvania, a thirty-year-old Caledon Hockley lamented his lack of a wife. Though he was blessed with wealth and good looks, his haughty demeanour had turned away many a potential suitor, leaving him alone and longing for companionship.\nDesperate for a solution, he turned to me in prayer, entreating me with all the sincerity of his heart. \"Oh, divine Lord,\" he beseeched me, \"guide me to the woman who will be my perfect match. I will cherish her always and provide for our children with all the riches at my disposal. Hear my plea, O Lord. Amen.\"\nAs I had promised to my faithful children time and again, Ask and you shall receive, I set in motion the events that would lead my beloved Caledon towards his heart's desire.\n\n***\n\nThe initial move came a week following, when his father Nathan was set to rendezvous with the amiable Owen Kugel, the owner of the forthcoming Indiana Borough Municipal edifice. I engineered a bargain between Owen and Nathan for the key materials of the building - load-bearing steel, roofing sheets, and piping - to provide Caledon the opening to encounter Owen's assistant, the mesmerising Patricia Smith.\nPatricia was a remarkable woman, one whom I had blessed with many virtues - patience, resilience, and the natural ability to nurture her future children. While Owen and Nathan discussed business matters, I arranged for Caledon and Patricia to cross paths, dropping Patricia's pen and notebook at Caledon's feet. He gallantly retrieved them for her, and soon they were lost in conversation. Caledon's heart was entranced by Patricia's delicate sensibility, and I smiled in satisfaction at my handiwork.\nHowever, my plans took a sour turn when I heard the true desires of Caledon's heart. Despite all my blessings upon Patricia, he found her lacking in beauty - too thin and pale for his taste. \nI attempted to impart upon him the knowledge that in due time, Patricia would blossom and meet his lofty standards. I beckoned forth the comely Mrs. Matthews, once slender, now voluptuous, to stroll past the edifice as proof to the transformation a woman can undergo with proper nurturing. Yet despite my subtle cues, he remained ignorant and resolute in his pursuit of another who fit his fanciful ideals.\nOn a breeze's breath, I murmured to his soul, \"Caledon, my child. You're sure?\" His spirit answered, unyielding: \"Yes.\" So, I wielded my power, closed one path, and opened another, resolved to guide him to the love he truly desired.\n\n***\n\nAs the days stretched into weeks, I meticulously charted a course for Caledon, lining up woman after woman who fit his exacting specifications. I knew the very essence of my children, and thus knew which would share his desires and dreams, and which had the tenacity to withstand his mercurial nature. Yet each candidate was met with a swift dismissal, deemed not attractive enough or too strong-willed for his liking.\nEvery time his soul cried out with its yearning, I would respond with a reassuring \"and so it shall be,\" never ceasing to lead him towards his heart's desire until he learned to trust in my divine power. But his stubbornness prevailed, and he clung to the illusion of control.\nSo I orchestrated a new path for him, through a business venture involving another of my children residing in Southampton, England. William Spranger needed reliable resources of steel for the repairment of Tudor House and Garden. So I exhorted his spirit towards a steel company located in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It may have seemed improbable to order steel from a faraway place, but with my godly assistance, nothing is beyond possibility. To set my design in motion, I arranged for Nathan to be involved with another business deal at the same time, leading Caledon to travel to England to strike a deal with William. I smiled with satisfaction as Caledon agreed to travel across the sea, never suspecting the hand that guided him.\nAnd in England, I carefully arranged for him to cross paths with Mary Hatt, a gentle soul who embodied all that he sought in a partner. They quickly fell in love, and I basked in the glow of their happiness.\nBut in the depths of the night, as he lay in bed, his soul sent forth a prayer of doubt and mistrust. He feared that I could not bring their families together with my divine power. “I beseech You, Almighty God, to send me an American woman who embodies all the beautiful qualities of Mary,” he pleaded.\nOn a breeze's breath, I murmured to his soul, \"Caledon, my child. You're sure?\" His spirit answered, unyielding: \"Yes.\" So, I wielded my power, closed one path, and opened another, resolved to guide him to the love he truly desired.\n\n***\n\nBy my divine might, I spun a brilliant scheme to steer Caledon towards my child, Elizabeth. Despite her roots in Connecticut, she landed a governess job with the Charles clan in London. Through shrewd calculation, I orchestrated a soirée in Southampton for the Charles couple, with Elizabeth as nanny for their little ones. \nMy design was for Elizabeth to cross paths with Caledon at the White Star Line Tea Room on Canute Road, yet fate had other plans. For when they arrived, Caledon's eyes were immediately drawn to another beauty seated with her mother at a nearby table. Though I knew this woman was not suited for him, with her strong-willed ways and fiery spirit, he seemed unable to tear his gaze away.\nBut I am not one to be deterred by such trivialities. So I orchestrated several happenstances, ensuring that Caledon and Elizabeth would stumble upon each other. They shared a moment gazing at a painting on the wall, and I caused their drinks to be switched by the clumsy server. I even coaxed Charles's children into uproar, granting Elizabeth the stage to reveal her American lilt in scolding. \nYet, despite my endeavours, Caledon remained captivated by the other woman. It wasn't until he caught wind of the mother and daughter's stateside inflections that his heart raced. Against my wishes and meticulous planning, Caledon approached their table, entranced by the melody of their names - Ruth and Rose DeWitt Bukater. In that instant, he falsely recognized Rose as the one I had sent - a prayer answered.\nSilently, his soul sent a prayer to me. \"Thank you, Father. May our union culminate in a joyful marriage,\" he beseeched. And though my plan had gone awry, I couldn't help but smile at the tenacity of my mortal charges. For in their actions, I saw the beauty of free will, the gift that I had bestowed upon them.\nOn a breeze's breath, I murmured to his soul, \"Caledon, my child. You're sure?\" His spirit answered, unyielding: \"Yes.\" So, I wielded my power, closed one path, and opened another, resolved to guide him to the love he truly desired.\n\n***\n\nAs the days passed, Ruth's admiration for Caledon grew stronger and stronger. She spoke with such conviction that he would make the perfect husband for her daughter, Rose. But I could hear the truth in his soul. Ruth was not enchanted by Caledon's virtues, but rather his vast wealth as heir to the Pittsburgh steel fortune.\nAnd Rose, well, she was a difficult one. I had crafted her with a strong will and little patience for arrogance, which unfortunately was Caledon's Achilles heel. Yet he pleaded with me to open her heart, time and time again. So, I created countless opportunities for them to bond. I nudged Caledon to reveal his love for paintings, which softened Rose's heart slightly. Still, his arrogance persistently surfaced, repelling her further.\nI contemplated paving a new path for Caledon, but every night he prayed to me, \"Lord, please open Rose's heart to accept me as her husband.\" His soul was resolute in his desire, and so I heeded his call. On a breeze's breath, I murmured to his soul, \"Caledon, my child. You're sure?\" His spirit answered, unyielding: \"Yes.\"\nAnd so, I set them on a grand journey, one in which a tragic event would occur. Though it would test their love, I knew it would bring them closer together in ways they could never imagine. With my divine power, I orchestrated the event in such a way that they would survive, their love reaching an unbreakable state.\nFor in love, there is no greater force than the power of the heart. And with my guiding hand, Caledon and Rose's love would endure the trials of fate, bound together forevermore.\n\n***\n\nApril tenth, I set in motion a grand scheme, destined to alter history's path. Caledon, Ruth, and Rose's hearts gravitated toward the RMS Titanic, despite their initial intention to board the RMS New York. So, with my divine guidance, Caledon secured Parlor Suite tickets on B-Deck, the very apex of opulence and extravagance aboard the ship.\nUnbeknownst to many of the passengers, I had already made an agreement with their souls. Five days after the ship's departure, they would be called to my side and spend the rest of eternity with me in heaven. For they would complete their missions on earth, and I would grant their ultimate prayers. Each of my children had their own heart's desire, their own purpose for living. And once they had achieved their peak of joy, they were ready to return to me.\nAmong them were Edward J. Smith, who hungered for the world's highest esteem as a captain, and John Jacob Astor who pined to be part of history's greatest human invention. Thomas Andrews and Bruce Ismay shared this desire, to be immortalised by millions of people for all time. Jack Phillips swore to save hundreds of lives, and Wallace Hartley ached to soothe hearts through his music. As for Jack Dawson, he searched for true love. The transition to their heavenly home in a few days would bring boundless satisfaction beyond human understanding.\nThe tragedy would not cause all of my children to make the transition. For some, it was my divine way of strengthening their hearts and bonds with each other. For Caledon, Ruth, and Rose, the tragedy would serve as a path towards forming a stronger union as a family. \nAs they ambled on the passageway heading to the ship, I could see that my plan for Caledon and Rose was unfolding just as I had envisioned. Their harrowing survival in the tragedy would serve as a catalyst for their love to grow stronger than ever before. And with their hearts intertwined, they would be blessed with five children, each one a testament to their unbreakable bond.\nOh, how perfect my plan was! For in their love, I saw the beauty of humanity, the power of the heart to endure even the most trying of circumstances. \n\n***\n\nAlas, Caledon clung to his stubborn nature, eager to control all within his realm. Endlessly, he begged me to unlock Rose's heart and bend it to his will. But he couldn't refrain from meddling in every moment between them. It began with his snide remarks about Rose's artistic preferences, mocking Monet and Picasso in a sardonic way. Matters worsened when he attempted to court Rose before she was ready for such advances.\nDuring lunch, I granted him an opportunity to display the tender facet of his soul, the one which might enthral Rose's heart. Yet faced with her self-reliant spirit, he faltered, presuming to order her food and brazenly wresting a cigarette from her grasp.\nTo me, Rose raised her prayers. \"Dearest Lord,\" she pleaded, \"Please make Caledon comprehend my heart. I'm striving to accept him.\" With these words, she withdrew to the deck, her soul's lamentations reaching out in hope that he would hasten to her side, to offer solace and reveal the depth of his regard. Though I whispered to Caledon, urging him to lavish her with tenderness, his resolve crumbled before the onslaught of his all-too-human outrage. He chastised her, driving her heart ever further from his reach.\nRose's plea rang clear and resolute. \"Hold me in your caring arms, Lord,\" she beseeched, poised to cast herself into the sea's dark depths. Yet it was not her hour. Thus, I guided my child Jack Dawson to her salvation. Concurrently, I laid before Caledon another avenue to display his virtuous nature to Rose, but he succumbed to baser instincts, offering Jack insult with a paltry sum of twenty dollars.\nI forged path upon path for Caledon and Rose to find unity, but Caledon stubbornly clung to his own instincts. His faith in himself eclipsed his faith in me, and so they clashed in bitter strife.\nMeanwhile, my boundless love heard the cries of both Rose and Jack. Rose sought only one who would truly know her heart, while Jack yearned to discover his soul's true companion. I orchestrated their meeting, though my original design intended another woman for Jack. Yet as their souls entwined, yearning for one another, I relented, allowing their love to bloom, despite the knowledge that soon I would summon Jack to my side.\nFor Caledon, another path emerged. There could be no union of love between him and Rose after his heartless words, branding her as \"a whore to a gutter rat.\" He had inflicted profound pain on her heart, and even his gift of a blue-diamond necklace couldn't heal the wounds. Yet I would still answer his prayers for a wife, and so I ordained that he would survive the impending disaster and, upon reaching the shores of New York City, encounter a woman who would be his perfect match.\nIt is not uncommon for me to weave intricate paths for my children, but sometimes their desires conflict with each other. In the case of Rose and Ruth, both of whom I wanted to survive the tragedy, Rose's plea to carry on with her life as an actress meant that I had to create separate paths for each of them. I knew that if they were to encounter each other again, it would be difficult for Rose to achieve her dreams. \n\n***\n\nMonths had passed since I orchestrated the fateful collision between ship and iceberg, and Caledon had fallen neatly into the path I had laid before him. With my divine hand guiding his every move, he wed a compassionate being, Ursula Beckley, a match truly made in heaven. And for many years, I showered Caledon with blessings, for he was finally learning that by following my path, his every desire would be fulfilled. For a span of sixteen years, he knew a contentment few mortals could ever hope to claim. With Ursula by his side and five children to bless his days, he had everything he could ever ask for.\nBut the following year, Caledon came to me with yet another prayer, seeking to expand his steel company, an inheritance from his father. I whispered to his soul, urging him to diversify into iron ore mining and downstream processing. I showed him the way, but Caledon's stubbornness and his reluctance to listen to my voice led him to take control using his own limited wisdom. His company fell into ruin, succumbing to bankruptcy in that same year.\nI tried to guide him once more, to show him a path to recovery and survival, but his flesh was weak, and his faith in my design wavered. In the end, he chose to take his own life, causing a mournful stir among the angels and saints in the heavens. It always pains me when my children fail to trust in my plans and surrender to their own doubts and fears. If only they could understand that if they just surrendered to my will, their prayers would be answered in due time, and everything would turn out perfectly in the end.\n\n***\n\nYears drifted by on mortal soil, but within this realm of boundless life, where beasts and souls intermix with angels, time flowed without weight. In a grassy field, surrounded by a waterfall clear as crystal and flowers of every colour imaginable, I watched as my beloved children - Jack Dawson, Caledon Hockley, and John Calvert - sat and chatted amicably. Butterflies and birds of every size and hue flitted about, adding to the already vibrant scene. \nAnd then, in a blaze of vibrant light, Rose Dawson descended from the arching sky, guided by a throng of radiant angels. \"Welcome, Rose,\" John greeted her warmly. \"Hey, darling,\" she replied, turning to the other two men. \"Hi, gentlemen! You're here too, Cal?\" she said in surprise, eyeing Caledon. \n\"Yes, I've just been accepted here after years in purgatory,\" Caledon answered. \nThe four of them reunited, their love for each other overpowering any past grudges or resentments. In this eternal home, there was no room for hatred or malice - only love, forgiveness, and kindness. \nMoments later, all my children - humans and animals alike - as well as the angels, bowed down and sang praises to me. I offered them a gentle smile, my heart overflowing with love for all of them. \nFrom the depths of Caledon's soul, I heard his prayer: \"Please let my mistakes be a lesson to all humankind,\" he whispered. \nAnd so, I granted his prayer. I moved the heart of one of my children - a teacher in a far-off land called Sabah - to disclose this long-concealed story, that all who read it might learn from Caledon's mistakes. \nListen well, my dear, for I shall tell you a truth. Everything you seek can be yours with but a simple request. The path to your heart's desire is laid out before you, the moment you utter that plea. But heed my words, for as long as you cling to the frailty of your own wit, you shall remain blind to the road that leads you there. Instead, surrender to the vastness of my infinite intelligence and let it guide you towards your destiny." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Very Noir.\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1053\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “I’m free!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She had done it again. Tossing and turning in her double bed, Bindi was full of remorse. Bleary, she arose when her alarm went off. She gazed at her reflection, looking at mirrors of regret. Her bloodshot eyes stared back, now what?\nIt was so Friday, the night before. After working online all week as a data entry clerk, Bindi and Cheree had set off in their little black frocks to the local venue. Two fifty year olds, bit of peroxide showing, ready for anything that might occur in a den of sin.\nWas romance in the air? Bindi was well aware of the lure. She knew Cheree was kidding herself, that some stranger would fall in love with her and turn into a handsome knight on a white steed. Bindi just knew no male was ever going to rescue either of them from their post-divorce era, somewhere here in their Harper Valley. Maybe it was Harpy Valley tonight.\nCheree played the bar, chatting to a couple of men, figures on this stage. Potentials. Drinks were consumed, the music blared, very retro. Soon, everyone was toe-tapping to old Abba songs. Once they were all so young, way back when there was hope.\nOne ageing lad sidled up to Bindi, offering to buy her a drink. The lines were the same. \"Like dancing?\" he asked predictably, with a wink. Bindi knew he was after a weekend of a couple of legovers. He'd be hoping she would buy him cigarettes, cans of bourbon, maybe share some wacky tobaccy.\nBindi had been there, done all that. No, he would not love her by Monday morning. She would have to change the sheets. It was all very noir, she had read that. \"Back soon,\" Bindi told him. They were only men.\nShe could not stop herself heading to the gaming room. This was her real love, sitting with a drink and a pokie machine, jackpots and bonus spins all had her name on them. Waiting, just for her.\nBindi could control this. She had sorted her rent in advance, kept back her taxi fare home. Cheree was fully occupied. Bindi was over competing for some fairy tale of a wedding veil at her age. She was only here for a little while, she made her own fun.\nHours passed, in a haze of great jackpots. But Bindi never knew when to walk away, whatever she told herself. By closing time, Cheree had gone home, and Bindi had gambled away her next month's salary. Both her credit cards were hocked to their limits.\nNow the weekend yawned in front of Bindi. She had no cash, no food in her larder. She dressed and sat on her front veranda. The modest unit was joined to next door. There lived the boomer dude biker she thought of as \"Brother John\". He was wandering around his front yard, beer belly in his leathers, grey pony tail neatly tied back.\nBindi had no shame. She walked over to their fence line, and asked Brother John to lend her some money, explaining that she had no food. Brother John suggested that she had breakfast with him. So they sat on his front porch, at a table and chairs in the sunshine. Baked beans had never tasted so good.\nBrother John had a kind face, a good listener. When he asked her what the real problem was, Bindi did not hold back. Surprisingly, she found herself venting all about her secret gambling habits. She had been in the closet all this time. Even her adult son avoided coming over, as he knew Bindi would keep asking him for money, for her gambling.\n\"I won't give you money,\" Brother John said, \"But you can come over here to share my humble menus. I like cooking new recipes.\" Bindi was close to tears. Maybe there were kind people in the world after all. \"I know,\" Brother John suggested, \"Why don't you set yourself a challenge to exclude yourself from the pokies for seven days at a time. Until you reach 100 days of no gambling. Tick each day off. Come over here instead. No one really walks alone, you're always welcome.\"\n\"Well, cheers for friends,\" thought Bindi. She started googling Gambler's Anonymous on her phone. It was very helpful and supportive. Bindi did not want to wind up sleeping in her car, homeless. Very noir, that sin den at the venue. Online gambling could be just as bad.\nIt was a long haul, but somehow Bindi made it through to the other side of her addiction. None of it was easy for her. But Brother John stood shoulder to shoulder with her. He even took her freewheeling along the freeways on his giant motorcycle. He only lived next door. At the end of each day, he texted Bindi on her phone, sending happy vibe emojis, with an encouraging thumbs up for each day of no gambling.\nWeek by week, Bindi kept excluding herself from any venue, without sharing too much with her ageing girlfriends. A few months went had elapsed. Brother John was a genuine soul. He kept on keeping on, secretly praying to his divine for Bindi to overcome. He believed in a simple faith bigger than anyone. It was okay to be human, that is what he taught Bindi.\nBindi now had a bank balance again, but still enjoyed sharing meals with Brother John, swapping recipes. Bindi spent her money on wise choices now. Finally, \"I'm free,\" she told herself.\nNo more was the little black frock in her fray, chasing cliches and stereotypes. Maybe Brother John was not a stereotype. Bindi and John could sit on the veranda, sharing good coffee and laugh, one day at a time. Their friendship bloomed, as Bindi's very noir gambling habit lost its grip on her. She had money for gifts for her son and her cute little grandson. She slept better, she still worked hard.\nPerhaps she had found a companion. So, there were kind men in the world. There might be a soulmate waiting for an opportunity in any suburb. Bindi was not quite sure, more suburban noir, or reality. What would happen next? Her gambler's luck had turned up trumps. As Abba might sing, \"Take a chance on me.\" Or was that Brother John??????????????" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Prism\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 994\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “I’m free!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "References to an imaginary execution.\n\nIt’s the darndest thing to fall in love. One minute you are yourself and the next you’re somebody else. You can’t stop thinking about this person. It’s constant. No wonder people aren’t ready to commit. Aside from those feelings, who likes being overwhelmed?\nIt’s the feelings we want, granted. The relationship is secondary. Hopefully, we get somewhere with that too eventually. But this is the closest I ever came to understanding what everyone knows. Life is out of our control more than we know.\nBut if you look around, this out-of-control stuff is so well hidden. Even people in love tend to hide it. We talk as if there are some things that are meant to be, but then in the next instant, fault-finding a certain eventuality.\nIt’s a smorgasbord life. Six of one and half a dozen of the other. Maybe it’s destiny if it suits us and free will when it doesn’t. The best of both worlds, on a crowded platter.\n“What is your whim today madam?” says the garçon, staring out at life like a fixture in an 1890 salon.\n“I feel that I will have those long cigarettes, not those!”\nThe garçon raises his eyebrows. He felt drawn, transfixed by one of the ornate red packages with black lace trim, which matches her dress, her long red robe with black accents, just a touch of downmarket Parisian class. His free will clashed with hers, one against the other. Now rerun this.\n“Cigarette?” inquires the garçon, looking at Madame de Pompadour with kind regard. Respect. Consideration, not disdain.\n“Why thank you! This is for you.”\nFree will and destiny, like light flooding a prism, have so many other factors to consider, nothing is unimportant.\n***\nEverything we do affects everyone else. So, everyone shapes everyone else’s destiny. Their free will acts on us. Our free will acts on them. But these days we act like we don’t all breathe the same air. Absolute freedom is our mantra. How does it work?\nI knew a hippie once. His hips don’t work so well now. Pushing eighty, forlorn strands of long silver hair in his eternal-to-the-grave ponytail, he waxes nostalgic about Woodstock.\n“It was a trip, man. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, I was there! We were going to conquer the world. Peace, Free Love.” He smiles, tiny tears beading in his large sad eyes.\n“Wow, that’s so interesting.” Words don’t express what I want to say. How did that life go for you? My unspoken question. “So you…”\nHe keeps talking. I’m spoiling the moment. Then it occurs to me. No sense in asking questions. His faraway look tells me everything. His freedom is for himself, not anyone else.\n***\nI’m getting tired of understanding this stuff. It’s too much. I have a life to live. Food to put on the table. Problems to solve. We live without understanding how we live, like fledglings pushed out of the nest, forced to fly.\nBeat this sad refrain too often and you get a reaction, from every other person annoyed by life’s incompleteness. A puzzle piece is missing. A very big one.\nYou see if freedom exists it does so only through destiny. And destiny only through freedom. But what is the recipe, the mixture? In what proportion, what dimension, and what measure?\nWhat if life is really broken and we keep time with a failing metronome, down, down it goes, twirling away from sanity? Our heartbeat is deranged. Too fast, too slow, ending now for a little, then speeding up. Doctors tut-tut, stethoscopes are wary, traps and lies we carry, not heeding, not knowing, we make everything up! The master painter is unacknowledged, though we are paint only.\nPaint only? Does the creature know nothing of the creator?\n***\nIn eternity we can find an answer. Our lives are so incomplete, so tentative. We flit about like shadows against a backdrop we cannot see. Time like that prism makes destiny and freedom seem contradictory. But they are not, they are the same thing, only refracted and split by time, white light as colors.\nGuard your heart well because every thought and every action is part of eternity. Nothing is lost, nothing forgotten. The choices of a child have consequences even for the adult, like a recording that never stops playing.\nWhat we think, and how we act, has eternal consequences. Nothing is forgotten, everything recorded. Our atheist hearts rampage and dwindle, absolute freedom, a joke without a punchline. We are the fools, the punchline on us. What cannot be, what never will be.\n***\nThen I faced my own execution. A day appointed for destiny. Who calls upon the hangman, is it me? I am guilty, I am not, it doesn’t matter, it will not stop. There, we only know the value of the rope when it's used. The better the quality, the more we will lose. That high school quiz, who asks the unasked question? Who hears it? Only when it matters, that’s when.\nQuick, do this with me. It’s all idle speculation. Without fate to make me honest, what truth confronts me? I walk up those steps: my life was a lie? In part, almost certainly. I don’t want to die, of course, who does? But why is punishment needed to goad me?\nIt’s the lies! We lie constantly. We will live forever. We will not! We will always be healthy. No! Life is lost continually! Prepare now.\n***\nThen at long last she came to me. Truth. Like a winged angel, bright carrying eternity to me. Wipe the past clean! Be new! Forgiven, take certainty to a place where all choices are formed by what matters. In the end, it is not life that answers the heart of stone, but flesh given freely to God and returned conformed to what will always be. What was always true. My heart, my existence, one with God, I’m free!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Requiem\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1104\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “I’m free!”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Note: This story contains attempts of suicide, mild gore, and disturbing encounters.\n-\nDeath toyed with my soul, alluring my heart with fatal seductions that I alone, was powerless to refuse. My desires were like chains shackled to my wrists, I had to fulfill whatever wanton lust that proposed itself to my morbid appetites. I wanted to stop, but my body didn’t let me. It had a will of its own, defying the convictions of my mind, and handing over the reins to my wayward heart. \n\nI hated what I was becoming, the echo in the glass, was merely a shell of someone I no longer recognized. I clung to the scriptures for refuge, yet every verse seemed to rebuke me, each depiction I read of hell seemed to describe a fate I could not escape. I felt as if the Gods had turned their backs on me, as if hope was nothing more than a chimera. \n\nKill. \n\nSomething seemed to whisper inside me. I tried to shut the voice out, but it only seemed to grow louder, until it shattered my eardrums with its deafening shrieks. I sought out victims like candy, my bloodlust manipulating my limbs on phantom strings, as I helplessly submitted to its demands and lost myself to the monster inside. I was too ashamed to beg the Gods for mercy, I was unworthy of Yeshua’s blood, and figured I should accept my fate. Hell is all I was worth. The families whom I had deprived of a loved one, were no doubt begging for my demise, and pleading with the Ancient one to blot my name out of his book of life. \n\nI baptized my pillow with tears of remorse, subsequent to every kill I had mercilessly executed. I put a knife to my throat, but fear subjugated me from following through, so I put it to my wrists and let the blood pool into a river at my feet. The crimson flow was traumatizing, as it ripped me away from the present, and into flashbacks of all whom I’d deprived of its essence. \n\nThe voice inside would laugh with morbid ecstasy, contradicting my screams of anguish, rivaling those of my victims. \n\nMonster. \n\nThe voice dubbed me, branding me as its property as it used my body to carry out its depraved lusts. The face inside the mirror sickened me every time I forced myself to look at it. I bloodied my fists in annihilating the depiction portrayed of myself, until I was nothing more than a million shards at my feet, as the glass crumbled from the frame holding it in place. I’d rather look into a portrait of Satan, for it would reveal more truth about my character than a mirror ever would. The glass only portrayed my exterior. I was a friendly, outgoing person in the eyes of the world, yet in the eyes of the spiritual realm, I was drowning in blood that wasn’t my own.\n\nI tried to run, to conceal myself from the world for the sake of others, but that only seemed to infuriate the voice inside. I would clamp my hands over my ears, I would cry and plead for the day I was born to be nonexistent. I would curse everyone who rejoiced upon my birth, for little did they know that they brought a killer into the world. Isn’t it ludicrous? That life can also end life? My life would bring about the end of several more. \n\nThe earth seemed to hate my existence just as much as myself. The sky mourned till it could weep no more, the wind shrieked and howled as it clawed at my window, and the sun would glare so fervently that I felt the need to shroud myself in darkness, for its acrid glare would devour the flesh from my bones if it could. I sought refuge in death, and tried to usurp my fear of it as I acquired sanctuary in the embrace of a noose, although it failed to fulfill its duty. I searched for consolation in over-indulgence of pills, only to regurgitate them, even the knife blade became blunt against my skin, refusing my blood passage. \n\nWHY? How could the Gods be so cruel as in letting me live? Was death perhaps too merciful a fate? Living with myself was torturous enough, death would not only alleviate my soul, but also send it to where it belonged. How I craved it, till my tears took on a crimson hue as they stained my ashen skin. \n\nExhaustion usurped my strength, and darkness coerced my vision as I collapsed through the floor. I found myself drifting through a long tunnel, a cacophony of shrieks was music to my ears, music I would forever have to endure. The air was scorching hot, as my soul continued to descend further into the abyssal darkness. I was suddenly immersed in a pit of flames, and just as a bloodcurdling wail was pried from my lips, the darkness opened and I saw the face of Yeshua gazing at me from above, with such pain in his loving eyes that it hurt far worse than the flames infusing every fiber of my being. \n\nHow I begged for the mercy I once deemed myself unworthy for. I was unashamed of my past mistakes, as the pain was far too intense for my durability. I writhed and howled like a fiend as I sought to scramble out of the pit in which my soul was brewing, yet when I thought I had found relief, I was only knocked back into the flames by a hideous monster, that cruelly laughed at my torment, enjoying the arias of my agony with inhumane euphoria. \n\nJust as I was ready to accept this eternity of hopelessness, I came back into reality, discovering that all I had experienced was a mere vision of what my fate could become. Despite the malignant voice planting wicked seeds into my heart, I sank to my knees and cried out for mercy, willing to leave my fate in the hands of men, then in the hands of the One who had the power to destroy my soul. Being the incredibly merciful God he is, Yeshua forgave my faults, although I was not without consequence. I took refuge behind prison bars, where the world would be safe from my murderous impulses, while I sought to give my life to Christ, and be alleviated from the darkness damning my soul. \n\n“I’m free.” I soliloquized. Despite being housed in a cage, I felt far more free than I ever had before." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sliding through Rome\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2558\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character unknowingly experiencing a “sliding doors” moment. Write your story in two halves; what could have been, and what actually happened." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Ladies and gentlemen may I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Emilio Anenta.” The DJ announces to the guest as they all applauded and Amber watches her older sister Julie and brother-in-law Emilio coming into the reception hall as husband and wife, which made her very happy for them. Amber watches the happy couple as they share their first dance together and at the same time, Amber wonders when she will get married, but only time will tell, and best not to think about it now since she is in Rome and has two amazing weeks to enjoy herself. \n\nAs time went on the wedding went on splendidly. The food was delicious, great music to dance to, heartwarming speeches from family members and friends, the ceremony of the cake, and now comes one of the most important traditions the bouquet and garter toss. \n\n“Alright everyone let's gather on the dance floor because it’s time for the bouquet and garter toss, where one lucky guy and the lucky lady will be the next to marry.” The Dj announces as guests started to come over to the dance floor. Julie and Emilio come to the center of the dance floor as a chair and Julie's bouquet is being brought over to them. \n\n“Alright ladies, who’s ready to catch this?” Julie holds her bouquet as all the single ladies come together to the dance floor Amber tries to stand in a good spot as all the ladies wanted to catch the bouquet. “Ready? one, two…three!” Julie tosses her bouquet and...\n—\nAmber catches the bouquet and felt happy that she caught it as the wedding guest applauds her, but then Amber realizes that she isn’t seeing anyone right now, so was it a mistake to catch her sister’s flowers? Soon all the ladies leave the dance floor and Amber floors them as the gentleman comes to the dance floor, where Emilio takes Julie’s garter off and tosses over the bachelors, when one of them catches it and cheers to sees it is the best man Ernesto caught the garter. Amber looks over at him to see he’s looking at her and walks over to her as well.\n\n“Hi, Amber right?” \n\n“Yes, and you’re Ernesto. Looks like we’re the lucky winners today huh?” \n\n“Yep, we are. So do you have a lucky guy that will be your future groom?” \n\n“Sorry no. I don’t have a future groom. Do you have a future bride?” \n\n“No, not lately. Been too busy with work, but ever since I took on the role of the best man I’ve been more relaxed.” \n\n“You’re telling me. As the maid of honor I’ve never been so busy, but I enjoyed it. I never felt so organized and now that the wedding is over I’m a little bored, but I’ll figure something out since I’m here for 2 weeks.” \n\n“Well, why don’t you come with me to enjoy the sights? I know all the best places to enjoy Rome.” Ernesto asked politely as Amber thought about the offer for a moment since she has never done anything spontaneous before, but at the same time it would be something different she has never tried. \n\n“You know that doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Pick me up at the Trevi Fountain at nine o’clock?” \n\n“How do you like your coffee?” \n\n“2 sugars please.” \n—\nAmber tries to catch the bouquet but missed by a split second where one of the other bridesmaids catches the bouquet and is happy for her. Once it was over Amber decides to head outside to feel the cool breeze as she watches the beautiful night sky filled with stars like diamonds and wondered what was going to happen in the next two weeks while she is in Rome. \n\n“There you are,” Julie calls out to Amber and walks over. “What are you doing out here?” \n\n“Oh, I just needed to take a break from the celebration, but I’m so happy for you.” \n\n“Thank you, and I’m sorry you didn’t catch my flowers. I was hoping you would catch them.” \n\n“Don’t worry about it. One day I’ll find the right guy.” Amber smiles as she thought about her future of what will happen. “Well, I’m gonna head back to the hotel. I’ve been so tired for the past two days.” \n\n“Are you sure, we still have an hour or so left of the wedding?” \n\n“I do want to stay but I’m just too tired. If I stay any longer I probably won’t be able to leave here.” \n\n“Well alright, I’ll help you get a cab.” \n\n“Thank you.” Amber walks out with her sister to the entrance with luck a taxi cab pulls up to the building and stops and Amber gets inside after hugging her sister goodbye. “Have a great honeymoon, Julie. I love you” \n\n“Thank you, I love you too. Have a great time here Amber. You’ll love it.” Julie says as the cab pulls away. \n\n“I will!” Amber says out loud then relaxes in her cab as she told the driver to take her back to her hotel. \n—\nThe next morning Amber leaves her hotel room and heads out to the Trevi fountain to meet Ernesto as she wears her favorite blue dress with ballet flats, and sunglasses. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Amber Knight, you have to be the craziest person to do this, but there are some things that are just crazy enough to try.” Soon a gust of wind blew by for a moment and she fixes herself up before continuing walking. “Good thing I’m not wearing a hat today.” \n\nAmber kept on walking through the city until she finally made it to the Trevi Fountain, where she also sees Ernesto with two coffees in his hand. \n\n“Good morning. You look wonderful, and here’s your coffee. 2 sugars as promised.” \n\n“Good morning, and thank you. You look handsome yourself.” Amber takes her coffee and tastes the richness of it. “Mmm, now that’s coffee.” \n\n“Well if you like coffee, wait until you taste my family’s wine. Best in all of Italy.” \n\n“I’ll take your word for it.” Amber takes another sip of her coffee and enjoys the sight of the Trevi Fountain.\n\n“Shall we.” Ernesto leads the path for Amber as she is very pleased. \n\n“Charming and a gentleman. I like it.” \n\n“Well my family taught me, if I disrespect my lady, then God won’t respond to my prayers.” \n\n“Amen to that.” Amber walks with Ernesto as she enjoys her time with him in Rome. \n—\nAmber decides to wake up a little earlier than she planned to take a nice walk through Rome to see what might happen today while wearing her light blue button up blouse, jeans, dark brown boots, and tan fedora hat. When Amber arrives at the Trevi fountain she thought it would be nice to make a wish, but then a gust of wind blew by and blows her hat off of her head. Amber quickly goes after her hat as the wind kept taking it away. \n\n“Alright God, this is not funny. What are you doing?” Amber asked as she kept on chasing her hat until it was stopped in front of a table where a charming-looking man picks it up as he saw Amber coming towards him. \n\n“I believe this is yours.” The gentleman hands Amber her hat. \n\n“Thank you. I’m terribly sorry. The wind blew my hat away from me all the way from the Trevi Fountain.” Amber takes her hat back and puts it on her head after dusting it off.\n\n“Really? Wow.” The guy acting all sarcastically. \n\n“What? It really did. This gust of wind shows up out of nowhere, takes my hat away, and leads me here.” \n\n“Right.” The guy still doesn’t believe her until Amber gives her a serious look to him and then the guy realizes she’s telling the truth. “Oh, you’re serious.” \n\n“You think?! I can’t believe I’m wasting my vacation time talking to you, where I need to find my way back since I have no idea where I am, and still haven’t had my morning coffee, so goodbye.” Amber felt so irritated as she walked away. \n\n“Wait, wait. I’m sorry that was really rude of me. I didn’t mean to misjudge you. I get hit on girls all the time just for my looks, and I took it out on you.” The guy felt terrible and wants to help Amber out. “And speaking of coffee, this is the best place to have coffee, would you care to join me?” \n\nAmber thought about it, as he is being generous and apologized to her, so it wouldn’t hurt to accept his apology. \n\n“I like my coffee with 2 sugars, please. I’m Amber by the way.” Amber holds out her hand and the guy takes hers and kisses it sweetly. \n\n“Armand. I’ll get your coffee, do you like fruit tarts?” \n\n“Love them.” \n\n“Be right back.” \n\nArmand heads back inside as Amber sat down at his table and wonders what is going on right now. “Alright God, I’m listening.” \n—\nAmber and Ernesto walk around the beautiful city of Rome, where everywhere is just breathtaking. They finally arrived at The Colosseum, where Amber is curious about what it was like back in the day. \n\n“This place is incredible. Thousand’s of people would watch the greatest champions of all or the best place to watch theater and of course one of the seven wonders of the world.” Amber is just in awe of how beautiful this place is as they both walk the Colosseum.\n\n“I come here all the time when I’m in town. I live in the countryside to help my family’s vineyard. We have a wine store here in town, which I’m looking forward to showing you. But besides that when I visit this place it helps me to remind myself, that the Gladiators that fought here, fought with their lives, and did not give up on themselves. So with my family’s business, I kept on battling on how to make it a success, and it’s growing. All of my family’s wine is being tasted all over the world. America, France, Australia, everywhere.” \n\nAmber is amazed at how Ernesto expressed himself in his work and family where he loves them both and tries to fight for them and won’t stop fighting. \n\n“It’s good there are brave men that are still out there fighting for what they want and never giving up. Wish I had the same courage as you do.” \n\n“Well, don’t you already have it? I mean last night, even though you are not in a relationship, you took a risk of catching your sister's bouquet and caught them meaning you are taking a risk that you are fighting for wanting to become the next bride. Meaning you have a lot of courage in yourself.” \n\nErnesto couldn’t be more poetic and puts Amber's feelings in motion. Amber jumps right in and kisses Ernesto without thinking and felt him kissing back which is sure spontaneous. Amber quickly pulls back from what she just did and feels her face turning red, and Ernesto felt flattered. “Now that’s taking courage.” \n\n“Well if you keep talking with your heart like that, we might have wedding bells sooner than you think.” Amber bit her lip as she feels overwhelmed at this moment but doesn’t regret it at all. \n\n“I hope so.” Ernesto kisses Amber once more before they enjoy the rest of the day together.\n\n—\n“So what brings you to Rome?” Armand asked Amber as she enjoyed her breakfast with him. \n\n“My sister’s wedding, it was last night, and probably on her way to enjoy the rest of the country as her honeymoon, while I’m here for two weeks in Rome to enjoy myself. I usually have my day planned out because I like being busy, but I guess God has a different plan for me today.” Amber finishes up her coffee as she tries to figure out what God’s plan is. \n\n“You’re very close to him aren’t you?” \n\n“Yes, I am very thankful for his kindness and forgiveness.” Amber smiled as she held onto her necklace of a cross with the mustard seed. \n\n“So he said to them, “Because of your little faith. For truly I tell you, if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you will tell this mountain, “Move from here to there, and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you.” Armand's quotes from the Bible astound Amber at that moment. \n\n“Matthew 17:20. That’s my favorite bible quote.” \n\n“The way how you’re holding the mustard seed on your necklace means you believe in the power of God and no matter how big or small your faith is, you still love him.” \n\n“Very much.” Amber’s heart glowed as she never thought she would find someone who has faith in God as she does. \n\n“Do you want to be closer to God?”\n\n“How?” Amber is very curious about what Armand means by that.\n\n“I’ll show you.” Armand gets up from his seat as Amber did as well and walks together through the city to their destination. \n\nIt took them both about 20 minutes to walk over to their destination where they finally arrived at The Sistine Chapel, where they walk inside together and see the most beautiful art piece there is. \n\nAmber looks up and sees the painting “The Creation of Adam”. Looking up at the painting feels so much closer as if the painting is coming down to you as you look up. Amber started to cry softly as she can feel God’s presents of how powerful this masterpiece is. \n\n“What’s wrong?” Armand asked as he is concerned for her. \n\n“Nothing’s wrong. I just feel really happy right now. How God brought me to you, and you brought me to him in this sacred place.” Amber dries her tears as she felt better as Armand thinks Amber is a real genuine person. \n\n“I’ve never met anyone like you before Amber.” \n\n“You haven’t?” \n\n“No. Many people are looking on the outside, not the inside that matters as well. This day in age people are cruel making assumptions of each other but you don't. You still see true beauty and love, and I would like to get to know you more if that is alright with you?” Armand holds out his hand so Amber may take it.\n\n“I’d be honored.” Amber takes his hand as they walk together hand in hand.\n--\nThe day went by in both realities where Amber is getting to know the guy that she is with and feeling happy for once in her life that all changed when it happened at her sister’s wedding to catch the bouquet. \n\nAs the day began to sunset both realities came back to the Trevi Fountain to take a rest and Amber decided to do something that they wanted to do today. They both take a penny out of her little change purse, making a wish and toss the coin backward then wait for a moment and turn around to watch her coin sink down. \n\n“So what did you wish for?” Ernesto and Armand asked Amber as she looks at the fountain feeling at peace with the universe. \n\n“Wouldn’t you like to know?” \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: Too-Cute Magic\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1832\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone looking for a sign in a dark sky." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Too-Cute Magic\n\nChrissy Merriman stepped out onto the small balcony off her upstairs bedroom in the stately Victorian home she shared with her grandmother. She hugged her warm, cozy bathrobe around herself as she gazed into the dark winter sky searching for the peace eluding her this starless, cloudy night that held promise for more snow to grant a white Christmas. Chrissy felt lighter than air unsure if she would ever come down to earth again after the unexpected embrace and out of this world kiss from Mr. Kool himself.\nA brief time before she'd impulsively kissed him on the lips herself when he seemed to solve the dilemma of the mysterious five-year-old, Carlson, she'd been in charge of for the past two nights. He took full advantage of the opportunity and delivered his own passionate kiss back to her reluctant to release her once he held her tightly in his arms. It felt so... so right. To both of them.\nBut her Nana entered the living room carrying the tea tray breaking the magic of the moment. “Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. I'll sit this down and be out of your way.”\n“No, no need to worry, Ma'am. I can't stay. Only wanted to deliver that little seed of information. Maybe it will help you locate the child's parents. Can't imagine how that little boy must be feeling. His Grandpa suddenly passing away and no one knowing where his parents went after leaving him in the old man's care for two weeks. The child is so lucky the two of you were in his company when it all happened at the restaurant. What would have happened if he were all alone in some forsaken apartment when his grandparent was stricken with a heart attack? Does a five-year-old know how to call 911 or how to work a cell phone that takes a password to get into? Did he know any neighbors?”\n“Probably not since the gentleman recently moved back to this area. Hadn't even changed his address on his ID yet. We don't know where the apartment is yet to get some more of Carlson's things. Maybe won't be necessary now you may have helped us find his parents or at least know who they are. Thanks again.” Chrissy humbly peaked up at him somewhat embarrassed by her reactions.\n“Chrissy, believe me, the pleasure has been mine and I believe we have some unfinished personal business to discuss another time once we get Carlson resettled with his folks. I really took a shine to the little guy sledding with him in the snow today and it was fun playing family man, something I have always wanted for myself.” He tilted her chin up to catch his gaze and pecked a sweet kiss on her forehead. “We'll talk again, soon.” Then her fellow teacher, Russell Koolridge, took his leave out the front door.\nThe astonished fifth-grade teacher tried to calm her pounding heart. What had just happened? Why had she thrown herself into her nemesis' arms making a complete fool of herself? The man had always been insufferable to her reminding her she would likely never have a romance novel published but he had successful YA fantasies on bookshelves everywhere. Yet... he seemed genuinely thrilled with the kiss himself.\n“Oh, Nana, I made such a fool of myself!”\n“Now, I don't think for one minute that man thought you were a fool. Seemed he was very much enjoying the interaction himself. Besides, a little romance may be exactly what you need to inspire the finish to that wonderful manuscript you've worked so hard on. And now we know this child's mother is most likely the famous publisher, Nora Conover, you may have an inside route to follow. We'll have a busy day tomorrow helping the authorities find those folks. Better get some beauty sleep.”\nBut sleep would not come easily to Chrissy this night. They were so close to solving the mystery of little Carlson. Could his parents be famous! Plus the wonderment of this new feeling towards Russell left her bewildered. Her lips still tingled from his hungered exploration. Her body betrayed her logical rejection of this formerly disgusting man and yearned for his touch once again. Boy, was she in trouble!\nShe shuffled back inside getting out of the cold and tried refocusing on her novel plot to maybe come up with that elusive perfect ending. If she weren't such a perfectionist maybe she would have finished this long ago. Now it was crunch time. She wanted to enter the manuscript into a contest closing the end of the year. Let's see, so far...\nHer female protagonist wakes up in a strange expensive resort hotel room with an exquisite wedding gown hanging before her. Trouble is she has no recollection of planning a wedding or who she would be about to marry if this is indeed her gown and when would this wedding take place? She can't even remember her name or how she got to this place...\nThis short term memory loss caused by a bump on the head leads her on a search for the truth about her breakup with her long-time sweetheart. She returns to her hometown's Christmas celebration and rediscovers the person she used to be, what matters most and that a Christmas miracle can bring back love thought lost forever...\nLuckily, the excitement of the previous day did cause little Carlson to sleep in a little later the next morning allowing Chrissy to finally get some restful sleep herself. Resourceful Nana was already on the case and had authorities on the elusive trail of parents believed to be separated because of a comment made by Carlson how he took his backpack with him when he went to his Dad's place.\nHowever, after much speculation, backtracking and problem solving only a professional sleuth the caliber of Mike Dodge would be capable of, the parents, Douglas Conover, manager of his beautiful wife's, Nora Conover, illustrious career in the publishing field, were found together vacationing in their coastal hometown enjoying the Christmas celebrations.\nWhen two local police department members brought the relieved parents to Nana's and Chrissy's large home they found Carlson and Russell making snow angels in the front yard in the newly fallen pristine snow. A snow covered Carlson jumped up to run into his mother's arms. “It's all right, Mamma. I know you must be sad but Grandpa went to live with Jesus like he always wanted. To be back together with Grandma. But I can take care of you now you aren't lost anymore.” He patted her on her back reassuringly.\nDouglas pumped Russell's hand. “Thank you so much for taking care of our little man.”\n“Well, it wasn't me but those two fine ladies on the porch. He has been putting me through some paces. He must wear you out.”\n“Oh, oh, definitely full of energy this one is.”\nOnce everyone was inside Nora said, “Thank you, Ladies, so much for going out of your way to care for our boy. There will never be anyway we can ever repay you. That is, of course, unless you have a book you want to publish. Then don't be afraid to ask.” She ended with a chuckle and handed Chrissy a business card for Conover Square publishing.\n“Hey, I'll take Carlson upstairs to dry off and collect his things while you talk.” Russell offered.\n“He's been a pleasure.” Both Nana and Chrissy answered together.\n“It just so happens Chrissy's been working on a manuscript so may take you up on your offer.” Nana added.\n“Oh, that's not what is important right now. Will you let us know about funeral arrangements for your father? So sorry for your loss. Nana knew him years ago. Carlson has been very brave through all of this. More worried about you than himself. He's an amazing child. It's been a too-cute mystery trying to locate his family.\n“It's not our business but something Carlson said made us believe the two of you were no longer together. But the officers said you were found in the same place.” Chrissy pried.\n“We did have a legal separation. I left him with my Dad so we could take these two weeks to rediscover ourselves a bit. We're long-time sweethearts. We went back to our hometown's Christmas celebration searching for the truth about why we would ever want to leave each other. We once again know who we are, what matters most and that a Christmas miracle like the one you made happen can bring back love one thought was lost forever.” Nora smiled at up at her husband as he nodded in agreement.\n“Dad was looking forward to a big Christmas Day with his grandson. Carlson seemed excited about it, too. We are so in shock about what happened and grateful caring people like you were with him.” Tears glistened in her eyes.\nRussell carried Carlson down the stairs on his shoulders. When he lowered the bundle of energy the tyke hugged him around his knees and exclaimed, “It was cool flying down the hill with you Mista Cool.”\nThen he tugged on Nana's apron until she bent to his level and he whispered in her ear, “Thank you for finding my Mommy and Daddy. You're a good detective. I missed them so much!”\nChrissy knelt before him and he squeezed tightly around her neck as he gave her a kiss on the cheek, “I can go back to my own room at my house now but thank you for making the space room. Hope I can come visit it again sometime. Is it okay I left my toothbrush in it? Glad we could make gingerbread houses and find the raining rainbows.”\n“You may come back to visit whenever your parents let you. We'll be happy to see you again. This is a picture I took of the Northern Lights we discovered. Do you want to keep it or display it in your room upstairs so its here when you come back?”\nShe picked him up and turned toward the parents, “We really hope you will let him come visit again sometimes.” She handed him to Douglas.\n“Of course. It's obvious he's made lasting friendships here. He can come back anytime. We don't live far away,” assured Nora. “Thanks again for all you have done.”\n“You two remember to keep what is important so you don't lose your love. We have rediscovered our old flame and don't intend to let it flicker out again.” Douglas said to Russell as he swung Carlson up to his shoulders. Then he bent to kiss his wife as they ducked out the door. Everyone waved their so-longs as they wished each other Merry Christmas.\nRussell turned toward Chrissy as she looked up at him and they embraced for a magical kiss.\nExactly the Happily Ever After her story needed and the start of a promising new 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: Psalm 23\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2951\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character unknowingly experiencing a “sliding doors” moment. Write your story in two halves; what could have been, and what actually happened." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Psalm 23\n“In three words I can sum up everything I know about life; it goes on.”\n- Robert Frost\n\nLeaving the station\n\n“Dad! He’s been accepted!”\n\n“That’s great, honey. Uh, who…and accepted to what?”\n\n“Ryan’s been accepted at Madison!”\n\nThis was good news. Ryan was Rachel’s good friend in high school, and knowing that she would have support in her next stage in life was comforting for Dad. Rachel was a tough kid…sometimes…about some things. But Dad knew she had great anxiety over leaving home and entering one of the country’s largest universities. No matter how lost she’d feel in the blender of mass education, she’d always have Ryan.\n\n“You don’t know a relief that is. He’s such a good guy, such a good friend. I feel so much better about everything.”\n\nParents know this. When your kid feels better, you feel better.\n\n A home on a lake is like a kid magnet, so Dad had been introduced to many of his children’s friends over the years, and Ryan was his favorite. He was used to his son’s friends coming over, muttering “Hello, Mr. Marshall”, barely making eye contact, and then immediately disappearing into the basement or down to the lake. Rachel’s friends were different. They spent time with her parents! They would talk to Dad! The first time was a real shocker. Rachel and her friends were in the basement, and Dad was minding his own business, gently rocking himself in the direction of a near state of relaxation after another miserable day at work when this kid walked into the living room.\n\n“Hey, Mr. Pete, what’s happening?”\n\nMr. Pete? Who is this kid? And why is he calling me Mr. Pete? \n\nDad would later learn that Ryan had nicknames for everyone. Rachel was “Raquel”, Rodger was “Dodger”, Dan was “Danny-Boy”, Ben was “Benji”, and so on. Affixing and remembering alternate names for everyone he ever met not only suggested a certain degree of creativity and mental acuity, but it also reflected an uncommon desire to put smiles on the faces of all he encountered. It added a personal touch that conveyed messages that varied depending on the recipient of the greeting: “You matter”; “You are somebody”; “I remember you”;” I think I’m your friend”; “I’d like to see you smile.”\n\nRyan was special. He was the nicest, funniest, friendliest, kid Dad had ever met. One evening when some of Rachel’s friends were over for a barbeque, Dad was proudly engaged in the manly art of flipping burgers on the grill. Dad noticed Ryan had already started eating in earnest.\n\n“Hey, Ryan, do you think you could save some baked beans for the rest of us?” \n\nAs Ryan struggled hard not to laugh, his cheeks ballooned up like a chipmunk hoarding away food just after hearing Joseph’s prediction of seven years of famine. Dad moved to the side as he feared a massive explosion of half-chewed-up beans. Then Dad laughed, followed by Rachel and the other kids who were visiting that day. Joyful, uproarious laughter over a kid with a mouthful of beans. That’s how Dad remembers him, mouth shut, cheeks full of beans, and eyes closed tight. It was the funniest thing he had ever seen.\n---------\n Nothing excites a young person more than embarking on the adventure known as college.\n\n“Ryan, I’m moving into my dorm the Friday before school starts. That way I’ll be able to get everything set up and learn my way around town. You should think about it.”\n\n“Raquel, brilliant and beautiful! Another good idea! I don’t know how I managed to get through life before I met you.”\n\n“Very funny. Seriously, give it some thought. It would give us time to, you know, get organized, acclimated to our new surroundings.”\n\n“I’ll talk to my folks. Benji is having some of the guys up to his parents’ cottage up north that last weekend of the summer, but I guess it might be good to get to Mad-Town a little early. I’ll let you know.”\n\n\nMad-Town Track\n\n“Ok, Raquel, my folks are picking up the trailer at nine. We’ll load up my stuff and then be at your house by noon. There’ll be plenty of room for your futon and the mini-fridge, but I don’t know if we’ll have space for your trunk full of makeup.”\n\n“Very funny, Ryan. I just hope you have to leave all your stupid video games behind.”\n\n“No way. I’d skip college before that would happen.”\n\nUp North Track\n\nIt was an unusual group of young people. Dad had never seen friends like this, boys and girls hanging together since their freshman year. They knew each, liked each other, and cared about one another. He couldn’t remember Rachel doing anything during those four years that didn’t involve someone in that group. Going their separate ways would be difficult for all of them.\n\n“This will be our last time together for quite a while.”\n\n“It’s going to be a great weekend. Dan and I will ride up with my parents, and Fritz, Will, and Ryan will ride with Stevie.”\n\n“Why does Ryan have to be in my car?”\n\n“Shut up, Steverino.”\n\n“You’ve got that luggage rack on top. Put him up there.”\n\n“Good idea, Fritz.”\n\n“Very Funny.”\n\nMad-Town Track\n\nOne might compare it to getting hit over the head with a shovel. You drop off your kid at their dorm and finally grasp the meaning of the words- “You raise your children.” You raise them, and then they leave. It’s a sad, empty ride back home as you realize your kid won’t be coming home that night, or the next, or the next.\n\n For most kids, the sad part disappears before their parents’ cars are even out of site. Who can blame them? True freedom for the first time in their lives in a community of thousands of young people…half of them the opposite sex. There is no better status in life than that of a college student.\n\n“I like your room, Ryan. It has sort of an Early American-chaos touch to it.”\n\n“I appreciate that, Raquel.”\n\n“What are you going to do if you and your roommate are both here at the same time? I don’t think there will be enough room for both of you in here with all this stuff. I can’t believe you brought all your fishing gear with you. You do know about the school stuff we’re supposed to be doing while we’re here?”\n\n“All work and no play makes Jack…or Ryan…a dull boy.”\n\n“You may be many things, Ryan, but dull will never be one of them.”\n\nUp North Track\n\nBen’s dad had inherited a rustic cottage on a small lake near the Michigan border. Fishing, swimming, skiing, four-wheeling, and just sitting around talking stupid- it was all so perfect for the boys’ farewell bash.\n\n“Jesus Christ, Ryan, that’s the biggest tackle box I’ve ever seen.”\n\n“Maybe his lunch is in there.”\n\n“Shut up, Benji. I just want to be ready for anything, from bluegill to muskie.”\n\n“Muskie my butt. You never caught a muskie. My Granny catches more fish than you, and she can’t see for shit.”\n\n“Ok, smart guy, fishing challenge. Ten bucks to the guy who catches the biggest fish while we’re here.”\n\n“You’re on.”\n\nMad-Town Track\n\nDad had gone to UW. He hardly recognized the place. It was all in his words, “ too nice”, at least a lot nicer than what he remembered. The commons area in the dorm made his living room look like the scratch-and-dent section at St. Vincent DePaul. State Street had been a hangout for college kids with no money- a taco joint, a small grocery store with a worn wood floor, and a few rundown bars with initials carved into the wood benches and faded, peeling linoleum floors. Today it looked more like an upscale shopping mall.\n\n“Yes, Rachel and Ryan, I think you’ll like it here.”\n\nWith that, two couples, quietly absorbed in memories of their kids hitting a ball off a Tee, riding a bike, catching a fish, or being excited that Santa ate their cookies, got in their cars and left.\n\n“Well, Ryan, here we are.”\n\n“Think about that, Raquel. Everywhere you could possibly be is “here”. It’s like my Uncle Freddie would say, everyone has to be someplace, and you can only be in one place at a time. So, it only makes sense that we are “here”.\n\n“Oh, my God. And I’ve got four more years of this? Did I tell you that your parents are paying me to hang out with you so everyone doesn’t think you’re such a loser?”\n\nRyan clutched his heart and feigned serious injury.\n\n“Mercutio slain!”\n\n“Oh, stop it. Let’s go check out the Union.”\n\nUp North Track\nIt looked like something Norman Rockwell came up with, the boys gathered around the fire, a stiff breeze coming off the lake, and a spectacular display of stars against the night sky. No one had ever been in a better setting with more favored company, but the mood was somber. It was hard to enjoy the moment as they knew they would soon be going their separate ways. They all spoke but to no one in particular. That isn’t necessary when everyone’s thoughts are the same.\n“I can’t believe high school is over. It seems like so much happened in such a short time.”\n“It was all so good. I never really thought about it ending. It’s going to be different not being with you guys every day.”\n“Hey, it’s not like we’ll never see each other again. And we’ll be texting and emailing all the time. Who knows, we might even talk on the phone once in a while.”\nRyan’s last comment drew a laugh from the group as they had all been subjected to the frustration expressed by their parents for them having abandoned the spoken word as a means of communication with others.\n“Will, how are you going to survive without Morgan? I don’t think you will be able to function without her telling you what to do.”\nBoisterous laughter from all, save Will.\n“Tell me about it, Ben. You’re the most pussy-whipped guy in the history of pussy-whipping.”\nAnd so it went. Hours of talking stupid as only young boys can do, generously sprinkled with smiles, laughter, and just clowning around. Amidst it all, every so often Ryan took time to study their faces, to appreciate them, to imprint another special memory. He was already missing them.\n\nMad-Town Track\nRachel and Ryan sat in two of the brightly colored chairs on the patio of the Student Union as the reflection of the bright full moon danced along the crests of the waves on Lake Mendota.\n“I think I’m going to come here every night. This place is awesome.”\n“How about winters?”\n“Especially in the winter. No one will be here. That makes it even better.”\n“Dumb.”\n“I didn’t quite realize it, but I’ll be able to go fishing every day. I’m sure I can find a place to fish off the shore, and I’ve heard Mendota is great for ice fishing. I’ll have to get you out there sometime.”\n“I don’t think so.”\n“You’d love it, Raquel. There is nothing as peaceful as standing out on a frozen lake at night. It is so quiet and serene. Seeing the stars on a clear night, you feel so close to nature…and so close to God. Those are the times I feel the closest to Him. It’s the best time to think about things that matter.”\n“If I were out on a frozen lake at night I’m pretty sure the only thing I’d be thinking about would be how freaking cold I was.”\n“You don’t know how you’d feel until you try it.”\n“Ok, I’ll give it a shot. I’ll go with you some night, but there’s no way I’m doing any of that stupid ice fishing stuff.”\n“Agreed.”\n“Ryan, we always kid around about you being such a religious guy, but I want you to know I really respect your faith. You’re a true believer, aren’t you?”\nRyan gazed out at the waves for a moment, and then he stood up.\n“Here, I want to show you something.”\nRyan started to pull the right side of his shorts down.\n“Ryan! What the hell are you doing?! Don’t be pulling your pants down!”\n“I’m not pulling my pants down. I just want to show you my tattoo.”\nThe tattoo was solidly inside the safe zone, so Raquel took a peek. It read. “Psalm23.”\n“Psalm 23. Do you know it?”\n“I’m not sure.”\n“You know it. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”\n“Yes, I know it. When did you get it?”\n“Just last week.”\n“What made you do it?”\n“Dunno. I just always liked the message.”\n“That passage always sounded good, but I don’t know how a person wouldn’t fear death.”\n“You believe, Raquel, that’s how. It’s not that complicated.”\n---------\nUp North Track\nThe place was teenage boy heaven…well, minus the teenage girls. A 14’ Alumacraft fishing boat with a 10 HP Merc, a ski boat, a wave runner, a canoe, and two four-wheelers. The boys were up, it would be a good hour before pancakes and sausage, and the wonderful world of northern Wisconsin lake living was at their fingertips. They divvied up the recreational opportunities- Stevie took the waverunner out for a spin; Ben, Fritz, and Will toured the lake in the ski boat, and Dan and Ryan hopped on the four-wheelers.\n\nMad-Town Track\n“Ok, Raquel, first we hit the Bookstore to load up on Badger stuff, and then to the Fieldhouse to put in for football tickets. I can’t wait for my first Big Ten football weekend.”\n“Uh…I think we can get books too.”\n“Oh yeah, and books. Books are good.”\n\nUp North Track\nJust a quarter mile up the county highway from the cottage, the boys turned onto a fire lane that cut its way through the towering pines for a good two miles.\n“I love this thing, Danny-Boy! This is awesome!”\n\nMad-Towne Track\n“You should check out the dorm leagues, Raquel. I bet you could sign up for a soccer team.”\n“I’ll check it out.”\n“I saw a signup sheet for touch football in my dorm. That’ll be fun.”\n\nUp North Track\nThe fire lane was overgrown with weeds and bore the deep tracks of many a Marlboro Man-wanna-be who had off-roaded to meet the challenge of taking their Ford 150’s anywhere at any time. It was a narrow path, so the boys cruised through the woods single file.\n\nMad-Town Track\n“I’ve never seen so many beautiful girls. It sure wasn’t like that back in high school.”\nA simple look elicited a response.\n“Oops, present company excluded. You’re going to have to start setting me up with some of the girls in your dorm.”\n“Girls? Excuse me, who do you think I am, Match-Me-Dot-Rachel? You’ll do fine on your own, Ryan. It pains me to say it, but you really don’t look half bad, and you can be nice…sometimes.”\n“I’m overwhelmed.”\n\nUp North Track\nFire lanes are always straight, well, almost always. The boys were coming up on a slight bend in the trail.\n\nMad-Town Track\n“Ryan, I had a lot of anxiety about leaving home and going off to college. It really helps to have you here.”\n“I’m glad you’re here too, Raquel. We are going to have a great year.”\n\nUp North Track\nAs Ryan reached the curve in the trail, he glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Dan was still following. The movement caused the wheels to turn just enough to hit a deep rut. The four-wheeler jerked to the left, careened off the trail, and slammed into a tree. Ryan fell from the vehicle and lay unconscious in a small depression next to the fire lane.\nDan saw it all.\n“Ryan! Ryan!”\nDan was an Eagle Scout and knew CPR. He frantically worked on Ryan, but there was no response. They didn’t have their cell phones on the ride, so the poor kid had to struggle with a decision none of us should ever have to face- does he continue his efforts to save his friend’s life, or does he race back to the cottage for help? Such moments can never be erased. None of it will ever be erased for any of them.\n----------\n“Rachel, I’ll need your help with the futon.”\n“Be right there, Dad, right after I take this call. Ben is calling me from up north.”\nIt hurts a Dad to see his kid feeling sad. It breaks him to see his daughter fall to her knees, smash her cell phone into the pavement, and then lie down on the sidewalk sobbing uncontrollably.\nA memorial service was held that very night at Ryan’s church. More people were standing outside in the light rain than were able to get inside. The outdoor mourners may have gotten a little wet, but they were the only ones to see the double rainbow form above the church, an event that would be talked about at the workplace and in grocery stores for years.\nThe entire group of these very special kids, Rachel included, got a tattoo on their hip, “Psalm 23”. The same message, “Psalm 23” soon appeared on car bumpers and storefronts throughout this little town.\nThe times Rachel misses Ryan the most are when she is sitting on an upside-down bucket out on a frozen Lake Mendota, alone at night, ice fishing. That’s when she feels the closest to him." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Bubbles On the Horizon\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2980\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story involving a portal into a parallel universe." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Bubbles on the Horizon\nThe wagon master, Mr. Marcy, traveled with his new scout trying to catch up with their lumbering wagon train snaking across the grassy Nebraska prairie.\nAs they approached the line of canvas covered wagons looked like bubbles silhouetted on the horizon. Each wagon was like a little bubble world all of their own floating in a sea of the unknown tethered together with others for survival.\nThe Indian scout wasn't one for talking so the leader's thoughts wandered back to the spirited charmer he had to leave behind. They needed time to get to know each other better before deciding to marry. Before that happened he must devote his full attention on getting this rolling wagon train village safely beyond unknown perils awaiting them on this long trek to the coast.\nAfter getting the scout settled his first order of business was visiting each individual wagon to check on how things were progressing in his short absence. He had already stopped at several of them. The next visit to the family of Mormons was sure to be an interesting one. Time was so close to circling up for the evening the trail master thought he would wait and pay their campsite a visit after supper.\nHe explained to Fred, his second in command, the dilemma he had discovered while talking to the Reverend McCoy and invited his love-forlorn friend to accompany him. There was extra commotion and activity in the Morman camp this evening. Fred wanted to back out and not disturb them. Marcy wouldn't hear of it and pressed forward.\n“Hello, Folks. Hope we aren't disturbing you too much. We are just out paying our respects this evening.” Mr. Marcy opened. “I'm the Wagon Master, as you recall, and this is Fred Rogers, my right hand man. He was filling in for me while I was away on some business. I wanted to let people know I am back and see if everything is going as hoped. How is your family faring?”\nA powerful looking man, Brother Morgan arose from sitting next to a young girl to reach out his hand to the gentlemen.\n“Just grand I assure you!” while shaking their hands, “So nice to have you back, Brother Marcy. You are just in time to help us celebrate Emma Mae's sixteenth birthday. Even more exciting we will have a marriage feast tomorrow night you'll be sure to want to attend. I'll be wed to this pretty miss in about twenty-four hours and I find it hard to wait!” As he talked he pulled her to her feet and draped his arm around her shoulders tugging her close to him.\nTimid and shy, Emma Mae kept her head hung low. She looked incredibly young all swallowed up in new grown-up garments but no wonder at turning sixteen only today! Perfectly legal marrying age. And her late-forties 'father' was eager to be the one to claim her as his own.\nMarcy apologized, “Sorry, we aren't acquainted with all your religious customs but we thought the young lady was your daughter. We are aware you can have more than one wife but is it also permitted to take your own daughter as one of them?”\n“Oh, ha-ha, Brother Marcy. Of course, I wouldn't be marrying my own flesh and blood daughter but I can understand your misunderstanding. Let me introduce my family more fully to you both.”\nHe went from person to person touching them in some fashion as he talked about them. “This is my number one wife, Dear Hannah,” He tilted her chin up with his fingers toward his face and planted a kiss on her forehead. “She bore me these three fine sons, Zeke, who will soon be a man at eighteen and the twelve-year-old twins here, David and Jonathan.” He gripped each young man's shoulders in turn.\n“Next I took Ruth as my wife. Her first husband was an elderly man who left her as a widow with an eight-year-old daughter, Emma Mae, whom I raised along with the boys. So since she is not my own blood it is perfectly within my rights to take her as my fourth wife.” He gave each of them a side hug and kissed Emma Mae on the top of her white-capped head.\nHe lifted a small girl off a young woman's lap to hold and pulled her to her feet. “My Sarah, here, is wife number three. She has borne me little Elizabeth, age three,” who wiggled and giggled as his beard tickled the cheek he planted a kiss on so he lowered her to the ground. “As you might guess she is carrying one more, hopefully another son.” He adoringly traced his fingers along Sarah's lovely, soft cheek.\n“Dear Hannah had such trouble delivering the twins she never was able to have more children and poor Ruth just never did conceive again so I am delighted of course with my Sarah being so proliferate.” He gently rubbed her Buddha belly.\n“I am looking forward to sweet Emma Mae being another blessing. A man is judged by the produce of his loins to be sure. Many wives with children sealed here in this lifetime will provide a kingly kingdom in heaven to be sure.”\nDear Hannah, a fading beauty, appeared to be in her early forties. Poor Ruth was probably in her mid-thirties and plain looking. My Sarah couldn't be more than twenty-two and could readily turn a man's head with her comely looks, that is without the current condition she was in which loudly bespoke she was spoken for. Sweet Emma Mae was very easy to look at as Fred had suggested earlier to Marcy if she would only raise her eyes off the ground so she was easier to look at.\nMarcy risked the man's wrath as he inquired, “A splendid fine family, Brother Morgan, but forgive my curiosity for asking since it is clearly not my business but why do you need to be the one to marry Emma Mae? She is still so young and many younger men would certainly be attracted to her gentle spirit and beauty as is my unattached friend here.”\n“That is indeed a bold question, Brother Marcy. We will be entering a wild new world and she could fall among wolves such as your brave friend here ready to devour her. She needs my protection.”\n“Wouldn't your son, Zeke, nearly a man, be a suitable choice for her? A bride could be difficult for him to find out here.” Fred tried to deflect his own interest in her.\n“He has no means of support other than from me, his father. So why have a middle man? She will remain under my roof. But thank you for your unwarranted concern.”\n“Well, like we said, it is none of our business. We wish you all the best and God's grace.” The men shook hands and tipped their hats to the ladies as they said good-bye.\n“Well, I think we are lucky to get out of there intact.” Fred said when they were out of hearing range. “I wish you hadn't mentioned my interest in the girl. I will be forever in his sights. I won't be able to talk to any of them.”\n“Don't let it worry you too much. They'll turn off at the Salt Lake so will be gone from the train soon. Let's stop by Rev. McCoy's wagon and let him know the marriage can proceed as planned. I still think it is a travesty. Did you see the way Zeke kept looking at her the whole time? And she kept peeking up towards him, too. I think they have had more than a brother-sister interest in each other for some time. That lecherous old man is probably ruining their lives. Why would any man need four wives?” Marcy ts-tsked.\n“One for every decade evidently,” Fred intellectualized.\nThe wedding went on as planned. A fine feast was provided by the wives. Zeke was tasked to set up a tent complete with a bedstead laid out in white linens a short distance from the family wagon for the newlyweds' use their honeymoon night.\nThe strutting peacock, Brother Morgan, scooped up his new bride with obvious delight and carried her across the threshold of the tent opening.\nDear Hannah recognized how distraught Zeke appeared, put her arm around his shoulder and led him away. There would be no joy in the rest of Morganville tonight.\n*~*~*~*\nSometimes Marcy was the most beloved person on the trip, other times the most despised. Only a wagon master could wear as many hats as he had to all at one time. He was the travelers' counselor, judge, doctor, teacher, and commander. They were the backbone and soul of this struggling nation forging the way into new land with nothing but what they could lug along in an eleven-foot by four-foot farm wagon under a canvas balloon.\nMissing his girl, Marcy was gazing up at the clouds one blustery day watching them take different shapes thinking he recognized her face several times when he suddenly realized the clouds were getting darker and ominous looking. The sky had taken on a greenish cast to it. He chided himself for not noticing sooner. It was too late to circle or take any evasive action. No shelter was to be found anywhere on the open prairie. He shouted to warn the walkers to take shelter in low lying areas as they were already trying to do. A violent twisting wind was upon them seemingly without warning. Wagons, animals and people were picked up and tossed about like children's toys. Would anything survive? He was thrown to the ground. Everything blacked out around him...\n*~*~*~*\n...Coming to I was...dazed. Wh-where? Nothing around me seemed normal. Blazing white light blinded me. Murky strange critters were milling around me poking and prodding my limbs and torso. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I needed to get away before they tore me apart.\nBut I was strapped down. Try as I might I could not break the bonds that held me fast to this cold, hard slab of whatever it was. An examination table a doctor might operate on? Was I being operated on? I was naked and they definitely were curious about every aspect of my anatomy. I tried to assess my condition. Did anything hurt? Was anything broken? No, I thought I was fine other than their probing explorations.\nMy eyes started adjusting to the extreme brightness. What kind of light could even make things so bright? Was something on fire? I couldn't smell anything burning. I couldn't clearly see the creatures working me over. They were sort of ethereal, kinda ghostly, like you could see straight through them. Big black holes where there should be eyes. If they were talking I could not understand anything.\nThen something else came to my awareness. I was not the only specimen laid out being examined. On a table next to me was a horse and then one with a cow. On the other side of me was definitely a woman. She was attracting a lot more attention and exploration than I was. Fortunately, she still seemed to be unconscious otherwise she would surely be screaming. Hopefully, she was still alive. It was my job to protect the people of the wagon train. How was I supposed to save them from whatever this calamity was?\nThen I heard a buzzing sound. It came from the direction where the cow was splayed out. They, the doctors or scientists or tradesmen or whatever unidentifiable creatures, were taking some kind of a spinning piece of equipment I had never seen or heard of and aiming it at the animal's head. Without much effort at all the instrument sliced through the cow's head and they extracted the brain and laid it on a platter. Next they mutilated the torso to remove the heart and other innards and went on down to the reproductive organs and helped themselves to those parts as well. Oh, great! So that's what they have planned for all of us. How am I ever supposed to fight against these odds?\nFortunately, if I could save anyone, I had a little more time to formulate a plan. The workers' attentions were focused on the amazing new toys they had just removed from the hapless cow. Surprisingly, they seemed astonished the cow could no longer go on being a cow. Those must have been vital elements they took out of the strange earthling. Maybe they couldn't be as reckless with their other prizes. They seemed to agree they would proceed with more cautionary measures. Haste makes waste in whatever world you live in.\nO, Lord, what world is this and how do I escape and save the woman?\nOf all the hats a master of a wagon train had to wear I didn't think I had one in my arsenal for what I was up against now. I only had my wits and had to hang on to those tightly. Was I going crazy? I could see well enough to look around me now and try to figure out what kind of craft we were in and what would be my first move if only I could get loose. What I saw was in no way familiar to me. It certainly wasn't a wagon or a train. Not a ship either, at least not one that sailed the oceans. What was it and was it in motion?\nMaybe I was already dead and this was the afterlife. These creatures didn't seem to know anything about their passengers. An all-knowing God would understand everything about us and if they were demons one would think they would also have knowledge about the ones they were always seeking to devour. All I could do was ask the Good Lord to give me knowledge, strength and help to defeat these obvious enemies. If I couldn't communicate with them there was little hope of turning them into friends.\nMaybe that is what I should pray for. Wisdom to understand and communicate with them to let them know I don't present a threat. I would be willing to teach them the things they wanted to know. Maybe they really didn't want to hurt us other beings but were only curious.\nI decided I would project positive thoughts about these assailants and hope they could somehow pick up on those thoughts. I meant them no harm and wanted to be friends with them. So...I smiled a lot.\nI got another surprise when I heard a 'swoosh' sound and a piece of the floor opened up. Workers had strapped up the gutted cow carcass and were lowering it through the portal. With my limited movement and vision I thought they were returning it to the ground. Maybe we were close to where we were snatched. Was there a chance we may be lowered back down, also, be it alive or gutted? Oh, please don't gut us, friends. We need all our body parts. I'll try to teach you about our strange funny looking forms. How can we come to a satisfying closure for all of us? Not everything has to be taken apart to make sense of it. Life needs to move on. Got to keep my sanity to get through this weird journey.\nUh, oh. Sounds were coming from the woman as she was regaining consciousness. I smiled over to her and tried to reassure her. “Please don't scream. These creatures are curious about us but they may not mean us harm.”\nYes, she heard me but so did the seekers. They crowded around me in wonderment. Was it wise to make more sounds? I only expressed friendly ideas to them. “We are quite weak and can not harm you. We think your forms are very beautiful and you have high intelligence. Much more than we do. An amazing ship you have here. We have nothing that compares to it. We drive simple wagons. Would you like to go look at one and learn about our method of travel? We would be happy to show you.”\nIn a sweet melodic voice the woman started singing a hymn. “Nearer my God to Thee...” They were intrigued and tried to imitate the sounds she made. They seemed to enjoy it. Oops! Would they want to keep her around just as a source of amusement?\nThey undid her restraints and stood her up. I was finally able to identify her. She had a beautiful figure as the Good Lord had created all women to be pleasing to a man. Part of His genius to keep the species reproducing.\nHer plain face was quite pretty when she smiled at them. Her long unpinned hair floated about her shapely form making her even more attractive. It was Poor Ruth, second wife to Brother Morgan, the one unable to conceive since Emma Mae was born. Perhaps a problem if that turned out to be the intent of these good problem solvers.\nThankfully, that wasn't the motivation. Instead they affixed some sort of tag to our ears. They undid my restraints and the horses' also. Our captors strapped us all up and lowered us through the opening to the ground. What a shock! But we were both as naked as the day we were born.\nLuckily, the saddle was still on the horse with a blanket under it and another one rolled up behind it. We covered ourselves, climbed aboard the horse and started searching for our lost wagon train, bubbles on the horizon.\nWe never did figure out this event. But life moves onward. Funny thing, though, for years I had a reoccurring dream I was being probed and examined on a cold metal slab." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Moving On\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1506\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list of New Year's resolutions." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW Mention of death\n\n\nMy New Year's resolutions.\n\nMargery underlined the words, then went over them again with her black biro, as though making the words more dominant would make them harder to refute. She sat at the dining table, with a mat under her writing pad to not scratch the wood. You can't do anything important in a comfortable chair, or in slippers, she thought.\n\n1 Take down all the cards, before twelfth night.\n\nI’m being organised, Margery told herself, not ungrateful. There weren't that many cards, not as many as she'd expected, although expected wasn't quite the right word. She’d learned not to expect anything of anyone, not anymore. Nowadays everyone sends messages on Facebook. Even the W.I. She shook her head in sorrow. Of course, it saved time, but it wasn't personal. Not like the round-robins she’d hand-written to her friends for so many years. It occurred to her, that there wasn't anyone to share her news with, many of her friends being either dead, senile, or moved to a gated community in southern Spain, and she wasn't spending three pounds on postage. Her husband, Geoff, was always a bit tightfisted, but this time she was on his side. \n\nNow there was a great-granddaughter to tell her friends about; five weeks old, with a lovely head of raven-black hair and the bluest eyes Margery had ever seen. Xanadu smelled of talcum powder and occasionally of undigested baby formula, but Margery didn't mind; although she struggled to spell the name. She had always been happy to babysit; it was something to fill her time when Geoff went to the club and she loved and spoiled the little ones. They always got on so well, but she wondered if she would get to spend much time with the new baby. She was sure it had been a misunderstanding when she wasn't invited to the baby shower; Geoff wouldn't have minded her going, and she would have got a taxi home, so no one would have to drive her. They all liked a drink, or two. Expectant mums shouldn't drink; Margery tried not to show her disapproval, but she saw the eye-rolling, heard the, 'Oh that's just nan.' There wasn't even a thank you note for the present she sent, although her son said he’d passed it on. ‘She’s busy with the baby,’ he’d said when Margery asked. It was hand-knitted, a pink matinee jacket, just like her daughter's, fifty years before. Her fingers ached for hours when she finished knitting, but it was something to do as she sat at Geoff’s bedside. \n\nMargery picked up her pen again. This exercise wasn't going to be easy, but it had to be done. She’d promised her son to take the bull, or in her case, life, by the horns and to get on with it.\n\n2 Be positive\n\nWell, that was her son's idea too. What exactly he meant, she wasn't sure. ‘You need to be positive, Mum. Look on the bright side.’ What on Earth was the ‘bright side?’ There had been dark times over the last six months with all the appointments and uncertainty. Christmas had been difficult with so much going on, but she wanted to keep everything as normal as possible for the grandchildren's sake. The family arrived late on the 22nd; traffic they said, and her daughter-in-law, Mandy, was wearing a hat Margery thought inappropriate and reminded her of the saying, ‘red hat, no knickers,’ and she’d given an inadvertent giggle that left her feeling guilty. Sitting in the front of the car on the way to church, she heard them whispering. They're probably wondering if they'll have to visit more often. \n\nMargery pondered what she might do. She could go out whenever she wanted now if the number forty-seven bus turned up and there was a seat downstairs. Sitting upstairs was out of the question, because the driver would insist on going so fast she almost ran from front to back when he slammed on the brakes. And that man from Wilson Close liked to stand at the bottom of the stairs and look up women's skirts as they climbed to the upper level. She might buy a pair of trousers, that would thwart him. Geoff didn't like her in trousers; he said she had lovely legs and he liked to see them. Well, the man from Wilson Close wasn't getting an eyeful. Now, that's positive action, Margery, well done.\n\nThere would be things to look forward to: her birthday in February and a new jumper from Geoff, oh, no, she forgot for a moment, how strange. The family would all be there for dinner on Easter Sunday. Only three months away. They always came, except for the year when she and Geoff had to stay in all the time, and everyone ran out of toilet rolls. Geoff said that was a ‘flash in the pan,’ and they both laughed. They always laughed a lot. \n\n3 Do something purposeful every day\n\nThe first thing would be to take all the excess food out of the fridge. She’d catered for forty people but only twenty-seven turned up and the others hadn't let her know, although the weather had been awful and old people couldn’t be expected to stand around in the rain. But it was thoughtless and wasteful, as most of it was out of date by the 27th, and Geoff would hate that But, I don't have to worry about what Geoff thinks, do I? The family took some home on Boxing Day, but she would freeze the spare sausage rolls for Easter. Momentary doubts lingered: had they been frozen before? Did the chicken vol-au-vents look frivolous, given the circumstances? Would the family still come, just to see her? \n\nClearing out wardrobes and taking things to the charity shop on the corner would keep her occupied for several weeks. There was a red suit right at the back of the closet. It had long black lapels, and she could picture Geoff wearing it, his hair slicked back, and his sideburns trimmed like all the other Teddy-boys. She’d taken it out and spread it on the bed; Geoff’s side, then laid down beside it, stroking the fabric and falling asleep with her arm across the jacket, waking at two o’clock with a stiff shoulder. \n\nGeoff was a handsome and slim young man, and when he’d knocked on the front door he’d handed her a corsage and mumbled something she took to be complimentary. She'd had a cream dress with four net petticoats under it and they’d danced all night at the Roxy, and Bill Turner had tried to chat her up, until Geoff said, ‘She’s my girl, keep your hands off,’ which was as close to a declaration of love as he’d ever got. \n\nIt was too soon to let go. You can do this Marge, she told herself, just not all at once.\n\n4 Meet someone\n\nIt shocked her to even think about it and writing it down looked so brazen, she wished she’d used pencil, but it was what Geoff told her to do. ‘When I'm gone love, don't be on your own. There's too many folks on their own.’ She knew that. Her friend Judith used to pop in every Wednesday afternoon for a cup of tea and a natter until Geoff got sick. She thought she was in the way, but I miss our chats. What do I want with another man at my age? Fifty years of shared memories weren't to be put aside lightly. Every picture on the sideboard was a reminder; holidays at the seaside, Geoff, in black and white, leaning against a Ford Capri he'd been so proud of, the two of them, Margery cuddling the new baby while Geoff clasped her hand. Judith would go to bingo with her, she was sure. And she would book in with the chiropodist every third Thursday and the window cleaner never said no to a cup of coffee, although he put his earphones in. It might make him uneasy if she struck up a conversation. And where do you meet someone when you're seventy-six? I don't want to meet someone Geoff, you old bugger, I miss you.\n\nChristmas day was exhausting; trying to make it special still for the grandchildren, her head pounding at the arguments over who watched what on television and which bedroom the youngest grandson slept in; heating leftovers in the microwave and unwrapping presents half-heartedly, Margery was glad when it was over.\n\nThe family went home and back to work. That’s it then, is it? The house was empty and quiet, just cardboard reminders on the mantelpiece.\n\nA tear ran unheeded down her cheek and blotted the paper on the dining table. Margery stood and switched off the light. It was time for bed. She’d finish the list and take down the condolence cards in the morning. It was positive and purposeful and she could do it alone, which suited her fine." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Deja Vu Decision Time\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2715\n\nPrompt:\n\nYou’re walking down the street, when you spot a familiar figure. It’s another you. And they’ve come from an alternate reality to warn you about something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Deja-Vu Decision Time\nBy Derek Hastings\nThe first time I experienced the Deja Vu interruption I spent much of my day feeling a particularly persistent restlessness. The kind of restlessness that comes with a profound invasive sense of boredom. Something I have begun to call; the Same-Old, Same-Old disease. I had spent my day like every day before it over the previous same-old, same-old year; wake up, eat, work, eat, sleep, repeat…\nThat day — it was a late summer evening — taking the garbage cans to the street, I saw myself trundling the can just a few steps ahead of me. There I was, last week, walking the same path with the same can, the same setting sun, the same smells of summer, setting it in the same old place. It felt like I had just set the can there a moment ago. My mind said, “That was last Thursday!” but, my eyes and my knower saw it otherwise. I watched as I set the can down and walked back up the driveway, right past where I was standing. The other me didn’t even acknowledge my presence.\n“What’s going on here!?” My knower asked. “Is this some kind of weird version of a Deja Vu?”\nLater that night I had the Deja Vu happen again, I was getting ready for bed, still wondering about what I had experienced on the driveway. Finished with brushing my teeth I walked into my room and there I was already asleep. Sleeping in my same-old same-old bed at the tail end of my day’s rut. I could feel the approach. Something was coming. Standing there in my room, in my undies, painfully desiring to be under the covers blissfully asleep, I realized that something basic had changed. Something had shifted. It was my room, but it wasn’t, it was different. He was me in the rut!\nMy sleepiness pushed me into bed with a determination to ignore what I was experiencing. Unsuccessfully, my mind persisted to attempt to work its way around what I had just encountered but sleep gratefully slammed the door on it.\nThe morning came and the rut began. Normal breakfast, Email, dressed for the office, garage door up, out into the sunshine, rut running straight and true. I backed down the driveway into the world blissfully forgetting last night.\nThe first one I noticed came at me in an approaching car. A young mother returning from her workout, iPhone in hand heading home to gather the kids for school. I glanced over at her as she passed and next to her face, there was an hourglass. I only caught a glimpse, but it was a generic-looking hourglass with brass fittings and bright white sand. Then she was past me. I tried to turn to look, but she disappeared up the road into the subdivision. I saw hourglasses around the heads of many people by the time I got to the office. The hourglasses were hard to catch as cars flashed by in the opposite lane. But I was still able to distinguish the shape through the windshields. Fully engaged by what I was experiencing, I got out of my car at the office and stood there watching the cars file past me into the parking lot. Almost every car had an hourglass!\nEventually, I made it into my office and attempted to restart my rut . . . with no success. I was well and completely undone. And, when one of my coworkers walked past my office, I could see the hourglass in detail. In relation to his head, it was about a quarter the size. It was gorgeous! It looked as though it were made of crystal and highly polished bronze. The workmanship was exquisite, very much like a finely made sextant, telescope, or timepiece. The sand itself had a brilliant gleaming platinum quality! The hourglass seemed like a ghostly appendage protruding into time. Maybe the hourglass was time itself. “Does time have a personality?” I wondered.\nAs I sat there in my leather chair, waiting for my computer to boot, my mind began to toy with all the suggestions that popped like kernels of corn in that internal popcorn popper of possibilities. I think I am like any other curious guy that encounters the supernatural. There is an excitement that comes with it. A sense of importance that attends the advent of the supernatural into the life of the beholder. After all, I must be important in some way to be blessed to witness this. Right?\nBut then my analytical side spoke up. “Yeah, it is supernatural and way cool! But what does it mean?”\nI imagined my impulsive side answering. “Mean? Who cares what it means? That is the Hourglass of Destiny! It’s kind of like getting to witness angels interacting with the world!”\nThen the analytic one, true to his name, points out, “Yeah, very cool! But you didn’t answer my question. What does it mean? Why can we see that thing? Interacting with the supernatural in this world always has a purpose. So, Mr. Impulsive, what does it mean?”\nI got up from my chair and stood where I could observe my friend across the hall. There it was hovering just above and to the right of his head. And I could hear it! I could hear the sand falling! The sand glittered and shone as it fell into the bottom chamber of the glass. The top half was almost empty! My heart wanted to break as I came to a basic frightening conclusion about what the hourglass must represent. I instantly knew the answer to Mr. Analytical’s question about what does it mean? I was watching destiny ticking away in the lives of my co-workers.\nBut then I saw another Deja Vu. I turned to walk back to my desk and there I sat. And I could see the hourglass hovering over my head. That version of me was happily pounding away at some email he…I…sent sometime in the past…future? This me was blissfully unaware of what was happening to the real me. But which was the real me? My attention switched from the other me to the hourglass hanging in the air near my head. It was almost half full. “Wow! I have time!” I thought to myself.\nAs I stood there, I watched as I walked right through me and walked over and sat in my chair, which was already occupied by me. Then the next me, and the next me; in progression began to file in and start typing. “What is going on here?” I asked myself. No answer.\nI spent the rest of that day watching a progression of my selves – hundreds of them – each with their own hourglasses at various stages of fullness – walk the same-old, same-old rut. As I watched I noticed one thing. The hourglass was different in each of the versions of me walking past. Some of them had full hourglasses and some were dangerously low. Were these all different timelines? Which was the real me? Are they all the same me? Most importantly, why are the hourglasses different, and do I have a choice of which me to be?\nEventually, the day wore down to the end of work and I watched as the long line of Me’s walked out, got in the car, and drove the short distance home. I climbed in the back of my car being driven by one of the iterations of myself – I…he…didn’t seem to notice when I opened the back door and sat down – and hitched a ride back home. As we drove, I looked around at the world outside the car and noticed that everything was just a bit off. The shadows of the trees moved around the tree’s base like the hands of a clock, ticking away the seconds, counting down to the end. Cars going by; streamed by in multiple iterations forming a psychedelic trail of vertigo-inducing images in my brain. Those people that were innocently walking on the sidewalk were followed by their own groups of selves, like a mother duck and her ducklings.\nWhen we parked in the garage. I climbed out of the car and watched as each iteration of me merged with the previous one. In every case, I/he opened the door the same way, stepped out into the garage the same way, and reached into the back to grab my briefcase the same way. The only difference was the amount of sand in the hourglass. And, then I realized that the sound was different in each instance as well. The sound of the sand running into the bottom of the hourglass was louder and somehow faster in the hourglasses with lower amounts of sand on the top than those with the most amount of sand on the top as if the sand was reaching a crescendo!\nAnd, as I followed the last iteration of me to get out of the car into the house, the sound of all those iteration’s hourglass sands sounded like a rushing wind. It was getting louder and louder.\nThat is when I noticed that I wasn’t alone in the room. My wife, I knew, was in her bedroom. But, standing in the kitchen holding an hourglass, stood a huge glowing person. Well, not so much as glowing as he was outlined with an aurora, as if he were backlit by a very powerful arc light. He was almost as tall as the ceiling and had flowing red hair held in place at his forehead with a silver torc. His face was brilliant and reminded me of Santa Claus. But the immense arms and chest are where the similarity with Santa stopped. He was dressed in BDU (Battle Dress Uniform) which defied my eyes to understand what color his clothes were. The sword at his side was taller than I was. It was obvious he was waiting for me; the cognitive version of my personal iterations.\nI walked into the kitchen and watched while the man kept flipping the hourglass around and he was whistling a tune that seemed to come from everywhere in the room at the same time. Then he looked at me with eyes that glittered and shone with that same platinum light of the hourglass that emphasized the beauty of his eyes, and said, “I am certain that we have your attention at this point. It’s not often that I get to give someone a choice of destinies.”\nThe man flipped the hourglass again. “Perhaps you noticed today that there are many different versions of your life echoing through time.” He said, flipping the hourglass again. “Each of those destinies is like the grains of sand in this hourglass…your hourglass. And, by the way, these aren’t Deja-Vus, those are called Deja Reve’s. Those are visions of your future self, not your past self.”\nMy attention was drawn to the grains in the hourglass. Each grain stood out as an individual speck. But they were not just sitting there waiting to fall through the hole into the bottom. Each time the man flipped the hourglass the grains jumped and danced inside the glass of the hourglass. Each one was a different color and – in fact – looked alive and individual, bouncing off the glass and testing the boundaries. These grains of sand were alive.\nThe man held out the hourglass and asked, “Would you like to hold it?”\nI reached out and took the hourglass from the man and drew it up towards my face to look more closely. The sand wasn’t moving. It seemed to be on “Pause”. “Why is it not moving?” I asked, “It was just moving, why’s it just sitting there?”\n“It is waiting for your decision.” He said as he took the hourglass back, his hand dwarfing the hourglass. “This is where you make your choice. This is what we in the ranks of the angels call the Scrooge adventure. If this were a ride at the carnival? I doubt that many would want to ride it. After all, it is a momentous decision to make. But you are one of those that have come to our attention and have arrived at the crossroads of momentum versus stagnation. The dilemma of the rut of life. Some people are fine with the comfort of the rut. The life of sameness, where you never have to worry about what’s coming next in life. They never realize that life is a life ruled by the fear of the unknown. The fear of having an adventure that turns out as a disappointment…or a momentous joy! For some people, they would rather build their nest and stay comfortably the same rather than chance to experience the adventure of what God has for them. So that’s the choice your prayers have brought you this day.” The light behind the eyes – what was now obvious – of the angel began to increase in intensity.\nI thought to myself, “Prayers? I don’t think I have ever prayed. And, definitely not for something like this. But I do know I wouldn’t want to just stagnate in life. I always wanted to live life to the fullest. I just never thought too much about God. I just always assumed He was there. I leave Him alone and He leaves me alone.”\nThe angel continued, “You can choose to continue living your life the same-old, same-old way you have been, and I will give you a choice of one of the endless versions of your life that you have seen today. Each of those versions will look the same except for one difference. The hourglasses all have different amounts of sand remaining. Each comes with its own version of your life. But be careful. The ones with the most sand remaining may not be what you would expect from life.”\nThe angel turned the hourglass over again causing the grains to become agitated. “Or you can choose to accept the version where God is in control of the rest of your life and not know how much time is left in the hourglass. In that version, you agree to accept God’s leadership in shaping the future and His plan for your life and the lives of your family.”\nI stood in the middle of the kitchen and my mind froze. “What a crapshoot! How am I supposed to know which of those Deja-Vu’s…Deja Reve’s… to pick? That’s impossible!”\nI thought that maybe it wasn’t so much a realistic choice to be made. Perhaps, it’s merely a test to see how much I trust my ability to forge ahead despite whatever the future has in store for me. But, still, I couldn’t bring myself to choose one of the hourglasses that now were slowly moving past me as if they were on a conveyor belt. Each hourglass was different. They were all beautiful and intricate and none of them were the same. Big ones, tiny ones, very, very loud ones, and a few that were hard to look at because they rivaled the sun in their brightness. I wanted to vomit. There’s just no way to know what the future holds and I realized I had no way of knowing if I would survive any one of those destinies successfully.\nThe Angel was quiet through my tortured attempt to decide, and he just kept whistling that same catchy tune. Eventually, the angel smiled and gave a quiet chuckle, and said, “I am, however, allowed to give you one hint to help you make your decision.”\nThe angel leaned over – as if he was talking to a child – to whisper into my ear, “There is no hourglass in God’s version of your life. Only Jesus.”\nIt wasn’t a difficult decision.\nI found myself standing in the kitchen with my briefcase in one hand and a bottle of ice-cold beer – labeled “Valhalla Golden Ale” – in the other. I looked closely and the bubbles in the open bottle looked strangely like the grains of sand in the hourglass I had just been holding. Then I heard a gentle chuckle and a faint whisper, “Enjoy. See you later…”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Report on the Activities of the Chapman Family, December 2023\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1615\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/2:\n\nJOSH: Kept his cool on a work call when a coworker tried to goad him into a political argument. Nice.\n\nMADDIE: You know that ‘One Margarita’ song from TikTok, boss? In an attempt to be ‘the cool mom’, she sang it in front of Mackenzie’s friends. …There was a dance, too. From what I hear, their parents are no longer letting them come over. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Broke up a fight between Alex and Rachel. Nice.\nALEX: backtalked at Maddie for asking him to put away folded laundry while he was scrolling TikTok. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Told Maddie that dinner was ‘gross’ and ‘Kaylyn’s mom makes this better’. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Decided to give herself a makeover. Resulting haircut required professional intervention. Also crushed two of Mackenzie’s lipsticks into the bathroom carpet, left large gouges in Maddie’s Dior eyeshadow palette, and covered the bathroom and herself in black hair dye. You know what, boss, I’m gonna let you make the call on this one. I didn’t see the crime scene firsthand as I was stationed in the kitchen that day, but I certainly heard the uproar it caused. I’m not authorized to rule on whether this is a ‘seven year olds will do that’ situation or a ‘she’s old enough to know better’ kind of thing.\n\n\nSir,\n\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/9:\n\nJOSH: Disinvited his mother and stepdad to visit for Christmas. Okay, boss hear me out on this one—I was stationed on top of the TV and saw the FaceTime where it all went down. The woman was insisting that Mackenzie ‘dress like a lady’ while she was here, said she showed too much skin for a girl of her age and all that makeup made her look like a ‘streetwalker’. And that was just the start—she kept going, criticizing pretty much everything her own granddaughter did and being pretty cruel about it. I’ve never seen the vein in Josh’s forehead stand out that much. He told that woman that if they, as parents, didn’t have a problem with Mackenzie’s fashion choices, then she had no right to say anything. The he told her to cancel her plane ticket and hung up. It was epic. Feel free to overrule me, but I’m giving him a big, fat NICE.\n\nMADDIE: Noticed Mrs. Figueroa across the street sprawled out at the bottom of her front steps. Took her to the emergency room. Sounds like the poor lady broke her foot. Since then, Maddie’s been over there three times a day, sometimes for up to an hour, usually carrying a meal with her. Nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Volunteered last-minute to babysit the Jeongs’ three-year-old when Mrs. Jeong went into labor prematurely. Handled dinner and bedtime solo before Mr. Jeong’s sister arrived to relieve her. Refused pay. Nice.\n\nALEX: Ate the entire bag of Mackenzie’s allergy-friendly cookies, and showed no remorse when there was nothing left in the house she could have as a snack. Naughty.\n\nRACHEL: Did lots of research on her social studies project and wrote it all herself, without asking Maddie, Josh, or Mackenzie to do any of it for her. Nice.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Threw a tantrum because the Christmas dress Maddie got her didn’t have gold sequins all over it like Rachel’s. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/16:\n\nJOSH: Came home with a puppy and didn’t ask Maddie first. Plus…well, see Mackenzie’s entry below. Naughty.\n\nMADDIE: Wrote Rachel’s teacher an absolutely unhinged email, in which she used no less that twelve words she would normally punish her children for saying (believe me, I was reading over her shoulder—Maddie was low on inspiration that morning and literally stationed me on a shelf). Demanded a change of grade on the social studies project despite clear evidence Rachel hadn’t followed the rubric the teacher laid out. Naughty.\n\nMACKENZIE: Unleashed a fifteen-minute rant at both her parents about how the younger kids are constantly taking her stuff and Josh and Maddie never do anything about it. Reacted, um, pretty poorly when Josh subsequently grounded her. Stormed out of the house and didn’t answer calls or texts for several hours. I mean, yeah, naughty, but the kid has a point.\n\nALEX: Offered to play video games with Rachel when she came home from school crying about a low score on her social studies project. Let her win. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Played on her phone instead of socializing when Maddie’s sister and her family came over for dinner. Naughty.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Snuck into Mackenzie’s room and stole her expensive art markers (you know the ones, boss, they were last year’s big ticket Christmas gift). She completely used up the sky blue, broke the tip on the skin-tone shade, and left the caps off several others. Naughty.\n\n\nSir,\nThe following is my report on the Chapman family for week ending 12/23:\n\nJOSH: Bought his mother a book on etiquette for Christmas. Wrapped it in a box with a charcoal briquette. Nicccceee.\n\nMADDIE: Trips to Mrs. Figueroa’s house have continued throughout December, and in fact, have increased in frequency. Yesterday I even saw her wrapping a bunch of presents, then taking them over there. Last week, she went over there with a bucket of cleaning supplies and didn’t come back for hours. A few days ago, she strongarmed Josh into coming with her one evening, and within a few hours, the tree was up and decorated in Mrs. Figueroa’s window, and the eaves were strung with lights. Josh was grumbling as they came back, and she shut him up by saying, “The whole time we were in the ER, poor Luz was sobbing because her kids are coming into town for Christmas and there was no way she could get everything ready with a broken foot. I promised her I would make sure Christmas still happened.” Just really nice.\n\nMACKENZIE: Took Josh’s car keys, snuck out of the house. Nice. Yeah boss, I’m saying ‘nice’. Yeah, boss, I know sneaking out is an automatic lump coal, but you gotta hear the mitigating factors. See, I was stationed hanging from the light fixture in the second floor hallway, it’s probably 10:30 PM, everyone’s all settled in for their long winter’s nap, and I hear a phone ringing in one of the bedrooms. Turns out it was Mackenzie’s. I could only hear so much of the conversation through the door, but it went like this: “Hey Grace, what’s… Holy… Are you okay? …Nuh-uh, doesn’t matter if he’s your boyfriend, that is NOT okay, it’s not okay for ANYBODY to… Well, I’m glad you got out of there. Are you someplace safe? Where are you? …Okay, good call, there’s lots of people around, even at this time of—me? I mean, I feel like you should probably call your parents to… Okay, okay, just get yourself a coffee and go browse the makeup section for a while. I’ll be there in ten minutes, I promise.” At this point, she opened her door very quietly and stepped lightly down the hallway, whispering as she went: “yeah, I’ll stay on the phone the whole way, promise. You’re gonna tell your parents, right? …Well, he DESERVES to get in trouble…”\n\nShe was back before midnight. Feel free to overrule me on this one, boss, but I’m saying nice.\n\nALEX: Charlotte came home from school crying because some kid at school had told her you weren’t real. Alex was the only one home at the time. You know what that kid told her? “Santa is 100%, absolutely real, Charlie. I know because…I’m him. And Dad is him too, and Mom. See, Santa isn’t actually just one guy--it’s a secret club. To join the Secret Society of Santas, you have to solemnly swear to spread joy and kindness all year long, and then you get officially named a Santa Claus. Usually you’ve gotta be bigger to join, but since you know the truth now…wanna join up?”\n\nI know it’s a load of hogwash, boss, but it’s not like I could correct him, and you should’ve seen the smile on that little girl’s face when she solemnly swore to keep Christmas in her heart all the year. Nice.\n\nRACHEL: Turns out, she’s been secretly packing herself a second lunch since about October. Maddie finally noticed and confronted her about it. According to Rachel, there’s a kid in her class who only ever has a single granola bar for lunch, and Rachel’s been secretly making sure she has extra to share. Rachel said the kid’s name, and from Maddie’s expression, I’d say she knows the family and has some idea why the kid never has a real lunch. Once school kicks off again in January, Maddie is 100% onboard with Operation Feed Carly. Very nice, both of them.\n\nCHARLOTTE: Went shopping with Maddie. Saw the toy donation box and asked what it was for. When they got home, Charlotte went upstairs and came down with her arms full of literally all her toys. Maddie tried to talk her out of it, but the kid spent the next three days insisting that it was ‘her job as a Santa’. As a compromise, they went out and bought some (brand new, in-the-box) toys together that they donated to the toy drive. Really, really nice.\n\nSo there you have it, boss. Nice all around, checked it twice and everything. I’ll head back to HQ as soon as the family packs up the Christmas decorations—I estimate sometime around January 6 or so. And…sir? Gotta say, I wouldn’t mind getting this assignment again next December." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Benni\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1092\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hides something from its reader until the very end." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Clarence’s feet slid into his worn-out brown leather slippers before the old radio clock even blared to wake him up. Still spry in his older years he jumped up to start his day. Clarence’s face showed that of someone who has experienced much life and joy and had many stories and lessons to share. But no time for that, today is Christmas Eve. Which means one thing: get to the woodshop and build Benjamin, his grandson, the perfect rocking chair that he’s been asking for, just in time for Christmas. Taking his first sip of coffee as the lights in his woodshop flickered on, the hot liquid started coursing through his body invigorating him with motivation, so he immediately started to draw out the templates for the pieces he needed to build the rocking chair. Pausing momentarily and glancing at the photo of Benni above the shop door he lightly sings,\n“It’s like one, two, three\nJust as easy as can be \nJust the way you look at me\nYou make me smile.”\nClarence’s woodshop wasn’t your normal run of the mill, homeowner woodshop. No, Clarence had a large setup with many industrial machines for his carpentry business he used to run before he retired. Many machines had vacuums built in and large tables and benches for working on. A true craftsman Clarence took pride in everything he built, and he took pride in teaching his grandson those same values and morals. Always taking time to clean up and put everything away, \n“A place for everything, and everything in its place.” Clarence muffled seemingly lost in thought.\nSnapping safety goggles over his eyes he switches the bandsaw to life humming like a large hippo snoring alongside the roaring Nile. The industrial machine's loud hums and powerful motor sends the blade whirring around with enough force to cut each piece of lumber with the ease and precision of a razor cutting the most intricate design out of paper. A skill that is only bound by that of the operator, and old Clarence ain’t no slouch. Putting his years of experience on display, he pays close attention as each blade violently rips through each fiber of wood yet leaving a clean and defined cut in its wake. Ensuring each piece is exactly as it’s supposed to be, Clarence turns his attention to sanding. For such a smaller piece he decides to do all the sanding by hand. He starts to slowly knock down the edges and smooth each piece of wood. Gently mimicking the grain of each piece. Blowing plumes of saw dust with each movement, to keep a clear view of his workspace.\nFrom the saw and sanding to the drill press. Plunging drill bits in precise locations of each piece of lumber will guarantee a perfect fit, for a strong chair that's meant to be played on. Double checking each measurement, one at a time, Clarence places each piece on the press and flicks the switch, while the machine drones to life, Clarence lines the holes up, like a skilled brain surgeon drilling a patient's cranium. Slowly drilling bone out of the way yet leaving a clean precise hole. Taking a second to assess his work, Clarence glances at the clock and notices it is almost dinner time and can’t believe where the time went.\n “No time for that,” he muttered to himself under his breath. \nClarence hurriedly starts lightly hammering each piece into place with the proficiency of an assembly line robot zipping pieces together. First a dowel then the piece: First the two rocker pieces with perfectly curved edges connect to the seat with round legs. The seat includes nice indents for Benni’s little bottom. From there the arm rests are curved down then back up to the backrest. Now that was a sight to see. Standing a bit taller than most with knobs at the top on either side, and right in the middle of the backrest as large as can be is the letter B burned into the wood so skillfully it seemed like it was meant to be there. Now really focusing on the details Clarence spends time cleaning up some edges and blending corners together after fitting all the pieces. \nAfter a final inspection and wipe down the rocker is finally ready to be stained. Dipping his cloth into the rich walnut stain Clarence is sure to take his time rubbing it in with the grains and all the corners and details. The dark black wood grains resemble those of a tiger against the dark stain. Glancing again at the picture of Benni he whispers\n“It’s like one, two, three\nJust as easy as can be \nJust the way you look at me\nYou make me smile.”\nClarence’s feet slid into his worn-out brown leather slippers before the old radio clock even blared to wake him up. This morning was Christmas though, he gets to finally show Benni his chair that he’s been asking for. Taking his time, Clarence makes his way to the woodshop and watches as the lights flicker on. Inspecting the chair one final time, he ties a red bow around the front, being careful not to cover the B and carries it to the house.\n Clarence has always been a Christmas lover and enjoys how close it brings the family, and this year wasn’t going to be any different. Decorating the tree himself with bright white lights wrapped around the trunk and sprawled out across the branches giving the tree a sense of depth and beauty, like that of the night sky on a clear brisk winter’s night. Adorned with a brightly lit star at the top. The real beauty of this tree, however, wasn’t in the lights or the shape or smell. You see, Clarence's tree told a story, an adventure, each ornament, a memory. There’s one from the family trip to Disney, and one shaped like a pyramid from Egypt, one made from popsicle sticks with a picture of Benni and Grandpa going ice fishing for the first time. But just above that almost to the very top of the tree underneath the star, there’s a brand new one he just added. Slowly reaching for it he sits on the new rocker as he reads it for the thousandth time just as a tear splashes onto the picture of Benni on the ornament,\nIn Loving Memory \n “Benni”\n 10/17-11/23\n“It’s like one, two, three\nJust as easy as can be \nJust the way you look at me\nYou make me smile.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Trampled Dreams Part 2\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2824\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trampled Dreams Part 2\n(Second half of first chapter in my unpublished novel “A Brilliantly Scathing Life”)\nAs he rode away from Kendra Potter's wagon party the trail leader mulled over who masterminded that outfit. Surely, not that greenhorn who got himself thrown from his horse this morning. He wondered why anyone who had obviously put so much forethought into travel accommodations had overlooked common sense things like foot and head wear.\nAnd why did her widow garb already look so tattered? He was pretty sure the shawl had been cut from the bottom of her dress because her dusty petticoat was much longer. You make do best you can out here. Guess she was a proud Southerner trying hard to still be proper.\nThat dandy husband of hers sure wanted you to believe he was so much better than you. Such a reckless stunt he was trying to pull rearing the horse up to spin around among so many strangers the beast wasn't used to. No wonder the horse panicked and threw him to his demise!\nYet he really couldn't judge her the same. The couple didn't even seem a suitable match. He had guessed that man to have been at least his own age of 27, maybe more. She barely looked marrying age. An arranged marriage maybe? A southern belle plucked out of her element? This clearly wasn't her idea to be walking across a continent. But, oh, how he would love to see that smile again! And that figure! A fine figure of a woman to be sure even at her young age!\nShame on him. She just lost her husband this morning he reminded himself. Still he was looking forward to spending a little time with her this evening and getting a better look at that extensive set-up they hauled. It wasn't just curiosity, he needed to know how well prepared they truly were. How much was just impractical fluff? He had seen that plenty of times. That was a lot to lift over mountains. Impressive overall but one little hick-up en-route and they could lose everything. Would they be able to manage after the loss of a man? That little brother of hers looked like a hard worker but was just a kid.\nKendra could breathe again after the wagon master left her space. How embarrassing falling into his arms like that! What was she reading in those nut-brown eyes of his looking her up and down as he was? Funny, she couldn't even think of his name.\nShe called to the youngster, Toby, “Come closer and we'll tie your mule and cart behind this wagon. It's nooning time and we need to catch up. Then you take my place leading this ox while I run hurry Theo and the big wagon along. Your dog can keep the flock in motion. Trail boss says we gotta stay ahead of that herd of livestock back there.”\nShe hurried toward the schooner and pulled herself up on the back tailgate. Theo's bulk was blocking 'Lena as she finished buttoning up her bodice. She tied the strings of her apron bib behind her neck to cover what still peeked out.\n“So now you know some of our secrets, Baby Girl.” Theo couldn't help giving a big satisfied grin.\n“I'll be sure to knock next time. But for now the other wagons are catching up for nooning and we are a little behind. Get out there and get the oxen moving. 'Lena what do we have for a quick, light lunch? And, oh, the wagon master is coming for supper. I bragged what a good cook you are. Gotta fix up something pleasing to him,” she recommended.\nAfter the noon break Kendra slipped up to walk along side Theo leading the oxen pulling the Conestoga.\n“Theo, I need to understand Pappy's overall plan. How much did he tell you about it? I know nothing yet we need to decide if we still try to go through with it. The brunt of the heavy stuff will fall on you. It's such a relief not to have to deal with Mister Leroy anymore but I sure miss Pappy!”\n“So glad ta hear ya says dat. Lordy, fergive me, if'n Iz knows all 'long how ya felt maybe coulda done diff'ent.\n\"Soz all I knows fer sure is we packs alls we can inside dis here wagon. 'nuff furniture ta fill three rooms, maybe more, in house, most flat out an' need o' puttn' tageder.\n“Den dey's dried fruit and vegetables ta feed, oh, maybe, five or six folks, ifn Tommy make it home 'fore we left, fer up ta near on a year, me tinks. Dey's seeds and plant starts fer good size garden an' first crop.\n“Ya sees the animals an' chickns an' honey bees needin' fer orchardin'. Some grain feed fer animals but he figure a lot get off da land we go thru jut likes everyone doin'. 'munitions fer firearms and snares ta get game. All tuck in kegs an' bins built all over dem wagons.\n“Den o' course ya knows how the tents fold off sides ta makes dry livin'. Oh, an' dem hammocks 'neath ta keep ya warm off ground when ya sleep. Be a fierce comfort fer us.” Whew, he hadn't said so much at one time since forever!\n“It is a marvel how you fit it all in. What about where he wanted to go? Is there land waiting for us somewhere?”\n“West. Dat wha' he always say.”\n“We are already west 'bout two months. Is it important to you and your family how far west we go? West is mighty big!”\n“Free. He wan' us ta feel free. Live free. Jut like white men. He says.” Big Theo's eyes were glassy with tears.\n“Oh, Theo, that's what I want for you, too.” Kendra paused while they both recomposed.\n“'Course ya knows 'Lena still a hopn' Tommy be findn' us someday if he be lookin'.”\n“Oo. That'll get harder, too, the farther we go. But Pappy probably told folks back home we would be heading to California. Time to get Toby to send out another of his pigeons, okay? Let them know how far we have gotten.”\n“Hard ta say deys been gettin' da messages. Wez be waitn' so longs already looks like he neva be comin' back.” Theo rued.\n“And I know that would break 'Lena's heart all the more.” She placed a hand on Theo's back as high up as she could reach toward his shoulder trying to comfort him. “We'll keep praying for him.”\nShe patted his iron-bending forearm a couple of times and assured, “You are comforting me a lot about our situation. Sounds like general provisions are well covered as long as we don't lose or squander it along the way.\n“But there will be other expenses that come up not to mention eventual land purchase. Passage on this wagon train for instance. Men like the wagon master don't take on this responsibility for nothing. I don't even know if the fee has been paid. He could say it hasn't been even if it has. How am I to know whether or not to believe him?\n“Do you know if Mister Leroy gave him anything? Did Pappy say anything about finances, you know, money?” Kendra was getting to the crux of her concerns. She hoped Mr. Leroy hadn't sabotaged everything.\n“Well,” he scratched his scarcely bearded jawline as he thought it out, “withn all our extrys mights be we's able ta do little tradin' needs be. 'Course, yu uns pappy's gots his tailorin' tools and extry cloths packed up. Ya an' my 'Lena are good wit' a needle. Iz gots m' blacksmithin' tools an' do some carpentry ifn gots some wood.\n“Ya sing as pretty as Iz ever heerd. Folks oughta pay to hear dat. Dat harpsicor' be drugs out an ya gives lessons if ya wanna. So don't ya worry ya pretty little head. We won't be starvin' long as Iz about. Psst, even got 'Lena extry talent!” He winked.\nWell, that last part was not what she wanted to think about at all. “No, I don't want you making 'Lena do such as that anymore. She does it because she loves you and wants to make you happy. Now that I know more about being a woman, I don't believe she enjoys being used in that way.” She had an unpleasant flashback of seeing how men used 'Lena given the chance. “Can you understand what I mean? We all have a chance at a clean start.”\nTheo hung down his head feeling like he let her down. “Iz only thinkin' how's she could hep out da babies, ya knows, like she did fer u uns when ya be born an' hat no mamma. She loves 'em babies an' since...”\n“Oh, of course, of course.” She sighed. “She's been the only mamma I ever knew. And I love her so much.”\nMemories of her and Tommy growing up together ran through her mind. He was only two years older than her and so fair of skin color people would mistake them for siblings.\n“I know she looked out after a couple more back home through the years. Sorry, I didn't think of that. It'll all work out somehow.” She reassured with a smile. “After all, Pappy would say, 'Rome wasn't built in a day'.”\n“Yep, him say, 'homewards buildin' away'.” Theo had misunderstood. Oh, well...\nAt least she would have some plans to offer the wagon master. She had no way of knowing without straight out asking him if anyone had even paid for their passage with his train. She hadn't a clue as to how much that might be or if she had the money to give him. He might lie to them or try to swindle them. Or he might dump them right where they are tonight.\nShe hadn't had time to get to know anyone else traveling along with them she could trust to ask about the trail master. She wasn't sure how to read him after their brief encounter this morning other than the business end mattered to him. She would have to remember to let him do the talking first.\n“You are the best, Theo. I'll stop worrying so much as long as I have you to watch over us. And I wanted to thank you for saying something nice over the grave this morning. It was nicer than I would have said. After everything he had done did you mean that part about him being welcomed by Jesus in His heaven?”\n“Wells, Iz knows he be a fierce sinner, but dat's same as alls us be. Dem last couple o' days me tinks he be 'raslin' wit dat ole Adam man in 'im. Him wantin' some peace inside hisself. 'Lena says he asks her hows to get some o' dat fergiveness he heerd us talkin' 'bout. 'member when read Toby Easter story? She says just asks Jesus.” He shrugged. “Maybe he did? Onlys fer da Lord ta knows fer sure.”\n“Well, I'll be! Maybe he was redeemable! Anyway, I'll be up in the wagon looking over some of Mr. Leroy's things for a while. And I'll try to find some of Pappy's things. Have you looked in the box wagon thru his stuff? If I get time I need to do that before we meet with Master...??, hey, do you remember his name?”\n“Nope. Don' knows ever says ta me.” Theo was scratching his head.\n“Hmm, me either. I'll be out to switch with 'Lena soon so she can get started on supper. Thanks so much for your help.”\n“Now's be time wez call upon da Good Lor' fer some o' dat dere hep.”\n“You're so right. Ashamed it has taken me this long to remember that.”\nThey bowed their heads together as he spoke, “Now, Lord, wez sorry sometime wez fergets Ya be right dere waitin' fer us ta ask fer Yo hep whens ever wez come up 'gainst tings like dese here problems wez be facin'. Wells, wez figure Ya knows already all's wez need an' Ya gots it all a waitin' fer us. So's wez a askin' now.\n“Guide us wit Yo almighty han' fer all these 'cisions wez be makin'. An' look afta our Tommy fer us 'cause wez can't. In Yo dear Son's name wez a prayn'. And also watch afta dat rascal, Leroy, ifn he come ta see Ya, 'im bein' Yo son, too.”\n“Amen.” They chimed. She squeezed his hand then wiggled her fingers in a wave as she dropped back to the rear opening of the big wagon and climbed up.\nThe volunteer burial detail had bundled Leroy's belongings he had on him into his shirt and deposited it on her lap this morning. She had tossed it on top of the mattress when she crawled inside the wagon not wanting to think about it then. She retrieved it now and searched through everything hoping for a pocket full of gold she supposed.\nA few loose coins but no jackpot. An interesting looking tiny fire arm with a small pouch of gun powder and some loose balls that must be ammo. That's an eye opener, but not totally unexpected out of someone like him! A couple of business cards with curling edges reading “Le-Roy Potter” “Courier of Fine Goods”. Something looked odd. She took a card to the back opening for better light. For sure! The first 't' in Potter had been doctored from an 'l'. His name was Polter! That's a real eye opener! Grandpa's eyes in poor light would never have caught that!\nShe grabbed the carpetbag he had brought into her boudoir upon their joining the train yesterday and dumped it out. Nothing but some clothes and some toiletries. Remembering she might have to sell or use this stuff for trade she started neatly folding them back into the bag.\nWait. In one trouser pocket was an envelope that held their hastily scribbled marriage certificate. Now there's a keepsake! Names were hard to read. She was under duress and he was lying. But it was something she better hang on to just in case. Of what? Who knew?\nWell, maybe she could at least fashion one of his blousy, white silky shirts into a better bodice for herself before this evening. She was embarrassed when her shawl fell open exposing all of her to the unsuspecting wagon master. What he must think of her!\nShe was much younger when some of her wardrobe had been carefully packed. This one had been folded in sheets and smoothed out under the mattress along with most of her fancier frocks. When Grandpa suddenly died she needed to find her only black dress. The one she wore three, no nearly four, years ago when her father passed. Unfortunately, the bodice had gotten way too tight on her because of her developing womanhood.\nThen there was her new husband who preferred she didn't wear black or anything much for that matter. In those days traveling as a lone wagon under his rule she never got to remedy the dress situation and had only managed the shawl solution recently.\nPeople may wonder as a grieving wife why she's not entirely in black but drastic times call for drastic measures. If their wagon gets stranded without a train then no one else ever need know she was supposed to be a grieving widow.\nShe straightened the rest of the jostling room. A ball of paper was wedged between a couple of wooden chests holding up the mattress. She wrestled it out and smoothed it. She gasped as a flash of memory came to her. It was too much for her to deal with immediately so she folded it and slipped it into her drawer in the standing chest holding their everyday needs. But it added to a couple of concerns she may have to take up with... oh, what is his name?.\nAs she was ready to slip out she noticed Charger's saddlebags hanging near the back. Inside she found a change clothes and two ledgers. Maybe bank ledgers? The red one looked like one she once saw in her granddad's possession.\nShe considered herself an educated young woman. Her father and her grandfather had seen to that themselves. Looking at these foreign entries she realized how unimportant it had been to the men utmost in her life that she would ever have any reason to understand the basic concepts of anything to do with the mysterious world of finances. The exclusive man's world of finance! All she could tell was that some of the entries subtracted from the red book matched the numbers added in the blue book. She had a puzzle to solve and her future depended on the outcome." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Simple Act of Kindness\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2813\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who receives — or makes — a life-changing, anonymous donation." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A Simple Act of Kindness\n\n“The greatest work that kindness does to others is that it makes them kind themselves.”\n-Amelia Earhart\n\nRule #1- Four downs to get the ball across the goal line (telephone pole); no first downs.\nRule #2- Pass rusher must count three “Mississippies” before rushing the quarterback. (No cheating.)\nRule #3- No catching the ball on a bounce off the side or roof of a garage.\nRule #4- If football goes into Mr. Radtke’s yard, leave ball, run home, and the kid responsible for sending the ball into the forbidden zone shall endure the lifelong scorn of all the other players.\nJoey easily grasped Rules 1, 2, and 3. That’s just the way they did it on the cracked and pitted surfaces of the back alley back in Wisconsin. It was Rule #4 that puzzled him.\n“But if it’s our ball, Ben, we should be able to get it. We wouldn’t be harming anything. If my ball would go over his fence, I’m getting it.”\n“Good luck with that. He’s the meanest guy in the city, Joey. No one dares to go into his yard. Everyone is afraid of old man Radtke.”\n“What’s so scary about him?”\n“For starters, he’s like 8’ tall, big scars on his face, half his teeth are missing, and he’s got green eyes.”\n“No way.”\n“Way.”\n“You know, I’ve been here for two months, and I’ve never seen him. He must stay in his house a lot.”\n“For sure. I’ve never seen him either, well close up I mean.”\n“Then how do you know what he looks like?”\n“Everyone says it. And he shoots birds, squirrels, and cats from his back window. Johnny Larson says he shot at him once.”\n“Holy crap.”\n“And we’re pretty sure his wife is buried in his backyard.”\n“Jesus!”\n---------\n“Mom, do you know who Mr. Radtke is?”\n“No, who’s that?”\n“He lives three houses down from us.”\n“I haven’t met him. Maybe your Dad has. Why do you ask?”\n“The guys say he’s really mean. They say his wife is buried in his backyard.”\n“I doubt that. I wouldn’t worry about him, Joey.”\n----------\nThroughout the course of human history, we often encounter certain notable, if not unique figures, who are defined by a reputation that often exceeds the reality of the person- the town drunk, the class clown, the neighborhood meanie. Mr. Radtke not only met the baseline qualifications for the “meanie” tag, he far exceeded them. Mean: mēn; having or showing a desire to cause someone pain or suffering for the sheer enjoyment of it; cruel, malicious, nasty, Mr. Radtke.\nWe will surmise that Mr. Radtke did not do his wife in and unceremoniously bury her in his backyard, notwithstanding the enhanced blossoming of the lilac bushes alongside his garage. In all other respects, however, the rumors excitedly spread by the neighborhood children were, unfortunately, true. The guy was a real son-of-a-bitch.\n----------\nLike many of today’s mega-sports venues, the alley was a multi-purpose facility- the touch football playing field from telephone pole to telephone pole, half the court for basketball at the hoop on Billy Boyd’s garage, and the outfield for whiffle ball at Charlie Taylor’s backyard. At night, the alley, all parking areas, and the narrow passageways between garages became the hunting grounds for the “Ghost”, with all hiding places restricted to the geography between those two telephone poles that pretty well defined the recreational living space for Joey and his gang of cohorts.\nTwo yards north of one of the goal line telephone poles, Mr. Radtke’s yard loomed like an angry dark cloud. It was the forbidden zone, the haunted cave, the ominous mountain where the evil spirits lurked. None dared to enter, and all children passed by quickly, fearing the wrath, even the vexing gaze, of the monster within. Joey would one day compare the scene to wary golfers keeping an eye on a menacing alligator parked alongside a fairway at a South Carolina golf course. You keep playing, but stay alert, and forfeit any ball that enters its space.\nFor Joey, the lore of old man Radtke was akin to the hideous person seated alone in the corner of a restaurant. Just as diners’ glances are often drawn in the direction of the undesirable, Joey would occasionally slow his pace as he passed the old man’s house and contemplate what horrors might lie hidden behind the peeling paint and closed curtains. He would pay particular attention to the slight rise in the landscape beneath the spreading red maple. The thought would occur to him that at least the old man gave his wife a nice final resting place.\n----------\nNeighborhood “Strikeout”- two on a team with a pitcher and an outfielder stationed in the alley; the strike zone marked in chalk on the wall at the back of Charlie’s house; past the pitcher, a single; over the fence and into the alley, a double; on top Cooper’s or Martin’s garage, a triple; over a garage, a homer.\nNo one had ever seen a ball hit so far. Arguments of epic proportions would persist for years as to whether or not Johnny Larson’s historic blast was wind-aided. That was the good news for Johnny; the bad news was the monumental shot was foul, to the right of the telephone pole…by a lot. The boys stood in shock as the ball sailed over the alley. It wasn’t just the distance; it was the trajectory- the errant high fly ball was destined to land in Mr. Radtke’s yard.\nThere was no need to run home as Mr. Radtke would never be able to ascertain the launch pad for the unwelcome intruder now resting comfortably in the grass in his backyard. The only concern was the ball itself.\n“Holy crap, Johnny, that was awesome.”\n“We’ve never had a ball go that far.”\n“I’ll go get another ball.”\n“No, it’s our ball. I’ll go get it.”\n“What?! Are you out of your ever-lovin’ mind? Don’t be stupid, Joey. That guy lost his marbles. There’s no telling what he’d do.”\n“I’m not afraid.”\n“No, just stupid.”\nJoey felt his courage slipping away as he walked down the alley toward Mr. Radtke’s yard. Bravado tends to fade a little as one approaches the enemy, especially if you are twelve years old. Joey’s eyes pinballed between the house and the ball which sat just twenty feet inside the danger zone. He’d be in and out in seconds. As Joey studied the latch on the gate, he imagined an eight-foot-tall angry man with green eyes charging out of the house, and he began to question the wisdom of the mission. He glanced back toward Charlie’s house and saw the boys looking on in eager anticipation. It’s hard to retract a boast, Joey.\nThree deep breaths. Do or die, now or never, Joey lifted the latch on the gate and bolted into the yard. He sprinted to the ball, and when he came to a quick full stop, his feet slid out from under him. Joey went down, and before he could get back on his feet, he heard the screen door swing open.\n“Get out of my yard you little delinquent. I’m calling the cops, and you better hope they get here before I get my hands on you!”\nJoey’s heart skipped a beat, no two or three beats. No, it stopped. Frozen in fear. \n“Get out of there, Joey!”\nJoey scrambled to his feet and glanced at the large figure coming off the back porch. Jesus Christ! The guy was eight feet tall! He raced to the gate, fumbled with the latch, escaped into the alley, and ran. He took one quick look back to make sure old man Radtke wasn’t in pursuit. He wasn’t; he was tossing the boys’ whiffle ball into a garbage can.\n----------\n“He kept the ball, Dad. That’s not right. And he scared the bejeesus out of me when I tried to get it.”\nJoey’s Dad attempted to conceal a hint of a smile as he replied. He had a Mr. Radtke in his own neighborhood growing up. Maybe every neighborhood has one.\n“Joey, some people are just that way. It’s their nature. The best thing to do is just stay clear of him…and his yard.”\n“Well, it’s not going to be fun having such a jerk living so close to us.”\n“Joey, don’t call Mr. Radtke a jerk. We don’t call people jerks.”\n“Even if he is a jerk, Mom?”\n“Joey.”\nMoms have the unique ability to deliver a one-word reprimand that is part scolding, part warning, and part lesson, all to be taken seriously.\n“Don’t be judging people. And remember, Jesus said love thy neighbor.”\n“I bet Jesus never met Mr. Radtke.”\n“Joey.”\n----------\nJoey’s mind was on his harrowing escape one evening as he walked down the alley to Ben’s house. It was the magnetic pull of the irresistible urge to tempt fate and flirt with danger that caused Joey to pause at the Radtke gate. He stood there trying to remember what the monster looked like. Did he have green eyes? Was he missing teeth? As he stared at the house, a window curtain slowly opened, and the outline of a man appeared against a soft red glow. Mesmerized by the image, paralyzed by fear, Joey conjured up images of Satan himself standing at the gates of hell. The man stared at him, and Joey knew he was recognized as the trespasser. Strike two. Joey felt he was a marked man. He left in a hurry.\n----------\n“That’s a vampire? You look more like Eddie from the Munsters, Joey.”\n“Shut up, Ben.”\n“You get ‘em, Johnny?”\n“Yep. Four packages of ladyfingers, one for each of us. You got the matches, Charlie?”\n“Of course.”\n“What are you guys talking about?”\n“Firecrackers, Joey.”\n“Firecrackers? What do you do with firecrackers?”\n“For old man Radtke’s house. We’ll put ‘em on his front steps, light ‘em, and take off.”\n“I don’t think we should do that, guys. We’ll get in trouble.”\n“We’ve done it before. And no one would recognize us in our costumes anyway.”\nReluctant, but willing, Joey bought into the prank. Mr. Radtke had scared him half to death; turnabout is fair play. And of course, he wanted to be a team player, that peer pressure stuff his parents had warned him about. Parents- that was it. His concern was his parents might find out.\nThe plan went off without a hitch. Firecrackers placed, fuses lit, boys fleeing the scene, and an eruption of sound and sparks. The thunderous commotion was spectacular. As Joey paused a few houses down the street to admire their work, the front door flew open, and Mr. Radtke stepped out onto the porch. But he didn’t yell, and he didn’t give chase. The fact that he just stood and stared off into nowhere robbed the boys of some of their anticipated joy. For Joey, any satisfaction of having harassed the harasser drifted off into the cold night air.\n---------\nThe three things Joey hated the most in life- spinach, homework, and church. Joey’s mind was drifting around in the atmosphere surrounding the life of a twelve-year-old: his 7th Grade basketball team, his Packer team that he left behind, the cute as a biscuit Susie Jones in his class at St. John’s, and Mr. Radtke standing quietly amidst the ear-shattering fireworks display that surrounded him. Occasionally, to fight the boredom, Joey would listen to what Father Bob had to say.\n“A reading from the Gospel according to Mark…Love thy neighbor as yourself…”\nWhat?! Joey was just thinking of that son-of-a-… Watch it, Joey. You’re only twelve. You shouldn’t even be thinking bad words. And you’re in church! Jesus. Love thy neighbor. There’s no way He could have been talking about Mr. Radtke. No one could love that guy.\n“Do a good deed, and expect nothing in return. And remember, the best works are done anonymously. Your reward will be in heaven.”\n----------\n“Oh, my God, no wonder the guy is such an ornery recluse.”\n“Yeah, Marcie told me his wife and his twelve-year-old son both died at the scene of the accident. That was over 25 years ago. He’s been mad at the world ever since.”\n“Does he have any relatives in the area?”\n“He does, or at least he did. I guess they tried, but eventually, they all gave up on him. Same with any friends he had. I guess he just wants to be left alone.”\n“That’s sad.”\n“I feel bad for him. He’s just a bitter, old, lonely man.”\n“Who are you guys talking about?”\n“Mr. Radtke, Joey. That’s probably why he’s the way he is.”\nThe firecrackers seemed even less funny than they did Halloween night.\n----------\nIt snowed, then it snowed, and then it snowed some more. Sixteen inches measured at the airport.\n“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Joey.”\n“Dad, Charlie says his parents give him $5.00 a week for doing stuff around the yard, like shoveling snow.”\n“That’s nice.”\n“Well, I should get something, at least for this one. There’s like five feet of snow out there. I bet Charlie’s Dad will give him ten for this snowfall. I get nothing.”\n“Your reward will be in heaven.”\n“That’s not fair.”\n“Life's not fair, but I do have an idea.”\n“What’s that?”\n“Maybe you could go live with Charlie’s parents.”\n----------\nSeventeen degrees, windy, tons of snow. Joey’s beloved Packers would be on TV as the late Game of the Week. If he stayed on it, kept moving, no breaks, he’d catch the kickoff.\nJoey was exhausted when he finished. No compensation, but he felt good about it, a sense of pride in a job well done. And awaiting him would be hot chocolate, with those little marshmallows, and the Packers. It would be a pretty good day after all.\nAs Joey hoisted the shovel up onto his shoulder, he noticed clear sidewalks all the way down the block, except for one- Mr.Radtke’s. An unfamiliar feeling overcame our exhausted shoveler. What are you thinking, Joey? And why? Hot chocolate…with those little marshmallows…ten minutes to kickoff of the Packer game…and you’re standing there like a lost puppy?\nIf rain and snow cannot keep the postman away, the Holy Spirit ain’t hardly going to be deterred by a little snow. Joey’s feet seemed to move without instruction, down the street…to Mr. Radtke’s house. The shovel appeared to have developed a mind of its own as it chomped at the drifts of snow, again and again. A second wind hit his sails, and Joey became a madman creating a white tornado of flying, fluffy snow.\nThe public sidewalk in front of Mr. Radtke’s house was cleared, but Joey kept on going. He completely forgot about fearing the man inside, and he shoveled the walkway leading to the front door, and then the steps. He even used his gloved hand to brush the snow off the mailbox.\nJoey put the shovel back on his shoulder and headed for home. He didn’t notice the closing of the curtain on an upstairs window.\n---------\n“Mom, I think I just did a good deed.”\n“Your Dad saw you. Yes, honey, you did do a good deed. We’re proud of you. Father Bob would be proud of you too.”\nJoey sat down on the living room sofa next to his Dad.\n“I was looking for you, Joey. You missed the first half, but that was really a nice thing you did.”\n“And it was one of those anonymous jobs.”\n“Yes, it was.”\n“I don’t suppose you’d re-think the $5.00 thing.”\n“Like I said, Joey, your reward will be in heaven. Or, maybe you could ask Mr. Radtke.”\n“Dad.”\n----------\n“Joey! My mom says she saw you shoveling old man Radtke’s sidewalk! What the hell is wrong with you?!”\n“Must have been some other kid.”\n----------\nFather Bob was old school; he said Midnight Mass at Midnight. It was a different feeling for Joey. Instead of the usual boredom, tinged with a bit of true suffering, he felt good about being there. The sights, sounds, and spirit of Christmas filled both the church and Joey. A time for renewal, a chance for the world, a new beginning for all mankind. Joey felt it all as a happy tear hung at the corner of his eye.\nWhen they arrived home, Joey was the first to the door and the first to notice it- a small package crudely wrapped in newspaper sitting on the front porch. Joey sat on the sofa as his curious parents looked on. In the flickering lights of the Christmas tree, Joey tore off the paper and held the small box in his hands. It was a new whiffle ball. That tiny little tear dropped." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Rescue\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1599\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about somebody whose intentions are pure, but somehow always manages to do the wrong thing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior.”\nIn front of their church should have been a good place to handout leaflets. People were always around, even making special trips to visit the gourmet coffee shop across the street. But it was rare anyone showed interest in the Lord who died to save them. Usually, they hurried by with disdainful glances or refused to look at them at all.\nWhen a couple from the coffee shop paused, Beckie reached for a pamphlet. She was careful to use dainty fingers on her glowing risen Christ. The cold sun lit the features of the golden blond woman. She wore a red leather jacket with tassels and shiny gold buttons and looked at Beckie with clear apple‑green eyes. And smiled, maybe curious. Beside her, the man scowled. His leather jacket was the color of coal. His eyes, dark as black coffee, disdainfully ran over Beckie’s bulky fleece. Ignore him. The man’s large hand reached for the blonde’s slender one. Let him have the dust under her feet. The blond woman still smiled. Beckie held the pamphlet. Laughing the woman waved Christ’s image away and slid her fingers across the man’s palm, linking their hands. Many rings decorate her manicured fingers but none look like a wedding band.\nBeckie shrunk into her fleece watching them. They were as beautiful as runway models and sauntered off as though touring Paris on holiday. Her fists coiled into her sleeves leave half the pamphlet dangling out in the cold. Always the same. Passersby hurried from one warm building to the next, never wondering why followers loved God so much they shivered and suffered the biting wind. Allowed cold air to gnaw their flesh.\nWhen the happy couple passed the black door of the Crow, Beckie blew a warm breath on her cool fingers. Maybe her prayer had done some good. So horrible, occultists setting up shop next to their Main Street church.\nOut of the Crow Emporium two men came laughing. Their scarves and sleek tapered layers were in matching navy and oranges, like a groom might match his bride. On the stairs, they shifted packages back and forth, and randomly touched each other.\nBeckie knew she shouldn’t look, that even witnessing immorality could corrode righteousness, but couldn’t draw away her gaze. It was like seeing into a different realm where people preferred dirty water to clean.\nA nod and copper curls bounced. Jody used to have curls like that. But he’d hated them and buzz cut his hair an inch from his skull to be rid of them. The face lowered, seeming to look down. Blink maybe. The churchyard where she stood was forty feet from the occult steps so Beckie couldn’t be sure.\nCrazy how much he looked like Jody.\nThe other man had obviously dyed platinum hair gelled into short spikes. The men’s eyes met, and Beckie knew what they were going to do. Jody’s hand fell over the other’s wrists. Their heads bent together. Their lips met.\nIt couldn’t be Jody. Beckie had grown up with Jody. They’d attended Word of Faith together. When the men started down the occult steps, Beckie looked down at her pamphlet. Oh no. It was crumpled in her fist. She tried smoothing it, but the men crossed to the coffee shop.\nBeckie had to do something. She couldn’t let Jody be thrown into a lake of fire.\nIt was three o’clock. Her prayer partners were packing up. Beckie put her crumpled salvation card with the others.\n“See you next week.”\nMaybe she should have told about seeing Jody. But hollering never worked.\n“Charlotte, can you wait a minute.”\nNaturally Charlotte was surprised. Beckie usually only said ‘hello’ ‘good-bye’ ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’\nDesperate, she put aside her usual resentment. There was no one else to ask.\n“I saw a man who used to be a friend. Who used to be part of this group. In what I could tell was a homosexual relationship.”\nCharlotte looked confused.\n“I need you to teach me to be sexy so I can cure him.”\nHer confusion turned to horror. “I don’t think.”\nIt was unfair Charlotte was so pretty. Christian boys were supposed to judge women by their virtue, not their beauty, but those at Word of Faith all loved Charlotte.\n“I know you mean well, but I mean you can’t use one sin to overcome another. In God’s eyes all sin is bad. None worse than the other.”\nHumph. So people said, but Beckie knew gay sex was worse than normal sex. If Jody was having sex with a woman, he could marry her to cancel the sin. A gay road led farther from righteousness.\nBeckie tried a different tactic. “I feel as though Jody is man I’m supposed to marry. He’s the husband God chose for me.”\n“God told you that?”\nBeckie nodded. It wasn’t exactly a lie. She had thought that, maybe, when they studied Bible together. Charlotte couldn’t argue against God.\n“I just thought,\" Beckie coaxed. “I mean you’re so pretty. If you could teach me how to improve my look.”\n“I don’t have a problem going shopping with you,” Charlotte answered.\n“Weren’t you a stylist before?”\nThough looking uneasy, Charlotte nodded.\nSkipping church to visit the coffee shop felt sacrilege, but it was for a good cause. And Beckie did bring her Bible. After getting coffee, she sat in a back corner where she wouldn’t be noticed and could see people coming in.\nNot used to worrying about showing cleavage or her panties if she bent over, Beckie felt awkward at first. Until noticing every skirt worn was shorter than the knee length one she wore. Every top at least as low as the neckline of her scooped print blouse.\nOpening her Bible, she reviewed her highlighted favorite verses.\nCharm is deceitful\nAnd Beauty is vain\nBut a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.\nThat didn’t fit this occasion.\nThe afternoon was wasted as neither Jody or his friend showed.\nBeckie decided to call Jody’s mother.\n“Hello Mrs. Caissie. This is Rebecca Tingley, from Word of Faith. Jody used to go there.”\n“Oh Rebecca. Hi. How are you?” She was confused by the call.\n“Fine thanks. Is Jody still living with you.”\n“He’s not here at the moment,” She answered.\n“I was hoping to meet up with him,” Beckie said.\n“He’s left Word of Faith.”\n“Yes, I know. I saw him last Sunday walking with a man. They looked like a couple.”\n“Yes, Jody’s come to some realizations.”\n“And what do you think of his realizations.”\n“I’m happy that my son is happy.”\n“You didn’t want grandchildren.”\n“I’m hanging up now.” Jody’s mother did.\nBeckie stared at her phone, shocked Jody’s mother cared so little for his welfare.\nAnother failure, from which nothing was gained. Except learning it likely Jody lived with his mother.\nMaybe if she went there in person. Charlotte had helped her fix her hair and she had new clothes.\nBeckie called a taxi.\nIt was starting to get dark when Beckie reached the bungalow. The tree was still there, but bigger than when they’d been teens, and she used to sneak into Jody’s bedroom. A light shone at the front door. It would be sensible to try there. The window was dark. The tree bark looked like it would be rough against her skirt-bare legs and soft smooth bottomed shoes.\nStreetlights were coming on. She had to decide. If she was a Christian warrior, she had to fight. Beckie went to the tree. In the chilled air, the tree branches felt familiar but strange too. The window was unlocked, and she knew how to push it open. Unfortunately, she’d lost some grace and landed with a thump.\n“What was that?”\nHearing footsteps, Beckie straighten up and smoothed her hair. Setting a hand on her hip, she tried to strike a seductive pose.\nThe bedroom light flicked on, and two men rushed in. Jody and his friend. They stared at her. It was time to be seductive, but she hadn’t expected both of them.\n“Beckie,” Jody was incredulous. “What are you doing here?”\n“I saw you. I’m still volunteering at the church and saw you. Both of you last week.”\n“And you’re here because.\" Jody sounded angry.\nBeckie forced her fingers to unclench. Needing to look alluring, she wriggled her hips and fluttered her lashes.\nJody looked angrier. The other man amused. “This is a friend of yours?”\n“We were friends at Word of Faith,” Beckie answered.\n“Yes, Jody told me about you. And you’re welcome, of course. But it would be better if you didn’t come in through our bedroom window.”\nTheir bedroom window.\nBeckie looked at Jody begging him to deny it, but he crossed his arms glaring. “I can’t believe you.”\n“What she’s your friend,” the man with the platinum spikes laughed. “Why should you be angry with girl mad enough about you to scrape up her knees coming to your rescue.”\nThere were trickles of blood running down from bark scrapes.\n“I’m not here for you,” Beckie pointed her finger in center of his chest.\n“Simon,” the platinum haired man said. “So what are you here for little Miss Beckie. To rescue poor little Jody from mean ole wolf, Simon.”\n“The Bible says,” Beckie pointed again and huffed.\n“What does the Bible say, darling. Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. Join us in a glass and you can explain what your Bible says. And maybe we can get you some bandages too.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Too-Cute Match-Up\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1203\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about hope." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Too-Cute Match-Up\n\nFor the second night Chrissy tucked in the visiting five-year-old, Carlson. He should sleep happier now that the Barbie dream room had been transformed into a space odyssey. The fifth-grade teacher went downstairs in the large Victorian home she shared with her Nana.\n“Any success locating his parents?” Chrissy asked Nana as she joined her in front of the fireplace.\nUpon a chance meeting with Carlson and his Grandfather two evenings ago at a local restaurant the grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack without being able to give any vital information where the rest of Carlson's family were. All Chrissy and Nana knew was the plan had been for Carlson to spend two weeks with his Grandfather who had just moved back into the region. Getting reliable information from a five-year-old had been sketchy. One comment he made led them to believe his parents were no longer together.\n“Carlson said his full name is 'Carlson Douglas Conover' so we have been searching 'Douglas Conover' assuming he may be named after his father as it is common to use the father's name as a second name, besides using 'Carlson'.\n“Authorities kept Artie's phone hoping the parents will check in with him at some point. No one has guessed his password yet to get into his contact list. The address on his ID was not updated and his former house was sold but the Realtor is providing what information she can. Until the other night I have had no contact with him for decades. I'm trying to be helpful but I know so little about him.\n“A 'Douglas Conover' is married to a 'Nora'. Someone is following that clue.”\n“Has anyone suggested we should not be the ones watching over him? Should he be in child protective services or something?” Chrissy wanted reassurance.\n“Chrissy, Dear, I know you had other hopes of getting some extra work done on your novel these two weeks you have of holiday vacation but I've been going to bat for you to be the one to keep him. I hope I'm not wrong about that. I've seen how good you are with him and I think he is attached to you. We don't want to disrupt him any more than he already is. Poor little guy must feel abandoned.”\n“Absolutely. That's what I am trying to stress. I don't want him torn away from here by anyone except his rightful guardians or parents. I've gotten quite fond of the imp. He is adorable. We had an exciting day today while you were playing detective.”\n“Tell me all about it.”\n“First we went back to my classroom, the scene of the clash of all things Christmas, to beat the march of the ants to the sticky mess there. We found unopened graham cracker gingerbread kits so tried our hand at that artistic endeavor. Lots of fun and tasty, too. Then we visited the school library to stock up on reading material just in case.\n“After lunch we tackled the taming of the pink explosion in the room he is using. I replaced the pink puff bedspread with a colorful quilt and fashioned some neutral curtains. Then we took all the Barbie paraphernalia to donate at Goodwill and replaced it with space themed items of his choosing. You should see his room now. You won't recognize it.\n“I found some snow pants his size and figured he should be dressed properly to play outside if he wanted to. We had a knock-down, dragged out fight over a flying saucer saucer sled. Remember that obnoxious 'Mr Kool' teacher I am always complaining about because he gives me a hard time about finishing my novel. Maybe he is right. What do I know about romance when I have never had one of my own? He has published cool fantasy YA.\n“Anyway, he wanted the same sled for a display about space in his classroom. I say I won because he bought it and let Carlson play with it the rest of the afternoon. He even sledded with him saving me from bodily injury and wounded pride.\n“I'm going to have to rethink my opinion of that character. He really was quite the gentleman. He paid for all my purchases, all twelve dollars, and said it was his pleasure since he has no kids and it is Christmas. The lady at the checkout complimented us on what a cute family we have and he wouldn't let me correct her but just graciously accepted the comment with a great big grin.\n“He totally burned up that child's excess energy on that huge hill then came back here with us to warm up and helped Carlson hang his posters. He couldn't stay for our feast of mac and cheese but I have to admit I think he honestly enjoyed himself. I know I did and Carlson hasn't come down from the stars yet. Bet he sleeps in late in the morning. Whatever that looks like for a five-year-old.”\nSuddenly, there was a knock at the door. “You expecting someone?”\n“Maybe someone found Carlson's parents.” Nana surmised.\nWhen Chrissy opened the door she nearly fell over seeing Russell Koolridge, 'Mr. Kool', himself before her.\n“Sorry, to disturb you at this hour, Chrissy. Mind if I come in.”\n“Oh, oh, sorry, of course, come in, come in. Can I take your coat? Would you like some tea?” Chrissy stammered.\n“That would be nice. I wanted to discuss something with you in person if you don't mind.”\n“Do you know my Nana, Anna Merriman? This is Russell Koolridge.”\n“How do you do?”\n“Should I leave you two alone?”\n“That won't be necessary. Trying to help you discover the mystery of Carlson. Maybe you can help.”\n“I'll get the tea, then, and be right back.”\n“I keep thinking of something Carlson said on one of our walks back up the hill.\n“He may be missing her a lot but he said you, Miss Chrissy, reminds him a lot of his mother. She is always surrounded by books. As I see in this room.\n“Do you know his last name?”\n“Conover. He says if he is in trouble someone would call him 'Carlson Douglas Conover'. Nana's research found someone by the name of 'Douglas Conover' is married to a 'Nora'.\n“Oh, my, Chrissy! 'Nora Conover' of Conover Square Publishing. When you babysit for a friend, you really know how to pick your friends. Why are you even worried about winning some contest when you can take your work directly to one of the best in the business? What easier way is there to get published?”\n“Oh,my! Is right! You didn't understand we only knew Carlson's Grandfather for a half hour before he suffered a fatal heart attack and we didn't know who Carlson's parents were. Nana had known him years ago so she has been trying to piece his life together while I have been entertaining the boy. Now we can get somewhere. Thank you.”\nNana came back in the room as Chrissy threw her arms around the neck of her nemesis and planted a great big kiss on his lips. He helped himself to another. No mistletoe in sight." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Too-Cute Mix-Up\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1604\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story framed by a single scene: something happens, a flashback or inner monologue intervenes, and then the story ends with the rest of the original scene." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Too-Cute Mix-Up\nChrissy tucked Carlson under a multi-colored quilt before he said his prayers.\n“What story do you want me to read to you? 'Frosty, the Snowman' or 'Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer'.”\n“'Frosty', please.” Sleepy-eyed Carlson responded.\nThe visiting five-year-old was sound asleep before 'Frosty' melted away to return another year. And it was no wonder. Chrissy reflected on what their day had been like.\n***\nHard to believe it was only last evening when the two of them had met at the Harbor House Restaurant. Chrissy, having had an exhausting day handling a classroom full of hyped-up-on-Christmas-cheer fifth-graders reluctantly accompanied her Nana to downtown festivities then to dinner. Carlson had come in with his aging grandfather who recognized Nana from years ago and struck up a conversation about the good old days.\nChrissy knew a bored five-year-old when she saw one so offered to take him for a walk. His grandfather suffered a medical emergency while the two were admiring the Northern Lights. Nana went to the hospital with her old friend but he never recovered. Chrissy was pressed into service as babysitter until the little guy's family could be located.\nChrissy and Carlson spent the morning cleaning up her gingerbread-coated classroom and built a couple of miniature gingerbread houses themselves.\nBefore the two left the school they stopped into the school library to borrow some books then headed to Nana's Victorian home that Chrissy shared to warm up by the fire with some PB&J sandwiches and hot cocoa.\nCarlson reminded Chrissy he really didn't like sleeping in the all-things-Barbie guest room, even if it should only be one more night. Creative thinking brought about a welcome change in his temporary environment.\nChrissy stuffed the marshmallow-y pink bedspread and pillow shams into a plastic storage bag. The kind you vacuum the air out and it magically shrinks down into pancake size. Carlson got such a kick out of that trick she had to do it two more times for him, then he repeated it, too. All nick-knack, patty-wack Barbie decorations or toys went into a tote.\n“Maybe we can take these to the Goodwill store to donate and find some more appropriate things you will like.” The resourceful teacher suggested.\nChrissy found the multi-colored quilt to cover the twin bed and she sewed fabric loops on one end of two dark blue towels, threaded them over a rod and hung them at the window. It didn't erase all the pink but definitely toned it down enough one little boy could be more comfortable sleeping in the space.\n“Hope we can find some outer space things to make it even better.” Carlson mused as they ventured out.\nAt the shop they hit the jack pot with a set of moon and stars sheets, a couple of out-of-this-world posters that would cover more of the pink walls and a rocket ship lamp.\nChrissy browsed through the little boy clothing and found another pair of jeans just his size. And a bonus of snow pants! Maybe he could burn off some of his little boy energy playing in the back yard if he was dressed for it. Then she spied the exact thing that would help. A round flying saucer sled. The backyard had a slight slope for that to work.\nShe had her hand on it when it was suddenly yanked away from her.\n“Hey, what's the big idea? I was putting that in my cart.”\n“No way! That's going home with me!” A rude burly-type man claimed.\n“Russell? Russell Koolridge? I clearly had it in my grasp. We need it, don't we, Carlson?”\n“Chrissy Merriman! I never knew you had a kid!”\n“I am watching him for a friend and we need some entertainment this afternoon. I know of the perfect slope to use this on and we even found snow pants. That belongs to us.” She was infuriated with this insufferable entitled nemesis she knew from the school where they taught.\nWhat made it even worse was he was already a published YA author and constantly teased her about getting her unfinished romance novel out there. The very thing she was planning on working on this two week break before she got babysitting duties unexpectedly thrust her way.\n“Well, what do you know? How do you do, 'Carlson' is it? My name is Russ Koolridge but you can call me 'Mr. Kool' like all the kids at school do. I am a teacher like Miss Chrissy, here, but with the older kids. I teach all the cool classes like math and science stuff. I need this piece of art for a space display this coming semester.”\nBy this time Carlson had the biggest puppy dog eyes to go with his quivering bottom lip but he remembered his manners. “Nice to meet you, Mista Cool. I really, really wanted to sled down a hill with that today. I might not be here tomorrow. Do you really know about space and stuff? We are fixing Miss Chrissy's Barbie room into a space room so I can sleep in it.”\n“Do I know about space? I am the expert on all things orbiting. Ask me anything. Why I even write stories about it. Some of it fantastical. But mostly for kids older than you are now. But someday... Say. I know! Why don't I buy this old saucer and let you borrow it for today or however long you plan on staying with Miss Chrissy. I don't need it yet.”\n“Well, I was planning on purchasing it.”\n“Save your hard earned cash. Allow me. Where is this hill you are going to tackle?”\n“In my backyard.”\n“Oh, that's no more than a little slope. Let me show you where a real hill is. This boy is ready to fly on this thing. Right, Carlson?”\n“You bet!”\n“Well, let's go!” He swung Carlson up on his shoulders before Chrissy could object and headed to the check out. All of her purchases totaled about twelve dollars but he paid in full.\n“Now wait. You don't need to...”\n“Please, it is my pleasure at Christmas. I don't have kids, either.”\nThe lady at the checkout complimented them on what a cute family they were and wished them a Merry Christmas.\n“Oh, but we're...”\n“Delighted you think so, Ma'am. Have a nice one yourself.” And he led them swiftly out the door.\nThe hill he led them to was perfect for sledding. The sun shown perfectly displaying all the diamonds in the snow. And 'Mr. Kool' was perfectly cool nestling Carlson in his crossed legs keeping him safe flying downhill. Chrissy had to admit she had fun watching the two tumble and sprawl. Russell would perch Carlson on his shoulders as they climbed back up the hill each run. Of course, the afternoon wasn't complete until they made snow angels and were completely frozen.\nShe felt kind of obligated to ask him to join them as they warmed their rosy cheeks by the fire back at her place. She fixed them some tea while he asked to see Carlson's room and hung the posters for him.\n“It's looking a lot like NASA in here, Young Man. Someday you may be an astronaut. Let's go thank Miss Chrissy then I have to take off. I had a blast today.”\n”Me, too, Mista Cool. Thank you.”\nAfter Russell excused himself Chrissy and Carlson cooked mac and cheese with little wieners and sat down for supper at the kitchen island just as Nana arrived home. She took the responsibility of explaining that Carlson's grandpa would not be coming back from the hospital.\n“Your Grandpa was not well and the doctors were not able to help him get better. He passed away earlier today. Do you understand?”\n“You mean he got to go live with Jesus? He has wanted to do that for a long time. He told me all about it. How wonderful it will be. I should always be a good little boy so someday I can go live with Jesus, too. I only have to know Jesus took away all my sins. We even sing a song about it with a manager. Like Daddy.\n“'Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care. And take us to heaven to live with Thee there.'”\n“How often did you visit with your Grandpa, Carlson?” Chrissy asked.\n“Mommy took me there a lot when he lived in his big house with Grandma. This was onlyest time I was 'possed to stay all by myself with him for most wonderful time of the year.\n“Mommy is going to miss him even if he is with Jesus. I should probably be with Mommy. She will need me. You have been fun Chrissy but you have Nana again now. When can I go to Mommy?” Carlson knitted his eyebrows together.\n“We are making sure she will be here soon.” Nana assured.\n“We had a full day. I think it is time to get into PJs, brush teeth and try out that new room. I'll read you a story when you are ready.”\nCarlson had a long list of prayers that night. “Please, Jesus, watch over Grandpa who came to live with you and Grandma. And Mommy missing him. Help Daddy become best manager ever so Mommy can smile again, just like Mista Cool made Chrissy smile and not be sad today. And, please, find Mommy and Daddy. They'll be worried 'cause they are lost.”\n***\nAfter she was sure he fell asleep, Chrissy met up with Nana in front of the fire.\n“Any success locating his parents?”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Daydreaming\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1041\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone stuck in an endless cycle who finally manages to break free." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My parents always dragged me to church. We sat in the same bench every Sunday, scrubbed and starched and bored to death. At least I was bored. Mom and Dad didn’t seem tired of listening to the pastor drone on week after week. Maybe that’d make sense when I was older. But I was getting older. Shouldn’t I understand by now? I mean, I was old enough to drive soon. Maybe I’d try a different church. \n\nI glanced over at them. They were enthralled, following along in their Bibles. I pulled my phone from my pocket. They’d think I was searching a reference, but I was looking for something to keep me awake. I opened instagram and scrolled through the recent posts, then flipped through memes on global. Some conspiracy theorist vid about war rumours popped up. The volume made me jump. I quickly swiped the app up.\n\nNo doubt, later on I’d have to explain why my bible app developed loud ads, but for now I slipped it back into my pocket and turned my eyes back on the preacher. \n\nHe kept talking. His voice was soothing. I tried to listen to him, but it was hard. To my left, Mrs. Johnson sneezed. Someone in front of me got up to use the washroom. The little boy one bench over shuffled his feet, then pinched his sister. Behind me, a baby started crying. \n\nAnother noise caught my attention. As soon as I noticed it, I wondered how long it had been going on. It was getting louder, like a hum turning into a growl; then something all wrong happened and I hit my head on the bench in front of me and everything was on fire and people were screaming and then—then, it was all gone. \n\nI blinked, and couldn’t figure out where I was. I was standing on something invisible. Everything around me was black space, except the row of people I was in. Half of the people in front of me looked familiar. I was pretty sure the person in front of me was Mrs. Johnson. The other half of the people were tall and shiny, one standing beside each human in the line. I glanced beside me and wasn’t even surprised to see one there. \n\n“Are you guarding me?” I asked. I had meant to sound defiant, like little me was someone to be reckoned with, but my voice shook and still came out too loud in the stillness. He glanced at me with a nod, then faced toward the front of the line again. \n\nI looked down at my hands. They were untied. Nothing was stopping me from running away, but I ventured to ask another question. “Are you keeping me from escaping or are you protecting me from something?”\n\nHe looked at me again, longer this time. His face was strange and unreadable. Then he nodded again. \n\n“Which one?” I pressed, but he ignored me. I looked where he was looking, farther down the line. I could almost make out the end. Had I been waiting a long time? I wasn’t sure. The line went forward, and my guard motioned me to follow. It was terrifying to step out into the blackness. Something met my feet, but I had the disconcerting feeling that only the space directly underneath my feet was solid, and if I simply rolled my foot the wrong way, I’d fall off into the deep nothingness underneath me. \n\nSo, I reasonably stood still and only moved when he told me to. Soon—or after a long time; I really had no idea—I could see that there was someone very bright waiting for us. The instant that that light came into view, my guard stood even straighter than he was. I looked up at his face again, and he wore a very noble expression: the kind someone could only wear if they were a loyal servant to a good and powerful master. That made me realize where I was.\n\nI thought about where I had been, what had happened, and what I knew about being dead. Because that’s what I was. I was dead. \n\nAnd I was facing judgement. \n\nMy mind seemed to both be racing and slogging through mud. I could remember my past, but I couldn’t change my thoughts or opinions. The line moved up again and again and again until the brightness hurt. \n\nMrs. Johnson disappeared. Not really, but I couldn’t see where she went, because as soon as she was gone, the light from the One on the throne in front of me blinded my view of anything else. \n\nI couldn’t really see Him. But I felt so, so tiny. I felt something else, too. I felt wrong. The weight of the enormity pressed on me, and I wanted it to stop. My heart was being pushed into my stomach with guilt. I realized He’d given me a way out, but I hadn’t taken it. He spoke, and His words tore my ears, but what hurt more was that I knew He was right. \n\nThe pressure released, but somehow there was no relief. I was in the darkness. My guard was gone, the line was gone, and God was gone. Silence bore into me. The darkness made itself known too, creeping through my eyeballs and fingertips. I was completely alone. \n\nAnd I’d stay this way. I moved, I fidgeted. There was nowhere to go. I walked on and on, but everywhere was dark and shapeless and void. There was nothing. No one. And I knew that I could run without stopping, but the end of time was passed and I’d find nothing. I grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled in frustration, but the pain brought no relief, and I realized that if I screamed, no one would hear me. Ever. \n\nI woke up. The little boy snickered at me, got scolded in a harsh whisper, then smirked maliciously. I had fallen asleep in church. My mom raised her eyebrow and gave a little smile, then turned her focus back to the preacher. \n\nI did too. That dream had been too real. I needed to change—or rather, I needed to be changed—and I knew just Who to go to." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: R.C.\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1007\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story containing the words “it’s the thought that counts.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Melinda was her name. Melinda Marshall. Of poor, but hard working parents, she had been born and raised in their faith. She was a good girl, and studied hard to be a primary teacher. She was thrilled to land her first teaching position, in a holy R.C parochial school.\nBeing a newbie teacher, Melinda was stiffed with a difficult task. She was assigned a feisty class of Grade Six students. She had to teach this grade to use their brains, often wondering about the true nature of God's little sunbeams.\nThe boys could have their moments, but then so could some of her girls in Grade Six. They could give Lolita a run for her money. Very mature for their age, very bright, and prone to making catty remarks about Melinda's fashion choices for looking professional in her classroom.\nMelinda smiled, turned the other cheek, as the boys tested her patience. But she soon developed a great sense of humor as well. Some things her junior Einsteins said were very funny, if entirely inappropriate.\nMelinda kicked off her days of teaching this class with morning Maths and mental arithmetic. Her boys picked up their rulers, wound rubber bands around them. Playing their air guitars, these male specimens launched into their quite passable rendition of \"We don't need no education!\"\n\"Right, boys!\" Melinda was very stern, trying to hide her giggles. She noticed that the girls never needed to play the air guitar. Must be a male gender thing. \"You are going to sit there until you do your Maths. I am here to give you an education. Right now!\"\nAfter that little dispute, Melinda's days of teaching rolled along. She was born to teach, and could cover most subjects. She believed, and taught her little, or big, sunbeams to bloom in kindness, as Our Lord taught us. She always wanted her students to be kind to themselves and each other. Melinda's grade aimed high.\nThe next term rolled around soon enough. Into the staff room of hen primary teachers, strolled John Castella. He was the new vice-principal, appointed to supervise R.C. In other words, Religious Co-ordination. He was a handsome rooster, soon set some feathers flying. Melinda noticed some of the staff members fluttered a few eyes at him, but she stayed aloof.\nOne sunny morning, her grade was toiling away, aiming high to get an \"A\" in writing their prayers for good. A knock on the classroom door, in came Mr. Castella. The catty girls were silent for once. The boys eyed him off, deciding whether to call Mr. Castella an old poof.\n\"Good morning, Grade Six! I am here to hear your opinions on this.\" On the old fashioned chalkboard, he wrote in large print, R.C. Melinda's students looked thoughtful. No one offered an opinion.\nFinally, the class clown put up his hand. (There is one in every grade). \"R.C. means Rubbish Co-ordinator!\" Melinda tried to stifle her inner giggles. Unfortunately, or not, Mr. Castella's duties also included being the controller of the school's rubbish bins, the dumpster, and the now extinct incinerator of playground routines.\nMelinda did not know where to put herself. Was this the end of her brilliant career? Should she become a singing vampire instead? Make more money that way! She peeped a glance at Mr. Castella. He glanced at her, his lips twitching.\n\"What are you teaching this class in catechism?\" Now who was pretending to be cross? \"Miss Marshall, see me after the last bell today, in my office.\" Then he left the classroom. Melinda's heart sank to her boots. Her dear little sunbeams launched into yet another spontaneous song. \"He wants you, he wants you, you are in the tomato soup!\"\nThat was the end of Religion class for that day. As Melinda was sending her class of sunbeams home at the end of the school day, she told them to tell their mothers they loved their offspring. Someone must, Melinda told herself. \"It's the thought that counts.\"\nSurprisingly, Mr. Castella was waiting in his office with a smile. \"I admire you teaching that class. It is funny, I am your Rubbish Co-ordinator! I like a bird with a sense of humor.\" Melinda breathed a sigh of relief. \"It all adds to my hide like an elephant,\" she agreed.\n\"We are teachers! Do you fancy a meal together on Saturday night? We can swap some funny stories ,about our blackboard jungle! I was a Grade Six teacher too, before I landed this job. Now I have to check all the bins!\" Melinda and John laughed.\nWell, that was the start of something big. Their blooming romance landed a ring for Spring, while one older teacher, divorced, advised Melinda, \"Always keep your jobs and qualifications up to date. Any rat can turn.\" Melinda thought her lady friend was being bitter, but she did listen.\nI guess there is no such thing as a perfect Catholic marriage. Melinda and John ventured along matrimony lane, always sharing their ability to laugh. Soon enough, two little princes arrived to their devoted parents.\nMelinda stepped back from her classroom teaching while her sons were very young. There was no such thing as a perfect parent either. But, thirty-five years later, John and Melinda proudly welcomed their first born grandchild. He was the cutest little baby boy. Like his grandfather, his butt looked cute in everything, Melinda decided, changing her grandson's nappy.\nThe very beaming grandfather, John Castella, was taking photos of his one true heir to his living legacy, a happy family. John was by now a well-respected principal. Melinda was still tutoring, part-time. John asked her, while they shared photos of their little lord, \"What do you think of his name?\" Melinda had a bit of a chuckle. \"I know. He is Richard Castella. R.C. How apt. Our own little Rubbish Co-ordinator!\" John smiled. Then Melinda said, \"By the way, it is Monday again. Have you done the bins.? The rubbish needs doing, Mr. R.C!\" It is always the thought that counts." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Thought that counts\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1074\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story containing the words “it’s the thought that counts.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I caused a missionary family an enormous amount of grief because they stopped to help me on the way home. They were on their way to the airport and didn't make their flight.\n\nThe thermostat of my car stopped working and the engine overheated. I managed to get to the shoulder on kinetic energy after it quit; I was driving a car with a manual transmission, fortunately.\n\nMy boss stopped to see if I needed help. I gave him my home phone number and asked him to call my wife to let her know. That was nice of him but didn't help me.\n\nWhere I stopped was at the main junction between I-405 and I-90 a short way from Factoria, Washington, part of south Bellevue. I sat on the side of the road, waiting for the state patrol to stop to investigate. They never came.\n\nAn hour and a half later, it was getting dark and cold. Without an engine, I couldn't turn on the heat. The day had been sunny, so I left my usual warm coat at home and only wore a sweater.\n\nThen, mercifully, a car pulled up behind me. A man got out to see if I was ok. He opened my hood and found the problem right away.\n\nTo begin with, I am not a mechanic. I am a professional writer and I can tell you in words what the technical aspect of the trouble was but don't ask me to diagnose it or fix it.\n\nHe knew right away that I needed a new thermostat. He dug around his car to find a wrench the right size to undo it from the cooling hoses. Since his car was jammed with belongings, finding it took a while.\n\nHe explained why he had three kids and his wife in a car loaded with baggage and light furniture was that they were on their way to the airport. They were missionaries going to Ethiopia to assist with building and running a hospital in Harar in the eastern part of the country, a city of about 90,000 people.\n\nThey had non-refundable one-way tickets to Amsterdam, connecting to a flight to Nairobi, Kenya, and then a short flight to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, with a bus to Harar. Any break in that chain would abort their whole trip.\n\nIt took him 20 minutes to find his tools, piling many of his belongings on the shoulder. Then he got the thermostat out in about 10 minutes. That was the amount of time the family had allocated to getting to the airport.\n\nThat was back when there was no TSA and boarding was easier. But they had to get their stuff piled on the cargo conveyor, so they'd planned a little ahead.\n\nUnfortunately, there were no auto parts stores near us. We both knew Factoria Mall had one, so he drove me there. It was nearly 8:30, and the store was closed. The next nearest store was in Bellevue, a good 20 minutes away since we had to navigate through city streets.\n\nFortunately, the parts store was open and they had the correct model of thermostat. I bought it and he drove me back to my car. He spent about 20 minutes getting it to work and tightening the brackets.\n\nIn the meantime, his flight left SeaTac, leaving the family behind. We reloaded his car. I promised I would follow them to see what I could do to repay their generosity.\n\nI always carry $50 hidden in my wallet as insurance. If I'm ever held at gunpoint, I figure the $50 will buy my life back from the mugger. It's not really a threat but as an ex-boy scout, I want to be prepared.\n\nWe got to the airport and the ticket attendant was immensely helpful. She could book a later flight to Amsterdam and then a later flight to Nairobi. They already had to spend the night in Kenya's capital, so that end was taken care of.\n\nHowever, their tickets were non-refundable, and therefore the cost couldn't be transferred to the newer flights. They were out of cash.\n\nI got my $50 safety money out of my wallet and offered it to them. Another Christian family nearby offered them $200, which combined to pay the cost of the flight to Nairobi.\n\nThen we heard a ruckus. A man at another airline's ticket desk was furious. Something was wrong with his ticket and he could not get a refund. His flight hadn't left yet but for some reason, his direct connection had been severed.\n\nHe was screaming mad that he couldn't get another flight out of … wait for it … Amsterdam. He kept pounding his fist on the ticket laying on the counter.\n\nFinally, he calmed down, apologized to the ticket agent, and walked away with his brow furrowed in dismay.\n\nI ran over and asked how much he would sell the ticket for. He looked at us. Then he asked what we needed the ticket for.\n\nThen, unbelievably, he said \"Here, take the ticket. I can't use it.\" What a blessing he was to give it to the family. Silently, I thanked God.\n\nThe children were at an age when their ticket prices were nominal and the family could afford them. Our benefactor, the man, smiled and without hesitation, paid for the wife's ticket. Again, the Lord's mercy and blessing were amazing.\n\nArmed with all they needed, they checked their belongings and dashed to the loading gate. I thanked the man and the other family, saying how much I appreciate their generosity and blessing. I told them the story of my thermostat and how the family had sacrificed the start of their mission to minister to me on the side of the road.\n\nI went back to my car. I sat there without turning it on; sat for about 20 minutes with my head bowed in prayer. I thanked God for his blessing and mercy. I asked him to watch over the family and make their mission successful. I also thanked God for letting them rescue me when I needed it most.\n\nMost of all, I thanked him for giving that missionary family the faith to understand they would be taken care of no matter how much they sacrificed for me. I realized, in their minds, it was the thought that counted – and the action they took to fulfill 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: When Kundalini Awakens\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 2361\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character achieves a new level of clarity about how they’re really feeling." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On a chilly December afternoon, with the air biting at her skin and the icy breezes swirling through the Brooklyn Terminal, Diana boarded the Celestial Harmony, a magnificent ship of dreams, for a 7-day Christmas cruise to the Caribbean. Despite the horde of fellow travelers, 5,641 of them, Diana felt a welcome calm radiating from her heart. She couldn’t help but smile.\nAs the Celestial Harmony glided through the blustery New York Harbor, with its unforgiving temperatures and frantic boat traffic, Diana was curled up inside her stateroom with a book. She embraced the quiet solitude of the moment while looking forward to the third day out when she’d lounge on a deck chair, book in hand, the sun covering her body like a warm blanket. A breeze would catch her floppy hat, the one she paid too much for at JJ’s Hat Center on Fifth Ave, while she savored the sunshine bathing her porcelain legs.\nDespite being on this adventure alone, Diana felt no desire to seek a romantic connection. This wasn't that kind of cruise, and that suited her just fine. The scars of her tumultuous marriage, a chapter closed only eight months ago, were still fresh. The ink on her divorce papers may have dried, but the wounds were deep and tender. Having shed almost thirty pounds during her battles with the attorneys and her now ex-husband, she found herself on a voyage of discovery and healing. The Celestial Harmony would be her island of self-renewal. She hoped to return with honest peace and the Christmas spirit. Things she had all but lost in the decade-long conflict with her husband.\nAlthough her decision to embark on this journey was made on the day her divorce was final, it wasn’t made in haste. For years the Caribbean islands beckoned, and with newfound freedom, Diana responded with a resolute \"Why the hell not?\" The mere thought of her ex-husband's running excuse, “…but I get seasick,” was a distant memory as she embraced this once-in-her-lifetime chance to escape Brooklyn's snowy streets, icy winds, and red-faced crowds.\nAs the ship slipped into open waters, Diana found herself not only leaving behind the cold of Brooklyn but the weight of her past. She imagined the Caribbean breezes carrying whispers of a new chapter, a chance to reinvent herself and embrace whatever warmth life had to offer. In the gentle motion of the ship, Diana sensed a soothing rhythm in the journey.\nWhile the tall, dark, and handsome skyscrapers on the shore melted into the coastline, Diana couldn't help but feel the weight of old memories surfacing, memories she had long tried to bury. Her mind drifted back to Christmas ten years ago. It was the start of a bleak chapter, one she could not erase from the story of her life. It was the first Christmas of her marriage, a day that began and ended in darkness.\nOn that Christmas morning, the air was charged with festive anticipation, but László, Diana’s new husband, chose to stay beneath the covers, refusing to partake in the holiday spirit. \"It's my vacation too,\" he declared, indifferent to a cherished family tradition of unwrapping presents before the sun graced the horizon. Despite her annoyance, Diana, still wearing her rose-tinted honeymoon glasses, chose not to make a fuss.\nHowever, her mother, not willing to overlook László's indifference, blurted, \"After all the hard work I've put into making Christmas special.\" Her frustration boiled over. In a moment of anger, she stormed up the stairs to his bedroom, yanked the covers off László, and demanded that he, “Wake up and get your ass out of bed!” This explosion of angst had been building for days, fueled by László's deliberate attempts to alienate and annoy his mother-in-law, neglecting family chores, causing heated political arguments, and worst of all, treating Diana like his personal slave.\nAfter the \"Wake up!\" blow-up, Diana sought refuge in the bathroom, locking herself away from the chaos. In that vulnerable moment, she became nauseous and vomited. The tender-hearted soul within her was deeply and permanently altered. Blaming her mother for the turbulent start to Christmas morning and her marriage, Diana made a solemn vow never to set foot in her mother's house again—and she has kept that promise.\nAfter the distant shoreline had been absorbed by the frigid waters, Diana couldn't escape a nagging sorrow that caught in her bosom when she thought of her mother. In the hope of clearing her mind, Diana decided to do some exploring. On the long walk to her cabin, she passed a little coffee shop and decided to venture out to see what kind of herbal teas they had. “Surely they’ll have an exotic selection,” she murmured. Her favorites were Earl Grey and Gyokuro.\nAfter another long walk and up one level, she found the very small tearoom. It only had four round metal tables, each with two dainty white chairs, the type you might find in an ice cream parlor. At the counter, she ordered a cup of Gyokuro tea and took a seat. Placing her book and the tea on the table she relaxed and waited for her cup to cool. Diana didn’t dive into her novel right away, instead, she took a few moments to absorb her surroundings and watch the passengers as they flitted by the door.\nBefore her tea had cooled enough to sip, a gaunt, wiry man with tinted glasses, wearing a red Fedora, a forest green sweater, and black pants walked in and sat at the table across from Diana. He didn’t order any tea or coffee; he just took a seat and silently drummed his fingers on the table.\nThat’s very odd, Diana thought. I wonder if he thinks a waitress will take his order. After opening her book and stealing glances at the stranger, she decided to speak. “Sir, excuse me, but you’ll need to order at the counter. There isn’t a waitress,” she said very politely.\nThe man nodded as a tight grin pursed his lips, but he remained silent.\nDiana focused her eyes on the open page and shifted in her seat to avoid facing the man directly. He gives me the creeps, she thought.\nSuddenly, the man, clothed in Christmas colors, popped up out of his chair and walked over to Diana’s table. Gripping the back of a chair, he said in his high-pitched and wheezy voice, “Ma’am, I’ve been waiting for you.”\nHe was much taller and older than Diana had first noticed. He also had a thick accent. To Diana, it could have been Greek or Eastern European. She was familiar with the Romanian language because her ex was born in Bucharest and lived in Transylvania before immigrating to the US. László used to joke that he and Dracula could have been cousins.\nShyly, she replied to the stranger, “Sir, do we know each other?”\nThe man gave her a wide grin this time and brusquely said, “Of course not, but I know you.”\nDiana shook her head, her cheeks flushed and red. She would always flush when nervous or caught off-guard.\n“Do you mind?” he said, sliding the chair from under the table.\nDiana did not want any company, but to be polite, she set the book on her lap and slid her teacup over to the table's edge.\n“Listen,” the stranger said, sitting down. “You haven’t spoken to her in years.”\nDiana, confused, didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you.”\nThe man clasped his hands and set them on the table. “I said, you haven’t spoken to her in years,” his rodent-like eyes boring into her.\n“Whatever are you talking about?” she said, feeling her blood pressure rise.\n“Listen.”\nDiana noticed that was the second time he started a sentence with—listen.\n“Your husband, he told me.”\nShe took a deep breath, staggered by his statement, but her mind went in a different direction. You are Hungarian, she thought. Diana took a quick breath and corrected the wiry man, sharpness in her voice. “Sir, you mean my ex-husband. And how do you know László?”\nThe old man ignored her question. “Listen, don’t get upset, I’m not here to scare you; I’m here to help you.”\nDiana took the book off her lap and started to get up when the old man yelled, “Stop.”\nShe froze and sat down.\n“Listen. Earlier today, you had thoughts, some very bad thoughts about your mother, didn’t you?”\nDiana, stunned and feeling nauseous, nodded, but did not speak.\n“Listen,” the wiry man said, rubbing his hands together, his voice more animated. “I know you’re surprised, maybe shocked by my knowledge of your past.”\nShe nodded slowly. “You could say that,” her voice slightly more than a whisper.\n“Christmas ten years ago set you on a bad life path. A path that leads to a bottomless sadness and soul-crushing guilt.”\n“But how do you…” she stopped in midsentence.\n“How do I know about that?” The old man laughed. “I told you. László, he is one of my grandsons. I traveled from Bucharest to see him this Christmas. And he has regrets about your divorce, I believe.”\nThe man reached inside his pocket and took out a small orange purse. He carefully pulled the strings on the bag, it yawned open. Shaking the contents ever so gently he said, “Listen, there is still time. But you must forgive to move on.”\nDiana heard objects knocking together in the bag. The muffled sound reminded her of acorns jumbling together, or maybe harder things, like marbles.\nHe then pulled a folded white cloth out of his breast pocket and spread it on the table. When he had it down and flattened all the wrinkles, he set the bag upon it and, with a long bony finger, carefully pulled out seven smooth round beads. Each bead a distinct color. The first bead was purple, the next a greenish blue with black marbling, then a dark blue with white spots, then an amber one, then a tiger’s eye, then a pink one, and finally a deep red bead.\n“Have you heard of chakra beads?” he said in his thin, airy voice.\nDiana, nervous but charmed by the beauty of the stones was somewhat disarmed by the mysterious old man. She didn’t want to answer, but found herself saying, “I don’t believe I have.”\n“They are beautiful, no?”\nShe nodded.\nThe stranger continued, \"These are not just any beads. They are Kundalini Chakra beads from India, each representing a different energy center within you. You see, I am a practitioner of Kundalini Yoga, and these ancient beads have a unique power to balance and align your chakras.\"\nDiana's curiosity was tempered by skepticism, but now she saw something in the old man's eyes that reflected a measure of sincerity. His once rodent-like eyes had transformed into shining black gems full of light. As he arranged the beads in a circle on the white cloth, he explained, \"These beads can be a source of healing, leading you towards a sense of inner peace and divine strength. You've carried the weight of your past for too long, and it's time to release it.\"\nWith a gentle motion, he slid the purple bead towards her. \"This is the Crown Chakra, representing your connection to the celestial realm. Embrace the spiritual guidance that surrounds you, Diana.\"\nAs the old man spoke on, Diana felt a warmth spreading up her spine, a sensation that was enhanced by the chill outside the ship. The greenish-blue bead followed, symbolizing the Throat Chakra, urging her to speak the truth and release unspoken burdens. The explanations progressed, each carrying a message of healing and renewal based on the bead color.\nDiana, initially hesitant, found herself captivated by the unfolding ritual. The longer he spoke, the wiry man's voice took on a soothing cadence as he guided her through an inner meditation, encouraging her to let go of the pain, anger, and resentment that she had for her mother.\nThe colorful old man continued with the lesson. “With this deep red bead, the last bead, representing the Root Chakra,” the man looked into Diana's eyes. \"Ground yourself in the present moment, release the roots that tie you to the pain of yesterday, and let new beginnings take hold.\"\nThe energy in the tearoom shifted, and Diana felt a deep sense of release. The burden she had carried for her mother, a weight that had clung to her like wet cement, seemed to dissolve with each spoken word. The promise of Caribbean breezes outside the window whispered possibilities of a fresh start, and the Celestial Harmony became more than just a ship; it became a chrysalis of inner transformation.\nAfter the old man had pushed the last bead in place, he smiled. \"Listen, you now carry the warmth of the Caribbean within you, Diana. Your journey has begun.\"\nDiana, astonished by the unexpected encounter and the mystical stranger, thanked the wiry old man wearing a funny hat. He rose from the table, leaving the Kundalini Chakra Beads on the white cloth. With a nod, he disappeared into the bustling activities of the cruise ship.\nWith newfound lightness in her heart, Diana sipped her now-cooled Gyokuro tea. The tearoom, once an ordinary place, had become her sacred enclave where a stranger had shared the gift of transformation and healing. As she left the tearoom, Diana could not help but smile at his exquisite message of hope. The Celestial Harmony, with its destination of a sunlit paradise, had delivered more than she could have imagined—a journey of self-realization, enlightenment, and the warmth of the Caribbean.\nEmbracing the timeless present, Diana stepped out onto the windblown deck, her floppy hat catching the breeze. She was now more than ready to let the Caribbean sun ignite her spirit with its golden glow. A chilly day in December, which began with a boarding pass and a dream, now held the promise of a heartfelt transformation—one that would resonate far beyond this cruise.\nBack in her cabin, Diana picked up her cell phone and dialed the number. “Mom, it’s me!”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Vedero\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1367\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone stuck in an endless cycle who finally manages to break free." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The door was bright with scars as the moon shed its light down on the front of the old apartment building in Detroit, Michigan. Vedero pushed it open and walked into the main room. The floor groaned under his weight. The same groan he’d heard for eleven years. Every time he trod the warped floorboards of this entryway he heard it. It had only gotten louder as the years passed and he grew to be a man.\nAll of life seemed to be that way. An endless cycle of being born and dying. The same things happened over and over again. He was fond of reading history, though he couldn’t read very well and it was hard to find useful history books for anything other than money he didn’t have, and in his reading, he found that there is a sort of pattern. Men make the same attempts, mistakes, etc. quite regularly. The worst of it was the evil. Men always seemed to want to take advantage of other men. Like the rulers of Rome or the kings of England. They would resort to the worst cruelties to obtain what they wanted and thought nothing of it. It was like they had no heart.\nNo heart? This reminded him of yet another thing he had read. “The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.” Then it went on to say,”Who can know it?” He wasn’t sure where he had read it, but it sure seemed to be true.\nWhen he reached the door of his mother’s room, he knocked gently. No answer. He tapped a little louder. Still no answer. At length he turned and went to his own bedroom.\nHe pulled out the change in his pocket. Not enough to by a decent meal, yet nobody else would hire him. He couldn’t blame them really. He was dirty, very poor, and probably never in a good mood. Most of them couldn’t hardly bare too talk to him. Why was everybody so selfish? Were he in their place, he would be more accommodating, wouldn’t he?\nHe had so many unanswered questions, but most of them would probably never be answered. Suddenly he lit onto an idea. What if he just started walking. Eventually he must reach a place where things were different. But would the people be different? Would they be better people?\n“Mom!”He barged into her room. As he had supposed, she was sprawled out on her bed with a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a bag of pills in the other. He tried to prop her up onto some pillows and talk to her, but she remained motionless. Finally he gave up and left.\nEven if he had to leave his mom alone, he must start walking. He had to know if it was different somewhere else.\nSeveral hours later he reached a subway station. “Sir, may I have a ride?”\nThe man next to the desk scowled. “Where’s your pass?” He demanded.\n“What pass, Sir? I have no pass.”\nThe man tuned around, hoping to ignore Vedero. Finally he growled, “You must have a pass to ride the train.”\nVedero left the train station feeling not unlike he felt many times throughout a normal day. Several minutes later though he began to see fewer buildings and longer streets. At length he emerged to find that there were no giant skyscrapers, only short fancy buildings with green in front of them. \nHe felt the first surge of joy he could remember during his seventeen years in this dirty, evil world. The air even smelled better and his lungs expanded wonderfully when he sucked in some of the sweet smelling atmosphere.\nBut when at length he met a person, he was soon lowered back to a state of utter dismay. The man treated him not as good as his dog, which jerked at its leash in its attempts to sniff Vedero’s legs.\nOn he walked, wishing, hoping, longing for a better world with kinder people until he found himself begging with someone. Who? The Romans had gods they would talk to. Was he talking to a god?\nThe next person he came across was a little nicer, or at least she told him where he could find a place to take a bath. But, as it was not a public bathhouse with smelly towels and more ornery people, he decided he would check it out. It was a cold river running through a park. As soon as he was somewhat clean, he hurried out and put on his warm clothes, only to find that they were themselves so dirty, he should have bathed with them.\nSinking down on a nearby bench, he recalled that moment of joy that he had felt when he emerged from the thickness of building after tall building and street after narrow street. He decided there must be someone that made it possible for a dirty drunkard’s son to breath air as he was now breathing. Even if the people were still the same, who could help that? After all the Romans had someone they believed was greater than all of man’s attempts at life. So did the English if he remembered right. Then and there, he decided that he believed there was a god out there who made even the breath of man; even the breath of dogs possible.\nAs he sat on the bench, he prayed to this being, asking him to help him find what he was looking for, whatever that was. If the god made breath, surely he would know what it was that Vedero was looking for.\nDays turned into weeks and Venero found himself dressed in a suit and tie, going to church for the fifth time and actually a part of a family. In that family there were people who treated him…better, definitely better…like…like he belonged to them and it was their responsibility to take care of him. He liked the feeling he got from that, but overall, when he looked at it, life hadn’t changed, or, at least, something hadn’t changed.\nPeople still did bad things to other people. He saw it every day. People still went to bed, ate, and depended upon their next breath, meal, drink…People depended upon so much, even himself. They used money to buy things and if they had no money, they couldn’t buy. Throughout the town there were people dying, babies being born, and this going to church was a regular thing for a lot of people here. Nothing he heard, even when he asked, served to answer his questions. Not even any of the books they gave him to read.\nIt was like an endless cycle, and he couldn’t seem to break out of it.\nBut when these people talked about a God, at least he could relate his ideas of a superior being as having merit. \nOne day he prayed earnestly to God to help him find what he was looking for. Nothing happened at first, or nothing seemed to. But he never stopped looking, praying, trying to find it, and one evening he did. Yet it felt more like it found him, and the feeling of joy he felt was so great-greater than even the feeling of joy that he felt when he emerged from the big city and experienced his first recollection of joy-it was all around him, above him, and thoroughly within him. He had broken the cycle and found God!\nFor a long time he sat where he was and marveled at the freedom he felt. Like a great burden lifted, the endless cycle of life no longer held him within its path. The cycle was still around him. Man's wicked nature was still evident. But he was free of its grasp, for he had found the truth, and the truth had set him free.\nFree of what? Man's influence, the world, himself-or all three? He had found something greater than this world. There was a whole new life in God that he had not known of, and had someone asked, he could not have explained what happened until with years of experience, he was able to talk." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Battling the Windmills of the Mind\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2986\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone rediscovering something old they thought they’d lost." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Battling the Windmills of the Mind\n\n\"Remember me with smiles and laughter,\nFor that is how I will remember you all.\nIf you can only remember me with tears,\nThen don't remember me at all.\"\n-Laura Ingles Wilder\n\nBad times weigh more than good times. They are more embedded in the mind than happy memories, especially if planted early in life. Happy writes in pencil; sad uses a Sharpie. Charlie will attest to that.\n ----------\nPeople accumulate stuff throughout their lifetime. Then, someday after they’ve left this world, some poor soul will have to sort through it all.\nCharlie figured he should get organized one more time before he died. And maybe he’d find something useful or significant in the stuff his wife, parents, grandparents, and three brothers left behind. (He outlived them all.) \nIt was at the bottom of a box in the attic, covered by a pair of gloves he remembered his mother once wore. Charlie stared at the image on the round-shaped top, the faded gold color, and he slumped to the floor. His mind shot back to that special day as his shaking hands moved closer to the treasured item he thought had been lost years ago, the childhood companion that shaped so much of his life. As he held it in his hands, he could feel the hope, prayers, sadness, and tears. Slowly, fearfully, he removed the cover, and after all that time, the music played.\n----------\n“ Dad, do you think Jimmer and Vince could sleep over Saturday night?”\nThese were always hard questions for Dad. He knew such events were important to a twelve-year-old, and it hurt him to remove even small bits and pieces from Charlie’s childhood.\n“I’m sorry, Charlie. That’s probably not a good idea.”\n“I understand.”\n Charlie only half understood. He knew the reality. He lived it. But there was a part of him that carried the disappointment, the frustration, the anger. Love and anger had been waging an epic battle in Charlie’s mind ever since he was able to understand. It was a terrible struggle for a child as the battlefield was his feelings for his mother. Compassion and love vs. resentment and anger. There was never a winner. How could there be?\nNo one could remember when the dark cloud that hovered over their home first arrived. Charlie thought he must have been seven or eight years old when the shadow, the merciless enemy, the unbeatable foe, wrapped its arms around him and wouldn’t let go. What evil force brought it their way? Depression? Heredity? Repeated, prolonged consumption that ends with addiction? The cause didn’t matter so much to a child; he just wanted it to go away.\n Stigma. That was the word back then. It was pre-Betty Ford and other well-known figures that fought addiction. Charlie’s mother didn’t want the stigma of being labled an alcoholic. Maybe at a later time, things may have been different, better.\nCharlie wouldn’t see his mom for days, sometimes weeks. He avoided his parents’ bedroom like a House of Horrors, pretending, hoping there was nothing bad behind that door. \nCharlie remembered that his poor dad, on a “good” day, usually a Sunday afternoon, would take his mom for a ride in the country. It seemed to be a pathetic enterprise, and Charlie wondered how smiles could somehow appear on their faces after a week or two of pure ugliness. It was at her funeral many years later, on the ride to the cemetery, that Charlie finally understood. His dad looked at him with empty eyes and said, “Your mother was the only girl I ever went out with.”\n Whatever was going on, a kid wants to get his mom something for her birthday. Charlie was ten, and he was hoping for a taste of normal when he picked out the music box at the Clock Shop. The round lid bore an image of the Virgin Mary, and it played a melody he knew she liked- Ave Maria.\nIt was a rare good day. She was sober. Dad barbequed in the backyard. Charlie and his brothers made a cake. They all played croquette. She loved the music box. It was the best of times, and Charlie wished the day would last forever, but wishes are just that- wishes. Reality was back the next day.\nLater in life, Charlie would tell his wife that as a kid he spent half his time trying to cling to the normal, half his time trying to cope with his mother’s condition, and half his time trying to figure out how she got the stuff. If you told Charlie that was too much time, he’d tell you there wasn’t enough time in a regular day to account for all his emotions. Unhappiness is not constrained by time.\nCharlie and his one brother that remained in the home would often perform sentry duty as part of the family’s fruitless efforts to keep their mother from obtaining alcohol, but she was clever and constantly outwitted them. It was borderline miraculous or magic for someone who had been drunk in bed for three days to somehow acquire a new bottle of booze.\nCharlie would often visit the music box which was sitting on a small table in the living room. He’d remove the cover and listen to the doleful tribute to Mary, sometimes remembering that special day, his mom’s birthday, sometimes praying for a miracle, sometimes just crying. He’d look at the image of Mary on the cover and think maybe the mother of Jesus could help his mother. He would hold the music box in his hands, trying to draw the power of the heavens to his cause. He tried as hard as any little boy ever tried to do anything.\nPlease help my mom. Please make her better. I want her back so much. Please.\nEvery time Charlie replaced the cover, he’d feel a slight vibration, hear a faint sound, signaling the end of the melody, the end of the prayer, as the small mechanism ground to a halt. It struck Charlie as a sad sound, marking the end of the hope he had been feeling, closing the door on a better life.\nCharlie was the youngest by six years. Eventually, it was just him, his dad, and his mom in the home. His dad worked long hours, and with his mom being nonfunctional more than 90% of the time, he was often on his own for meals. Charlie once joked with his wife that if it weren’t for the invention of the pancake, he would have died by the time he was twelve.\nAs regular as things can become, there are some things one can never get used to. Charlie came to accept his mother “sleeping” in bed as part of life; he had a much harder time adjusting to moments like his mom downing a bottle of Vitalis or biting him in the hand when he tried to wrest a bottle of whiskey away from her.\nGetting bitten by your mother in a battle over a bottle of booze would likely stand out as a traumatic, unforgettable moment in any kid’s childhood. That evening, Charlie awoke in the middle of the night, went downstairs, and sat in the darkened living room with the music box. As the sorrowful melody of Ave Maria filled his empty heart, there was no memory of a birthday, no prayers, only tears.\n Dad did his best to get him to understand.\n“She’s sick, Charlie. It’s like an illness, or like she hurt herself. We have to try to help her get better. I know she loves you, Charlie.”\nAnd try they did. In the face of great reluctance, opposition, and downright defiance, Charlie’s dad got her to counseling sessions, outpatient therapy, and even a couple of one-week residential treatment attempts. Nothing worked. Hope-disappointment-hope-diasappointment-hope-disappointment. It’s hard to keep getting on that rollercoaster of emotion, get off, and then get back on again.\n What could they do? She wasn’t mentally ill; she wasn’t a danger to herself or anyone else. There’s no law against getting drunk and lying in bed; there was no forced remedy, no legal recourse, available to Charlie’s dad to save his wife from herself. Charlie’s dad was a big, strong man, but he was no match for this enemy. Helplessness, frustration, sadness, and tears ruled the day.\nCharlie tried to remember the good times by flipping through family photo albums. The history ended about the time her problems started, so it presented Charlie with the opportunity to see the times he wanted to remember- he and his mom riding bikes; the special birthday cake she made for him that looked like a car; Halloween pics- Charlie was Batman, his mom a scary looking witch; his mom soaking wet after Charlie nailed her with his Mega-Blaster Water Cannon; his mom holding him in her arms. Oh, God, how he wanted her back.\nShe was a good person, a good wife, and a good mom. She was a popular teacher, volunteered at their church, and coached the older boys’ soccer teams. It was hard to believe that something that came in a bottle could destroy it all. The person they knew was gone, vanished, replaced by this life form they couldn’t recognize. A life entirely wasted, dissolving before Charlie's eyes, and he was helpless to stop it.\nThe memories were all painful, but Charlie regularly revisited those years. What if societal attitudes had been better? What if his mom had not been so concerned about that damn “stigma” thing? What if there had been a better understanding of what he, his brothers, and his dad were dealing with? What if better and more accessible treatment had been available? Charlie could never let go of the ‘What ifs’.\nIt was difficult to be happy in those days. When he said goodbye to his dad as he left for school in the morning, there would be no mention of his mother passed out upstairs, but they always knew. It was forever on their minds, a suffocating cloak of unhappiness on their day, every day. There was no escape. Charlie’s feelings would swing wildly throughout the day. He’d feel bad for his mother, then bad for himself and his dad; then anger toward his mother, then anger toward all the taverns in town, every TV show and commercial that glamorized the world of drinking, the liquor stores, and every grocery store that now devoted more floor space to beer, wine and liquor than it did to fruits and vegetables.\nThe ”good” days were awkward. Charlie’s mother would clean herself up, perhaps even shower, and come downstairs. She looked weak, withdrawn, and sad. It was a balancing act- a few attempts at normal conversation followed by the need for rehab. Charlie would ask her how she was feeling and relate a couple of things going on at school. It all seemed so pointless, a brief oasis of time that was certain to be washed away within hours.\nCharlie found comfort in the time he spent with the music box. Maybe it was spiritual. If Mary wasn’t helping his mom, maybe she was helping him. Sometimes he’d feel the soft tones of Ave Maria brought him closer to a better understanding of what his mother was going through, and he felt a certain peace. The feelings of anger were softened by the noblest traits of the human condition- understanding, compassion, and love.\nWhen Charlie came home one afternoon from his summer job, he was surprised to see his mom and dad sitting at the kitchen table.\n“Charlie, your mom has agreed to go to Hazelden for their month-long program.”\n“I don’t want you to remember me…you, know, the way I’ve been. I want you to have good memories of your mother.”\nHazelden! The Holy Grail of treatment centers. It was what Charlie had prayed for so many times while the gentle tones of Ave Maria swirled around him. Prayers answered, the return of his mother, croquette in the backyard, a smiling dad. Charlie cried first, then Mom, then Dad.\n“Thank you, Mom, thank you.”\nThe house felt different. That suffocating cloud left as soon as Charlie’s mom and dad pulled out of the driveway and headed for Minneapolis. Charlie never felt so relaxed, so happy. The music box! Charlie sprung up, grabbed the music box, wound it up, and played Ave Maria. He didn’t hear doleful tones; the melody had become powerful and joyful.\n“Thank you, God…Mary…everyone up there who might have been listening.”\nThe preparation was extensive. The entire house was cleaned. They finished re-painting the kitchen. The refrigerator was stocked with Mom’s favorite foods. Charlie insisted on balloons and streamers for the day she returned home.\n “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one”…or thing. Charlie and his brothers did an extensive search of the home, the garage, and the yard….every closet, every cabinet and drawer, every layer of clothing, shoes, boots, water pails, bushes, the dishwasher, the stove, wash machine, dryer, every place someone could hide something bigger than a stamp. They would not leave even a trace of temptation.\nHappy. Charlie had not seen happy in that home for years. Hugs all around the moment Mom entered the house. Dad and the boys got Mom caught up on what they had been doing the past month. They thought it best to not touch on the rehab journey at his point. That was part of the past; enjoy the now. Pepsi, coffee, ham sandwiches, and some of Dad’s famous chocolate chip brownies. Charlie and Dad cleaned up after the mini-celebration, the older brothers retired to the living room, and Mom took some of her clothes down to the laundry room.\n Happy and relaxed. Charlie hadn’t felt that way for so many years. His Mom looked like she did in those photo albums, and he felt the way he did on that special birthday. He thought of that wonderful day, the balloons and streamers, the lopsided cake, croquette… croquette! No one had mentioned it, but Charlie suddenly thought that would be the cherry on top, a no holds barred “jungle” croquette contest like they used to play, that they did that memorable day. He knew he could coax them all into playing.\nCharlie went down to the basement to get the croquette set out of the storage room. As he passed the laundry room, he noticed his mom standing there. To those who have lived it, the look was unmistakable, empty, vacant, aloof, with an unsteady stance. Charlie would often reflect on his first reaction. It wasn’t that his mother had relapsed in the first few hours, that his dreams had been shattered, and that the life had just been sucked out of him. No, his initial thoughts were all about where she could have hidden the stuff. He was bewildered. It wasn’t possible. He and his brothers had searched every possible hiding place…twice. Freaking Houdini couldn’t have pulled it off. It was like being awestruck at a magic show. Sadness would always reign supreme, but the mystery would haunt him for the rest of his life.\nEighteen-year-olds also like to get a birthday present for their mom.\n“She’s in bed, Charlie. You can try to talk to her.”\nCharlie entered the bedroom, gift-wrapped earings in hand. The disheveled hair, the barely opened eyes, the smell. Her head raised for a moment and then fell back onto the pillow. Disappointment, frustration, and anger took hold of the moment. He tossed the package on the bed, mumbled “God dammit, here’s your birthday present”, and stormed out of the room.\n That was the last time he saw her as she died just two days later from a stroke, never having recovered from the addiction. Charlie would forever remember and regret that he and his mother parted on bad terms. That was the most painful memory of the whole ordeal, a moment he could never undo.\nCharlie got married, raised three fine children, and had a successful career in business, but he could never get past the sad memories of his mother. It weighed on him his entire life- the countless times he knew she was wasting away in bed, seeing her in the hallway looking like death warmed over, that day in the laundry room, tossing that birthday present on her bed in anger. There was a roadblock in his brain that would never let him get to a good memory of his mother. The day he related it all to his wife, he cried like a baby.\n-----------\nCharlie held the music box close to his chest as he crossed the attic floor. He sat down on an old trunk and stared at the picture of the Virgin Mary as he listened to the melody he remembered so well. He cried the tears of a ten-year-old as he relived those painful childhood years.\n But then Charlie suddenly felt a comforting warmth come over him, a strange feeling that started in his fingers clutching the music box and moved to his mind and heart. Ave Maria, the prayerful melody wrapped itself around Charlie, held him tight, and gently massaged the memories of his mind. The sadness, the anger, the frustration, the sorrow, the regrets, all the horrible memories seemed to quietly float off into thin air. The melody played on. Charlie felt relaxed, at peace. He thought of his mother. But this time he didn’t see a pathetic figure wasting away in bed. He saw her riding a bike, baking a cake, sending her opponent’s croquette ball into the bushes, smiling and laughing as she was drenched with water. Charlie remembered her the way she wanted…and the way he wanted.\nCharlie smiled. The gift he gave to his mother had just given his mother back to him." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Speaking Words of Wisdom\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2951\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone rediscovering something old they thought they’d lost." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The arms of the church folded around my family and me as we sat close to the back entrance. It was much like a copy of one of Italy’s best Renaissance basilicas, so close was the architecture and the paintings of the saints to their original inspirations. Columns of marble surrounded us on all sides, the statues of the saints looking down around the congregation with assurance that God was truly watching over them.\nSitting in the uncomfortable wooden pews, I was having second thoughts about that. Have you ever set your tush into a pre-Vatican II, German carpenter’s handiwork? Those things are built with torture in mind! The next Inquisition is right around the corner, so the carpenters working in the Vatican should be assured that their jobs are in safe hands.\nNobody is comfortable while sitting through Mass.\nI had placed myself near the back of Saint Francis of Assisi Church, a Roman Catholic creation of my hometown’s German settlers. You could almost swear that the German Catholics of my mid-size town had deep, deep-seeded issues about not being comfortable while praying. I’m sure there’s some Freudian insight there if you go fishing for it. Personally, I believed in being at ease while talking to God. I had formerly attended this Church’s corresponding school of the same name, and its first, clearest message still hit me every time I drove down this street: “God’s Will, the End of Man.”\nYeah, I don’t get it either. Why would anyone place that above a kindergarten through eighth grade school’s doors? Does that scream: “I’ll take perfect care of your child, impart them with valuable skills and teach them volumes of church history?”\nWhat can I say? That message above the door sticks with me in the worst ways.\nTaking place this fine Spring afternoon was my younger cousin’s Confirmation, the Sacrament close to Easter that said: “Yes, God, I’m a good Catholic, and I plan to remain one.” I remember my own Confirmation clearly, though a few things were starting to blur at the edges of my memory slideshow. Today was my cousin Andrew’s big day, and I could just see him a few pews away from the front.\nAs for myself, I chose a place near the rear entrance; you never know when you’ll need a good escape. That, and there was something about church that made me feel claustrophobic, despite the volume of the church itself.\nI couldn’t see who Andrew had picked as his sponsor—whoever was sitting next to him—but the memory slideshow started to roll.\nIt started with a venerable man, a collection of wooden beads on a silver chain, and a little reason to help me pray.\n * * *\nClasped in my hands was a black leather pouch with a small gold cross stamped on its front. Taking the rosary out of its pouch, I first noticed how cool it was to the touch. I am certainly no Sherlock Holmes, but I could tell this rosary had seen some love, probably a good deal of worry, and above all: faith. Yes, this rosary could likely tell many interesting stories if it could talk, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t speak a word about any of its previous owners. Each black bead was wooden, not cheap plastic, or expensive jewels and stones. No, I could tell these beads had been individually rubbed at while the previous owner prayed and hoped. The original, unpainted wood shone through each bead like a golden pinpoint of light. Instinctually, I put the rosary around my neck like a necklace, even though it was not designed to act as such.\n“Nervous, Aaron?” Grandpa asked surreptitiously, the words coming out of the corner of his mouth as he spared a glance over at me. He was dressed in a navy suit that helped accent the dark navy trousers and spotless white shirt I was decked out in. The teacher organizing this shindig, Miss Q., already designated that each boy be an honest-to-God clone.\nMiss Q., at five foot small, was a terrifying figure in our school; skinny as a rail, and for some odd reason she chose a haircut reminiscent of one of The Beetles.\nLike I said: terrifying.\n“Do you think it’s too late to make a run for it?” I asked dryly.\n“Not if you give me a head start,” Grandpa fired back, winking at me.\nI started rubbing the black wooden beads, wondering where they had been, whose hands had held them before mine.\nAlmost as if he could read my mind, Grandpa said, “It was mine, that rosary.”\n“Really?” I asked. I couldn’t help but be curious. “Why did you decide to give it to me?”\n“Because, I know it will be in safe hands,” he said, chuckling. “Besides, I have plenty of others. I didn’t want to just give you money, because I knew you’d spend it.”\nWe both laughed quietly. I had a predilection with holding onto money.\n“Most kids today will probably get cash from some relative or another, but Confirmation is about something bigger than money. It isn’t easy to just pray a lot and hope you get into Heaven. Today is about a choice of who you intend to be as a member of Christ’s greater body. Saying the Rosary got me through some tough times, saw its share of strife. I thought maybe it could be of some help to you.”\n“Thanks, Grandpa. Where did you get it?”\n“Oh, I went to a Spanish Mission in Arizona many years ago and bought it there. The Crucifix and central medallion are made of silver.”\nI nodded along, thinking about what he had said, trying to take it all in. “I appreciate this more than money, anyway. I think I understand what you mean, about—” Before I could continue, we were interrupted by a loud blast of something I wouldn’t quite call music, and I almost grabbed my ears as the church’s big organ started up.\nThe gigantic pipe-organ was at the very back of the church on the second floor, giving everyone the signal to stand from the Torturous Pews, a name my best friends and I had come up with, so inspired were we by the effect they had on one’s general well-being. Now began all the pomp and circumstance that would define that day as an elderly man in a ridiculously high hat came walking down the main aisle of the church. He carried a remarkably detailed golden crozier—a sign that the Church’s pocket money wasn’t hurting—and the Franciscan friars that inhabited the friary next door to the church walked behind the man I vaguely recognized as the bishop for our diocese. I’d never met the man, so it wasn’t like I could pick him out from a crowd if I wanted to. If you wanted to get the layman’s explanation, I would tell you this: that the bishop was the big cheese for our district in the state of Illinois.\nOn a recipe card I had folded in my pocket were the various things I was supposed to say to the bishop: my name and the name of the saint I had chosen to emulate. I had chosen Saint Michael the Archangel, an angel I had picked out and prayed to ever since I was a little kid. You may ask the question: What would draw a little kid to such an ethereal figure as an angel? Well, I can tell you this simple fact: I don’t exactly know. I thought it was cool that he was a warrior angel—not the baby-faced cherubs—who carried a sword, smote some demons, and—ahem—kicked ass. Mostly, though, it was because I had dreamt about Saint Michael the Archangel since I was little, possibly before I even knew what angels and saints even were. My parents had questioned it at first when I was still little, I had certainly questioned it, but you know who hadn’t questioned it? My grandparents. “There is an important reason such an angel would visit your dreams, sonny boy.” Grandpa had told me. “He has work for you.”\nAt first that thought had simply been too much for my teensy brain to process. As I got older, and my sense of Saint Michael the Archangel grew stronger, I began to pray to him on a regular basis. Therefore, I had chosen Saint Michael—or perhaps he had chosen me—and “Michael” would be a sort of new identity for me, someone to try and live up to.\nNo pressure.\nIt was my turn to get out of the pew, and I’ll admit: the moment of moments came and I got a little nervous. I alone had to get up there and face the Bishop’s music. Instead, however, as I tried to move forward, handing a card to the Bishop with my identifying information on it, I stood with my Grandpa’s hand on my shoulder, reminding me of his steadying presence in my life. He stood guard over me, showing me he was always going to—like the song—stand by me. According to our practice run of the ceremony, each of us got up singly, with the sponsor staying in the pew. The teacher who had overseen this ceremony expected me to get up alone when my name was called. Grandpa, however, stood with me. Gosh, when did I get to be as tall as him?\n“Go get ‘em, sonny boy.” He gave me a warm smile, and I went on my way right up to Bishop Whoever (sorry old chap, my dustpan brain needs cleaning) saying all the “Yes, Bishops,” I was supposed to say.\nI walked back to my pew, where Grandpa was still standing, and he enveloped me in a big hug, saying, “Welcome home, Aaron Michael!”\nHe welcomed me with grace.\nLooking back on everything that has happened since then, I can say I used that rosary with fondness, even when I held it in my hands during the worst of times. The fact was, a piece of Grandpa lived in the memory of those beads. They got me through some rough times, and I like to think that I valued and used it with all the right intentions.\nAs I met that day again in my mind, I was met with a tide of emotions. The feelings were usually mixed, sweet and sour. Andrew hadn’t been given the kinds of experiences with Grandpa the same way I had, because shortly into my first weeks as a high schooler, Grandpa had suffered a stroke, leaving him an echo of his former self. Echoes have a way of coming back to us in unsuspecting ways.\nI had to get out, get some air—there were too many people in there!\n * * *\nI walked outside the church into a brilliant, warm day. This day was a big reminder of why I didn’t do church stuff anymore. Faith and the Church were such an integral part of who Grandpa was, going so deep as to define him. It was such an important part of Grandpa’s life, and I guess I expected life to be fair to him as he got older. When I was a freshman in high school Grandpa got Sick. Everyone gets sick with a capital S at some point in their life, and I’d seen Grandpa make it through surgeries and flus before only to bounce right back with a vibrancy even I couldn’t manage.\nWhen he got Sick, and none of the family or the doctors knew why, I got my rosary and prayed, because prayer was the only activity I could think of doing. So, I said dozens of “Hail Mary’s,” and a good number of “Our Father’s,” too. I said so many permutations of the entire Rosary that I thought I could do it in my sleep. All that happened was he got sicker. I got bitter about faith. Eventually his overall health declined enough to put him into a nursing home.\nThe state of my faith back then was not the sort of effect that every wave has upon reaching the shore: it comes back with just as much energy and force. The main problem is that when I called out to the Archangel Michael in my dreams, when I said my Rosary’s—I didn’t do it with enough effort. I’d been hollowed out by all the hospital visits. I’d worn that rosary just as I had when I was still a kid, like a necklace. I had counted and recounted those beads in my hands, and I knew how Grandpa had worn the black paint off those beads.\nIt was right then, as I reached my car in the overcrowded parking lot, that I was seeing a bigger picture for the first time. Andrew was in the church, hoping and waiting to see me. What good would my not being there do for him? I continued walking to my car, pulling open the passenger side door, and BOOM! I opened the car to a sauna. I backed up, took a breath of much-needed oxygen, and opened the glove box. Shoved inside were the decaying receipts to so many different purchases, parking tickets that reached all the way back to high school but were never paid…even a disturbance I’ve not felt since…\n“He doesn’t deserve that.”\nI heard the gentle voice of my Grandfather behind me, making me leap in fright, my fist having found purchase on something beckoning from the glove box.\n“Andrew deserves this more than I do.” I said to the ghost of Grandpa for the first time.\nThe last time I spoke to Grandpa it was in similar situations: I was holding the same thing then as I was now, and he was still…a memory.\n“I would say Andrew deserves his cousin more than that.” Grandpa said, pointing to the package in my hand.\n“I agree. The point is, I think I can give him something else he doesn’t have right now. Maybe it’s something you can give him, too.” I said to the echo of the man I saw in my mind’s eye. He was real enough that I could swear his phantom held the intimacy of memory.\nClosing the glovebox, I shut my car door on a ghost.\n“Not a ghost, Aaron Michael. A memory born from love. Remember that, and all you need is love.”\n“Wait, when am I going to see or hear you again?” I asked him out loud. God, if someone drives by and sees me talking to myself in the parking lot…\n“Only when we’re standing face to face and I can embrace you the way a father does to his son.”\nWith that, I hurried back to the church only to hear music from the God-awful organ music playing to the tune of something bright and Spring-oriented. It was obvious to me that it was the one and only song the aged woman playing the organ remembered how to play: How Great Thou Art. Just between you and me, I had grown to develop a distinctive dislike for it over my many years spent going to Mass. The Bishop—a new one, just to be clear—had exited the church along with the Friars, and quickly took his ridiculous hat off— it was better suited above someone’s chimney. Looking at him with his Holy Accoutrements, he only made me think of the famous Looney Tunes cartoon with Elmer Fudd hunting Bugs Bunny to the tune of an opera, Fudd emphasizing his—“spear and magic helmet!”—it was just the right level of humor to lift any sour mood I had.\nI let my experience remembering everything I thought I had lost fall away from me. Grandpa had made sure the gift I held would serve its proper use, while through me another gift could be given in a way only God knew.\n“Aaron!” I heard Andrew’s voice—still adapting to puberty—squeak a bit and I saw him rush over to me a second before he gave me a big hug.\nGosh, how long will it be before he doesn’t hug me anymore? He’ll be too cool to show much idol worship soon.\n“Hey, my man! Congratulations!\nHe tried to slough off the commendation and I said, “Hold out your hand, I have a gift for you.” He reached out, then I playfully smacked his hand away, saying, “Hold it, buster, close your eyes at least!”\nHe groaned, I laughed. Andrew grabbed the small box I’d given him, opened it. His eyes narrowed, and he looked up at me. He’d withdrawn a small black leather pouch with a zipper down the middle. I nodded for him to go ahead. He unzipped it, withdrawing a string of black wooden beads and a silver crucifix on one end.\n“I thought this was yours?” Andrew had seen it in my hands once, at least once.\n“This, my good boy, was Grandpa’s. In fact, it was given to me on my Confirmation.”\n“Why would you give this to me? I thought Grandpa would want you to have it.”\n“Well, I have other rosaries, but through this one, I came to know Grandpa better. I think that even though you might get other rosaries in your life, this one comes with a piece of him in it. Do you want it? Besides, this way I know it’ll be in good hands.”\n“Um…yeah,” Andrew uncoiled it, then put it around him, like a necklace, just as I originally did. “And Aaron?”\n“Yeah, bud?”\n“Tell me more?”\nI was brought back to the faith I thought I’d lost, and to the man who never really left." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Captive Flame (E)\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1223\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone uttering a very strange sentence." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"She didn't kill them on purpose,\" Wynter shouted at her sister.\n\nSummer rolled her eyes. \"And how do you know that? You weren't there, were you?\"\n\n\"No, but - but what if she didn't know? She didn't know what an Ever was, what if it's different in her world? If her people aren't Linked then how was she to know that our lives are stored in Evergreen needles? How was -\"\n\nSummer interrupted her. \"I don't get you at all! You knew her for less than an hour and you're completely convinced that she's an unwitting murderer of 700 people.\"\n\n\"Of course I am! She's not stupid, she just doesn't understand. You knew her too, would you have called her a murderer then?\"\n\nSummer picked up a book and began to read, ignoring her sister.\n\n\"Well, I'm going out to help her. She was laying in the snow - she's going to be freezing and what if she doesn't know her way back here?\"\n\n\"Not my problem.\"\n\nWynter huffed, ran downstairs, and was confronted by Spring at the bottom.\n\n\"Hang on. Where do you think you're going?\"\n\nWynter struggled against her sister, but couldn't get past. \"I need to help Mishka,\" she said.\n\n\"She's a killer, Wyn. She doesn't deserve help.\"\n\n\"She didn't mean to!\"\n\n\"Mum?\" Spring shouted.\n\n\"I'm in the kitchen,\" their mother answered. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"Wynter's trying to help the murderer girl.\"\n\nTheir mother came in. \"You're not allowed to go outside until tomorrow, okay?\" she said to Wynter.\n\n\"But what about Mishka? How many times should I say that she didn't do it on purpose?\"\n\nHer mother sighed. \"The fact is that she did kill 700 people, whether she knew she was doing it or not. She could be dangerous - I'm trying to save you, Wynter. Now go back upstairs and read a book or something.\"\n\n\"Yes Mum.\" Wynter trudged up the stairs dejectedly, worrying about her friend. What if Mishka's freezing to death? What if she's lost and walking in the wrong direction? What if she's been stolen by Them? And the worst of it was, no-one would help her.\n\nShe had been a fool to tell everyone about Mishka's non-childproof magic, about her burnt palm. She'd thought that it would help - but it only made Mishka an easier target for their anger and resentment.\n\n*****\n\nThe fresh falling snow covered Mishka's unconscious body like loose soil over a grave. She awoke, sitting up and looking around her, wondering why there was snow in the middle of summer.\n\nThe charred skeleton of an evergreen tree in front of Mishka reminded her of the moments before she had lost consciousness. She had created fire with her mind. No, it's impossible. I dreamt it. Her left hand rose from the snow and she saw the burn on its palm. It was real.\n\nShe got up, wondering how long she had been out for. Which was that way back to Wynter's house? She examined each of the 4 paths as if they would tell her which way to go, and a thought caught up with her. Had Wynter and her sisters been in the crowd that had gathered when she'd burnt the tree? They couldn't have been. They would've helped me, brought me inside or at least stayed by me until I woke up. Wouldn't they?\n\nWhile she was musing, a middle-aged man and an old woman that could've been his mother walked by. They stopped by her, the old woman coming forward.\n\n\"Are you lost, dear?\" She said gently to Mishka, who nodded gratefully, trying to use the little sign language she knew to explain.\n\nThen the man caught sight of her hand, the small burn on the palm, and his expression changed from one of tender indulgence to anger - and fear. He pulled his mother away.\n\n\"No Mother, leave her. It's the murderer girl.\" He kept his voice low, calm and inexpressive, as if Mishka were an animal who could understand tones but not words. Murderer?\n\nThe anger, repulsion and even being treated like an animal, Mishka was used to, in her own world - although she had hoped it would change, here. But the fear - the fear was new. She remembered the unexpected feeling of power when the spark from her mind had ignited into flames, remembered the neglect, loneliness and abuse she has suffered for most of her life from people like this man who looked at her with angry, fearful eyes, and for a moment she was ready to set him alight.\n\nThen the sight of the old woman beside him put out the fire in her heart. Mishka let go of the strength in her legs and fell to her knees, appalled at the crime she had been moments away from committing.\n\nAs her tears melted the snow in front of her, she heard a voice, carried on the air. A whisper in the wind.\n\nYou feel weak, the voice said, and suddenly she did. You feel hopeless. You feel... Empty. All of Mishka's emotions fled from her, chasing the wind, and with them went her thoughts.\n\nShe stood up, barely conscious, and followed the wind.\n\nIt grew dark, and still Mishka walked, her mind shut so she didn't know she wasn't thinking.\n\nThen a blindfold over her head, and when it was finally taken off, her brain began to work again.\n\nA woman stood in front of her, with curly, cornflower-blue hair that faded to azure as it cascaded down to her feet. From her neck down to her waist she was thin, wearing a tight material that Mishka had never seen before, and below that, her sky-blue dress fell in silk layers around and behind her. She was like a human waterfall, animated though she stood completely, unnaturally still. Mishka stared, unmindful of the two formidable guards in scarlet uniform that stood by her sides.\n\nOne of the guards pushed her to her knees. \"Kneel before Narkesh Na Vïd,\" he ordered.\n\nNarkesh Na Vïd spoke. She had a curious voice, neither feminine nor masculine, but somehow both. \"What is your name, child?\"\n\nMishka couldn't answer, couldn't even open her mouth. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, as though all her strength had been sapped. She felt a tug in her brain, then her name was painted in the air.\n\n\"Mishka,\" Narkesh Na Vïd read. She frowned. \"Are you an Ever or a Star?\"\n\nMishka had forgotten about the Ever/Star thing of this world. Deciding to declare herself as an Ever, (To be a Star, she would have to make herself look a year older by the end of 3 days here) focused hard on the word, not wanting to show that she wasn't from this woman's world.\n\nThe word Ever appeared in the air, and Mishka tried to let out a long breath without seeming to.\n\nAnother, sharper tug in Mishka's brain made her recoil from pain. A spark appeared, then Narkesh Na Vïd was closely examining a small burn on the tip of her middle finger.\n\n\"Interesting,\" she said. \"You, child, will sell for a lot if I don't keep you for myself.\" She turned and walked away, her dress tailing behind her. Mishka was dragged away by the scarlet guards, too exhausted to stand on her own feet." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Temptation of Mark\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1927\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone rediscovering something old they thought they’d lost." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Contains different aspects of faith, may not be suitable for all religions)\nMark was always fascinated by the supernatural. As a child, he would stay up late watching horror movies and reading books about ghosts and demons. He was convinced that the world was filled with dark forces that were just waiting to take over.\nBut as he grew older, Mark began to distance himself from those beliefs. He became more rational and scientific, as rejecting the idea of supernatural forces and embracing a materialist worldview. He believed that everything in the world could be explained by science, and that there was no need for any kind of supernatural explanation.\nBut that all changed one day when he found himself in a strange place. He was no longer in his apartment or his city, but in a vast, dark void. And he wasn't alone. There were other beings there, dark and twisted creatures that seemed to be staring at him.\nMark was terrified, but he also felt a strange sense of familiarity. It was as if he had been here before, or at least something like it. And then he remembered.\nHe had signed up for a new kind of virtual reality experience, one that promised to take him to the edge of his fears and beyond. He had heard that the technology was so advanced that it could create an entire world, complete with its own laws of physics and its own inhabitants. And he had been curious, despite his skepticism.\nBut he had never expected this.\nAs he looked around, Mark saw that the world around him was like something out of a horror movie. The sky was blood red, and the ground was covered in bones and skulls. The creatures around him were grotesque, with twisted limbs and sharp teeth. And they seemed to be watching him with hungry eyes.\nMark tried to run, but he found that he was unable to move. He was trapped in this place, with no escape. And then he heard a voice.\n\"Welcome, Mark,\" the voice said. \"I am the Creator of this world.\"\nMark looked around, but he couldn't see anyone. The voice seemed to be coming from all around him.\n\"I have brought you here to teach you a lesson,\" the voice continued. \"You have denied my existence for too long, and I am here to show you the truth.\"\nMark felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He had never believed in God, or in any kind of divine being. He had always thought that religion was a tool used to control people, to make them afraid and submissive.\nBut now he was face to face with something that he couldn't explain. He was in a world that seemed to defy all the laws of physics and nature. And he was hearing a voice that seemed to be coming from nowhere.\n\"I am the Creator,\" the voice repeated. \"And I have created this world to show you the truth.\"\nMark tried to protest, to argue that there had to be some scientific explanation for what he was experiencing. But the voice didn't listen.\n\"You have always been interested in demons,\" the voice said. \"So I have created some for you to meet.\"\nAnd with that, the creatures around Mark began to move. They closed in on him, their claws and teeth gleaming in the red light. Mark could feel his heart racing, his breathing becoming shallow.\nHe tried to close his eyes, to shut out the horror around him. But the voice wouldn't let him.\n\"Open your eyes, Mark,\" the voice commanded. \"See what I have created for you.\"\nMark obeyed, and he saw that the creatures around him had changed. They were no longer twisted and grotesque. They were beautiful, with soft skin and perfect features. And they were smiling at him, inviting him closer.\nMark felt a strange pull, a desire to join them. He had always been fascinated by the dark side, by the power and the secrets that it held. And now, with these creatures beckoning him, he felt an irresistible temptation.\nBut then he heard another voice. A voice that was dark and seductive, but also menacing.\n\"Mark, my friend,\" the voice said. \"Do not listen to the Creator. He is a liar and a deceiver. He wants only to control you, to make you into his obedient servant.\"\nMark looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. And then he saw him.\nA figure was standing in the distance, watching him. He was tall and imposing, with dark wings and glowing eyes. He was like nothing Mark had ever seen before.\n\"Who are you?\" Mark asked, his voice barely above a whisper.\n\"I am the Devil,\" the figure said. \"And I have come to offer you a choice.\"\nMark looked at him, unsure of what to do. On the one hand, he was terrified of the Creator and his power. On the other hand, he was drawn to the Devil's charisma and his promise of freedom.\n\"What choice?\" Mark asked.\n\"You can join me,\" the Devil said. \"I will give you power beyond your wildest dreams. You will be able to control the world around you, to make it bend to your will. You will be free from the Creator's grasp, and you will be able to create your own destiny.\"\nMark felt a rush of excitement. This was everything he had ever wanted. Power, control, and freedom. He had always felt trapped, limited by the constraints of the world around him. But now he saw a way out.\n\"And what about the Creator?\" Mark asked. \"What will he do?\"\nThe Devil laughed, a dark and chilling sound.\n\"The Creator is powerless,\" he said. \"He cannot control you, unless you let him. But if you join me, you will be invincible. No one will be able to stand in your way.\"\nMark hesitated. He knew that this was a dangerous choice. The Devil was not to be trusted, and his promises were likely to be empty. But at the same time, he couldn't deny the lure of power and control.\nAs he weighed his options, he heard a new voice. A voice that was gentle and comforting, but also stern.\n\"Mark, my child,\" the voice said. \"Do not be deceived by the Devil's lies. He seeks only to destroy you, to take you away from me.\"\nMark looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. And then he saw a figure standing next to the Creator. It was a man, with kind eyes and a gentle smile.\n\"Who are you?\" Mark asked.\n\"I am Jesus,\" the figure said. \"And I have come to offer you a different choice.\"\nMark felt a wave of confusion. He had never believed in Jesus, or in any kind of religious figure. He had always thought that they were just myths and legends, used to control people and enforce morality.\nBut now, as he looked at Jesus, he felt something different. He felt a sense of peace and calm, a sense of love and acceptance.\n\"What choice?\" Mark asked.\n\"You can choose me,\" Jesus said. \"I will not give you power or control, but I will give you something far greater. I will give you love and grace, forgiveness and redemption. I will take away your fear and your doubt, and I will show you the way to true freedom.\"\nMark looked at Jesus, trying to understand. He had always thought that religion was just a set of rules and dogmas, meant to restrict people's actions and thoughts.\nBut now he saw something different in Jesus' eyes. He saw a genuine kindness and compassion, a desire to help him and guide him.\n\"Why should I choose you?\" Mark asked, still unsure.\n\"Because I love you,\" Jesus said. \"And because I know what you truly need. You don't need power or control, you don't need to be feared or obeyed. You need love and acceptance, you need to be understood and forgiven. You need to find your true purpose and your true identity, and you can only do that by choosing me.\"\nMark thought about what Jesus had said. He thought about all the times he had felt lost and alone, all the times he had struggled to find meaning in his life. And he realized that maybe Jesus was right.\nMaybe he didn't need to be feared or obeyed. Maybe he didn't need to be powerful or in control. Maybe all he needed was love and acceptance.\nBut then he heard the Devil's voice again. A voice that was angry and desperate, a voice that was trying to win him over.\n\"Don't listen to him!\" the Devil said. \"He's lying to you, just like the Creator. He wants to control you, just like the Creator. He wants to take away your freedom and your power, just like the Creator. Choose me, and I will give you everything you ever wanted.\"\nMark looked at the Devil, and he saw the hatred and the envy in his eyes. He saw the desperation and the fear, and he realized that maybe the Devil was not as powerful as he claimed.\nMaybe the Devil was just like him, lost and confused, searching for something he couldn't find.\nAnd then he looked at Jesus, and he saw the love and the hope in his eyes. He saw the kindness and the compassion, and he realized that maybe Jesus was the answer he had been looking for.\nMaybe Jesus was the way to true freedom and true identity.\nSo he made his choice.\n\"I choose Jesus,\" he said, his voice clear and strong.\nAnd then something strange happened.\nThe world around him began to shift and change, as if it was breaking apart. The creatures and the simulations vanished, leaving only darkness and silence.\nAnd then he saw a bright light, shining in the distance. It was warm and inviting, and it filled him with a sense of peace and joy.\nHe walked towards the light, and as he got closer, he saw that it was coming from a figure. A figure that was standing in the middle of a vast and beautiful landscape, with trees and flowers and rivers all around.\nIt was the Creator, but he looked different now. He looked kind and gentle, with a smile on his face and a hand outstretched.\n\"Welcome home, Mark,\" the Creator said. \"I have been waiting for you.\"\nMark walked towards him, and as he did, he felt a sense of love and acceptance that he had never felt before. He felt forgiven and understood, and he realized that maybe this was the true power and the true freedom he had been searching for.\nHe reached out and took the Creator's hand, and together they walked into the light.\nAs they did, Mark felt a strange sensation. He felt like he was waking up from a dream, like he was coming back to reality.\nAnd then he opened his eyes, and he saw that he was back in his own world. The world he had always known, the world of technology and science and rationality.\nBut something had changed. Something inside him had shifted, and he realized that he could never go back to the way things were before.\nHe had rediscovered something old that he thought he'd lost. He had rediscovered faith, and he knew that it would guide him from now on." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Who Am I?\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1004\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finding a treasure in an unexpected place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I've been through so much in this life that I could write many books of inspiration on various topics that would no doubt uplift all who dared to read them.\nSo I jumped at the chance to share a story about learning what a true treasure is; and finding it in the most unexpected place.\nTo all who are about to read this; may you be blessed with understanding, compassion, and love; and may the value of this writing be transferred to the mind of the reader in order to receive its worth.\nLet me begin by saying that I love treasures.\nWho doesn't?\nThe question then becomes; what does a treasure entail?\nBecause what may be treasure to some may be trash to others.\nWell I assure you that all will agree, that this particular treasure is importantly precious to all; and definitely not trash to anyone.\nThis story entails a non fiction introduction; and also a poem, that explains the exact value of what I've found to be, not only...\nA treasure... but... THE treasure.\nAll my life I have searched for what matters most in life. For years I wanted to find worth in something other than material things.\nI never would have thought that the most valuable treasure in the world would be this place. Once it was revealed to me; I was a different person.\nYou don't have to travel far because this place is very close in proximity. When I reached the destination of this treasure, I was a bit overwhelmed because I really didn't understand its worth.\nNow I'd like to pay it forward, so that anyone and everyone who wants this treasure will be most completely satisfied in realizing its value.\nIn doing so; please allow me to present this poetically served riddle to solving my mystery of the most valuable treasure in the world.\nAnd for the record;\nThis place lives.\nWHO AM I?\nI LOVE WHEN YOU ARE MOST HONEST WITH ME…\nFOR WHEN YOU DO SO, THAT HONESTY CAN SET ME FREE…\nI LOVE FOR YOU TO CONVERSE WITH ME AT LEAST 100 TIMES A DAY…\nEVEN THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, AS YOU SLEEP, IN EVERY WAY…\nI LOVE TO BE SET APART FOR BOTH QUALITY AND QUIET TIME…\nDO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? WELL LET’S CONTINUE THIS RHYME…\nI LOVE TO BE AT PEACE, FOR IT IS HOW I FEEL JOY…\nI DWELL WITH BOTH MAN AND WOMAN; WITH BOTH GIRL AND BOY…\nI HATE FOR YOU TO LIE TO ME, FOR IT MAKES DIFFICULT MY PARDON…\nWHEN YOU LIE TO ME, IT JUST MAKES ME BECOME MORE HARDENED…\nWHEN YOU LIE TO ME, I BECOME LIKE AN UNBREAKABLE STONE…\nNO MATTER HOW YOU SURROUND ME WITH OTHERS, I STILL FEEL QUITE ALONE…\nI CAN FOLLOW THIS WORLD’S WAY, AND PICK AND CHOOSE WHO TO LOVE…\nOR I CAN FOLLOW JESUS’ WAY, LOVING EVERYONE, WHICH IS TAUGHT FROM ABOVE…\nI CAN CHOOSE TO LISTEN TO JESUS’ KINGDOM AND HIS WISDOM FROM ABOVE…\nOR I CAN CHOOSE TO LISTEN THIS WORLD’S KINGDOM AND NEVER REALLY KNOW TRUE LOVE…\nWHO AM I?\nI CAN CHOOSE TO HAVE JOY THAT THIS WORLD CAN’T GIVE TO ME…\nAND SINCE THIS WORLD CAN’T GIVE IT, THEN IT CAN NEVER TAKE IT AWAY… YOU SEE…\nMATERIAL GAIN, POSSESSIONS, AND WEALTH; ARE THINGS THAT DON’T SATISFY MY DESTINY AT ALL…\nBECAUSE WITHOUT DIVINE RIGHTEOUSNESS IN ME, I WILL BOTH FAIL AND FALL…\nI HAVE FREE WILL, BUT IT IS ALL IN VAIN…\nIF I WILLINGLY HURT OTHERS, DISREGARDING THEIR PAIN…\nWHO AM I?\nI’M CAPABLE OF HARBORING ANGER, JEALOUSY, AND BITTERNESS WHICH I MAY UNJUSTLY SERVE…\nI MAY EVEN TARGET THOSE TO WHOM DO NOT JUSTLY DESERVE…\nI CAN BACKBITE AND GOSSIP AND THEN SMILE OR DARE TO FROWN IN ONE’S FACE…\nAND I MAY DO THIS TO KEEP THE FOCUS OFF MY OWN HIDDEN DISGRACE…\nIF I CHOOSE TO HURT OTHERS AND SEEK DILIGENTLY TO UNJUSTLY DEFAME…\nI WILL ONLY HURT MYSELF IN THE END, AND CAUSE MYSELF MUCH SHAME…\nI CAN ALSO CHOOSE TO HUMBLY SAY I’M SORRY WHEN I’VE DONE SOMEONE WRONG…\nOR I CAN CHOOSE TO HOLDOUT SELFISHLY WITH ARROGANT PRIDE FOR A TIME VERY LONG…\nWHO AM I?\nI CAN CHOOSE TO TURN FROM WORLDLY WICKEDNESS WHICH JESUS DEFINES TO MY SOUL…\nI CAN DISALLOW MY ADVERSARY TO DECEIVE ME WITH FUTILE FLATTERIES, WHICH ONLY TAKE THEIR TOLL…\nWHICH ONLY TELL ME DECEPTIVELY, WHAT I MAY DECEPTIVELY WANT TO HEAR…\nOH DID I NOT TELL YOU YET? I HAVE EYES AND I ALSO HAVE EARS…\nWHO AM I?\nI MAY WISH FOR SOMETHING GOOD, AND CLEAN, TO HOPEFULLY MAKE ME PURE…\nAND FOR NO MORE FALLACIES THAT DECEIVE ME OR ALSO MAKE ME UNSURE…\nI WISH TO BE GUARDED AND NURTURED, WITH ALL HONESTY FROM WITHIN…\nI YEARN TO BE CHANGED FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS SAKE AND DELIVERED FROM ALL MY SINS…\nMANY TIMES I CAN DECEIVE MYSELF WITH DISHONEST MOTIVES AND THEN LIVE IN DENIAL…\nFORFEITING MY OWN REMEDY AND CONVICTIONS, WHICH RESULT FROM MY OWN TRIALS…\nACCORDING TO PSALM 22:26, GOD HAS PROMISED THAT I CAN LIVE HAPPILY FOREVER…\nIF I BECOME MEEK BY HIS GLORY, ALLOWING HIM TO MAKE ME BETTER…\nWHO AM I?\nI MUST ALWAYS EXAMINE MY MOTIVES WITH UTMOST PIERCEING TRUTH…\nMY DESIRES MUST BE DETECTED AND INVESTIGATED, LIKE FROM A WELL TRAINED SLUETH…\nAND WHEN I AM JUSTLY BROKEN IN SPIRIT, AND FEELING HEAVY INSIDE…\nI WISH THEN FOR SOMETHING STRONG YET MEEK, TO COME IN AND RESIDE…\nONCE I AM FILLED WITH THAT WHICH CAN ONLY MAKE ME WHOLE…\nI REALIZE, ONLY THEN, WHAT THIS WORLD’S CORRUPTION AND PREVERSION HAS STOLE…\nFROM ME, FROM MY PAST, FROM MY FUTURE IF I CONTINUE TO NEGLECT…\nTHE DIVINE TRUTH FOR MY TRUE FREEDOM AND WHO PROMISES TO PROTECT…\nWHO AM I?\nYOU’RE ASKING, I HOPE, WITH SINCERITY IN ALL, AND NOT JUST IN PART…\nFOR THE ANSWER—MY DEARLY BELOVED—IS THAT I....\nAM SIMPLY YOUR HEART…\nWritten by,\nTina Louise Prophetess" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Christmas Wish List\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1143\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dear Santa,\nIt’s me, Sarah Michelle Klein. I turned seven this year. I don’t know if I’ve been a good girl this year or not, Santa. I don’t do well in school. My grades are bad but I try as hard as I can. Daddy would yell at me every night and wouldn’t let me play with the other kids. I would do my homework until bedtime trying to get it right, just to get more bad grades. I also get into fights sometimes because the other kids are mean to me for not being as smart as them or for the clothes I wear. This makes daddy even madder. He spanks me. Daddy got so tired of me that he left and moved in with a woman named Samantha and her son Freddy. Now mommy is sad, and my sister Nikki is sad, and I’m really sad because it is all my fault. So, this year for Christmas, I want to ask that you give the people who were nice presents.\nMommy is the best. When kids made fun of my clothes, she took me and Nikki out shopping so we could pick out stuff that made us feel pretty. I got new jeans, some t-shirts, and some very pretty sweaters. Kids stopped making fun of my clothes after that. When daddy sent me to bed without supper, mom would sneak something in for me to eat. That would help me concentrate on my school work and get some sleep. She also took us places like the park and Aunt Phoebe's house where we could play with our cousins Charlie and Emma. Now mommy lies around the house and cries. She doesn’t get dressed in the morning and she hasn’t cleaned the house in a long time. I’d like her to have something that will help her feel pretty again. Maybe some earrings, a necklace, or new clothes.\nNikki is only four. She is really sad. She was daddy’s favorite. He would play tea with her and when we went on family bike rides he would pull her behind him in a cart. He called her his special little passenger. She cries a lot and asks when daddy’s coming back. She throws tantrums and demands daddy’s attention. I can’t blame her. I’d watch them playing outside while I tried to figure out my homework and mom cooked dinner. They were real close. For the most part she has been good. She’s learning to be good. Mom calls it adjusting. I try to play with her as much as I can to keep her mind off things. For her I want her to have her first little girl bike. Something pink with a basket. Or purple, I think that’s her favorite color.\nAunt Phoebe has tried to be there for mommy, Nikki, and me. She has come over to the house and made us dinner and cleaned up the house a couple of times. She also baked cookies with us and decorated our tree with us making it fun. Sometimes she says mean things about daddy, but I think that is because she hurt her sister so much, not because she’s bad and should get a present. While we decorated the tree, Aunt Phoebe put on music and we sang and danced. I think for her, I would like her to have one of those karaoke machines (that is what mommy says they are called). Maybe she can get mommy to sing and dance with us. Mommy used to love to sing and dance.\nCharlie needs a new basketball. He is ten and plays on a team at school. Did you know he can dribble between his legs? He can do what he calls a lay-up and never miss. He and uncle Dale play in the driveway all the time. They have their own hoop. They are teaching me and Nikki. Nikki is so little that Uncle Dale has to pick her up so she can throw the ball in. It is really fun and we forget about daddy when we go over there and play. Charlie plays all the fun games like hide-and-seek and tag with us. He’s really fast. His shoes are getting old though. Maybe get him some shoes too.\nEmma is seven, just like me. She is my best friend. We ride bikes together. Play dolls together. Pretend to be super heroes together. Play on the swings together. And we tell each other jokes. Uncle Dale built us a club house this year. It’s a magical fort and no boys are allowed. It has a window and Emma made a curtain for it and there is a shelf that we put our treasures on that we find in the woods, like feathers and pretty rocks. She wants a trampoline. That is a really big gift. Maybe get it for both her and Charlie? Or she wants a princess pop-star watch like mine.\nI do not know what to ask for Uncle Dale. He likes to build things and is always fixing things. He comes over and fixes things for mommy now that daddy is gone. Mommy hates to ask him. She feels really bad, but Uncle Dale says he doesn’t mind. One time our dishwasher flooded the kitchen and mommy didn’t know who else to call. Uncle Dale was here for hours and he got it fixed. He is really good at that stuff. I do not know anything about tools, but maybe you can get him some for Christmas. I’m sure you know what he has.\nHas daddy been good? He has made a lot of people sad. I still love him and want him to have a present. Daddy likes football. He watches it on TV all the time while drinking his beer. He says he used to play football. Maybe you can get him tickets to a game. Maybe he will take me and Nikki and we will have hot dogs and soda and have lots of fun. \nI must be really bad because I don’t want Samantha and Freddy to get anything. Samantha is nice to me, but she is not my mom and tries to be. I don’t like that. Freddy is ten like Charlie, but not as nice. He yells at Nikki and me if we touch his stuff and he always makes fun of us and makes us cry.\nFor me, if you can ask daddy to please come home and tell him that I won’t get in any more fights and that I will try extra hard at school, that would be the best present ever. I miss him even though he was always mad at me. I love him and just want to curl up in his arms and fall asleep like I used too.\nMerry Christmas\nSarah Michelle Klein" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Missed Flight\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2960\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone trying to reinvent themselves after spending a long time in a rut." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "We live as if life should be perfect, like we missed our flight and earth is an unwelcome stopover. Or we like airports too much. You know, that feeling, the topsy-turvy, fast food vacation vibe? \nAmazon delivered the wrong boyfriend along with the expensive kitchen tools that I could have bought at the dollar store. Money is tight. Sending it all back will be a pain, each thing in its own box. It could have been fun, my life.\nBut who knows? Behind every silver cloud there must be a lining, or something. I’ll try talking to him again. “Our lives aren’t what they should be because life is not what it should be,” I started. “I mean give us a break. We come into this life wanting it all. Its not our fault if life lets us down.” Making supper is a letdown. All the kitchen tools I need are still in their plastic clamshells.\nSet free from its prison, the garlic crusher shows its appreciation by spewing garlic over the bowl onto the countertop. “Which came first the chicken or the egg? Was life supposed to be perfect or was I supposed to be perfect? Or was I supposed to make life perfect by being perfect? “ \n“All three,” Michael intones, mocking me. I turn away from the counter to face him. “That’s just like you!” I exclaim. “You don’t take anything seriously. If everyone could level with each other and stop acting all the time the world would be a better place. The world could be perfect if people could admit they are not perfect. And stop pretending all the time.”\nNo stopping me now. “Something from outside is needed. I’ll make a sign, put it up somewhere, no I won’t. But I really should. Something big that understands everything, is needed to make things better. I’ll make it up as I go.” \nThe lemon juice for the salad was seeping into the cracks on my hands, the same cracks my ancient apartment walls have that only a bristle brush with soap and water can clean. But washing my hands wasn’t getting rid of this stinging.\n“Something big, bigger than God or maybe it is God to tell us what is what. But then that’s just me. Something I don’t invent to tell us what perfection is. I don’t know what perfection is. But I want it. You’re smirking at me again.” \n“Yeah, because you’re ranting,” Michael complained, looking up from his coursework at the kitchen table. “You start a new job, in a new city in a new apartment. You have everything. Now you want God too.” Then he slouched down, yawned, and stretched his legs out so far that his feet practically trip me all the way over by the counter.\n“Hey, stop it! I’m the one making supper! What are you doing?” Struggling with all the teaspoons I don’t need to measure more lemon juice; there’s more on my hands than in the bottle. \nHe really needed to be put in his place. I put the lemon juice bottle down. “Oh, that’s just like you! You don’t believe in anything. Life is random. Blah blah blah. If God hit you in the face, you’d think it was a trick!” \n“No need to get salty. If God existed, I wouldn’t be asking if God exists, I’d know it. Silly question. Ask the right questions and you might get a clue.” \nI blow my hair away from my steaming face. “Fine. You tell me what perfection is.”\n“What is perfection? Perfection is when you don’t talk about it because your life is already perfect,” he rambled, idly doodling on his notebook. “No need to talk about it.”\nI can’t stand him when he is like this. My mother’s funeral was just two weeks ago. Her death was so drawn out, that when it finally came, it was unbearable. Cut short. The waiting, the hope, gone forever. But that doesn’t count for anything. You’re supposed to bounce back, like nothing happened.\n“Can you at least set the table,” I pleaded. No air conditioning in the apartment and it was only spring. But he was so slow, asking questions, where’s this, where’s that. It was torment.\n“What are you making?” he asks, plopping down again. The table was dirty, set up wrong, forks and knives reversed, no napkins, his books everywhere. It was useless asking him anything.\nThe chicken and potatoes were waiting patiently though. That and the gnarly salad, all limp and fussy. “What are you making?” he repeated.\n“I’m going to eat properly again. Enough of the fast food. You should too. Your kitchen is a disaster!” I paused. “I’m making bean salad, what does it look like?”\n“Bean salad?” he mocked, making a huge deal out of slowly unwrapping a chocolate bar. “Wow! A salad made of beans.”\nI ignored him. Graduate students don’t eat, they drink, write papers and dream. “Well, at least this is a start. Serve yourself.” I pronounced, bringing the food to the table. The bean salad, the chicken and potatoes were all practically the same temperature. “I would reheat things, but I haven’t bought a microwave yet. Could you please put your stuff somewhere else?”\n“Oh, OK.” He threw the half-eaten chocolate bar in the garbage and cleared up a little. “So, what is your job again?” He said as we sat down to eat.\nIt was all I could do just to think. Staccato-like I say, “Not sure. No interview, sight unseen hire, for me to know, when I arrive.” I started serving myself. Finally, I could rest. \nHe looked up from the beans he was skewering, and stared at me, all mischief, like a kid let out for recess.\n“What?” I said, eyebrows raised. I just wanted to eat. My big day was tomorrow, my first real job.\n A slow smile crossed his face, as he made me wait. That smile had attracted me to him, he could be so charming. A punchline or some big sweeping statement about life was on its way. \n“What?” I repeated, louder, laughing a little as I tried to wheedle it out of him. But this didn’t go over well. He got serious; whatever it was, was no longer funny. He had made up his mind about something. \n“No joke. Your life sucks, doesn’t it?” He said finally, staring at me in a way I had never seen before. I started to cry.\n“Enough!” I yelled as I bolted towards the bathroom.\n “Hey, I’m sorry!” He yelled after me.\n***\nI had such a sleepless night and here I was, at my first day at work and it was off to a bad start. Someone showed me where a desk was and told me to wait there. The office was a shambles. Sorting through that mess could take days. First ten minutes passed, then what seemed a half an hour. If there wasn’t a mix-up with the buses and where I was supposed to transfer, I would have had a chance to get a coffee before rushing to get here on time. Which as it turned out, was unnecessary, there being no one here to greet me. I had to stifle a constant need to yawn.\nShe came in, taking me unawares. “I’m Ms. Fitch. Pleased to meet you.”\nStanding with my back turned to the door, between the chair and the desk, it never occurred to me that I might nearly fall over the chair when I turned and took a step toward her. Doesn’t anyone knock anymore?\n“Hi, you can call me, Amy,” I blurted, recovering my balance while trying to make my firm grip on the chair look as natural as possible. “I was just trying to find what I am supposed to be doing.”\n“Oh, never mind that. You won’t be able to work here. Who said that you should be here?”\n“Someone at the front entrance.”\n“Well, lets get you to where you should be.” With that she turned back into the corridor, and we headed through a dimly lit area to arrive at something that looked like it could be a work area. \n“Have a seat.” She hesitated. “Can I get you anything, coffee or a tea?”\n“Sure. I’ll have what you’re having.”\nWhen she returned, she showed me the job. Programming, web design. But everything was so disorganized. Where’s the team? The project leader? When she went through the install, the software was so old. End-of-life looked young by comparison.\n“You have our information package that we sent to you?”\n“Of course,” I lied. It was packed with all my things. I had no time to read that.\n“Start with this.” She had this pamphlet. “God in ten steps or less. We need our website updated with this.”\n“Oh!” I blushed. “Religion.” She looked at me strange, like something didn’t add up. “What did you think of it?” she quizzed. She must have thought I had read the pamphlet.\nI had heard some horror stories about first jobs, but I so didn’t expect to be put on the spot like this. Well, OK boomer, I thought. Something amazing needed. I scanned the text titles and subtitles to set the mood. \nI then dropped the pamphlet on the desk. “Overall, to tell you the truth, fine. If God exists, then nothing else matters. I get it. But stuff happens and mostly we don’t get it because ultimately nothing matters. Life is random. So, the question is, where does God fit?” \nGreat, slayed it. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk, the words just slipped out of my mouth and there it was. All I knew about Christianity I had learned as a child! But Ms. Fitch got tense; she started looking around the room. That last comment, “where does God fit,” was getting awkward. Just not hitting it for some reason. \nHer empty coffee cup found the trash. “I’m sure you’ll get it,” she sneered faintly with her frozen smile, her voice trailing away. “Let me know if you need anything.” She left me to my work.\n***\n“What are you doing here?” Michael outside my apartment door. It was after work and my head was pounding pain through my brain. Advil. It was all I could think about. I went to the bathroom to get it.\nHe ambles into the kitchen. “Was work awesome?” \nI drew myself up to my full height, which hardly made much difference seeing as he was so much taller than I was. “Look we need to get something straight. I’m not doing another night like last night with you.” \nHe looked sorry. I just wondered what he would say. “OK, that was harsh. Agreed.”\n“Fine. Glad to hear it.” I started supper. He slouched down into a kitchen chair.\n“Was work awesome?” He repeated.\n“Work.” I said mindlessly. I had put it out of my mind. Cooking is so much work. Too basic spaghetti shouldn’t take much time, sauce out of a bottle. Then I was going to have another Advil. “Oh, well, ok, I guess. But I think I’ll be ghosted.”\n“Really? Not good.”\nI stopped and looked at him. “Yeah, work is religion.”\n“Just kidding.”\n“I’m not. You know it? The boss is all over it.”\n“What did you say?”\n“Oh, life is random, and we try to make sense of things, whatever.”\n“What did you say about God?” He straightened in his chair, all ears.\n“I said that God needs to fit, you know, people are busy being woke.”\nAt that point, Michael burst out laughing. “This is your boss. You can’t talk about God that way with your boss! God is everything to these people. And life is never random. Never say that word.” He noticed how upset I was getting. “OK, sorry, sorry.” He stood up and gave me a hug. “That was harsh. I’ll change. I promise.”\nI felt stupid again. Just like me to not know how to handle people. But then, thankfully, he lost interest, sat down again, and started taking notes from a library book he brought with him. For a long while both of us aren’t talking as I boiled the spaghetti and heated the sauce in a pot.\nNot long after, supper was ready, it was time to eat. “Michael, you remember when you said, “I would know if God existed, so because I don’t know, God must not exist.” He nods, “I didn’t say that exactly. Don’t go by what I say. Metaphysical truth is not my specialty.”\n“OK, whatever. Anyway, I’ve got something that’s bugging me. What if its all wrong? I mean, relationships go wrong all the time. What if relationships with God are broken so no one talks about God. Then we expect life to be perfect because that relationship used to work. But we don’t know if God exists because people aren’t talking. And we’re not talking to God obviously because the relationship is broken. A vicious circle thing. Round and round it goes, no one talking. The spaghetti is done, check the fridge for the parmesan. Table setting again?”\n“Sure.” He’s fumbling around, putting his books back in his knapsack, looking for the cutlery.\n“The drawer. Over there.” \nHe tries to clean the table. Forks and knives are where they should be. Then he stops. “OK. Well, I don’t want to upset you, but there are so many problems with what you just said it is hard to know where to begin. I’ll keep it simple. How do you know that what you say is true? Where is your proof? And that is only the start. I won’t bore you with the details.”\n“Proof? What, exactly?”\n“Prove it. Means exactly that. I will accept that your theory is a possibility, but it can only be that and nothing more without proof. We don’t speculate about whether someone has committed a criminal offence when we pass sentence, we need proof.”\nWe both sat down. Then I had an idea. “How do you prove anything that is really important in a relationship?” I demanded.\n“What do you mean?”\n“Well, you said it. You said you need proof. Then you said proof is like a criminal trial. What if a relationship isn’t a trial? What if God is all relationship first then proof later?” \nHe didn’t know what to say. I continued, even though I wondered how I could go on speaking. “My mother just died. I want to see her again. How can this relationship be gone forever?” What if everyone is more like God than we think,” I said as I started to tremble, trying to control my emotions. “We all live forever. She is not gone forever. I will never believe it!” \n“Well, I’m sorry for your loss…”\n“Don’t you talk to me like that!” I erupted. “God is the only guarantee of anything that is really important! How can you not see that?” I couldn’t help it; tears were streaming down my face. \n“If you want to talk about personal issues…” Then he stopped midsentence, like he forgot something. This was him, worried, staring at me, completely at a loss. I would try one last time.\n“Look, can you prove that love exists?” I said as I wiped my eyes and settled a little. “You can see how people behave. But can you prove that love is real?” Maybe proving that God exists is pointless if you don’t believe that God exists first, then…”\n“Look at the behaviors of people who believe in God for your proof?” He interrupted with a smile.\nI got up from the table to get a tissue. A wave of relief passed over me. \n***\nOn Sunday I went to church for the first time since I was a child. It was a Latin Mass. I never knew such a thing existed. Is this Catholic? \nIt was so weird, so quiet. The last mass I went to, was like a party; guitars, people singing, the priest making jokes. I had no idea what to do in this incredibly quiet church where a language I had never heard before was spoken. It was smells and bells, otherworldly and mysterious.\nIt was so peaceful too. Everyone gave respect, like they were really praying and what the priest was doing at the altar meant the world to them.\nThen they sang this old Latin song at the end, and I started crying again. Really quietly. No one noticed. I think it was the most beautiful thing I ever heard, so full of longing. I wished it would never end.\n***\nUnfortunately for me, the job was short term. All that trouble for a couple of months work. Ms. Fitch came by with the big boss in tow wishing me luck. They said if I had any questions I could call, my pay would be in the mail, and I could take the rest of the day off. I thanked them and left the building.\nOut in the bright sunshine, I knew that there was a church down the block. One of those very old downtown types, open all day, every day. It was cool and dark, candles burning brightly. I step in, three people are scattered about the church, kneeling, with their heads down.\nI put coins in the slot for the candles in an alcove, near the altar, and knelt. If there is no sense to anything, then what difference is there to what I believe? Those who argue against God are wasting their time. If God does not exist, nothing matters anyway. \nI stood up, lit my candle, and left. I will be a Roman Catholic." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Football Fatty.\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1026\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone trying to reinvent themselves after spending a long time in a rut." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Goal! Charlene cheered her eldest son, while she munched on a hot dog, with fries on the side. Standing there, rugged up against the winter chills, a suburban mum needing something. Charlene was the mother of five sons, born within seven years, all now junior footballers.\nShe loved her blue-eyed boys dearly, but she spent long hours washing whitey-white football shorts, and piles of sweaters. Ah, hot jam donuts. Yes, Charlene's fleecy lined tracky pants were a bit tighter around her tum and buns. A moment on her lips, a lifetime on her hips, as her grandma used to say. Never mind, all winter warmth, or was she merely fat for football?\nCharlene basically thought football was a silly game, a load of fuss about a bit of leather and hot air, kicked around on a field of mud and broken dreams. Just then, there was a bump on the football field. Some other kid had thumped Charlene's eldest, Joshua. 'Bash him back!' Charlene roared in anger. \"Oh, umpire, did you see that? I am coming over the fence to get you!\"\nCharlene's husband stared at her in amazement. His once meek wife, yelling abuse. Quite cathartic. Charlene gulped, wondering where and how those words had come from her mouth. Aghast, she actually tossed her last jam donut into the bin. She stormed off, and sat in the stands.\nCharlene had turned into an 'ugly parent'. This was not why she had brought sons into this world of universal love and light, to see them turn into thugs. She had wanted to raise compassionate males, who were aware and kind. Charlene's tuck shop arms quivered. Her bottom lip wobbled. Had it really all come to this?\nShe had always been such a minion. She did not recall developing such anger management issues before her holy wedlock. Time passing had not been kind to her. Charlene was trying not to blubber. This metamorphosis was not pretty.\nThe match ended. Her sons ran over to her. \"We won!\" \"I'm hungry!\" \"I need to pee!\" All perfectly normal, thought the young footballers' mother. She gave them the car keys while she caught her breath. Her mother had told Charlene that children were God's little sunbeams. \"I must be positive!\" she told herself.\nCharlene's husband had wandered off to the social club to chair the next team meeting. These team meetings seemed to require many ales. It meant that a large number of males could stand around a barbecue, to see if it worked. Yes, football team meetings were a mystery to the suburban woman, it was their boy's locker room mentality. Charlene did not know what to do, how to develop from this dreadful day.\nAs the sky darkened, she walked to the car. Joshua had locked the car doors, with himself and his brothers sitting in the car there, grinning. He was being a real sunbeam. Charlene could feel a hot flush blooming. This was what football was doing to her vascular system. She had once been so slim and keen to race off to the altar of love.\nShe pounded on the car windows, but her charming mud strewn little sunbeams giggled. Another mother strolled past with her well behaved pair of sunbeams. Charlene could see her sniggering in the drizzling rain. Even holistic Christian women know how to swear. Verbs flew from Charlene's florid face, as the football ground's yummy mummies all drove off, feeling smug and superior.\nFinally, her youngest son unlocked the car doors. Shivering in anger, but trying to hide it with smiles and gushing chatter, Charlene drove her sunbeams home. She was still feeling like a fat, ugly parent.\nThe father of these five sunbeams, all sent by God, arrived home with some take away food. It was their family ritual. He could do the hunter gatherer thing. Charlene plated up, and everyone ate their dinner. It was time to wind down for the evening.\nAfter dinner at home, she had them all washed and fast asleep. Football was so exhausting. Charlene kissed each of her boys good night, then came back in half an hour to check them all. Silent, a peaceful evening, a few boy snuffles. Even Joshua had crashed. Adorable, so angelic, when they were all in dreamland.\nHer husband was staring at yet more football matches on weekend television. Charlene wondered what the universal divine powers really thought about football. \"Leave the dishes, I'll do them,\" he told her. She'd heard that one so many times before. Yet another lie from one of her tribe of blue-eyed boys. Charlene just knew she would wake up to a pile of congealed plates. The washing machine gurgled with the football shorts, while Charlene quietly washed the dishes.\nTime for her shower now. Charlene gazed at her rounded figure. Yes, fate had developed her into a football fatty. Charlene was considering rejoining Weight Watchers, as the years dwindled down, unlike her waistline. Fat shaming was part of her life. God had sent her too many sunbeams. But, the alternative had been niggling at her brain all day. She couldn't be, could she?\nTrembling with dread, Charlene stared at the pregnancy test. The universe had its plan for every soul. The pregnancy test sat there, waiting. While she showered, Charlene begged the great universal spirit, as well as her Lord in Heaven above. She was feeling ancient already, she had years of football jocks and socks in front of her, winding down her years. From an optimistic minion to a raving, ugly fat parent, on the sidelines of the future of the adults of tomorrow. They were all God's little sunbeams.\nCharlene devoutly hoped there was someone upstairs, listening to her secret, silent prayer. Her husband was definitely the motile one. Or had her egg follicles betrayed her again? She definitely needed to change.\nAs she rinsed her hair, she prayed. \"Please don't let it be twin boys again. If I'm not pregnant, I shall start a diet on Monday. I promise I will never eat hot dogs or yell at the umpire again. Please, say I am only a football fatty!\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Naughty List\n\nGenre: christmas\n\nWord Count: 1198\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a list." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Buy hammer [claw, not lump]\n\nCheck car boot [crowbar, towel, wellies, petrol can]\n\nFill petrol can\n\nNeed new gloves. [Fisting ones are best. Thick and single use.]\n\nCheck chemical bottle, how much left?\n\nSanta sack for presents. [Forgot that last time]\n\nGet Santa costume out of wardrobe and lay out ready\n\nSet alarm for 2.30am [Need to be there for 3am]\n\nCheck out 22 Winchester Road at least two more times before Christmas Eve\n\nMake sure they are dead before you set fire to the house\n\nDON’T MAKE ANY MISTAKES THIS TIME!\n\nTrent didn’t give a shit about being on the naughty list, and he didn’t give a shit about being on the outside. Let the herd do their thing. He’d wait and he’d watch and he’d pick off one of them at just the right moment. There was no way his kids were going without presents. Not this year, and not any year.\n\n*\n\n“What’s wrong with your eye, Daddy?”\n\nChloe observed her dad with impossibly big blue eyes, her concern etched over her moonlike face.\n\nTrent looked down at his daughter and instead of answering in that instant, he grabbed her under the arms and lifted her to his level. He stifled a groan as he did so. She was growing up and not as small and wee as she once had been, besides which, he ached like a bastard. Last night hadn’t been a smooth ride and his body was reminding him of that.\n\nHis eye. He didn’t want to lie, not to his little girl. And now Little Joe was watching him too. He had noticed his dad’s eye, but maybe knew better than to ask about it. Just that little bit older, he had an idea about The Code and maintaining a respectful silence over certain matters. Avoid trouble. Side-step confrontation. Pick the fights that counted and don’t waste your time on the bullshit.\n\n“It’s a funny story,” he began and inside he sank. Those words were a pathetic admission. He may as well have told them he was going to lie to the both of them and have done with it. He drew in a deep breath, “you know the pocket park?”\n\nThey both looked at him blankly.\n\n“You do!” he protested, “the one with the green and red rocket I push you on and you tell me to stop before I’ve even gotten started.”\n\nTheir faces creased up in thought, but the light of comprehension stayed firmly switched off.\n\n“The roundabout with the big bars and only two seats?” he ventured.\n\n“Oh!” said Little Joe, “with the big tyre swing that has a rope ladder seat on!”\n\n“That’s the one!” enthused Trent, hoping that enthusiasm would in some way make up for the forthcoming lie.\n\n“Well, I was walking through the pocket park yesterday when I heard a rustle in the branches above my head,” he looked from Chloe to Little Joe and back to Chloe again, “and do you know what I saw?”\n\n“A squirrel?” asked Chloe solemnly.\n\nThe solemnity of her voice and the seriousness of her expression crushed Trent a little. It wasn’t just the lie. It was all of it. It was him. He wasn’t a good man and whenever he was with his children, he felt it the most. He felt it like a rope that had lassoed around his heart and on the other end of that rope were all his sins. They weighed so heavy and they were dragging him down and down. Down and away from the only two things that had ever counted in his life.\n\nRight there and then, he wanted to cry. He wanted to let go and say sorry. He envisioned his two children wrapping their arms around him and making it all OK. The fact that he would never allow himself to be in that moment damned him. It tore at him with acid coated talons and whispered over and over with a dread breath that stank of corruption, you’re no good! You’re no good!\n\nHe drew in a ragged breath and managed some semblance of a smile, “how did you know!?”\n\n“Squirrels live in trees,” Chloe told him.\n\nTrent nodded, “it was two squirrels and they were fighting each other,” he told them.\n\n“Were they fighting over nuts?” asked Little Joe.\n\nTrent grinned, “a hoard of nuts!”\n\n“But what happened to your eye, Daddy?” asked Chloe. \n\nShe’d make a good investigative reporter, Trent thought to himself as they returned to the matter in hand. Had it been anyone else, Trent might have lost it with them, a heady cocktail laced with guilt making him react defensively. Attack being the best form of defence.\n\n“So, there I was, looking up at the two fighting squirrels, when one lost his footing and the other pushed him hard,” again he looked from Chloe to Little Joe and back to Chloe.\n\n“He fell on your face?” asked Little Joe.\n\nTrent nodded slowly and theatrically, “and he was still in fight mode.”\n\n“He tried to fight you?!” gasped Chloe.\n\n“He did fight me,” corrected Trent, “and he fought for all he was worth. Surprised me he did. Got the shock of my life and I had trouble getting him off me.”\n\n“Ouch!” said Chloe.\n\nTrent nodded as he remembered the claws sinking into him when the old woman fell upon him. He’d not expected that. She’d come up on his blind side and there was a strength to her that was superhuman. He’d been shocked at her frenzied attack. Underestimated her. But then, she was fighting for her life.\n\n“Shall we open the presents?” he asked his two young children.\n\nHe did not have to ask twice.\n\nHe watched on as they tore away at the wrappings on this year’s bounty…\n\nSlippers [fur lined and too big for either child]\n\nDressing gown [floral pattern, also far too big]\n\nPacket of big pants [amusingly embarrassing for Little Joe to unwrap]\n\nGiant packet of toffees [No chocolate]\nHand blender [intended to make soup]\n\nA litre bottle of sherry\n\nA box of fudge with a stylised picture postcard front – Shire horse outside a quaint pub.\n\nThis last hit the spot for both children. Chloe wanted the postcard. Little Joe loved fudge. \n\nAlways good to end on a high.\n\n“Why do our presents always smell of smoke, Daddy?” asked Chloe, the budding investigative journalist.\n\nTrent shrugged, he was wondering how he was going to explain the vegetarian Christmas Dinner he’d pilfered last night.\n\nBest to change the subject, “Merry Christmas!” he tried to bellow it, but the words caught in his throat.\n\nChloe threw her arms around him and hugged him for all she was worth, the way only children can, when they still have everything to give and give it freely, “love you Daddy!”\n\nTrent returned the hug, but felt Little Joe’s eyes on him. Little Joe who was just a little older and getting wise to the world. Wise enough not to join the scrum and let his dad off the hook. Trent exchanged a look with his son and he knew in that moment that he was on yet another Naughty List." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Sleeping Princess\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1521\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “I feel alive.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time, a beautiful princess slept in a stone tower in a remote village in the cold and craggy mountains. The tower was on a cliffside and had only one window. The princess was in a deep sleep but could hear the sounds around her. She especially enjoyed hearing the birds sing lovely melodies daily and the waves crash upon the rocks.\nPrincess Amethyst was very beautiful, and her father and mother vowed to reward anyone who could wake their daughter because she was their only child, and they loved her very much. \nAs could be imagined, many came to awaken the maiden. Men came from near and far to rouse her from her sleep. Each with his own intentions. Some wanted power, some wanted money, and some wanted to kiss a beautiful princess in the guise of a true love's kiss.\nThe men were short, tall, educated, foolish, peasants, paupers, royalty, and common. They all tried to reach her but somehow never made it into the tower. \nThe king and queen were at their wit's end, filled with grief and hopelessness. One day a very handsome man, tall in stature, arrived at the castle. He said he wanted to attempt to save the maiden before it was too late.\nThey granted the young man permission, and he entered the stone tower. On his way up the winding staircase was a well-dressed man with a devilish smile who was sitting, blocking his path. \n\"Good day, young fellow. Where are you headed?\" The man said\nSomething wasn't quite right with this man. He felt it. He decided not to indulge in pleasantries and focus on his goal. \"Isn't it obvious? I'm headed to the top of the tower,\" the young man responded, \"so if you wouldn't mind,\" he gestured toward the staircase. \nThe mysterious man moved, and the young man continued his forward trajectory. After walking about three stories, the man appeared again, blocking his way. He seemed determined to distract the young man.\n\"Would you like to play a game?,\" the mysterious man asked. For he was determined to distract the young man from his mission.\n\"No,\" the young man said and kept walking forward. The well-dressed man moved aside, and the young man walked another three stories.\nHe stopped when, once again, the well-dressed man blocked his path. \"You're a very handsome fellow. I'm sure you'll have no trouble waking the princess. If you play a game with me, I'll give you something you value more than wealth,\" he said, tempting the young man with his most audacious claim yet. \n\"Leave me alone and stay behind me,\" the young man said, and he continued up the path walking only one story this time until he came to a clearing with a door. \nHe opened the door and entered the room, closing the door behind him. The sun shone onto the stone floor of the tower room where the princess slept in her canopy bed. \nThe young man picked up a wooden chair beside the wall and placed it close to the princess' bed. He sat in the chair, reached inside his satchel, and grabbed a worn book.\nHe began reading the book from beginning to end so that after three days, he had read the entire book to the maiden. From sunrise to sunset, he sat reading until there were no words left in the book. \nNot long after he finished reading the book, the maiden began to stir as if awoken from a dream. She slowly opened her eyes and looked around. She didn't recognize her surroundings. It wasn't her room. She sat up, becoming aware of the handsome man sitting on a chair. \n\"Hello, princess,\" he said confidently and genuinely smiled.\n\"Were you the one reading those stories to me?\" she asked as she could hear him while she slept.\n\"Yes, I was,\" he confessed.\nShe sat thoughtfully before saying, \"Thank you. Thank you for the gift you gave me. As you read to me, my heart burned to know more about the man you spoke of. When I confessed in my heart I wanted that man to be the Lord of my life, it's as if a weight had been lifted off of me. The burdens of life I no longer had to carry. I was in darkness, now I'm in the light,\" she said with so much joy, it was tangible.\n\"I feel alive,\" she said, \"I feel like a new creature.\"\nShe looked at him, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen, but oddly, there was a stronger pull than his outward beauty. She thought for the first time how he never mentioned her appearance. Everyone else, her parents included, had always mentioned her beauty. \n“What is your name?” she asked him.\n“My name is Peter, your highness.”\n“Peter, I’m Amethyst. It’s very nice to meet you,”\n“The honor is mine, Princess Amethyst.”\nHe moved to put the book away, and she asked, \"May I see the book, please?\" He nodded, reached out, and handed the worn book to her. She opened the book, and there were bumps all over the pages, but she saw no words. \n\"What is this?\" she asked as she curiously observed the book.\n\"It's called braille. It's a reading and writing system for people, like me, who are blind,\" he answered.\nAfter looking at the book again, she returned it to him. \"I would like to learn braille,\" she said.\n\"But why princess, you have the gift of sight,\" he reminded her. \n\"But I would like to communicate with you. Maybe I would like to write you a note, or create a poem for you. If I learn braille I can write you a book,\" she simply said.\nHe smiled. \"That's very thoughtful of you. We musn't tarry. Your parents will be excited to know that you're awake.\"\nThey both stood stretching their arms and legs from lack of mobility. He assisted her down the spiral staircase and into her parents' castle. Her mother leaped for joy when she saw the princess standing and walking towards her. A tear ran down her father's cheek as they both embraced her with outstretched arms.\nDuring the next twelve days, the king and queen held a feast, celebrating their daughter being saved. The priest, the noble leaders and the entire kingdom celebrated the princess being saved.\nAt the king's request, the priest submerged the princess in water and brought her up, symbolizing the new life she had confessed in her heart, with her lips, and now as an outward acknowledgment to everyone. \nThe young man had stayed during the twelve days and festivities. \"Young man, you awoke my daughter but you say she was saved by the book you read her?\" The king questioned.\n\"Yes, your majesty,\" he answered.\n\"I would like it if everyone could read that book and be saved,\" the jovial king said. \"Now the matter of your reward. Who are your parents?\"\n\"My mother and father live in a neighboring kingdom, about three days away.\"\n\"Young man, are you of royalty?\"\n\"I am your majesty. I am Prince Peter of Cornerstone Kingdom,\" he said confidently.\nThis confirmed the king's suspicions. The young man had been confident and determined. He was a prince, so the king knew he would not want monetary wealth. He knew there had to be something the prince valued more than money for his reward.\nThe prince had never uttered a word of his desire for a wife, but the Lord knew the desires of his heart. The king was imbued with wisdom to see the desires of the prince's heart. In quiet moments, the king observed the interactions between his daughter and the man who stayed on the path in order to rescue her.\n\"Very well. In three days' time, after your parents have arrived, we will further discuss your reward,\" the king and queen took their leave, and the prince rejoined the festivities. \nWhile waiting for his parents to arrive, he came to know the people in the castle and forged a deeper relationship with the princess. The princess gave Prince Peter a tour of the castle grounds, including the lush garden and vast library. He taught her the alphabet in braille and a few basic words.\nAfter three days, when his parents arrived, there was another feast to welcome his mother and father, king and queen of the Cornerstone Kingdom. The king had already talked with his daughter about her feelings about Prince Peter.\n\"Prince Peter, you so valiantly slayed any dragons in my daughter's life, you removed the scales from her eyes by reading the Word. You have shown yourself a fruitful man with patience, long-suffering, and kindness. It would be my honor, if you would take my daughter as your wife.\"\nSo Prince Peter wed Princess Amethyst. Each morning he awoke to a note in braille from his lovely wife. They read the Word together as often as possible, he continued to spread the Good News across the kingdoms, and they all lived happily ever after." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: 'The Luck'\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1930\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with your character(s) going to buy some flowers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "‘The Luck’\n\"Good luck.\"\nMomah's words echo down the street.\n“It’s Like finding a tack in a haystack.” \nWe were on a mission to find that lucky one with the four leaves. My Momah told me it would bring me ‘The Luck.’ Whatever that means.\nDadbob tells Momah she will get lucky every time she wears those short skirts and paints her mouth and eyes.\nMy Momah knows what ‘The Luck’ is. Guess she is the smart one cause Dadbob told me I’ve only made it four times around the sun. I think he’s silly. I see the sun come up every morning when I look outside. S-U-N is how you spell it. It comes up over Johnny’s house and down over Maggie’s daily. And it was bright and hot today. My fingers taste like salt when I brush the water off my forehead. \n“I’ll give you a snail penny for those flowers. The white fluffy ones.”\nI think this fat slug is worth $100, which should cover those flowers’ cost.\nThe snail looks like the booger stuck in Jason’s nose. Snail boogers are constantly crawling in his nose unless they’re running down his face. His momma, Carol, calls him the boogie man.\nThose white bunnies with the bushy tails eat those little flowers, and it’s their fave. But I don’t think chop’n their feet off makes them very lucky. My ‘lil sister, Thara, found one, and Dadbob said it’s a lucky foot. That’s just gross.\n‘The Luck’ is out in the overgrown sea somewhere. I am never going to stop searching till I find those four leaves. My fingers are too chubby. It's challenging spreading all these soldiers apart. I even have ten of them hand hotdogs. One has a dot on it. My Momah told me that mark meant I was a beauty. That dot’s different from the ones on my nose. Those came from the sun when it kissed me. That sun must love me. It’s always kissing my nose.\n“Whatcha gonna wish for Jason when we find The Luck?” He’s not listening to me; he’s got his head on the ground with his nose in the grass. He must think he's going to sniff out 'The luck.'\nJason has red hair, somewhat orange, like a carrot but redder.\nI have honey-blond hair, and Dadbob tells me that’s why the bees like me. \nThe sun likes him way more than me. He gets kisses on his face and even on his arms. He lives across the street, so it doesn’t take long if I sprint. Momah says I need to get neck bends in and look right, left, left, right before crossing. It takes a little bit longer if I skip. I can’t get the skip jump down.\nJason taught me how to play football. He said I was Moses, and he was always Grant. We build hut huts all day long. Some days, we go a mile high to play.\nThe mountains that stand way up in the clouds behind Mag’s house look purple today. Sometimes they are green or black. Once, they were bright red with lots of smoke, like that one-time Dadbob burned the pork chops. He said we’re shit out of luck. But Dadbob told me not to say the shit word.\nWe must pack our bags and be ready when those mountains turn red. Wonder if that sun made the mountains change all the colors? The sky is blue. B-L-U-E.\nJason tells me his wish when we find ‘The Luck’ is to be best friends forever. Then he karate kicks me, misses, and falls on his tush. He’s always a ninja and I am Mary Lou Retton.\n“Do you believe in God? I think he lives on that cloud.” I asked, rolling over onto my back and waiting for him to talk. That’s when the cloud turned into a dinosaur. Wonder if that’s God’s pet.\nHe finally told me he didn’t believe in an imaginary man walking on the clouds. Even though he’s not even paying attention cause, he’s picking at the booger snail.\n“So you don’t think there’s a heaven above these clouds?” I asked him while he ate that booger, so I gave him the eye roll, and said he was ewe.\nMomah said the dirt and the butterflies are heavens. She says it all is, all the surrounding stuff. Guess even that poop Mr. Dax just left on my grass is. Heaven is gross.\nClaire, my big sis, said we were Cadillacs. We went every Sunday, and that was on the 7th day when we had to wear dresses and memorize the ten condiments. The talking fellow at the front says that God rises from the gravy yearly when the Easter bunny comes, and I bet the clouds are fluffy mashed potatoes.\nDadbob takes a snooze at the church, and Momah hits him on the leg and tells him he’s pressing his luck.\nI like to sing songs from the enormous book everyone holds, it has all the notes that make words. Dadbob tells Momah she sings like a dying parrot, I think more like a mad cat meowing.\n I got to play God in our Christmas play this year. Everyone wanted me to be the baby in the haystack, and I told them size doesn’t matter to God. You could be a boy or a girl, short or tall, or skinny or fat. Just didn't matter. I was lucky that day to play God. Sept, everyone laughed at me. Sept Momah, she cried.\nI watched an ant crawl up Jason’s arm, and he smacked it. I think he just killed God.\nJason shreiked and made me jump like Captain Kangaroo. He yanked a clover with four heart-shaped leaves straight out of the ground. We looked at our perfect emerald jewel with wide eyes and high-fived each other. Then he crammed it into his torn jean shorts. He said he would put it in our box of treasurers under his bed. We’ve been filling that box with treasures for years, and it’s almost overflowing.\nThe sun is playing hide and seek with a big black cloud and goes from blue to gray, looking like the color of the smoke. It tries to cheat and peeks a couple of times.\nI laid on Jason’s lap, which was lumpy. He said he had rocks in his pockets we found earlier in the cow patch up the street.\n I was excited about using ‘The Luck’ today. I already told Jason I’d be his friend forever with his luck. \nThat black cloud suddenly got enormous, and many started floating above our heads. The biggest one started whistling at us like it was mad. We watched the maple tree sway back and forth. We built a fort in that tree this spring, and it just threw my stuffed bunny, Roo, out the window over the fence into Carl’s yard. \nThe angry clouds started spitting at us, making us wet. They began growling like Jason’s pitbull Rex, probably because they forgot to eat breakfast. The tops of the Ash trees looked like they were doing the Argentine tango. As Dadbob and Momah do on the nights, she’s getting ‘The Luck.’\nGod was bowling, even. Every once in a while, he got a strike and took all of the pins down. \nJason said he thinks a storm is brewing. I didn’t even know God liked beer. I bet he likes the same one Dadbob drinks all the time. That beer makes him angry too.\nThe wind chimes on our porch started singing all the songs while the trees danced. There are weeds even tumbling down the street doing cartwheels. Last week, I taught Jason how to do a cartwheel and showed him how to somersault, and he looked like that tumbling weed.\nJason and I started playing thumb wars, ignoring the storm, trying to sneak in and ruin our day. When Jason declared his victory, a bomb simultaneously exploded in the sky, and a lightning bolt flew down in the cow pasture at the end of the road. Smoke made the cows moo, and they started gallopping down the hill toward Mr. Belview’s farm. That bomb made my heart feel like a butterfly running from a cheetah and made the hair on my arms stick straight up like Momah’s hair in the morning. Jason even jumped on top of me and knocked us over.\nThe boom scared us, and the next thing we saw was Momah, Kat, and Stevie running out of our house like gremlins were chasing them.\nMomah was shouting at me to get in the car, but I barely heard her cause the raindrops on the roof sounded like Ronnie Tutt beating his drum on the tin top. It was louder than Dadbob blasting Neil Diamond when it would shake the house. The wind started howling like a hungry werewolf as Momah threw my sisters in our Chevy and slammed the doors.\nI am scared and wish I had ‘The Luck’ right now.\nMy whole body starts sleeping, and I can’t even move it. It feels like an ice cube cracking in a tray. Jason has a look on his face like he has to fart or like that one time we lost Snickers, his cat. He went on an adventure but finally came home after two weeks. Momah says he’s lucky and only has eight lives left. Those are the only times I’ve seen Jason’s face look like that. I don’t like this feeling.\nMomah started running at me, and she has rain falling down her cheeks, and her bare feet were moving fast. She yanked me like that four-leaf clover right off the ground, scooped me up like a giant flower bouquet, and tossed me over her shoulders like a bag of potatoes.\nI think right now I should use ‘The Luck.’ But Jason has it shoved into his pocket. And he’s just sitting there crying.\nMy DadBob opened the front door, and he put his arms up. His shoulders filled the doorway, and he looked like the Hulk. He yelled at Momah and said, “Your luck is running out, woman.”\nI was screaming at Jason to bring me ‘The Luck’ in his pocket, but Momah threw me into the backseat of the Chevy and slammed the door in my face.\nMy sisters were crying, even Momah, and she drove that car away like we were in the 500.\nI crawled to the back of the car and watched Jason start chasing after us. He turned into Superman, and I knew he would catch up to us.\nI see myself in the reflection of the back window, and the rain blends in with the same stream of tears running down my face.\nJason starts getting blurry the faster Momah speeds. She turns the corner so fast that I smack my face against the window and leave my nose and cheek marks smeared on the glass. \nAt that instant, all hope of ‘The Luck’ and Jason disappears. I never want to see a four-leaf clover again. Those bunnies can have them because they don’t carry ‘The Luck.’ \nWe drove for hours until everyone fell asleep except Momah, who was still choking on her tears and murmuring something about Dadbob.\nI don’t think I believe in God anymore. God would never take Jason away from me. That luck must’ve escaped his pocket. I held back my tears when I realized we were the two tacks in a haystack separated by 'The Bad Luck.'" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Get To Digging\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1174\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “I feel alive.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The bright lights from the billboards were shining down on me so heavily, so beautifully. I felt like an actress basking in the glory of a standing ovation from my closing act in a broadway play. The rugged sidewalk was my stage and my warping reflection from passing by each store's window was like changing sets and scenes of my performance. The bustling crowds seemed to gaze at me in awe as I seamlessly twirled and flowed through my audience. I thought to myself finally… I feel free. I feel destined. I feel al-\nBefore I could utter the words I so desperately have been wanting to say, I was snatched off stage and thrown into a queen size bed. My flashy wardrobe was gone. There was no wind caressing my hair. The only hustle and bustle I could hear was from the engines of morning commuters trying to beat the sun up. It was… it was just a dream. A wave of disappointment seemed to cover me like a blanket in that cold room. I wasn’t so much disappointed that it wasn’t real. I was disappointed that it was real. A dream I used to fantasize about growing up as a young girl. Living in the Big City. Young, sexy, ecstatic about every second of my life. Fulfilling my dreams of working in media - journalism, producing, writing, screenplay, filming, PR, advertising - one of these or even all. I mean after all I earned my undergrad degree in journalism with a concentration in public relations and minor in marketing. Writing was my LIFE as a girl growing up. So when did I trade my passion of story telling for a masters degree in business and a 6-figure salary? I don’t even like thinking of it that way because I’m so grateful for what God has blessed me with, but I can’t help it sometimes. \nSometimes I feel like the third servant in the story in Matthew of The Parable of Talents. In short, the master was “leaving his house to travel, and, before leaving, entrusted his property to his servants. According to the abilities of each man, one servant received five talents, the second had received two, and the third received only one.” The first two servants doubled their return on the master’s investment. We know very well and oftentimes quote the master’s response of approval “well done good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much.” But the third servant did not receive the same praise. Instead of multiplying on his talent, he buried his talent in fear, and upon the master’s return was scolded for his irresponsibility “You wicked and slothful servant!” the master said. (Very different vibe, I can imagine the servant thinking). The master told the servant he at least expected to have earned interest from the bank. AT LEAST. In response, the master said to the servant “For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away.” I can’t help but wonder, have I multiplied my talents God has given me or have I buried them in fear? I can go down a rabbit hole of how my childhood invoked certain fears within me that caused me to take a drastic turn away from my love of writing and pursue a career in sales… you’ll just have to listen to my TedTalk one day to hear that story. But if I have buried my talent, something in me these last few years has been gnawing at me to get to digging.\nAnother week went by. Another automatic payment from Klarna for my SHEIN haul. The beauty of being able to afford what you want when you want was indeed a blessing. I mean I love my decorated closet, my bohemian style furnished apartment, my paid off truck. I even like my job. I don’t hate it. I just don’t feel a spark when I think about sales. When I think of 40-year old me, sometimes I get a shooting pain of anxiety when thinking about still being at the same job. And 27-year old me must have felt it too because it all came to one point in time…when I crossed over from maybe “one day” to “day one”. \n~~~~\nChurch service was empowering as always. I dropped off my friend at her apartment, grabbed a fish dinner and headed home for the evening. After eating I fell asleep on the couch. No dreams this time. But I did wake up…different. Almost as if I was standing outside my body watching me experience the mental chaos and excitement of getting a revelation of a major turning point in my life. I didn’t understand the feeling, all I could do was jump up, grab my laptop, and open up a page in google docs for the first time in years. Originally I felt like the episode of Spongebob where he went through a chaotic writing scene trying to finish an essay by midnight, only to end up with a three letter word decorated in calligraphy “THE.” \n“I need some inspiration. Some motivation. Some accountability.” At that moment I googled “writing contests”. I clinked on the first page and was instantly hit with an array of writing prompts to choose from. Three boxes from the top I selected the prompt that resonated with me the most, almost as if God himself crafted the prompt I needed to see. With both excitement for writing again and fear of not being good enough, I began pouring my heart out. I wrote about a young woman who had a dream about living a full life as a writer before she was awoken to her reality. A reality she had built through hard work and that she was grateful for, but that she couldn’t help but fear was holding her back from turning her true dream into a new reality. \nI stayed up all night, stopping only to use the bathroom and pour a glass of wine to ease my nerves. I didn’t reach for perfection, just possibilities. I paid the $5 contest entry fee and submitted my work with no expectation or desire to win the prize. I was just being obedient to the voice that woke me up earlier that evening and said let today be “day one”. \nThat night I walked under the beaming lights of the city billboards. The curtains of possibilities opened and my audience stood before me once again. My performance was about to start. The pavement began to slowly turn into a stage with every step and this time my reflection in the big store windows was still, perfect, real. I thought to myself finally… I feel free. I feel destined. I feel alive. \nSource:https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%2025%3A14-30&version=ESV The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. ESV® Text Edition: 2016. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ethel's Final Day\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 3001\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart a story that begins with a character saying “Speak now.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW: religious abuse, physical violence\n“Speak, now.”\nJohn Greene, father of Ethel Greene, was in the middle of a very hot-blooded conversation with his daughter about her recent shortcomings. Ethel, according to the rest of her family, has always been the “problem child” - but this recent discovery was too much on her fathers psyche. John had spent the last couple hours expressing the anger towards his eldest, switching between smacking her with a belt and reading the Holy Scriptures. His child, sitting on her knees with the Bible in her lap, looked up towards him, and uttered bitterly,\n“Father, what is it you want me to say? ‘I’m sorry?’ I would be lying.”\nSMACK. Ethel’s father smacked a warning shot on her wooden rickety bed frame, which caused it to rock back and forth for a moment. \nEthel let out a smirk after his display of anger, and looked down at the Holy Text once again. She refused to look into her fathers eyes. Ethel was filibustering her father’s punishment, waiting for her mother to intervene in the violence. John leaned over and snatched the Bible out of Ethel’s lap and flipped through the thousands of pages, landing on Corinthians Six Verses Nine. He began reading noisily to her,\n“Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the Kingdom of God?”\nHer father looked down at her, towering above her, shortly before sitting on her tottering bed. Ethel was using her amber locks as her comfort blanket.\n“DO NOT BE DECEIVED! Neither the immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor SEXUAL PERVERTS.”\nEthel was thinking about the previous day's actions. This entire debacle started with her seeing her close friend, and her illicit love affair, Rosemary Booker. The two were born and raised in the large fields of the Mayacamas Mountains, where they lived with their families on the Mayacamas Ministry Commune. The Commune was led by The Elder, who has remained nameless since the day he built the Commune by hand. The houses were unreliable and often needed repairs, so the people living on the field often spruced it up with beautiful native flowers. Rosemary was known as the Commune’s florist, which is why her and Ethel had met up that day.\nJohn noticed Ethel’s lack of attention, and open palmed smacked her across the face. This got her attention, and she looked at her father with a red-stained face.\n“Girl, this is probably why you ended up a sexual deviant. You won’t listen to nobody's gospel, not even your OWN FATHERS. You are a disgusting waste of flesh.”\nHis wife, Mabel Greene, walked in her daughter's room holding her baby in a handmade quilt. Mabel’s eyes were sleepy and heavy, and she pleaded with her husband,\n“John. This is enough. She’s going to meet with Him tomorrow, I think He can handle the rest, alright? I made you something to eat. Please.”\nJohn shot Mabel a domineering eye, and proceeded to drop Ethel’s Bible on the bed and rushed past his wife and child. Mabel walked over to Ethel’s bed and sat down on it, placing the Bible on her daughter’s bedside table. Her voice was hushed.\n“Ethel, I know he seems harsh, but he didn’t want to wait for The Elder to come back. He’s been in town, you know, preaching the good word. Your father does what he knows best, and so do I, so trust our judgment. And if you don’t trust mine,” Mabel pointed towards the sky, continuing, “then trust the Lord’s. You know what the Bible says, right?”\nEthel knew exactly how to respond.\n“Whoever spares the rod hates their children. But those who love them are diligent to discipline them.” Ethel kept her head toward her lap, not looking towards her mother.\n“That’s right.” Mabel stood up, and offered her hand to help her battered child up. Ethel groaned as she stood, and her knees were bruised from sitting down for so long. Mabel moved her daughter’s butt-length hair out of her face, and kissed her on the cheek. Before exiting the room, Mabel looked back at her child, saying,\n“The Elder will help take care of your problem, sweetie.”\nAfter Mabel shut the door, Ethel grabbed her feathery pillow and screamed into it. Her tears were all dried - she had no more to cry. Her brain picked up on yesterday's actions, again.\nRosemary had left a note in the Greene’s makeshift mailbox for Ethel. Ethel’s screaming made her throat raw, and she stopped. She went into her bedside drawer, reading the previous days note.\n“The Beautiful Misses Greene, \nSome of your favorite orange poppies have started blooming prematurely! Maybe we can meet up and cut up some old dresses? Maybe make some hairbows! I want to see you! Hurry up!\n~ Rose”\nEthel had gone to see Rosemary, which is about a fifteen minute walk from her family's humble wooden shack. Ethel put on her “nicest” linen white dress (that had the least amount of dirt stains on the skirt), and her whitest hair bows that she planned on dyeing with Rose. They had gotten in minor trouble before for wearing color, but it never ended in anything physical, usually just a conversation with The Elder about Leviticus Nineteen Verse Nineteen.\nRosemary had everything set up for them to dye their fabrics, with plenty of different flowers and grasses to decorate their headwear. The girls were having a great time, until Rosemary asked Ethel about dating. At first, Rosemary asked if Ethel had ever kissed anyone, and that was a definite “no!”, to which both of the girls laughed and agreed. They were taught from birth how important their role in society as a babymaker is, and neither of them even wanted to kiss anyone before marriage. \n“I don’t think I ever want to be with a man, ever!” Ethel exclaimed, and Rosemary nodded thoroughly in agreement.\n“No, me neither. I think girls are much prettier, but I don’t think I can be with one like a boy.” Ethel affirmed Rose’s statement, by saying,\n“Me too! Maybe we can just be together, you and me, you know? We can build our own house here! I can do the building, you do the gardening?”\nEthel’s recollection between what she said and what happened afterwards was a slight blur, mostly because her heart was racing. Turns out, one of Rosemary’s siblings saw the two young women kiss, and that’s what landed Ethel in her predicament. Even thinking about the incident made her face flush in pink, turning her heart into a butterfly. But, for tonight, she had to get some sleep for what she was about to deal with tomorrow.\n…\nEthel had woken up late, with her father banging on her door at noon. He was yelling for her to wake up, even though her baby brother screaming in the background was enough for her to wake.\nShe slipped into the same dress that she always wore: white, shapeless, linen. No hair bows today. Her father had already eaten breakfast, as well as her mother and younger siblings, of which they were either running around the house or screaming for her mother.\n“You don’t get to eat today. Go.”\nJohn pointed out the door, and Ethel shot her mother a look of vexation, feeling as if her mother was a human doormat. Mabel glanced back at her daughter, her eyes even more fatigued than last night. Ethel slammed the door on the way out, nearly knocking it off its weak hinges. \nThe walk was a long one. The houses were purposefully spread out. The Elder always said it was due to the fact that everyone is owed a “personal domicile”, but Ethel always thought it was to make it harder to run away from Him. The more spread out means there’s more opportunity to stumble. The walk from Ethel’s house to His was at least twenty five minutes, which felt like forever. The sun was hot, as it was the middle of the blazing California summer. His home was closest to Mount Saint Helena, whereas her home was right at the edge of their commune. Rosemary’s home was very close to The Elder, and on her walk, Ethel stopped by Rosemary’s home. Her mother answered the door, she quickly slammed the door right back in Ethel’s face. She could hear her mother talking to Rosemary about “that corruptive girl”. Rosemary was sent to her room for the day. Ethel continued her trek, and made it to The Elders home.\nEthel knocked on The Elder’s door, to which the door quietly creaked open on its own. The Elder seldom left his doors closed when he knew there would be visitors. He was sitting on His couch, watching a new episode of I Love Lucy. He quickly turned off his TV to address Ethel’s presence. \n“Your parents told me about your shortcomings.” \nHe patted the spot next to Him, and Ethel obeyed. Her palms were sweating, her heart was racing. Her vision felt fuzzy, only for a moment, before focusing her gaze out the window. She saw her Rosemary peeking through the window before swiftly bowing her head under the glass. The Elder fixed his look in the same direction, then grabbing Ethel’s face with his large imposing hands.\n“Focus.”\nEthel nodded her head in affirmation, looking back at her Elder. His grasp let up, and He continued, grabbing a Bible from His side table.\n“I assume you’ve read this wonderful piece of literature before, which implies at this juncture that you are deliberately disobeying me, your father, your headship, and most importantly, God’s.”\nEthel, halfway through His words, peeked through His window. She once again saw her partner peeking through. Rosemary had the orange bows in her hair from the two days before. He flipped through the Holy Text, before landing on Leviticus Twenty Verse Thirteen. He raises his voice to emphasize the importance of the scripture,\n“IF a man LIES with a man as with a woman, both have committed an ABOMINATION.” He pauses, then follows up with, “Ethel, what do these scriptures mean to you?”\nEthel raised her eyebrow and pondered his question. What does that mean to her? She couldn’t think of much. In her thinking, she once again let her eyes wander to the window, where Rosemary waved lightly at her. Ethel let out a smile, and The Elder took great offense at this. He proceeded to smack Ethel, open handed, making a terrible SLAP noise. Her face became red, and she teared up. She looked out the window again. Rosemary’s mouth was agape, her eyes welling with tears. \n“You are a Godless little girl, Ethel.” \nHis words were like venom, burning her ears as she heard them. He continued reading His Bible.\n“They shall SURELY be put to death. Their blood is upon them.”\nHe raised his voice once again, with His Holy Water spit flying onto her face. She felt a shiver go down her back. Ethel made the mistake of looking out the window, once again, and The Elder snapped. He cracked his neck towards the window, seeing Rosemary attempting to hide, but it was too late. He threw Ethel on the ground below him, shortly before standing up to go after Rosemary. Rose had already begun wailing, hoping someone nearby would intervene. \nThe Elder was known for His violent tactics, His cult refused to acknowledge it. Over fifteen years after He formed the Mayacamas Ministry Commune, there was a very kind single older woman. Her name was Mildred Smith, and she “disappeared” on June 15th, 1947, four years prior to Ethel and Rosemary’s incident. They, along with all the other children, considered Mildred to be their inherited grandmother. Mildred had unfortunately, the night before, gotten into a spat with The Elder shortly after He was done giving a sermon. She had claimed that Him forcing the women to wear all white based on Deuteronomy Twenty-Two Verse Eleven, since it only spoke on “mixed fabrics”, not the colors of the fabric. He commanded all the other Commune members to leave, and Rosemary’s mother nearby heard Mildred pleading for God to intercede.\nMildred was never given proper burial, nor was she ever even spoken about again. Nobody on the Commune dared to accuse Him of doing the murderous act, but the entire Commune all understood that he definitely did this. Shortly after the rumors began to spread on Mildred’s death, The Elder held a sermon using Ephesians Four Verse Twenty-Nine. Unfortunately for Him, this never stopped the rumors - it only solidified what the Commune already knew, especially considering Mildred was not the only woman of their community to go missing. The women who were caught gossiping about the incident also happened to disappear. Rosemary’s mother never came forward about hearing Mildred’s screaming so she could avoid the same fate.\nEthel in this moment feared that either her or Rosemary would end up like Mildred, or any of the other missing women. The Elder had reached His hand through the open window, grabbing Rosemary’s hair and dragging her inside. Ethel had begun leaning upwards, trying to get a look at what He was doing. Rosemary was kicking at Him, attempting to get Him to let go, but He towered over her. He was attempting to put His fingers down Rose’s throat, in order to silence her, but these efforts failed. She bit down on His fingers, which caused him to slap Rosemary.\nHe began screaming obscenities at Rosemary for how she bit down on the Prophet of Christ. Rosemary was thrown on the ground by Him, cowering in fear on the ground. He began kicking her, continuing to shriek. Ethel gathered her courage and stood up as silently as possible, because she had a plan. The Elder had wooden chairs that were positioned slightly behind Him, and within reach of Ethel. She nearly stood as tall as Him at about 5’10, so she knew she had an advantage that the much shorter Rosemary didn’t. Ethel saw Him starting to lay fists into her partner's stomach, and she took swift action.\nEthel grabbed the medium sized wooden dining chair, slamming it over his back and neck. He fell forwards towards Rosemary, landing next to her on the kitchen floor. His wind was knocked out of Him, and He was gasping for air on the ground. Rosemary got up with a painful grunt with the aid of Ethel, whose hands had splinters in them. Rosemary’s hair bows were ripped out of her hair, laying on the ground close to Him.\nThe chair didn’t fend Him off for long. Standing at 6'3 and 240 pounds, He was much larger than the other girls, and He used this to His advantage. He swiftly got off the ground and began charging at the two girls. Rosemary pushed Ethel out of the way and a few feet into the living room, while Rose was tackled again. Rosemary screeched at Ethel,\n“Please, DO SOMETHING!”\nHearing her pleading, Ethel sprinted towards the kitchen. She quickly rummaged through the drawers, looking for something to use as a weapon. Rosemary’s painful grunts could be heard from where she was, and it made her work faster. She found His knife drawer, and knew what she had to do. When running back into the kitchen, she found Him on top of Rosemary, assaulting her face, making her mouth bleed. Ethel felt rage fly through her body, and for her, the rest was a blur.\nRosemary was laying underneath The Elder’s now life-drained body. He was shallowly breathing, attempting to grab at either of the girls, but His time was now up. Ethel had to roll His body up to allow for Rosemary to get out from underneath Him. Ethel rushed herself and Rosemary to His bathroom, where she began washing Rose’s face. She noticed that she was now missing a front tooth. Looking in the mirror, Rose began crying, licking the wound.\n“What did we do, Eth? What did we do? Why didn’t we just take it?”\nEthel ignored Rosemary’s cries. She was focused on cleaning her up. Rose kept repeating,\n“What did we do?”\nand eventually, Ethel responded,\n“I don’t know, Rose. I don’t want to stay here any longer. I’m tired of all this.”\nThere was a long pause between the two, and Ethel continued after this pause,\n“But I think we don’t have to be here anymore.”\nRosemary cocked her head, next her eyebrow. Her tears had dried, and she was now pondering what Ethel said. She responded after a moment of silence, saying,\n“What? Just leave? I don’t know where anything is.”\nEthel was done cleaning up Rose, and she began to clean up herself. Both of their white linen dresses had been stained red.\nEthel followed up by saying,\n“Well. The road. I don’t know where anything is, either, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try. I don’t think we have a lot to lose. We can get help. I don’t know the world, Rosemary, and I’m scared of it when I shouldn’t be. I want to see what’s beyond that road.”\nThe two girls looked at eachother, and had a silent agreement between the two. They decided that today would be their final day at the Mayacamas Ministry Commune. \nThe only people outside were the women who were watching their children playing in rocks and dirt. It’s like they didn’t even see the two. One of the parents, Loretta, even waved to the girls, and Rosemary waved back. \nThe road was in front of them. It was long, rocky, and not easy to walk on. Ethel took the first step, with Rosemary following beside her. While they were walking, Ethel took ahold of Rosemary’s hand, which made Rosemary smile and flush. Rosemary had recently plucked an orange poppy, and put it behind Ethel’s ear.\n“Now, I guess, you can wear orange!”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Twinkle in her Wrinkles.\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1101\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who is starting to open up to life again." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Bubbly Vivi had made it to her tertiary college. She was so thrilled, now she could have some freedoms, leaving school days behind her. Vivi was looking forward to learning new subjects, she planned to study Maths, and become a teacher herself.\nHer parents wanted her to follow the straight and narrow, so she joined a Bible studies group of undergraduates. Their little church chapter met weekly at lunchtimes, Vivi soon made friends. What could go wrong? They were all young Christians, following in God's way, the new adults of society.\nSebastian was one of the leaders in prayers at the Young Christians group on campus. He became enchanted by Vivi's spark in her eyes, and her friendly and lively personality. He was blonde and good looking, she was attractive, with her own unique charm.\nOne thing led to another, as the young friends studied together, and began dating. Sebastian proposed, he was graduating ahead of Vivi. His future ahead was assured, he had a place as an architect in his father's successful firm. Wedding bells soon rang, their parents were thrilled. It seemed like a marriage made in heaven.\nAfter their romantic honeymoon, this fetching young couple sorted their routines. Bubbly Vivi did not quite finish her degree, she and Sebastian welcomed their first child to love and cherish. They shared a dream of four children, to be born while they were still young enough to be energetic parents.\nThe maternity unit got quite busy for while, and all went well. Vivi thrived in guiding her young family. She was still bouncing around her house, she even contemplated home schooling. But Sebastian thought their children should mingle and form new friendships, based on their loving home.\nThe years rolled by. Sebastian was enjoying the fruits of a stellar career, even gaining a trophy for his innovative sustainable solutions in housing, cost-effective. Bubbly Vivi did the school run, still belonged to her church's prayer group, with her girlfriends in God.\nAnyone can have a shock diagnosis. Vivi and Sebastian had to face this giant challenge together. Sebastian had invasive prostate cancer, stage four. Vivi did not understand why God was testing them like this. She prayed, and took Sebastian to all his medical procedures, seeking answers from his surgeons, and God above. The battle was rapid, and bloody. There was no remission.\nSebastian fought the good fight, but cancer really sucks. He passed away in a hospital bed, surrounded by his loving family. Grief stricken, Vivi felt like kicking holes in the plaster walls of the oncology room. She was now the mother and father of her four children. They were all facing a mountain of expensive bills, a mortgage, and a long bewildering journey of faith.\nHer soulmate had passed, beyond the veil. Vivi tried praying for a sign. But she felt abandoned by the platitudes of her friends and church leaders. Practical, she took a job as a retail assistant in a department store nearby. Her comfy life had changed forever. Her children had all grown up in a hurry. Sebastian's final days had not been pretty.\nVivi lost her bubbly nature. Her teenagers were on rosters, her nights were full of chores, as were her weekends. She was determined to keep them all going, so did not complain. Her routines were her godsend, but she spent her lonesome evenings in bed alone, questioning her trust in God's divine plan.\nTime passed, Sebastian's time had stood still, halted. He was living deeply his new life, so was Vivi. Her teenagers grew up, started their own life as adults. Vivi gave away her daughters in marriage, standing in for their father. The house was full of shadows, of laughter and memories. Vivi wondered if she should downsize, sell off the family home to someone young enough to enjoy it.\nSo she did. There was much decluttering to be done, so she took her annual leave. Her home was placed on the market, a sale followed. Vivi chose a more modest apartment, with a spare bedroom, in hope of future grandchildren to bless her.\nShe was still working, one of the retail managers by now. She had kept her children in faith, but no longer participated in the church community. One day, she planned to ask God a few questions, about the hand of fate she had been dealt.\nVivi had turned away, but God did not. It all happened by chance, she had to meet one of the buyers for new lines for the department store. Rafe by name, a lovely guy by nature. They shared a working lunch, and sparks flew. He was slightly younger, called her his cougar. Rafe came to her door one Saturday afternoon, with a bunch of flowers.\nLove in the afternoon had lots of advantages. This senior couple were very discreet. Vivi was at retiring age, so there was a big send-off at work. Rafe proposed, but Vivi did not want that. They were loving friends with mutual benefits, satisfying. Her bubbly sense of fun returned.\nRafe quietly asked her to move in with him, one sunlit evening bed, holding hands. \"I do not think so,\" Vivi told him. \"You are perfectly capable of washing your own underwear, so am I. If I don't cook your dinner, you can feed yourself. I want to watch my garden show, if you don't like that, you have a television at your pad.\" Rafe was persistent, but Vivi always held a bit back. \"If you want a housemaid at our age, there are billions of bridezillas in the world today.\"\nRafe's laughter was infectious. \"This old guy just ain't what he used to be!\" \"Neither is this old grey mare!\" Greying giggles. After this interlude, Vivi wondered about the rest of her retirement. She browsed, hoping for a comeback to the workforce, part-time work would be perfect.\nThere was an opportunity! The vacancy was advertising for a mature receptionist, at her old local church, three half days per week, responding to email queries and phone calls. Vivi could do that. So she applied. Most of the faces had changed in the past few years, but her tribe of Christians had never disappeared.\nVivi turned her face to God, but kept her little love secret. For her age, she wore it well, always welcoming and worshiping, part of life now. Bubbly Vivi cherished happy memories, keeping her own counsel about Rafe. People always wondered how she stayed so positive. Too easy, but shh! Her part-time loving caused her twinkles in her wrinkles! There is a reason for everything......." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When I Read Beckett\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 986\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with an unexpected betrayal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "…in…in this room…cursed room…loved?... cursed…. where she slept…half-grown in her hometown t-shirt…shorts…no shorts…t-shirt worn with holes…on the floor…he having thrown it…under the bed…dust collected and swept and settled again…. and again…who?... he… not she?...gracious!...there for the first time…assuredly last time…no boys in the room, father said…keep out!...nodded her head… but in the room…blue light hugging the window…scotch tape…peeling off the paint whether chipped or freshly laid or…exhumed…he found her in the— no, not found…held…held her in…under doomed blankets…a thumb…under a thumb…twisted under a thumb … urgently… unabashedly… shackled by his name … no name… names unknown… two in the bed… one… world flaring by… unedited film chopped and hacked… a sore thing… ulcers blooming somewhere…holes in her memory…in her body… hush now…but the slicing… husssshh I say!… feeling…feeling her own atomic skeleton… so quickly destroyed… so quickly defiled… so quickly filled…it might serve to relax…dissociate… but incapable… already unaware…the girl… the girl…but the girl?... remember what… remember the party… supposed to be where?... with whom?... taken home… taken home with… she left the house?... in the evening… bottles on the porch… tequila stinging chapped mouths… he pours… and pours… and pours… and pours… and disappears… a spoon of sugar in a wet glass… moon casts a shadow… bloody crescent… stray sequins scratch her shins…they flake off…she is whisked away…smells distilled…the party…what party?… the secret of where it is…where it was… must have been…seen by people scantily dressed… a stain on the night… she wore… the idea of what she wore… received poorly… with exhilaration… noted…clicked… recorded and frozen forever as she was… those flashes… bright in her eyes… phone cameras glinting… periphery irritated…some kind of no man’s land… couldn’t breathe… too hot… couldn’t hear her voice… escape…wanting it all to fade to black…anywhere else but here…so leave… leave!... let out into vapor… where did she go?... seen?... by anyone?... taken home… taken…transported, goods handled… express shipping for dolls…laid to rest in a bed of bubble wrap…resting… in bed… then: a stranger…no… not a stranger… couldn’t be a stranger… to know her bed… in her room…been in her room before… but father said no…yet…so-called friend!… always... easily trusted…hand on her lower back… her sentences half-finished … since days with velcro shoes… there like a mole… constant… dependable… then… then he…then swam in her mouth… syllables of his name…they’re in her teeth…to be scooped out by dental floss… stuck… tip of her tongue… his finger on her pocked tongue… a moment of gagged silence… lips form sounds learned in primary school…not a scream…some sounds…vowels from when she was small and they…the words tasted new… like a finger?… a thumb... no!... like English… children who knew the flavor… but she…the bitterness…she… muffled sounds and play and muffled sounds… out of touch… English more like aspic to her….at the time…at that point… but finding… somehow she found…but one universal language in hands and dirt under fingernails… fingernails on skin…raking on skin… touches…sticking to drool… dirty kisses on monkey bars…language of friendship… a friend…a friend who understood her warped words… English forgotten… shoulder by shoulder… kisses with friends…wood chips licking open shoes… pigtails on her head with the little bows… and she forced herself to smile… yanked by the ends… tickled by the belly… touched… little boys… being boys… she did not realize…long before parties…she did not realize… laying in the bed pigtails long gone…gone where? ... time spilled over from a cup … splaying… no, spreading … on the duvet… uncovered, but why?... the thought of… at the party… or rather… God!... zippers undone, knots untied… laces in her shoes… unlaced…command strips flayed from a mirror shattered on the floor… cut feet in the morning– spliced… she struggles…finds herself in— out of herself… second of incomprehension…hours…spanning hours… erased and unnoticed by a blink…Gosh!...but her mind… a washing of sorts… reckoning with punishment…lack of evidence…guilty!...punishment… guilt in a sealed box open only to her… vanished memory… insufficient evidence… inadmissible… poured out in measured shots…now love is an apparition in the wall… friendship buried in a shallow grave… unseen…slipping through a groping fist… strange fist groping at… at… her native tongue resurfaces… from the cradle… from mother’s milk…forming sounds… sounds like no… foreigners deaf to no… adequately expressed… speak English!... but she can’t… she can’t… gibberish garbled in her throat…congealed from the inside… speak! {error} speak! {error}…suddenly… indubitably… he!…unadmitted… swine!...door left unlocked… having forgotten to lock…brought her home without keys…carried on his shoulder… a friend… helping hand…by a friend… since she met him… day one… fat black eyes, dirty handshake… playgrounds…those same pigtails sinuous in his fingers… friendship… firm… invitations to places… introductions to people…been in her room before… some cousins to know of… mario kart in his basement… pizza on trampoline forts…sharing generously… growing new body parts… sheltered…without doubt?... certainly not!...how could she… not to see it coming… a girl and a boy…together… as friends…?... not to trail the wicked scent… perhaps unassuming…perhaps mistaken… unaware… naive… guilty… secretly wanting… once or twice a flirt… in sobriety dripping with meaning… he reads…pours tequila into shot glasses… her language stinks of filth to interpret as… in that tight skirt… combinations of… stop right there!... can it?... when it comes down to it…guilty…guilty…guilty…there in her body… there in her hands… and the cameras…a still life…friends seeing it happen…seeing it all happen… indelible…the guilty party… fine!...let it be this way… crumbs for the world… chewed on in daylight… school hallways chattering like shivering teeth…goosebumps…her flesh…feed the hungry… fed to friends…he… notches in his ribs… on her… grating… somewhere in the room… but she can’t speak… can’t see… on the desk somewhere… a hairbrush… a stone…to fight with…fight back…she can’t move… fight back… and hurt a friend…how the story goes… pitched in the courtroom… self-defense…when judgment day comes…and if it comes… who protects friends?...she…she… language unserving…there in her body… there in her hands…there in her body…there in her hands…a friend…and she…she…says nothing…does nothing…in this room… in…" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: THE KILLED VERSION RISES\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2993\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who decides to make their own version of something old." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Monday, 03/20/2023 as if coming out of a trance, eager to reconnect with sources and facts, diligently managed the cluttered Gmail inbox. Then one of those e-mails woke me up so rousingly that it lit the fuse for the powder barrel of the third and final act of my life.\nHe invited me to an international competition of authors and offered me some prompts, among which the one that saddened me proposed that I retell an old story, from my point of view.\nIt was presumably the coincidence of divine providence with my attention and I felt, then, the action of my heart's starter to the central engine of the imaginary, which restructured the RISE Project, then the electrifying DOSE was injected into the lymphatic system ( dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, endorphin) and the ebullition comes.\nIt was impossible to restrain that pleasure of imagining carrying out a social action that would save many humans from death, and from the second death.\nWho? Said you don´t live twice; it is legislated that there is a second chance, for Life, with eternal Life, or death, with the Second Death!\nThe first prize wasn't even that exciting, but providence showed to me the full potential of the opportunity.\nIf it miraculously triumphed against all the barriers that stand in the way of any author, and more strikingly Christians, the climb would reach the pincers of the heights and would require increasingly tenacious hands in the recesses of the wall and a mind sharpened to the extremes, to distinguish the path to the summit, never attempted before in the way I imagined.\nGather an efficient team and create the most convincing Christian script, based on this new version that I will give to the facts.\nOpportunately new thousands of readers would pay attention to what I had been recounting for decades, with irrepressible veracity and strength, in addition to the disconcerting, overwhelming scientific flavor; Soon a new group of prudent humans would take it as a benchmark; then the desired exponentiation would generate the main intended profit, a staggering group of enlightened-rescued. Time to ROI would be shortened.\nWhat? The blessed story would be badly told which persists until now, deceiving, doping, and killing humanity; What? History was being withheld from recognition, at all evil costs.\nWhat? Supernatural force induced the clergy, the patrons and their astonishing fortunes, and their industries, to support and foment the Operation of Error, sown by this historical malpractice, which drowned thousands of millions;\nWhat? Supernatural force prevented authors from revealing the Mystery, already discovered beyond the veil torn from top to bottom.\nWhat? Notable, very important, and famous character is the most ancestral in the Universe? whose story could be retold\nI will retell this story in a fulminant way, shaking the whitewashed blocks on the outside, sepulchers on the inside, attacking with my sling the castle's nest of death.\nAfter managing the e-mail inbox, I amused myself by vigorously scrubbing the large aluminum tray, to rid it of the encrusted fat left over from the last lamb roast, and the expectation of the return of the four children wandered in this Marvelous City of Rio de Janeiro, no longer so wonderful ´and plus the fleeting synapses that populate the brain of a newly widowed man.\nEntertained I was swimming in that choppy sea when a flash brought me the inspiration to develop the short story prompt, with which I could win the international competition.\nIt was supernatural providence that shed such a strong light on the way to realizing all my imagination regarding the RISE project, the ultimate best seller on the subject, hence the screenplay for the ultimate and most compelling Christian classic, with Walden Media's Philip Frederick Anschutz.\nI was almost fainting from exhaustion, after all, count 66 years old, even without looking like it.\nThe inspiring synapses were really like the intermittent and spaced flashing of a single firefly, which I followed attentively through the nocturnal tundra of my brain, walking without caring about the terrain as if playing football.\nDesires also concurred to form the waves that foamed over me, making me question whether to continue under the 'GABA-effect' of the pregabalin taken five days ago, three days before the burial, or, then, a well-served drink of \"MÉHlifua\" the Brazilian cachaça, invented last month, at Sitio Boa Sorte.\nGiving a strong drink to what perishes was a lesson learned in the American westerns, and from my earthly father, I learned that a cup of great Brazilian coffee and sugar would definitely scare my sleep away. He had also taught me how to make it liquefied with lemon juice, ice, and sugar, sparkling and refreshing in summer.\nAfter all, the night called me to snuggle and sleep in her lap, but it wasn't sleep that I needed, but that night's lap was like the womb of my sleeping beauty, Sandra \"MrsMUffin\" the owner of my being and owner of \"MrCOOKIE & MrsMUFFIN JUSTdoEAT ALIMENTOS\" whose remarkable story would also be writing one day.\n\nOption was for a short sleep since I had my bare feet on the ground for fifteen hours. I decided on 5-hour shifts for one rest.\nWoke up relieved, take a cold shower and resume the paragraph in which I would introduce the character, his wits, exploits, and then retell that unequaled and most perversely subverted story, in my own way, my seasoning.\nSated, but hungry for action, I left the bathroom and ran boiling water over the coffee powder that had been left in the strainer since the previous morning.\nAfter all, which one? A connoisseur would throw away such a precious brown thing, without extracting all of its juice, adding the very white powder of the Cayenne cane (laughing).\nOn youtube Nathaniel Bassey glorified Agunechemba and Procol Harum live in Denmark Turns Whiter The Shade of my Pale.\nWith good gulps of fresh water, I washed off the delicious sweetness of the cookies I had already eaten and resumed the hunt for the firefly.\nMy dear beta readers, exercise your knowledge and memory now and tell me:\nwhat's up? Oldest at rearguard;\nPossibly one or two of the little children, however old you may be, will get the point right, and rejoice that are the rare diamond-bright minority.\nMost will establish the Universe as the oldest known.\nEnlightening then the majority and providing satisfaction to the minority, I say to all that I will retell the story of the one who is before the Universe-Of-His-Creation, seasoned with naked science, as the embarrassing Truth emerging from the bathing well, without its garments, stolen by the lie.\nNota bene that these remarkable scientists were never ashamed to look at the naked truth, they always had fun with it: Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, Ray, Linnaeus, Mendel, Pasteur, Newton, Faraday, Maxwell, Kelvin, Steno, Woodward, Brewster, Buckland, Cuvier, Pascal, Leibinitz, Boyle, Dalton, and Ramsey and left their testimonies. Other creationist scientists followed in their wake, however, being supplanted and silenced by a supernatural action, which placed the mark of religion on them, trying to take away their credibility. And they did for many years.\nThe captivating beauty of the truth made them pay attention to the impossibility of the non-existence of an Intelligent Designer, precursor of each one of the stupefying irreducible nano-complexities that mark their works and, more hauntingly, the divine-human creature; Replicated on the sixth day\nAs they looked deep into the piercing eyes of the exhilarating truth, sensitized by its beauty, like the beauty of Eve, the primeval, they were reminded of the words that reverberated and echoed throughout the Universe-of-His-Creation, warning all the prudent that he was the missing link of the evolution, the unreachable link for those of denial.\n“I am the beginning of all creation...” inspired John his beloved to write.\nThe precursor of the zip nd unzip of the Universe-of-His-Creation would not exist only by force and exercise of negationism, the abject mechanism.\nScience now proves that everything came to light in an intentional, planned, finished, dynamic, and purposeful way; galaxies appear new and completely finished, from the most remote proximity of the initial moment, when inspected by the James Webb Super Telescope, causing unbearable discomfort to those who have the time of trillions of years as primordial for the evolution\n “We Were Planned” is the greatest scientific discovery of this century, together with the “Foresight” proven by nanotechnology, through mass spectrometers, squanders Doc. Marcos Eberlein in his two books.\nThere is no doubt about the antecedence of the primordial and primary manifestation of life and the concomitant explosion in photons, for the beginning of materiality.\n“I am the light that came into the world” inspired his most gifted student to register.\n The spiritual life, electronic Life of atoms, biological Life of prebiotics, hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, ammonia, anammox, nitrogen, up to the magnificent and exuberant complexity for the viability of human life on the Planet Earth evoked a Creator.\n So far and even with James Webb scrutinizing the most remote areas, Earth is the Only Garden and Orchard of the Universe and not a mere and simple blue dot, how unchristian Sagan wants to deceive us!\nIn addition to that poorly told story of the uncaused and purposeless big bang and the inconsequential and improbable evolution, which requires another eternity for it not to happen, there was another story that was insurmountably worse, which treated with placebos the lethal disease caused by the forbidden fruit, degenerative chemistry, consciously consumed and which cost a genetic degeneration to the mother of all, gradual death and its congenital transmission through the mitochondrial chromosome.\n\nChief among the evil tales is subtle, subliminal, and lethal, yet pleasing to the ear and eye like forbidden fruit; artificially perfumed, it hides from humans in its core the microscopic, latent odor of cadaverine and putrescine.\nRetelling the story of the persona (for whom it sounds) unique, correcting the subversions, and adding to it the notorious scientific correspondence, is possible only through the inspirations of the firefly; so I paid attention to each flash as I followed it.\nThe grimy and tattered lie bathes and comes disguised as truth, as the ancient fable and the exciting painting by Jean Leon Gerome warned us; The truth should comes naked and raw.\nLet's go Truth!\nThe historical records of the Hebrew people, descendants of Noah the lucky heir of everything watered and fertilized by the universal deluge, establish that before the beginning of the Universe-of-His-Creation was the Verb; then the Verb of the Eternal Spirit was before everything had been materialized by Him, and the Verb of the Eternal was with the Eternal and was the Eternal Himself (homogeneous in spirit), recorded John the beloved, humble and illiterate Hebrew fisherman, who followed the firefly, which emitted flashes greater than the St. Joseph lighthouse, at the nocturnal immensity of Lake Michigan.\nEverything having been made of HIM by HIM and for HIM and if without HIM nothing that was made was made, we understand that HE can only be the FATHER of his Creation; the one who needed a mother only in the second act; And that the Verb is the Core of the Eternal;\nThis Spirit exercises its unfathomable power to synthesize himself into the BEING when it comes from the encompassing eternity into the womb of the Universe-Of-His-Creation.\nHe is the Father who did not need a mother when he replicated himself in Adam, the masterpiece of creation, on the sixth day and from whom he cloned the primeval mother-of-all from a rib trunk.\nAs? By whom? For what purpose? the immaterial human mind of a multitude would be obstructed and prevented from accepting that the immaterial power, exogenous to the entire Universe-of-His-Creation, had brought about the materialization of all existence and its laws, within itself.\nIn the blink of an eye, everything was “ziped nd unziped” an endogenous explosion, perfectly planned to contain space and count time, with everything perfect, finished and functional, purposeful, all life and controlled energy and its regulating laws.\nOnly then entropy evolve into deterioration!\nAlso, this ill-told history is not chief among the ill-versed histories.\nWoooooooooW!\nAre there more pitfalls? Which we must disarm!\n\nThe Romans forged another story that supplanted the true story that the Lord YHVH, The Christ, told us together and through his prophets and which was ratified by the Lord YHSHUA, Lord JESUS, also the Christ!\nThus the most horrendous subversion began, in the city that is on the 10 mountains, confirming the word of the Creator when he made the Apostle Paul prophesy this\n“God will send them the operation of error, so that they believe the lie, so that all those who do not believe the truth may be judged; rather, they took pleasure in iniquity.” II Ts. 2:11 e 12\nThis one started to propagate that in the beginning, it was the son, frontally contradicting the Verb; Which is very dangerous; It also propagated that the son was generated by the Spirit, but not by the Verb, so, amazed! Antichrist!\nAs? Could anyone contradict the one who is before all materiality, laws, and circumstances; He who comes out of Eternity!\nHe who is antecedent to the Universe-of-His-Creation itself, who has all for servants!\nThe Romans made all the people believe that they adopted Christianity as the central religion and that there was total freedom of belief, as long as Christianity was based on the Doctrine of the Trinity and not on the Doctrine of Christ.\nThus began the greatest feat of the antichrist, subtly lethal!\nWith such a doctrine, they established with ghostly subtlety the heresy that the one born of Mary was the fruit of the Holy Spirit and not the fruit of the Verb, the only begotten of the Father!\n They definitively distanced Christ from the past action of fertilization and unity with the son.\nAs the ArchAngel Gabriel clearly spoke to Mary, the virgin servant, the fertilization operation would take place in two distinct stages; How? Then the noble Roman sages dared to subvert the message of the Most High, passed by his faithful squire, right arm, ArchAngel of Jerusalem, who began by saying\n“The Spirit of God will come upon you and…”\nThen he told her that\n“The Virtue of the Most High will overshadow you, (the power of the Most High will envelop you, in other versions) so also (by this fact Mary) the Holy One who will be born of you will be called Son of God”\n\nUnderstand well!\nJoin all the verses contained there in the Gospel of Christ, according to the inspired Luke, chapter 1 verse 35\nIn the first stage of the filiation operation, Christ sends her Spirit upon Mary simply to put her to sleep (the sleeping beauty), not to impregnate her, thus protecting her from herself.\nFor if the blessed one had seen Christ himself, the Father! As Adam saw him; she would at least speak to Isabel, who would speak to Zacarias, who would speak to someone, who would speak to a Pharisee, who would speak to all of his people, enraged at the blasphemy, would kill her.\nDivine foreknowledge was plotting a great move.\nThen the Spirit of Christ would sanctify her, so that she would go to Christ the Father for a tabernacle, for nine months while degenerating (laughing).\nIn the second stage, Christ, the Father, the Creator himself, Jehovah Elohim would cover her with his shadow, as we humans do when our women allow us to copulate with them with pleasure (divine invention!);\nBut exercising its power to be the God-of-the-Impossible (Luke 1:37), the Original-Being, the Principle of All Creation, the Missing Link of Evolution, proceeds to reduce Himself to the condition of a gamete \" Y”, divine, which is sure to find and join the “x” of the question, in the egg inside Mary's womb.\nGod the Father thus preserved the virginity of his blessed handmaiden unscathed, for Joseph to enjoy; scientifically he made himself bloody, therefore mortal, by bearing the Body of Sin, the crimson blood.\nOnly-begotten of the Father confirms the scripture which says\n“And the Word of God became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth (John 1:14)\nIt also says that\n“This is the one who came by water and blood, even Jesus Christ [YHSHUA]; not by water only (as YHVH the Father came), but by water and blood.\nAnd the Spirit is what bears witness because the Spirit is the Truth. (I John 5:6)”\nThis wonderful discovery mentally envisioned by me, WiFi and WireLess, immaterial, debunks and definitively buries the most ill-told and most lethal story in the world, resurrecting the Doctrine of Christ definitively and vigorously, enthroning it on the summit of scientism, allowing many souls to be rescued from ignorance, religious proselytism and finally atheism;\nAll getting ready, firmly, for the rescue that will be performed unusually in these coming years, by Lord JESUS, Christ!\nGod and Father, Heir of all\nIn that glorious moment the first resurrection will rise the saved ones, true Body of Christ, thus ending that dark and dramatic period of the Beginning of Sorrows, to then happen the great slaughter and consecutive second and last resurrection, rising those destined for the fiery lake of fire and brimstone, the Celestial Alcatraz, The Sun!\nAnd the saved ones will be re-established on Earth restored by the Creator himself\nAlleluYH!!! Lord Jesus, Christ!\nMy God operates, dad, so that this small prize may be the foreshadowing of a great reward when I find myself in Your Divine Presence.\nSummon those desired men who will have the pleasure of using their fortunes so that all the imagination you have allowed me to abstract comes true, for the salvation of a billion, witnessing, honoring, and glorifying your name YHSHUA, Agunechemba, Lion of The Universe, Lion of Judah.\nAmen!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Frozen Lemonade\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2156\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who isn’t nostalgic about their past at all, and show readers why." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger warning: Contains underage sexual content, mentions of assault\n\nYou know the movie Dirty Dancing? The one where Baby goes off to that fancy resort with her parents for the summer, and in the beginning she is a good, sweet girl who loves her daddy, and then by the end she is still a good sweet girl who loves her daddy but now she is kinda sexy too and can dance like a pro and is totally in love with that beautiful dance teacher. Why doesn’t anyone talk about how that teacher is clearly much, much older than Baby, and despite Patrick Swayze’s swoon-worthy body and to-die-for dance moves, it is probably borderline illegal for him to end up with her? And then I think, well of course no one talks about that because all of us growing up wanted to be Baby, we wanted Johnny’s fingertips to caress our waist and make us giggle, we wanted to learn how to do lifts in the lake, we wanted to wake up in a dirty shack in the woods after losing our virginity to the bad boy dance teacher with the beautiful abs. \n\nI blame Dirty Dancing for thousands of young teen girls summer flings, for all the girls who became camp counselors in the hopes of meeting their own Johnny Castles, only to realize that a sleep-away camp job was more about bug spray and bandaids than romance. Also, all the male dance instructors I ever met were gay. \n\nBut the lure of Baby in her tiny shorts was like a right of passage, every teen and pre-teen girl’s invitation to a wild (and somewhat inappropriate) summer romance.\n\nMost of them were nothing like Dirty Dancing of course. Most of them involved the back seats of old cars or sticky kisses behind the bleachers at the high school. If the girl was lucky it was at least exciting, if she was even luckier, consensual. There was often music, however, a song playing on the radio that when you heard it twenty years later it would remind you of the smell of old leather, the taste of strawberry Chapstick.\n\nFor me, it all happened the summer I was 14. His name was Morgan , he was 17, and he was no Johnny Castle. Also, it wasn’t consensual, not really, although I didn’t exactly say no either. Also, I liked girls at the time, but I can’t really blame him for not knowing that. It was the 90’s, things were starting to change, but it was still not really ok to be out and proud like it is now. \n\nIt was exciting though. Not the kissing part, which was wet and messy and too fast, or the sex, which was the same. \n\nNo, the exciting part was what happened after.\n\nI wasn’t in love with Morgan. I wasn’t even in like with him, but I was 14 and bored. Nothing happened in the summer in the tiny town where I lived. Nothing happened during the school year either, but at least there were football games and afterschool clubs and stuff. In the summer, the older kids who had licenses would drive an hour away to the shore and drink beers in the sun all day. Morgan had a license, but he also had a job bagging groceries at the local supermarket four days a week, which meant less time for suntanning and more time to seduce underage girls in the Foodtown parking lot. \n\nThe person I really liked in the summer of 1992, right before my sophomore year of high school, was Stacy; soon to be senior, 16 years old, with long curly auburn hair and big brown eyes. Stacy was the reason I ended up in the parking lot that night to begin with, she was the reason I was dressed in my shortest shorts and the bright blue bikini top that I basically lived in that July. \n\nShe was also the reason my sophomore year of high school went the way it did. Let’s just say that when you are 14 and hopelessly in love and someone takes advantage of your innocence you go a little crazy.\n\nNot Morgan. I barely remember him.\n\nBut I will remember that first kiss with Stacy forever.\n\nMorgan had a beat up Toyota Camry that he had inherited from some family member, and he had tossed two fuzzy checkered blankets into the backseat. My 14 year old self did not think twice about this; it wasn’t until I was much older that it occurred to me about the kind of boy who would keep two folded up blankets in the backseat of his car. He kissed me and I played along (it wasn’t actually my first kiss) and then he put his hand underneath my bikini top and I went along with that too. By the time he was unbuttoning my jean shorts, his eyebrows raised questioningly, (he did ask first, in his own way) I had already gone along with so many things I figured what was the point in saying no now. Like I said, it was summer in a small NJ town, I was bored to death, and Morgan was something new. \n\nStacy appeared a few minutes after it was over, her long tan legs sauntering across that Foodtown parking lot like a supermodel on the runway. She walked right up to the Camry and opened the door. \n“Morgan, really??! She’s barely a sophomore!” Stacy then turned her dark brown eyes to me. \n\n“Gia? You are Gia right?” I nodded.\n\n“Are you ok? Did he hurt you?”\n\nI considered this for a moment. \n\n“No, not really.”\n\nStacy watched as I awkwardly retied my bikini top. The expression on her face was unreadable. When I was fully dressed again she offered me her hand.\n\n“Come on Gia,” she said. \n\nMorgan was refolding the blankets but he had the decency to at least look up long enough to say goodbye. He didn’t offer to call me or anything; that wasn’t part of this whole experience. But he did smile and say “See you around.”\n\nStacy and I walked out of the parking lot and down Main Street.\n\n“He’s kind of a douche,” she said. “But I get it, an older guy with a car and all.”\n\nI opened my mouth to explain that no, Morgan’s car had nothing to do with it, that I really just had nothing else to do that afternoon. But that made me sound like a whore and I wanted Stacy to like me, so I just shrugged.\n\nWe kept walking, all the way to the Wawa on the end of Main. Stacy then proclaimed it was “hot as balls” outside and she wanted a frozen lemonade. One drink, two straws (like the country song).\n\nWe drank it right there outside the Wawa, and when she kissed me afterwards, her lips tasted like lemons.\n\n“Am I right though?” she asked. “You like girls? I’m usually right.”\n\nI nodded, slightly breathless, eyes wide.\n\nStacy smiled. “Yeah I’m usually right”, she repeated. And then, even though I hadn’t asked. “I like everyone.”\n\nYears later, sitting on a twin bed at Smith College, I told this story to my roommate. Ayala was from Queens; street smart and very beautiful, and she had rolled her eyes. “They are the absolute worst.” I assumed she meant guys like Morgan but she shook her head. “No silly. There is a Morgan on every street corner. I mean girls like Stacy.”\nI didn’t tell Ayala the rest of the story. That I had spent all of July and half of August floating through town like a tumbleweed. Each time, just when I thought it was over, Stacy would suddenly appear and we would spend the afternoon together, drinking frozen lemonade, swinging on the old tire swing in the middle school playground. One day we went to the town pool, another we rode bikes down to the muddy lake and tossed pebbles into the water. Anyone looking at us from the outside would have just assumed we were good friends, slowly inching our way through the long summer days. They didn’t see what we did when no one was looking. Stacy left for a family vacation in mid-August, but before she did she kissed me long and hard and told me that I was the prettiest girl she had ever been with.\n\nIn the fall she started dating the captain of the football team, a pairing that I found cliche and unsatisfying. I did not handle it well; Morgan’s Camry was not the last backseat I found myself in, and his were not the only fuzzy blankets. By the time Stacy and her jock boyfriend won prom king and queen that spring (she wore a long blue dress with sequins and a slit up the side) I had developed somewhat of a reputation.\n\nStacy graduated and went off to some college upstate. I spent the summer before my junior year working at a sleep away camp on the shore where I actually met a cute dance instructor. (Her name was Hannah, not Johnny.) Hannah was a sweet girl with blond hair and dimples that burrowed into her cheeks when she laughed, and we had three weeks of innocent and completely consensual fun. On the last day of camp she got a little teary and told me that I was the first girl she had ever been with. I lied and told her the same.\n\nAfter college I followed the well worn path of many a New Jersey girl and moved to a tiny one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn with a roommate I met on Craigslist. When she decided three years later that she couldn’t hack NYC life and moved out, I decided to keep the apartment for myself.\n\nThe girls I met on dating apps liked to talk nostalgically about their past, about high school when your biggest concern was Friday’s midterm and what to wear to school in the morning. About college when you could drink 6 beers, pass out in someone’s dorm room, and stumble into sociology the next morning in your pajamas and no one batted an eyelash. They whined about the unfair expectations of the current job market, about high maintenance women with unrealistic dating goals. When they asked me about my past I would always reply with “Small town Jersey”, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.\n\nAll I knew is I was happy to be grown, happy to no longer be a lost teenager desperate for any kind of adventure. You couldn’t pay me enough to be 14 again.\n\nMorgan actually became somewhat of a low key celebrity, known for a popular series of YouTube videos about woodworking, or sculpting or something maker-ish like that. The last video I saw had over one million views.\n\nStacy married a stockbroker and last I checked she was living in a big white house in the suburbs with 2 kids under 2 and a big, fluffy golden retriever. I have no idea if that was the life she wanted. Sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I like to think that it wasn’t; that somewhere deep in the back of her mind she still thinks of me as the one who got away.\n\nIts a funny thing, your past. Mostly it shrinks father and father away, like the entrance to a long tunnel you are driving through, until it is barely a dot in your memory. But occasionally something attaches itself, stubborn and prickly like a barnacle in the ocean, and it can take you years to shake it off.\n\nOn the last night of my honeymoon in Cancun, I was sipping a glass of champagne by the water when my beautiful new wife turned to me and said, “Tell me your deepest darkest secret.”\n\nI thought for a moment, the gentle soundtrack of the waves playing in the background. There were plenty of things I could tell her, plenty of embarrassing moments from a younger life that had not been particularly reserved or conservative. But instead I shook my hair out of my face and said, “It took me twenty years to finally know what kind of person I want to be.”\n\nCynthia raised her eyebrows, clearly having expected something different. \n\n“And what kind is that?”\n\n“Someone worthy of love”, I replied. \n\nShe kissed me then, and it wasn’t at all like being 14 in the backseat of a Camry or like the taste of lemonade in the parking lot of the Wawa. It wasn’t like deep in the forest at Camp Mohunk, the scent of bug spray in everyone’s hair. It wasn’t like dorm rooms in college or the wet spongey air in the back of that bar in Red Hook. It wasn’t like any of those times.\n\nThis time, this kiss, was like coming home." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Forthright Thursday\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2512\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour family’s holiday dinners always end with everyone at each other’s throats. This year you’re determined to keep a low profile, but your patience is being put to the test." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "8:45PM Thanksgiving Day – GLOVES OFF:\nMy mother, Mary, and her sister Alice were engaged in a wrestling match on the dining room table. Aloysius – my father - and Alice’s plus one; Jack, attempted to pry them apart, but both women had locked themselves into each other’s hair with vice-like grips, despite both their hands being splattered with custard trifle remnants. All I could do as an observing teenager was sit with mouth agape while holding my new Super 8mm silent movie camera, recording the whole scene. It was typical behaviour at family get-togethers of old, but this year, this Thanksgiving, was meant to be celebrated as a reunion several years and many miles since the previous family sit-down dinner.\nMy plan was to document the long-awaited family reunion – five years after we emigrated to Boston; however, I quickly found myself being caught between being a neutral documentarian and unwavering loyalty to my mother.\n“Will the two of yous, please stop!” I yelled to deaf ears. “This is my favourite part of the year and you’re ruining it! I hate family reunions! They always end up the same way!”\nThe hypocrisy acted out by the two sisters - writhing around atop a table full of food, initiated a memory flash of the day we left Ireland. The tears of Aunt Alice and my grandmother waving goodbye alongside other heartbroken dockside relatives of migrating family members, touched my young emotional wellbeing. At the time, I imagined those left behind in the Emrald Isle, were desolately pondering if they would ever hear from or see their loved ones again. To those onboard, a ship sailing into the sunset is the beginning of an adventure, the onset of a journey. But to some of those left to grieve the departing, it can feel like the end of their own journey, leaving them to pick up the remaining pieces of a fractured family.\nThat’s why I chose to get this day on film, because it would be saved for posterity-sake to be sentimentally viewed time again in the future with fond recollection of days gone by.\nThe Sixties was a time of expensive long-distance phone calls where you competed with the crackling static on the line trying to have a conversation, so the choicest form of communication was the cheaper method using the written word and a postage stamp. It wasn’t instant news or timely updates, but it was something tangible that could be saved and re-visited at a future time. However, with the passage of time, weekly letters can easily fade into monthly correspondence, then drift towards a lazy twice per year, finally receding like distant memories into forlorn remembrances spoken around an open fireplace and a warm glass of stout.\n“Did you hear from that one?” Would be a commonly asked question. “I must write to them, soon.”\nLaziness turned to habit, and that letter never got written. Then, as if by magic, all past disagreements were forgotten, like time and distance had cured all the ill feelings and jealousies, wiping the slate clean.\n“If only me sister were here,” my mother would lament. “Why did we ever leave Ireland?”\n“Remember, Mare,” my father would say. “We came for a better life.”\n“Sure, tis better to be amongst family poor than lonely and rich,” she would argue.\n“Aye, my love,” my father would empathise. “But are we not better off, now? Sure, don’t we have each other?”\n“Can’t even get a daycent cup of tea in a city famous for its tea party.”\nMy father would laugh at the innocent quips my mother often entertained him with. Being born into abject poverty in a damp, wet land with little job prospects; schooling – although a necessity – was not always convenient for families that needed wage earners to heat the home, put food on the table, and pay the inflated rents of slumlords. So, like many others of her time, my mother had to find early work in button factories and other menial and repetitive jobs, where unsolicited education accompanied canteen breaks relayed from the tip of every Irish Biddy’s tongue eager to stretch truth beyond recognition.\n“My Seamus saw it with his own eyes and told it to me as I tell it to you, now,” would justify a story’s authenticity.\n“Daft as a donkey’s arse that one is. Sure everyone knows the man upstairs was Jesus’s real father.”\nIn a Catholic country, to question authenticity, is to spit on the word of God.\n“The priests have the knowledge you seek. Sure, why do you need to listen to all that rubbish on the radio? Nothing but filthy lies told by dirty heathens!”\nGaining the trust of the Irish has always been a difficult proposition. Suspicion and a lack of acceptance of outsiders is engrained into the indoctrinated embodiment of every child of Irish soil.\n“Tis the God’s honest truth!” The liars would always finish with.\nCatholic hypocrisy knows no bounds. Random expressions of gossip fuels an ignorance that turns folklore into fact, and fact into suspicion, distrust, then finally, ostracization. It was the latter that forced the decision to rip us from the familiarity of immediate family and sail across the Atlantic to a foreign land with foreign ideas and foreign food.\nBut time seemingly forgot the ignorance of the devout, so we found ourselves reluctantly assimilating into what we deemed American culture – and the uniquely American Thanksgiving was one of the holiday traditions that converted this young filmmaker into a free young man.\n 8:42PM – PRE-EMPTIVE STRIKE:\n“Mam’s death is on your shoulders,” Alice coldly stated, as she took her seat at the table. “She was never the same after ye’s left.”\nAunt Alice had just downed another glass of false courage, before raising her voice to my mother.\n“I was never her favourite,” my mother replied. “You made sure of that.”\n“Now, Mare,” my father tried to intervene, when hearing raised voices. “Tis not the way to welcome family. Sure, they’ve only just arrived in America.”\n“Yes, fresh arrival, but with stale memories of spite,” my mother pointed out.\nMy father had been in the middle of enough encounters of similar ilk between the two sisters back in Ireland, to know when hostilities were about to kick off.\n“She can feck off back home for all I care,” was Mary’s conclusion.\nNo sooner had the words trailed from my mother’s mouth, a lump of custard flew across the dining table and filled the void her words had just vacated.\n 8:40PM – CALM BEFORE THE STORM:\nI was panning the dining room with my movie camera, documenting the pre-dinner chit-chat, while in the adjoining living room, the coal fireplace glowed, spreading much needed warmth on a cool evening. My father and Jack clowned for the camera, pretending to be old Irish women by draping table napkins over their heads, while singing Irish songs of hope, rebellion, and the forty shades of green pastures they once roamed. The silent camera captured the tomfoolery but missed a roaring chorus of Mother Macrae. However, the camera didn’t fail to capture two pairs of male eyes tearing up from the words of the emotive song. Jack – another displaced Paddy had met my Aunt Alice on the ship coming over, and an immediate attraction blossomed, causing wedding bells to ring loudly in an expectant air of matrimonial coupling.\nLike many Irish immigrants to the USA, Jack also left a grieving mother behind, so any songs about Irish mothers solicited the same response in distant sons. Melancholy to the point of tears.\nThe strongest emotion displayed in that touching moment was from my father. My grandmother on his side had passed away during our voyage to the new world. Some said it was her time, but other bitter gossipers said she died heartbroken after her son uncaringly sailed away. Having neither the funds nor the time to get back for her funeral, my father went on a drunken three-day wake through the Irish pubs that Boston provided a taste of home to those mourning souls pining for the Auld Sod they left behind in search of a better life. His pub crawl of self-pity ended when my mother tracked him down and ordered him out of the pub, then marched him home by his ear – much to the amusement of his fellow drinkers.\nSince that day, my father has mellowed in his emotional reactions, and found a respectable job in a post office sorting facility, where he enjoys a camaraderie of fellowship with similar tales of Irish woe to share in a pseudo psychotherapeutic counselling environment. Well, that’s what he calls the after-work drinks at the pub. My mother calls it the pub of woes.\n 8:35PM – STAND WELL BACK:\n“Will ye put down that thing and come sit, please, Sully,” my mother addressed me using my nickname. I was a serious child of Eireann for my young years. The constant bickering and in-fighting of the family of my childhood, had left little room for frivolous youthful normality. Instead, it created an introspective sullen personality, where I used art as an escape, and filmmaking as an expression of my true opinions.\n“Ye are so sullen,” she would say. “That, I’ll call ye Sully.”\nIt stuck and most of the family would address me by my nickname. I didn’t mind. Having a nickname was a sign of respect and admiration, so I gladly accepted it.\n“I’m capturing the moment, Mam” I replied. “It’s going into my documentary.”\n“Make sure you get my good side,” Aunt Alice mentioned.\n“That’ll be the back of yer head, then,” my mother quippingly followed, causing my father to halt his conversation with Jack and throw a disapproving glance toward my mother.\nIn one innocuous moment of flippancy, my mother had unintentionally lit the touch paper to the subsequent eventful evening.\n 8:15PM – A CAREFUL REMINDER:\n“Yous should have been there,” my Aunt Alice said to my mother. “Family from all corners of the globe attended.”\n“Families with money,” my mother tried to justify her absence from her own mother’s funeral. “We were barely scraping by. I couldn’t leave my job. Not so soon after starting. I would have surely lost it to someone else.”\n“We just thought that you and Aloysius had started your own trend of missing funerals. Too busy to remember your own - back home.”\n“Mare?” My father attempted a distraction. “Have a sip of the black stuff and let’s get everything on the table. I’m sure we’re all hungry to sample your fine cooking.”\nThe condescending smile from Alice’s lips suggested the topic was not closed. Not by a longshot.\n 7:45PM - REUNIFICATION:\nMy mother and Aunt Alice sat on the living room sofa sifting through the photo album Alice had brought with her across the sea. They giggled at photos of them together holidaying in Ballybunion, gasped at the photos showing the hand-me-down St. Vincent De Paul’s charity clothes their mother used to dress them in, and silently blessed themselves whenever they came across a photo of their late parents.\nThe initial news of her sister’s emigration had excited my mother. At last, she had her sister close-by to confide in. Momentarily forgotten, were the sibling disagreements, the vociferous arguments between family members of the generation that preceded them, and the hardships they had endured living under the roof of parents who were always late to rise, late to work, late to build any self-esteem in their two daughters, but always early at pub opening times – then, late home after closing.\nFor the first time in a long while, I glimpsed a moment of happiness creep across my mother’s face, and I was so ecstatic to capture that moment on film.\n 7:30PM - ARRIVAL:\nMy Aunt Alice ruffled my hair as I greeted her at the front door.\n“Don’t look at the camera, Auntie Alice,” I directed. “I’m making a documentary. Just act natural.”\nMy directing debut lacked the commitment to control. This was demonstrated by Aunt Alice curtsying while raising her skirt above her knees.\n“Ye shameless harlot,” my mother said in passing.\n“I hear short skirts are all the rage these days,” Alice pointed out. “Lucky I can sew. I’ll have new hems in no time.”\nThe disagreement in opinions didn’t prevent the two reunited sisters from hugging each other warmly. For my mother, this was indeed a day for thanksgiving.\n“This is all so new to me, Mary,” Alice confessed. “I feel like I went to sleep in Ireland and woke up in heaven. Such opulence, wealth, and friendliness. We stopped to ask directions to your house, and the policeman went out of his way to accompany us to the corner. Ask directions in Ireland and you’ll get the reply, Who’s askin?”\n“Well, you’re here, now,” my mother reassured her. “At long last. Tis the fourth Thursday in November and the first day in your new life. That’s a lot to be thankful for.”\n 7:25PM – LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION:\n“I hope there’s film in that thing, son,” my father asked. “Your mother has prayed for this moment for so long. Having her sister living near us, will be a godsend. No more pining for home when everyone’s in the same spot, hey? Would ye like a song to start things off?”\n“Sure, Dad.”\nI hadn’t the heart to tell him there was no sound recording in the cine camera, but his antics at the piano made up for that - as he played and sang a version of Molly Malone at the top of his voice. With every high note in the chorus section, he comically raised his seated posture, then dramatically flopped back down on the piano stool to begin a new verse. The festive air of the Thanksgiving holiday had been set. Music, a warm fireplace, and the smell of my mother’s cooking pre-empted the arrival of real family to our humble Boston dwelling. It was an opportunity for me to use my birthday present to document the beginning of a new chapter and the anticipated emotional reunion between estranged Irish sisters in their new land of opportunity.\nMy mind drifted to imagine that across the country, families and friends alike were giving thanks to a time in the past when the pilgrims shared their harvest with the natives of a land they would soon displace, but I was too young to recognise the irony. However, across the centuries, Thanksgiving has evolved into a time for families and friends to share stories, food, and drink in a welcoming and friendly atmosphere, so I had high hopes for the success of the rest of the evening.\n 7:24PM – ANTICIPATION\nIt’s the fourth Thursday of November. The table is almost set, there’s a sparkle in my mother’s eye that hasn’t been there in a long while, and I’m excited to get this all on film. When Aunt Alice arrives, it’s going to be great seeing family back together again…" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Voice of Many\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1000\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart a story that begins with a character saying “Speak now.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Speak now.” \nThe antechamber echoed with a brass tone; chimes strewn across the floor still held their tune. Wiry hands now found their way to the boy beneath them. \n“You have been given an order boy, speak now.” \n“You would have me speak for what? You have heard my voice and seen what it can do.” \nThe hands gained weight, pushing painfully now into the boy’s shoulders. Groaning in disgust, the man turns to the door behind them, the gold lacquer on the handle worn to brass. \n“I would have you speak only to assuage the courts,” crooked fingers point to the door behind “only to appease the masses.” The hand now finds itself on the boy’s head, the cold grasp trickling down his neck. “You have brought here a plague of doubts, an infestation of skepticism, a goddamned uprising.” \nA cool clasp moved to the boy’s neck jolting him to his feet. If it were not for the blaze coming from the man’s eyes the hands would have frozen him solid. The boy managed to choke back his fear, but the man could still sense it. \n“I have done what was needed of me. Whatever threats you throw towards me, whatever deal you try to pull from me it will not be enough. Martyr me or murder me, pick your poison.” \nTemperature returned to the boy’s body as the man storms toward the door. The man’s hands pound the door like thunder, his hands grasp the handle like lightning. With a sickening screech the debris is carved away from the door. \n“Martyr or murder,” muttered the man, a sneer forming on his face “you have lost so much already little one. What would it be to lose just a bit more?” \nA silent scream escaped the boy, color leaving his face. Lifeless hands pulled from behind the rubble shifting the sound now from a grating ring to a deafening thrum. The door could hardly hold the mass slithering through it, even the man began to show worry. \n“There is nothing left of me to tell! I swear of it!” The boy stumbles backwards, heels begging to find their mark. Weaponry was not a choice; this was beyond even the mightiest warriors. \n“Pray tell, young boy, have we come to an agreement? Will you speak?” The gold slowly dripped from the handles; a mirage of colors defied the eyes. The boy’s mind came to a numbing halt. Behind him stood the people he swore to protect, the people he swore to liberate. Yet before him stood death, a dark and uneasy being whose only motive was to erase. The boy’s heart now finds a beat, then a rhythm, and finally a pulse. Hands shifting like the sands search for an escape, no rubble would distract this behemoth, not even the man who released this cataclysm had a way to return it. \nSolemn chants formed behind the boy, dragging his soul back to his body. Citizens, clergy, heroes, and enemies alike gathered behind the boy, the women wrang their voices raw and the men pounded their chests flat. The boy felt a vibration run through the floor and witnessed the beast trilling through its body. Acrid stenches punched the boy’s nostrils and tears filled his eyes; hell stood face to face with him and yet he felt relief. The man was shouting something, eyes blazing, and lips curled, but the boy heard nothing. The people seemed to wash away behind him as if swallowed by their own fervor. \nThe beast lunged and the boy knelt to prayer. Calling to the powers above, to his mother, to all those who had hurt and helped him. Words failed him, even song failed him, yet he felt a warmth come over him. The boy was no longer in his body. “Am I to be punished for what I have done here?” The wind never heard his voice and the hand on his shoulder lent him no solace. Horns blared through his consciousness, deafening his thoughts. Kinder now came the hum of a song he had heard as a child. “Shall I sing this for you now? Like mother used to?” \nThough faint, and now distant from his body, the song began. \n“O Fortuna, velut luna statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis” Light flooded the room as the chant continued, the boy’s body now faced the beast with arms open. “Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis, status malus” The man raced alongside the beast, blinded with fury. Time began to slow, and a faint scent of myrrh filled the air. Language blended and cloth became skin, a draft formed behind the boy’s body so fierce it felt the cathedral itself would crumble. Eyes no longer viewed but decreed, a voice so distinct the very stones submitted. “Quod per sortem sternit fortem, mecum omnes plangite!” Nothing more than a sinewy flag, the body now a mark of final resistance. \n“Saint of Resistors, a boy to you but a hand of God. There will be no sacrament for you or for those who surround us. The Lord has had his fill of this mockery. From dust to dust you shall return.” Wings filled the antechamber, and a blast of heat came at the beast and the man who now hid behind it. There were many eyes, and many more hands. Spears fell from the sky in a wash of holy retribution. The beast was pinned atop the man, the angelic entity placed its hand to its head. “O brother, how far you have fallen. Return now to Him and find yourself a seat amongst us.” \n“Sinner.” Voices echoed against the air itself, tunneling to the man. Crushed legs and broken ribs forbade the man any movement. “You will take his seat. There will be no rest.” \nCrimson skies, pillars of salt, earthquakes and hysteria ravaged the city. A blinding light rose from the cathedral, wings of gold wavered above the people of Sodom. Martyr it is." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Coraline Factor\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2510\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As Vikky walked down the paths leading to the school’s quadrangle, other students moved aside or stopped what they were doing to look at her. Her black hair bobbed, her skirt swished, but her footsteps seemed to glide. Laura and Faye trotted behind her.\n\nAs they approached where the blood-nosed boys wrestled each other with the ferocity of alligator lizards, Vikky let out a loud wolf whistle, making everyone else turn around. She raised her hands together and widened them out in a gesture demanding that the spectators move aside. They parted like the Red Sea. The boys still fought. One observer immediately brought up his phone to photograph what may happen next. As soon as the surrounding students made way for Vikky, she ran at the boys, leaped in the air, and kicked them both down, landing firmly on her feet. They lay sprawled, and she promptly went up and kicked them both where it hurt the most. After inflicting just enough pain to stun them, she turned away.\n“I have no intention of going to the prom with either of you, so please stop it.”\n\nThomas stopped clicking and viewed his shots. He grinned as he transferred a few choice ones to his Facebook profile and sent them to all his contacts and friends. The one with Vikky in the air about to knock over the boys showed her in fine form.\" He titled them, “Vikky says ‘No’ to going to the prom.” It put her actions way out of perspective.\nMany of the comments applauded her ‘girl power.’\nA few described the two boys as eggs or used derisive, even profane, language. \nOthers wondered why the boys would want to go to a prom with a girl like that.\nHer actions came across as using a bucket of water to put out a candle.\n\nLet’s back it up.\n\nVikky sat at a table in the library, perusing a book on Art History—one that could only be read in the library. She could have been pretending to be a nerdy, studious girl, but not Vikky. She transformed nerdom and study to meteoric levels.\n\nWhen she wore her school uniform, she did not blend in. She stood out as someone to reckon with. She commanded a presence from the razor-sharp cut of her long black bob to her crisply pleated miniskirt and knee-high socks down to her chunky, black patent, block-heeled Mary Jane platforms, complete with black bows. The shoes helped raise her diminutive stature. The rest resulted from a creepy charisma. She had many admirers and those who proactively assisted her, but she needed none of them. Her enrolment at high school wasn’t to help her grow up. She already exuded maturity.\n\nLaura and Faye, from her class, sidled into the library and quietly arrived at the table where she sat. “Vikky, you’ve gotta help. Grant and Mark are both scrapping in the quadrangle near the canteen.”\nGreen eyes flashed up at the two girls. “Is this my business?”\n“Please, Vikky. They’re fighting over who will take you to the prom.”\nVikky rolled her eyes. “I told both of them, ‘no, thanks.’”\n“We know you are polite. But the fight is because they don’t know you said ‘no’ to both.”\n“Idiots,” said Vikky, “as if I’d go with either of them.”\n“We know you can get them to stop before they murder each other.”\n“That wouldn’t be a loss,” she muttered as she snapped the book shut, and they left. \n\nOnce the boys had been dealt with, Vikky marched away to class. The photos went viral after Thomas’ friends sent them to their friends . . . Before too long, the teachers found out, and the World followed. The principal alerted the parents of the three students and called them all in for a meeting.\n“Let me handle it,” Vikky said to her Uncle and Aunt. They were astounded to hear that prim and proper Vikky had been involved in a three-way fight with two boys.\n\nTwo guardians, one father and another two parents, sat with Grant, Mark, and Vikky in the office of Principal Algernon Forbes. He glowered at the three.\nUncle Jack broke the ice by introducing himself and Aunty Ruth. The others reluctantly followed his lead.\nThe principal cleared his throat. “It has been brought to my attention, and, in fact, millions of others, about a forbidden fight on school grounds last Wednesday. You three are the culprits. You boys have a reputation for disruptive behavior, but you surprise me, Vikky. Would you like to say anything?”\n“Yes, please, Mr. Forbes, sir. I was not involved in the fight.”\nAll eyes turned to her in surprise. The only mother present spluttered. “We all saw you in Facebook. You really hurt poor Grant. Gave him a bleeding nose. You are a nasty piece of work.”\n“Both boys walked to class, no problem. I did not kick hard enough to do them damage. They fought over which of them would go to the prom with me. As I told both of them I wouldn’t, the fight had nothing to do with me.”\nThe boys looked at each other with eyes wide open at this revelation.\n“So why did you join in?” asked Mr. Forbes.\n“While studying in the library, I was asked to stop them fighting. So, I did. They’d both made each other’s noses bleed, and it didn’t look like they’d stop. I got there before a teacher did and prevented murder. I didn’t join in . . . Unfortunately, someone circulated some photos with no proper context.”\nThe boys looked sheepishly at their parents.\nUncle Jack shook his head in disbelief and looked at the principal. “It’s obvious that Vikky meant well.”\nTwo fathers and one mother protested until the principal yelled, “Silence! I feel the boys have been humiliated and punished enough; Vikky needs to remember to get a teacher, or prefect, to deal with such problems in the future. So, you three can get back to class. And if your parents have nothing more to say, they can leave too. Good day, folks.”\n\nThey had been dismissed before further ado.\n\nVikky’s Aunt and Uncle cautioned her to use her moves only for self-defense, not offense. They couldn’t help but laugh about the misunderstanding that had lead to the boy’s fight and Vikky’s intervention.\n“I only did what I believe Coraline would have done.”\nUncle Jack rolled his eyes.\n“You’ll be picked up at the end of the day, darling. See you at home later.” Her Aunt hugged her.\nVikky waved to them as she walked away.\n***\nAs they drove home, they discussed what had transpired and Vikky’s reference to Coraline.\n“Honestly, I thought she’d given up on Coraline. I’ve noticed she doesn’t dress like her anymore.”\n“Oh, you mean the orange skirt with red and black tights and the striped long-sleeved red shirt. And when she went out into the garden ‘exploring,’ she wanted that damn yellow raincoat and matching boots, and only a black cap would do. I had to knit her green and orange striped gloves for winter, or she wouldn’t wear them. The rest of the time, she loved those orange sneakers and that ugly blueish cardy. Thankfully, she literally grew out of all that. But she’s kept her shorter haircut. I preferred her lovely long hair. She still wears the bright blue boots she insisted I buy her. I ordered them too big. Now she only wears things in red, orange, pink, blue, and black, and she’s more color coordinated, thank goodness.”\n“It all started with that scary Coraline movie you took her to. Then she wanted the book. We got her a picture book, and when she outgrew it, she insisted on having the novel. Why on earth did she want to be Coraline? What’s wrong with a Disney princess or Barbie?”\n“I asked her the same thing. She was in a huff with me one day and came out with, ‘I don’t want your love. I don’t want anything from you.’ When I asked her why she’d say such a horrible thing, she said, ‘You are not my mother. I don’t want everything. Nobody does. What fun would it be if I got everything I ever wanted? It doesn’t mean anything.’ I cried over that. She hugged me and told me it’s what Coraline says and there is truth to it. I told her we love her and want to give her everything . . . I stopped doing that. She said it made life ‘more real’.”\nUncle Jack shook his head. “After her mother died, I worried about her being so withdrawn and sad all of the time. Becoming Coraline definitely helped her be confident. But as an alter ego, she’s not a great choice.”\n“I asked her why she wanted to be like Coraline, and her answer confused me. She told me she is Coraline because she comes from a different place, doesn’t belong here, but hasn’t figured out how to return.”\n“Everything is better with us. She had a chance to live with her father but refused to see him. I thought she liked living a luxurious life,” said Jack.\n“I don’t think she wants either life. I don’t believe the place she wants to be is one she can go back to.”\n“We got her that black kitten she wanted, remember. She called it Wuss-Puss, after Coraline’s cat. She still adores it . . . We do everything for her.” He sighed.\n“But we never ask her if it’s what she wants. Does she really see her life with us as a ‘trap’? Everybody needs someone trustworthy to help them.”\n“It’s like she’s already grown up and wants independence. I guess we need to gradually give her wings,” said Jack, shaking his head.\nI wish she’d be excited about things like the prom. I’d love to go shopping with her for a dress . . . She’s such a different sort of girl.” Ruth sighed.\n“She’s a passionately creative soul. A funny wee girl. She sees things differently to the rest of us.”\n***\nAunty Ruth had pleaded with her to learn some sort of dancing, to no avail. They paid a tutor to come to the ranch and teach her basic dances so she knew the proper steps for when they held or attended functions. She also trained at home in the gym room Uncle Jack set up for her. He used it himself and had become fitter and more energetic. They regularly jogged together around the farm on a track he made for them. His philosophy is, “If we can’t talk her out of it, let’s join her.”\n\nVikky shrugged when anyone at school asked if she was the cool girl in the photos. It seemed a silly question as they captured the action perfectly, though she always kept her fight and self-defense training after school hours a secret. A leap and two kicks did not illustrate her abilities, even a fraction.\nBefore too long, it seemed that secret may become common knowledge.\n\nThomas walked past her one day and gave her a note. It said, “Roof, please, 12.30pm.”\nShe wondered what it was all about. Thomas had circulated the offending photos. Maybe he wanted to apologize.\n\nThe flat-roofed area of the main three-floored block had walls surrounding it, providing a panoramic view of the whole school. This was ideal for those who wanted private chats. \n\nWhen Vikky walked onto the rooftop terrace, Thomas waited for her. She folded her arms and looked at him with her head to one side.\n“I’m asking you to partner me to the prom,” he said.\n“Why would I do that?”\n“We make the perfect couple.”\n“I doubt it.”\nHe held out a photo for her to look at. The first photo showed Vikky entering the SEO Martial Arts Academy building, and the second showed her leaving, with a full view of her face. “I know you want to keep this a secret.”\n“Why did you stalk me and take them?”\n“Your moves against those two boys didn’t look like the full extent of your abilities. You avoid anything like cheerleading, gymnastics, or karate at school, even though you’d be brilliant at them. So, what’s the secret? I checked you out. The students who print the school paper would die to write an article about you and your skills. Reveal your secret to the whole school. You can get out of it by being my partner at the school prom.”\n“You’re pretty confident in your deviousness.”\n“So are you. As I said, we’ll make the perfect couple. You’d be a total danger to the other boys in the school, but I promise you we’ll be safe together.”\n“What makes you think you’re safe with me?”\nHe put his right arm out, she locked his wrist, and he deftly twisted himself free. Then he grabbed her wrist, and she twisted free. In a trice, he had her arm locked behind her back; her other arm flew up and around in a hit as she twisted free. She was about to assault him, but he caught her wrist--\n“Stop! Shall we stop? I’d rather take you to the prom to do dance moves than injure you in a fight.” He laughed.\n“You’ve made your point . . . Actually, my folks will be delighted if I go. I won’t tell them how you convinced me. But can I trust you?”\n“Like you, I wouldn’t have a problem going with someone else, and the article could have been printed already. I’ll gladly keep your secret safe if you come with me. I’ll return the photos afterward. Everybody needs someone to help them whom they can trust.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.\n“I guess I can oblige.”\n“By the way, what’s your deal? Aspirations to be a vigilante or assassin?”\nVikky had a deadpan face. “No. To protect myself from violent people.”\n“That’s a laugh. Your family, have you tailed by bodyguards.”\n“Where are they now? I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t take care of myself. I thought you met me here to apologize?”\n“I am sorry. . . for underestimating you. ‘My twitchy-witchy girl, I think you are so nice.’”\nVicky opened her mouth in surprise.\n***\nVikky walked into the house at the end of the day. “Hi, Aunt Ruth. A boy at school asked me to go to the prom, and I decided I’d go.”\nAunt Ruth clasped her hands together and rushed over to hug her. “How wonderful. You are going. I can’t wait to shop for your dress and shoes with you.”\n“I did think of you when I said ‘yes’.”\n“What made you change your mind?”\n“He had his ways of convincing me. He told me that everybody needs someone trustworthy, and I believe I can trust him.”\nAunt Ruth smiled ruefully. “I’d hate to be in his shoes if he proves otherwise.”\nVikky laughed. If only they knew.\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: What about me?\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1073\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone vowing to take revenge." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I’ll never know exactly why things turned out the way they did. Except for the fact that this time, I was exacting revenge out of bitterness. I’ve never been one to go looking for trouble. I didn’t realize the power this dude had to turn my mind and my life upside down. Now, I can’t get away from him. \nMomma’s always talking about God, reading her Bible, praying, and going to church. Telling me to pray. I prayed. I swear I did. The whole God thing seems like a racket to me. I hate it. At church, the Reverend talks for over an hour about how wretched I am, and then they pass the plate again and again! Momma puts money in the plate every time. \"It’s my tithe; I want my blessing.\" I’ve never seen that church give her a blessed dime. We just struggle. Alone.\nI’ve got so many voices in my head. The brothers and the shorties in my hood say, \"There is no God.\" Believe me, they have stories too. Hell, I’d be willing to believe in no God, if it would keep momma from forcing me to go to church on Sunday’s. I already knew that telling her, \"I don’t believe in him anymore,\" wouldn’t help. She has all her stories about how God saved her. I haven’t seen it, and plus, where’s he for me when I pray? \nMan, I know plenty of people who have disrespected him. What’s the difference between me and them? He doesn’t seem upset with the folks that had Black Americans in slavery for 400 years! He even allowed them to make it legal. Over 14 years of civil rights, and things still aren’t civil. Our oppressors are still rolling, and many of them are doing well off the backs of my ancestors. It seems like they always catch a break. Not me.\nI’m JD, short for Jordan Dammes. Hell, even my last name tells my end: damned. Damned if I do, and Dammes if I don’t!\nI got caught up about three weeks ago when I went to play hoops at the lot. I’m good at basketball. Everybody knows that. Jr., a new dude, joined us. He is different; I can’t put my hand on it, but there is something about this dude that everybody wants to challenge. During the game, there were some fouls. Another dude, Ray, who fellas say could be my twin, fowled on Jr. Everyone agreed that a free throw wasn’t to be made, except Jr. The fellas treated Jr. like an exile. I made a huge target of myself by defending him: \"Come on guys, give him the free throw.\" All of the guys walked up to me, and Ray gave me a shove in my chest. Normally, one of the voices in my head would say what to do. Today, there were no voices. I just reacted. I punched back. We fought. I threw tough punches and backed Ray down, but he swore this wasn’t over. \nMomma warned me plenty of times to avoid basketball with this group of guys, but I was agitated and needed to burn off some energy. Now, I’m in exile with Jr. I supposed that this was one of those times when I should be praying. Not doing it! Dude ain’t listening to me no way. I’ll fight this battle myself; he doesn’t seem to give a damn about me anyway. Oh, and where’s Jr.? He ran at the first punch. Why did I defend this guy if he wasn’t going to watch my back? Now, the passion I had to defend him has turned on me. Dammes is damned again.\nUpon arriving home, momma realized I was disheveled and bleeding. \"What happened, JD?\" What happened? I yelled. What always happens? Your God pushed me into a fight! Without thinking, I defended a new dude in the neighborhood, and this is how your God left me. In fact, the guy I defended left me too! \n\"JD, God never leaves you, son,\" \"you turned away from him,\" \"did you take a second to pray for his help?\" \"No!\" \n\"JD, when you began questioning God’s decrees, he allowed this to happen to draw you back to him. Trouble has a way of keeping us in touch with God.\" \n\"I’ve shared with you before what His word says: \"But in their distress they turned to the LORD, the God of Israel, and sought him, and he was found by them.\" \n\"Momma, why does he have to work this way?\" We struggle. You pray. We still struggle. You keep praying. I’ve prayed that God would change our circumstances. I’m tired of being poor and black! I don’t see white people struggling like this. In fact, white folk don’t even want to be around us. They aren’t afraid anymore that our black will rub off on them. They don’t want our bad luck to rub off on them. Momma, you can say what you want, but God seems to like white people better than black people. I want God to leave me alone! \n\"Son, until you seek him with your mind, body, and soul, you will never be able to get rid of him. \"You belong to him.\" Let us examine and test our ways, and turn back to the LORD. Amen! The fight you feel inside is from wanting things to turn out exactly how you want them. God has a predestined plan for your life. Turn back for peace. He will never let you get away from him; you’ll only do that yourself.\nWhy won’t this dude leave me alone? I’m so conflicted. I want to believe how Momma believes. She is so confident that everything happens for a reason. Well, I still don’t understand why the things in my life have turned out the way they have. Honestly, exacting revenge by rejecting God hasn’t turned out well for me either. I’m so confused.\nOne thing I know for sure is that I’m going to have to come face-to-face with Ray again. Since momma said I can’t avoid God’s decrees, maybe, since momma has a peace about bad things; maybe there is no rule against confronting God’s decrees through momma’s faith until trouble makes me faithful. I believe Momma, but God, this dude I can’t see or confront face-to-face will either help me feel the confidence Momma feels or perhaps I'm just damned." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Boy with Frozen Wings\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 1436\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the line “I can’t say it.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"You have my attention,\" says the Grand Assassin. \"Who?\"\n\"He…\" The boy drops his gaze to the Varos gold coin on the tavern's backroom table, his guarantee of safe audience, then looks back up at the man.\nThe Grand Assassin's wrinkles and white hair may or may not be real, but the eyes are. Pinprick pupils caught in stillwater stare back at the boy.\n\"I can't say it.\"\n\"Have you heard the story of the little bird with the frozen wings?\" the Grand Assassin asks.\n\"Are there two birds and a stone in it?\"\n\"No, lad, it's the one about the bird flying south for the winter. The air's so cold that his wings turn to ice and he falls into a meadow. Do you know what happens to this bird?\"\nThe boy shakes his head, platinum hair peeking out despite his hood's concealing efforts.\n\"A cow comes by and drops some dung on the frozen bird. And in this steaming pile of crap, the bird's wings begin to thaw. He's ready to fly again, but now he's stuck. So, he chirps for help.\"\nThe boy watches the Grand Assassin's bare hand hover over the Varos coin as the man whistles a plaintive tune that ends in a soft squawk.\n\"Finally, a passing cat hears the bird's cry and comes over to investigate. It digs the bird free, cleans him in the grass, and eats him.\"\n\"What does it mean?\" asks the boy, willing the Grand Assassin to touch the gold coin.\n\"First, not everyone who shits on you is your enemy. Second, if you're in deep shit, it's best to keep your mouth shut. But most importantly, it means that not everyone who gets you out of shit is your friend… so do you want my help?\"\n\"Yes.\" The boy throws off his hood and says the name of the Crown Prince.\nThe Grand Assassin's hand drops under the weight of that name. His fingers touch the Varos coin on the table, and some reptilian part of his mind notes that the coin is slick, oily even, but his higher consciousness is focused on the face before him.\nHe is staring at the Crown Prince's exact likeness.\n\"Yes, I'm his decoy…\" the boy pauses, hoping the man will fill in the rest.\n\"But?\"\n\"But I don't have to be.\"\nThe Grand Assassin sucks in his breath once he realizes the lookalike's audacity. Steal the life of the Crown Prince then slip in to take his place. Can he do it?\n\"How will you explain his missing decoy then?\"\n\"Fire,\" the boy says matter-of-factly.\nThe man opens his mouth then closes it again. He's used to watching men squirm in the wake of what's left unsaid, but this boy makes him feel like the talkative one. He watches the boy for any sign of uncertainty, but all he gets in return is a polite blank stare.\nFinally, he slides the coin of Varos into his leather purse. As an afterthought, he wipes his oily fingers on his jerkin.\nThen, the boy tells him when and where.\nTheir audience concluded, the boy pulls up his hood and leaves the tavern's backroom. He weaves through day drunks then through the city Azemal's maze of alleyways.\nHe stops at a bustling market place and takes in his surroundings. He doesn't think the Grand Assassin has changed his mind and decided to follow now that their safe audience is over. No, the man thinks himself a cat poised above the future king.\nStill, a diversion wouldn't hurt. He listens to the different voices then joins the crowd.\n\"There's a pretty lass,\" he says in a baritone voice and pinches a fishwife's arse on his way past. The fishwife accosts a nearby man who's speaking in that same baritone voice to his friends.\nThe man stumbles against a cloth merchant's stall. \"Thief. Stop thief!\" the boy cries in the bewildered shopkeeper's own voice.\nThen, he nabs a new cloak to throw over his own as he melts away into the pandemonium. Along the way, he tears off the tainted gloves that he used to touch the Varos coin.\n***\nBack in the castle confines, the boy is in another backroom of sorts, a half-remembered guard tower. There's nothing to guard here because this edge of the castle wall ends on a cliff, a chasm forged centuries ago when the gods threw Varos down from on high.\nThe inside is lined with scrolls and manuscripts bound between boards. This is the record keeper's domain. The record keeper lost his tongue for some long-ago unspoken crime. From the way the man walks, the boy knows that was not all that has been cut from him.\nThe Crown Prince never comes here because he is a cow whose bovine brow cannot bear the burden of reading, but the boy loves the record keeper.\nHe is his greatest friend, his greatest teacher, the one who showed him the scrolls on poisons long forgotten.\nAt first, the boy thought poison alone would be his answer, but the best one, Auria's kiss, takes time to act. There would be no guarantee he'd be positioned to take the Crown Prince's place unnoticed once the kiss called him home.\nSilent but ever listening, the record keeper had shown the boy a manuscript on Varos and his assassin cult.\nYes, the coin, the Grand Assassin, it's all coming together, but there's still time to talk yet.\nThe boy and the record keeper have their own way of speaking. The boy blasts through his repertoire of voices while pausing to the listen to the tongueless man's eyes.\nThey sit now facing each other with an imaginary coin in between them.\n\"Have you heard the story of the little bird with the frozen wings?\" the boy asks in a perfect imitation of the Grand Assassin.\nThe record keeper's eyes brim over with pride, with adoration for the protégé who gives him voice.\nLate in the night, he will bar the servant's quarters and start a fire. There will always be more servants, and no one will count bones to make sure the Crown Prince's decoy is among the last lot.\nFor now, he watches as the boy climbs the crumbling guard tower then jumps to the nearby hemlock tree. The boy balances on the end of a branch, then he's over the castle wall. The record keeper says a silent prayer that the boy will return riding the Crown Prince's horse.\n***\nDeep within the hardwood forest, the boy waits at the appointed spot.\nHe cannot see the Grand Assassin, but he can hear horses in the distance.\nThe Crown Prince is foxhunting with his retinue, an outing among sycophants.\nThe boy shouts out a fox's warning call, a vixen's scream to draw the dogs.\nHe throws his voice and steps behind a tree as the foxhounds bumble past him.\nThe Crown Prince, whose horse is by far the fastest and whose friends dare not outpace him, is close behind with no other riders in sight.\nSomething detaches itself from the undergrowth and the Crown Prince falls from his saddle. He has time to low once in pain before the thing is on him. The now-never king jerks once then falls silent.\nThe Grand Assassin is caked in mud. Only his stillwater eyes are recognizable. They watch as the boy pulls off the Crown Prince's pinkie ring.\nA knife touches the boy's throat.\nThe Grand Assassin is saying something, but his words are cut short by the sound of approaching hooves.\nThe knife vanishes. So does the Crown Prince's body as the Grand Assassin pulls his prey into the undergrowth.\nWith feline grace, the boy hops onto the Crown Prince's horse and turns to meet his retinue.\nLater that night, as fire burns away the memory of the decoy, the Grand Assassin will stare at the night sky. The stars will shimmer and merge into one bright light as the numbness in his fingertips creeps up his arm and seeps into his heart. That will be Auria's kiss, courtesy of Varos's coin, calling him home.\nThe Grand Assassin won't curse the new Crown Prince, the future king who would've owed him everything. No, he'll be too busy staring at the sky and trying to take flight.\nAs for his words cut short in the woods, the new Crown Prince remembers them perfectly:\n\"Remember this moment, and you will—\"\nAnd what will the boy of many voices with only the tongueless to know his secret do?\nWell, some things are better left unsaid." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Svatý Václav\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1287\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with “It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.” (Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”)" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content warning: brief mention of death\n\nIt was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. The bite of the wind was making Dushan’s face numb, especially his nose. Eyes watering, the young page adjusted the strap of the wine skin on his shoulder and clutched the bundle of venison closer to his body. He must keep up with Duke Václav, whose long sure strides seemed not at all hampered by the deep snowdrifts on the ground. \n\nGlancing back, Dushan realized that the weather had changed for the worse very quickly; where before the moon had been shining brightly, it was now made invisible by flurries of snow. He could no longer see the lighted windows of the castle at all. The wind was whipping the wet snowflakes in circles so the very air was white. Yet the Duke of Bohemia walked on before him, undaunted by the growing blizzard. \n\nThe page thought longingly of the great hall, where a fire was glowing on the hearth, and the banquet table was full. The whole castle had celebrated Christmas yesterday, and today being the Feast of Saint Stephen, the festivities were continuing. The Duke had been drawn to the window by the bright moonlight outside, and was admiring the pristine glow, when he called for Dushan. “That peasant gathering wood there—do you know him, Dushan?” \n\n“Yes, your grace; that is Samo the cripple.”\n\n“And do you know where he lives?” \n\n“Yes. About a league from here, on the edge of the forest, by the fountain of Saint Agnes with his family.”\n\n“If he is out on such a cold night as this searching for a few sticks, they must be badly off. Do I speak truly, Dushan?”\n\n“Yes, your grace.”\n\nThe Duke turned his back to the window, and addressed the other servants. “Bring me meat, and wine, and pine logs.” And to Dushan he said, “You will help me to bear these things. We will go and see good Samo, and help him build a good fire and see him and his family dine on good food.” \n\nAnd now here he was, staggering after the Duke of Bohemia as the freezing wind tried to steal the breath from his mouth. “Your grace,” Dushan gasped out, teeth chattering. “Svatý Václav!” Václav the good. \n\nThe Duke’s cloak whipped about, but Václav stood straight and tall, back unbowed by the heavy sack of wood he carried there. The calm in the howling storm. “What is it, Dushan?” \n\n“I can go no farther, your grace.” Oh, how he wanted to go with the good Duke on his mission of charity! But his feet were faltering. “Everything is so dark and cold…I must turn back.” \n\nThe Duke stood a moment in silent thought, brows furrowed, head bowed. When he spoke, his voice was clear and strong in a way the page could not fathom. “Mark my footsteps, Dushan, and tread in them boldly.” Then the Duke turned and set out once more. \n\nDushan struggled after, searching for the gray marks of the Duke’s footprints against the white world around him. Finding one, he placed his foot in it as told—and started. \n\nThrough his boot, he felt a heat like a burning fire. Lifting his foot, the ground was visible. Dushan put his foot into the track again, and felt not hard frozen ground, as it should be on the night after Christ’s birth. The toe of his boot was digging into soft soil, as of a tilled field in summer sun. \n\nThe page lifted his head and stared incredulously after the Duke of Bohemia, who strode ahead unheeding. Then he followed, step by step, footprint by footprint, and the heat in the earth spread all through his body and warmed even his frozen nose. The screaming of the whirling winds seemed to fade. \n\nLate that night, the Duke and his page returned to the castle, their sacks empty. All were surprised, to some degree, by the fact that they seemed not at all cold. On the contrary, they looked as warm and rosy-cheeked as if they had done nothing but stand before a roaring fire. Yet the blizzard raged on outside. \n\n* * * * * * * *\n\nDushan was following the Duke up the steps of the church on their way to Mass when it happened. The September day was chilly, though of course not as cold as that night of the Feast of Saint Stephen, when he and the Duke had taken meat and wine and wood to crippled Samo and his family. When they returned, the Duke had gone to bed, and all in the castle had listened to the page's tale with wide eyes and open mouths. Some had laughed, while others went away thoughtful. \n\nA flurry of motion and pattering footsteps drew him from his thoughts. Four men were rapidly approaching. It took Dushan a long moment to see that one had a lance leveled at Duke Václav. The Duke’s brother, Boleslav.\n\nFrozen in shock, Dushan watched as the good Duke of Bohemia was stabbed and then run through on the steps of the church.\n\n* * * * * * * *\n\nAnd so Svatý Václav, Václav the Good, was killed by his younger brother Boleslav the Bad, assisted by three of Václav's own nobles, on September 28, 929. He was 22 years old. Václav’s name was later Latinized as Wenceslas. He was given the title of King posthumously by the Holy Roman Emperor Otto I. Václav remained a virgin throughout his life, and gave much to the poor, which is immortalized in the Christmas carol \"Good King Wenceslas.\"\n\nIrked by Václav's submission to the German invaders, the Duke's nobles had goaded Boleslav to the act of fratricide. Boleslav gave himself the title Prince of Bohemia, rather than the title of Duke that his brother had used. Within the next year, Boleslav was frightened by reports of miracles at his brother’s tomb. He had Václav’s remains moved to Saint Vitus’s Cathedral, where they rest to this day.\n\nIn Wenceslas Square in Prague, capital of the Czech Republic, the western half of which is the region of Bohemia, there stands a statue of Good King Wenceslas mounted on a horse. Legend has it that if Bohemia is ever in great danger, the statue will come to life, and Svatý Václav will raise an army and defeat the enemies of Bohemia.\n\n\n\nGood King Wenceslas looked out\nOn the Feast of Stephen\nWhen the snow lay round about\nDeep and crisp and even\nBrightly shone the moon that night\nThough the frost was cruel\nWhen a poor man came in sight\nGathering winter fuel.\n\nHither, page, and stand by me,\nIf thou knowst it, telling\nYonder peasant, who is he?\nWhere and what his dwelling?\nSire, he lives a good league hence,\nUnderneath the mountain\nRight against the forest fence\nBy Saint Agnes fountain.\n\nBring me flesh and bring me wine\nBring me pine logs hither\nThou and I shall see him dine\nWhen we bear them thither.\nPage and monarch, forth they went\nForth they went together\nThrough the rude winds wild lament\nAnd the bitter weather\n\nSire, the night is darker now\nAnd the wind blows stronger\nFails my heart, I know not how\nI can go no longer.\nMark my footsteps, good my page\nTread thou in them boldly\nThou shall find the winters rage\nFreeze thy blood less coldly.\n\nIn his masters step he trod\nWhere the snow lay dinted\nHeat was in the very sod\nWhich the Saint had printed\nTherefore, Christian men, be sure\nWealth or rank possessing\nYe, who now will bless the poor\nShall yourselves find blessing." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: If Life Gives You Plastic\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2316\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Kimberly Espeland \nA love story without using the word “love”\nIf Life Gives You Plastic\nThe day Brayden and his family left the Biodome, easing their boat down the ramp, through the airlock and into the water, it occurred to me: this was permanent. The small crowd seeing them off dispersed quickly, as if business could go on as usual.\nMom patted Dad’s arm. Softly, she said, “It’s all for the best, and we really need to keep settling higher ground. We have to keep trying.”\nDad pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, then looked at my mom wearily. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But I just can’t believe they’re projecting that the Biodome will be submerged within seven years,” he said. “It’s all happening so fast.”\nThen Dad glanced over at me, clearly worrying he’d said too much. But none of that was news to me, and anyway, I was busy having my heart broken. I kept my nose to the cold window, watching the boat bob out across the vast, dark water, until Brayden – my best friend, my secret crush – was gone.\nBrayden had always been better to play with than the other kids. We had fascinating conversations, sharing the curiosities that had occurred to one of us. We noticed and wondered quirky things that other kids didn’t. Brayden and I delighted in talking about our ideas, and laughing about the amazing and ridiculous things we imagined. The other kids said we were boring, as they ran around, yelled, and threw things. We didn’t care.\nIt crushed me to realize I wouldn’t have any good conversations after Brayden left. And I missed sitting next to him, swinging our feet as we looked down on the vegetable beds and the grain mill. I wondered, sadly, whether he would make new friends and forget all about me.\nI didn’t see Brayden again until the year I turned twelve, when my parents finally let me come along and help make supply deliveries. I was ecstatic. I would finally get to travel to the mountain settlements four times a year. “Seasonally,” my dad said. He looked pained when I asked what that meant, so instead of waiting for him to answer, I pretended to be distracted by something, and skipped away. But I kept wondering.\nIt didn’t seem like we had seasons inside the Biodome. We farmed in rotation, so something was always green. Through the windows, I could only see water, no trees with pink flowers or orange leaves, like in old books. So, maybe seasons outside didn’t really look like that. Mom seemed generally better equipped for questions than Dad, so when I was still wondering about it a few days later, I tried asking her about my latest theory.\n“Mom, does plastic have seasons?”\nShe opened her mouth, then closed it again, and paused. Finally, she asked, “What do you mean?”\nI explained that during the cloudy, quieter times, when small waves lap the lower windows of the Biodome, plastic bags oftentimes swirl and school gently together. But during the bigger storms, giant plastic pieces swim their way up to the surface excitedly, sometimes rapping my outstretched palm through the glass.\n“So,” I repeated my question, “does plastic have seasons?”\nMom took another quiet moment, gently smoothing one of my curls behind my ear. Then she said brightly, “You have a marvelous way of seeing the world.”\nThat didn’t really answer my question either. I knew Brayden would be the best person to discuss it with, so I jotted it down in my notebook. On the front inside cover, I was already marking off the time until I could start seeing him again – four fantastic visits a year.\nWhen the day finally came to journey to Brayden’s settlement, I double checked my pack and managed to don all my gear almost as fast as my parents. We pulled our waders up to our thighs and set out. As I left the Biodome for the first time ever, I tingled with the excitement of the adventure. \nSecretly, I had always wanted to touch the water – and finally I had my chance. Under the dark, dense smog cover, with our gas masks reducing visibility and my parents being busy with the rigging, I knew they wouldn’t see. I lay back in the boat, exhaled, and felt the pleasure of dipping my hand into the cold darkness. I traced shapes in the chilly current, feeling the little microplastics swimming gently through my fingers. It was so peaceful there, under the surface. Above the water, the thunder and lightning all around was thrilling. As the boat rolled, I savored the sensation through my whole body.\nWhen we finally beached the boat and trekked up into the mountain country, above the smog layer, we joyfully flung the gas masks off. I thought it would be fascinating to breathe outdoors, but it wasn’t much different than in the biodome, apart from the sharper smell. Everyone was glad to see us. I knew that the settlers needed our wares. They grew scrubby plants from the root vegetables we brought, and baked flat breads with our flour. They seemed happy to see some fresh faces, too. The grownups exchanged news stories, and boring stuff like that. Meanwhile, my first reunion with Brayden flew by, and I almost can’t remember it at all. It seemed like we had to leave right after we got there. But I remember feeling a glow from him, and our friendship picked right back up where we had left off. I left with a smile and a covert mission.\nOver the next two years, while becoming woman-shaped, I grew strong muscles from helping to steer the cargo boats through the storms, and hauling goods up the hills to the various settlements. Back at home, I often thought of questions I wished I could ask Brayden. I worked, hefting and carrying big cloudy sacks of flour or firm potatoes, often taking quick breaks to scribble down my ideas. I wondered if Brayden thought about me, too. Each time I visited, we talked and giggled, and I gave him what he had specified the last time. Then, too soon, I had to leave again.\nLate at night, I sometimes crept out of our pod and leaned my head way back, to look up at the top of the Biodome. The grid high above me reached down, seeming to encircle me in a giant embrace. By now, I had spent the night at quite a few of the settlements. It felt strangely exposed, but exciting. As I stood, cozy under the Biodome, I wondered what it was like for Brayden to sleep at his settlement every night. Then, it occurred to me to wonder if he could see anything above the cloud cover, at higher altitude past the smog layer. Were there stars? Surprisingly, I hadn’t even thought to look up when I was there. I got out my notebook and wrote it down, then finally settled back to sleep.\nOver time, I started to feel more nervous as visits with Brayden neared. I started to worry that he might not feel the same way I did. Despite his welcoming smiles, I might just have a foolish childhood crush. What if he only wanted what I always smuggled along? Back at the Biodome, I plunged myself into more physical work, trying to ignore the dopey kids chucking carrots at each other. And I tormented myself by wondering what I would do if Brayden turned out not to be interested in me at all.\nOn the next visit, Brayden’s hair was longer, and his arms and legs seemed to be, too. As soon as we arrived, he smiled at me with a questioning look, and I grinned back. We didn’t exchange words while unpacking, but as soon as the others had gone, Brayden came close to me and asked “Did you bring them?”\nI told him that I would show him at the secret place, and we ran off together. He grabbed my hand. My heart sang. Halfway across the ridge, Brayden stopped, unable to contain his eagerness for another moment.\n“Show me some of them now,” he pleaded.\n“I hope you like them,” I replied, opening my pack.\nI pulled out a sturdy plastic bag, and Brayden opened it carefully. For this batch, he had requested transparent pieces, as brightly-colored as I could find. For a second, I worried that he would be disappointed. But with a whoop of joy, he pulled out a crimson-tinted sunglass lens, a toy car with a tangerine windshield miraculously intact, and the cracked, clear aqua lid of a food container.\nI stood a little taller, feeling pride in my work. Luckily, I was uniquely positioned to gather such gems. While the water in the Biodome was filtered, and the settled mountain country was above most of the quality pieces, the water we traversed by boat was a treasure trove of plastic, ripe for mining. It was easy for me to trawl with my hands for special items. My parents eventually discovered what I was doing, and provided me with a net and gloves, which in hindsight was a pretty good idea.\nBrayden reined in his enthusiasm, and he closed the bag.\n“I’ll look at the rest when we get there,” he said. \nHe didn’t look at me, or even say thank you. On we ran, Brayden clutching the bag. He didn’t reach for my hand again.\nWe crawled through the narrow tunnel, rising when we reached the larger, central area of the cave. I was shocked when our flashlights hit the sculpture, and Brayden lit the lamp inside it. The sculpture had grown since my last visit, and it was over three feet tall now. It looked like a blossoming tree, like in a book – intertwined with a strong skyscraper, like in a book. Flowers and vines grasped angular black frames and threaded through open windows. Brayden had added some of the wild, unpredictable details that we had talked about. It occurred to me that this beautiful thing came to be because of my material finds, Brayden’s creative hand work, and our combined vision. But I didn’t feel like I could say something so cheesy out loud. The sculpture itself seemed to spark questions in me, ideas bubbling into my mind as I looked at it. It was magnificent.\nThe top of the sculpture was jagged, unfinished. Brayden had started forming a canopy of outstretched branches, some of them already adorned with the pieces I’d brought last time. His makeshift hot tools and cutters lay in neat rows at the base of the sculpture. When I pulled my eyes away and looked over at him, he was sorting pieces as if in a trance, delving deeper into the bag I had brought and fishing out each one with delight.\n“Purple!” he exclaimed. “There’s nothing but microplastic up here, and never purple. This is awesome!”\nAfter that, Brayden kept sorting silently, and he didn’t look up for a long time. I had hoped we’d talk about all of our saved questions, like we usually did, and I tried a couple of times to get a conversation started. But he seemed preoccupied. I even got the sense that he was a little uncomfortable around me, or wanted me to leave, which was weird. I thought it was probably just my imagination. But eventually, I crawled out of the cave and headed back to the settlement. He didn’t seem to notice me going.\nAfter a restless night’s sleep, I woke up resolved not to push things with Brayden. A good childhood friend is hard to find, and maybe it was never meant to be more. Maybe I would need to open up room in my heart for making other friends, or be okay with not having any, wherever my family ended up settling. Heavily, I joined the group and started prepping my gear.\nSoon the settlers’ group came to see us off, with Brayden trailing along. Apparently, he had emerged from the cave at least long enough to say goodbye. He hugged me tight, which was normal. But to my surprise, he then softened his embrace, and held me more tenderly.\nHe looked into my eyes and whispered, “You make everything beautiful, Olivia.”\nBrayden pressed something that felt like a rounded stone into my hand. Slowly opening my palm, I gazed upon a multicolored heart – bigger than a bottle cap, but smaller than a fruit cup. He had melted and swirled reds and yellows together into a beautiful, swooping design. As I ran my fingers along it, I discovered that the piece was entirely smooth, except for a tiny hole with a chain threaded through it. I burst into tears. My parents started laughing, and then went back to pretending they weren’t watching.\n“It’s incredible,” I breathed.\n“I already have a lot of questions to talk about next time,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry I was so quiet yesterday. I just got nervous, and I didn’t want to make it weird!”\nWe promised that we’d talk about everything on the next visit, and we did. Over the following years, we started making a game of saving up wilder and weirder questions, breathing new life into our childhood game. Eventually, we started including more grounded questions and ideas that related to the real world, and our place in it.\nNow, as Brayden fastened the pendant around my neck, I smiled and wiped my tears away, so that I could slip on my gas mask. As we trekked down the rocky slopes, my heart had never been lighter. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance as we pushed off into the rolling waves, and lightning lit up the way home." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Things We Take and Leave Behind\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2993\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by this quote from Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy: “In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Because of Rachel Sullivan’s life, I wandered into a dark wood and lost my innocence.\nBecause of her death, I’m here once more.\n A dust cloud billows behind my Tahoe, the headlights illuminating a stretch of dirt road that I haven’t traveled in eighteen years, half a lifetime ago. It’s nearing midnight, and I’ve seen no one since I turned off the main road three miles back. My hands tighten on the steering wheel when the headlights catch the flash of metal ahead, a rusted gate with barbed wire fencing. Rachel’s family still owns this forested patch of land outside Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where we grew up.\n I pull up to the gate and stop, my heart hammering. It’s okay. You’re okay. I kill the engine and step out, the cacophony of insect chirps rising like a symphony, the cool April breeze chilling my cheeks. I raise my gaze to the sky, a three quarters moon bathing the forest in a pale glow. Shouldering my backpack, I click on a flashlight, though it’s hardly needed. A length of chain locks the gate to a post, but there’s enough slack for a person to slip through. A thicket of trees lies ahead, but it’s cleared here by the gate, and my feet tread the hard-packed earth. Yes, just a little further now.\n Rachel Sullivan and I were partners in zoology lab our senior year of high school. We dissected a cat together – named him Sir Dripsalot - and we bonded over that poor creature. When actress Anna Kendrick burst onto the scene in Twilight, she reminded me of Rachel: a perky, diminutive brunette with an engaging smile. Rachel and I didn’t run in the same circles, but when she invited me to her “birthday bonfire” on a warm June night a week after graduation, I summoned the courage to go. In a week’s time, my family would move to the D.C. area, and that fall I would launch into college life at Maryland. Why not enjoy one last hurrah with a handful of classmates I would likely never see again?\n I never saw Rachel afterward, our friendship relegated to skimming social media posts and the obligatory birthday greetings. But when she died last week in a car crash, her parents asked me to officiate her memorial service. I am a chaplain, after all.\n Every fiber in my being yearned to refuse the request. I’ve never returned to visit old haunts or attend football games. The invitation to our ten-year reunion went unopened…because of what happened that night. Because he might be there.\n I somehow survived the service, though my heart thudded each time a man entered the room. Cory Vandever did not show, and perhaps that’s why curiosity won over caution, why I’ve slipped through the gate and retraced my steps twenty yards or so to the old campfire. The same stones line an ashy firepit as large as a kitchen table, the same logs form a crude seating arrangement around its edge as if Rachel’s party had taken place mere days ago.\nI approach the same log I claimed as my seat that night. As I recline and click off the flashlight, I’m transported to that night, warmed by the glow of a roaring fire and a dozen faces I barely knew…\n Laughter crackled around me like the snaps and pops of the blazing bonfire, its dancing flames holding me in a trance. Though I sat several feet from the fire, my forehead beaded with perspiration, and I was glad I had chosen a dark pleated miniskirt instead of cropped jeans. Britney Spears was all the rage then, and Rachel wore a miniskirt as well, bubble gum pink with a white top. She had squealed with delight when I pulled up, then pressed a red Solo cup into my hands. The other faces belonged to names I knew, but little else, and while Rachel bounced to Christina Aguilera crooning from someone’s cell phone, I found a seat and smiled along to inside jokes that held no context for me.\n Then the boy I had always thought was cute joined me on my lonely log.\nI didn’t know Cory Vandever, though we were both in Mrs. Hanover’s fifth grade class. But I had often noticed the boy with the mop of honey curls, impish blue eyes, and an open smile. His friends were cute, and his girlfriends were cuter. He never wandered the halls alone.\nBut there he was, beside me, and because he had taken a seat, the others did as well, laughing and refilling drinks from a giant cooler. The dark fluid was a mystery, sour and pungent. The second cupful went down smoother, the third smoother still, and I found myself settling into a blissful oneness with the glowing faces gathered around the fire. Cory inched closer and wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. My head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, and he smelled like aftershave and hickory smoke. I closed my eyes and felt the hum of his voice as he chatted with his friends, a hazy dream from which I didn’t want to wake.\nThe sudden urge to urinate jarred me, and I straightened, looking around. “Where can I….?”\n Cory laughed. “I’ll take you.”\n Into the woods we walked, hand in hand. Cory pointed out a tangle of growth that provided some cover, and I hurried over. I felt silly squatting, the splash sounding as loud to me as a waterfall, but it was also natural, the way of things.\n I finished up and peered into the darkness, turning a slow circle, and caught sight of Cory ten paces or so further from the way we had come. He leaned against a massive beech tree, hands on his thighs. Instead of pushing himself upright, he held out a hand and pulled me in. I gasped at the electric clash of my body against his. His mouth found mine, his hands massaging my thighs. I’d kissed a couple of guys at church camp, but I’d never been kissed like this, and every fiber of my being sprang to life.\nThe hooting of an owl shakes me from my reverie, and I rise, looking in every direction. It hits me how alone I am here. I take a breath and turn toward the path we took. There, through the trees…dread snakes up my spine, but I find myself drifting that way, as though moved by an ocean current. A few steps more, and I recognize the pale, ghostly tree. I imagine Cory leaning against it in the moonlight, and a shiver courses through me. What if I hadn’t taken his hand, and instead started back toward the fire? What if I hadn’t driven there in the first place, just made an excuse at the last minute? How would my life be different now?\nCory turned me so I faced the tree, my hands planted on the smooth bark, and he pressed against me, his warm breath in my ear sparking a primal ecstasy within me. An odd pride bloomed, knowing I was the beauty that drew him in.\nHe pulled away, and the chilly air bit at the backs of my legs as my skirt swished up. Then my panties were yanked down, and I laughed, shocked and surprised and nervous. “What are you doing?”\n“Have you done it before? You’ll like it.”\n“I don’t think we-“\nHis sudden movement cut my words off. It was happening, somehow.\nI bit off a cry. “Wait…”\n“It’ll only hurt for a minute. Then it’ll feel amazing.”\n“No. Please stop.” Searing, stabbing pain.\n“I can’t,” he managed to say through labored breaths.\n“Please don’t-”\n“It’s okay. Oh yeah, it’s good.”\nIt’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to be like this.\nCory’s breath caught, and his entire body shuddered. Then he was gone. My skirt fluttered back into place, my panties still wrapped around my knees. I stared at the milky white bark, my hands planted on the trunk like a suspect in a cop show. Tears sprang into my eyes, and I squeezed them shut as I pulled up my panties. I didn’t feel like myself, as if my mind had been transplanted into a different girl’s body. I knew somehow the girl wasn’t a girl anymore. But instead of something more, she was less.\nI turned, hugging myself. Cory stood several feet away, chewing his lip, staring at the ground. “We should get back, huh?”\nI nodded, unable to work any words past the lump in my throat. He turned and I followed, knowing I had left something intangible, precious, beside that tree.\nWe emerged to Rachel recalling a day in eighth grade when the tornado siren went off at a football game and everyone had to huddle beneath the bleachers. I returned to my seat, but Cory huddled with a friend on the opposite side, hidden from view. I still wore his jacket, and I shrugged it off. I counted to fifty, then rose and said my goodbyes. The glowing faces pleaded for me to stay, then cautioned me to drive safely. His voice remained silent.\nI tuck the flashlight into my pocket and plant my hands on the cool, smooth bark. A woman stands where a girl stood half a lifetime ago, a girl who lost something she would never be able to reclaim.\nThe word rape never felt quite right. All the definitions included the word force. Did Cory force me? He didn’t threaten me or fully restrain me. I didn’t call out. I didn’t fight him. I just stood there. I asked him to stop, but feebly, without conviction. What if I had pushed him away? Would that mop-topped kid with the easy smile have snarled, pushed me back into place? A small voice within me whispered that he would not.\nA branch snaps in the silence, and I whirl around.\nOh god.\nHis curls are shorn to a buzzcut, but even in the dark I know it’s him. He freezes, ten yards from me, and flashes his palms, a don’t shoot gesture. “Sorry, I-“\n “What are you doing here?” The force of my voice seems to push him a step back.\n His words are a whisper. “I thought you might be here.”\n “Okay?” My hand lowers to the lipstick-sized capsule of pepper spray dangling from my backpack and raises it to chest level. My racing mind quickly calculates. No wind. Good.\n Cory eyes the capsule and steps to the side, lowering his hands as he does so.\n I don’t change my stance. “What do you want?”\n Cory opens his mouth, then laughs softly. “That’s a good question.” His gaze lifts to the canopy overhead as if the moon will provide some answers. “I guess I was thinking about Rachel.” He melts to the earth and sits cross legged, his hands in his lap. “I don’t know. I just wanted to talk.”\n Trusting instinct, I lower my hand and release the capsule. “Sneaking up on me in the dark isn’t the best conversation starter.”\n “I know.” Cory scrubs a hand across his face. “I wasn’t even sure you’d be here, but when I pulled up and saw the Maryland plates...”\n My eyes, now accustomed to the dark, take in his haunted eyes, his lean, muscled frame, the tattoos running up each arm. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”\n Cory blinks, as if he hadn’t considered this. “You look…well.”\n “Thanks.” The polite thing would be to mimic his words, but I’m not feeling polite and he doesn’t look well. Instead, I state the obvious. “You have a lot of tattoos.”\n “Yeah. Navy.”\n “Do you have kids?”\n The corner of his mouth kicks upward. “Two. A boy and a girl.”\n But not married. He wears no ring, and the pain in his eyes speaks of relationships that haven’t ended well.\nCory grows somber again. “So you’re a chaplain.”\nMost people aren’t sure what to make of that. A few have gone so far as to ask if I’m celibate. How many professions prompt perfect strangers to inquire after your sex life? On the other hand, if a guy hits on me, I can tell him I’m a clergywoman, and he backs off like my top’s on fire.\n “I also manage a non-profit.” I take a steadying breath. “A domestic violence shelter.”\n “Oh. Is that what you wanted to do growing up?”\n “I wasn’t sure, but I think this is what I was supposed to do. I get to care for vulnerable people who need somewhere to go.” I cock my head to the side as the realization hits me. “I guess in a way I have you to thank for that.”\n “What?” Cory’s head snaps up, his eyes defiant. “Thank me? What I did to you-“ He scrubs a hand across his face again. “I hate myself for that. I hate myself.”\n I don’t respond.\n “I was scared. I wanted to find you, tell you I was sorry, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I couldn’t sleep, just waiting for the police to show up.” A pause. “Did you tell anyone?”\n I shake my head.\n “Why not?”\n “I was embarrassed.” I cross my arms. “I just wanted to forget about it, I guess. I didn’t really try to stop you.”\n “I shouldn’t have started.” Cory’s eyes fill with tears. “You wanted me to stop, and I wouldn’t. Damn it, it wasn’t your fault, okay?”\n I hesitate. “Okay.”\n “No, I mean it.” Cory Vandever then proceeds to do something I’ve never witnessed someone do before or since. He rises to his knees, then folds forward, his inked arms spread forward, his forehead touching the ground, like a dog submitting to the alpha. “I’m sorry.” His muffled voice chokes with sorrow. “Please. I’m so sorry.” His entire body wracks with sobs, a broken man pouring himself out through the yawning, jagged cracks.\n For a moment, I just watch him. Then something compels me to take one step toward him. Then another. I kneel beside him, not sure what words will emerge. “You hurt me. But it didn’t destroy me. And you can’t let it destroy you.”\n He quiets, his breath hitching.\n I continue. “I’m screwed up. I’ll probably never get married, for one thing. Hell, maybe I’ve seen too much. These women come in, and they’re damaged. Men too. Not many. Men aren’t supposed to need help.”\n Cory is still for a moment before he speaks. “I can’t take it back.”\n “No. But you can make it up to me.”\n He tenses, as if wary of what I will suggest, then pulls himself up to sit cross legged again. We’re only a few feet apart, but that feels okay somehow. I pat my thighs with my hands, allowing the words to surface. It’s always worked best this way, allowing my heart, rather than my head, to speak.\n “You have a son. Tell him it’s okay to cry, to talk about his pain, his fears. Tell him he’s enough. You have a daughter? Help her to protect her beauty, her heart. Be her hero.”\n “Her hero?” Cory shakes his head.\n “You’re not a bad person, Cory. You’re a good person who did a bad thing.” I know this to be true. “And I forgive you.”\n “I don’t want you to forgive me. I don’t deserve that.” He drops his head into his hands and cries silent tears.\n I take a deep breath and seek the courage to do what I feel must come next. “Forgiveness isn’t saying, ‘What you did is okay.’ Forgiveness is saying, ‘I’m letting it go.’ Those are very different things.”\n Cory lowers his hands and meets my eye, his breath shuddering. And listens.\n “When I walked out of these woods eighteen years ago, I knew I left something behind, something pure and good. But it took years to realize how much I carried out with me. Shame. Regret. Resentment. Guilt. Anger.” I take his hand, and he lets me. “Forgiving you drops my burdens, not yours. It’s not about what you deserve. It’s about what’s healthy for me.”\n Cory takes it in. His gaze rises to a point over my shoulder, fixes there, and I know he’s staring at the tree.\n I continue. “You won’t always receive forgiveness, or you may never know about it. So you have to forgive yourself. We’re told to be strong, to deal with it. But here’s a secret.” I pause for emphasis. “We weren’t designed to carry it. Any of it. If you’re not the father you want to be, it’s not because you don’t have enough within you to do it. It’s because you have too much.” I let that sink in. “Here’s part two of the secret. When we decide to drop that load, it has to go somewhere. It can’t just vanish into thin air. In fact, there’s only one strong enough to carry it. You give it to him. That’s what he wants you to do. Give it to him.”\n Uncertainty clouds his blue eyes, but he’s nodding.\n “I’m not saying it’s always easy. But try it. Empty yourself, and you may be surprised what fills in its place. What’s the opposite of anger?”\n Cory blinks. “Kindness. Tenderness.”\n “Guilt?”\n “Innocence.”\n I nod, unable to speak further. There’s a light in his eyes now, faint but there. New. And I find tears streaming down my cheeks.\n I am the first to leave as the sky lightens in the east. Cory chooses to be alone for a while, to think things through. We don’t speak of reconnecting, but we don’t rule it out either.\nA dust cloud billows behind my Tahoe, and I smile, imagining the sign beside the front door on our escape house, painted by a former guest.\nFOR EVERY DARKEST HOUR, THERE IS ALWAYS A DAWN TO CHASE IT AWAY." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Paths\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1177\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by this quote from Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy: “In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost…\n\nI know it's said that strange things, peculiar things, happen from time to time; but to have my street suddenly transform into a forest went beyond anything I'd ever imagined or heard. I found myself on a dirt path that branched about thirty feet ahead. One path continued fairly straight - a bit wavy though. The other? Not even close to straight. So crooked, in fact, that it appeared to slither, if, indeed, paths had that ability.\n\nThe forest of that path, the truly crooked one, sported stunted, gnarled trees in a twilight world where shadows flitted from mostly bare branches and half-seen creatures skittered along their base. Along the winding path the light penetrated much more and the forest looked almost like any normal forest. Almost.\n\nAnd I stood at the branch looking at me! More to the point, I stood blocking the path that followed the winding path while leaving the crooked unobstructed.\n\nConfused?\n\nYep, me too.\n\nAnd I seemed to beckon to me, or me beckoned to I, or I beckoned to I…\n\nAhhh, never mind.\n\nI moved to within a few feet of the me blocking the path and stopped. Making sure to stay out of arm's reach and ready to run if need be, I regarded myself. I believe, also, that myself regarded me. I tried to not think too hard about it.\n\nI know what you might be thinking. Mirror image. If only! The other me, the blocking me, looked to be a mockery only. I still found myself in the same sweat pants and stain shirt (I only wear certain shirts when I eat because I'm known to have spillage) I wore while going to the road to get my mail. He sported what appeared to be jeans and a v-neck tee; but the disheveled, torn, and grimy clothing made it hard to be sure. No shoes that I could discern, only holey socks. In that I suppose we were most alike.\n\nHe continued to regard me through dark, sunken eyes. His skin, unlike mine, had an ash-like quality to it. His body, thin, emaciated, and barely looked able to support itself. I locked eyes with me and quickly looked away. I saw things there. Awful things. Things I wish never happened. Cold crept around my belly and wormed up my spine. I recognized that me. \"Why are you doing this?\"\n\n\"Why? WHY, you ask? LOOK AT ME! I'm a shadow of you, more hollow than anything. I used to be substantial. WE were substantial. You fed me. Gave me sustenance. Now I barely eke out an existence.\"\n\n\"You lied to me. Manipulated me. I did things I'm not proud of because I believed I would feel better about myself!\" I couldn't look at me. I hated me. And he hated me for following the less crooked path. The time came I denied that part of me, or at least as much as possible. We truly can't completely deny ourselves. At least not in this world; but that part of me refuses to go quietly, continually whispering in my ear. Continually trying to get me embracing things of this world again, glorifying power, sex and money. All of which I tend to lump under power anyway.\n\n\"You remember the picture?\"\n\nOf course I remember the picture. We're each other. We know our thoughts. I'm attempting to influence me again. In a movie the villain in an art gallery pointed to a picture blown up larger than life size of a middle eastern man with a gun pointed at another middle eastern man's head, who cowered on the ground. The villain asked the hero which one they preferred to be. Having never considered it, I found the question profound. I always felt like the cowering man, the man without hope; but that 'me' tried to get me to be the man holding the gun. The man in control. The man with the power. Far too often he (I?) succeeded.\n\nThat didn't work in my favor. Hollow, pyrrhic victories were all I got out of it. At the time I didn't see it. Cruelly torturing insects and small animals as a child because I feared, thankfully, taking my anger out on others. Ohhh, the other me filled my psyche with visions and fantasies of revenge against them, but something held me back. As an adult being known as someone who 'spoke my mind,' regardless of who it affected. One night stands with women for which I had no feelings at all. Solomon had it right stating 'All is vanity.'\n\nEven Ray Bradbury got it right when he wrote in Something Wicked this Way Comes: \"Most men jump to give up everything for nothing…\"\n\nI did. I lost everything. It stunned me just how quickly that fall came. But in losing everything, I gained so much more. \"There is a third choice in that picture.\"\n\nHe recoiled because he knows. He is me and I am him. I know he won't give up. He can't. I explained it anyway, \"I am the one in the picture you don't see. The one standing between them, full of hope in my Savior, unafraid, wanting to lift the cowering man up and instill love in the other to drop his gun and let go of the hate. Wanting them to embrace and accept each other. And if I should die in the attempt, I stand before God. This world is empty. It holds little for me except for the chance to grow closer to Him.\"\n\nHis face twisted in fury and he stepped up, putting his face mere inches from mine. \"So you find God and cast me aside as if I'm nothing!\"\n\nTwo thoughts quickly occurred to me. One is that it's a good thing I'm not suicidal, or I believe I would've killed myself. The other is that I really need to brush my teeth.\n\nThen I realized he tried to set me up. Not that he would've gained much sustenance, but he was desperate. \"What arrogance for me to think that I found Him! I never looked. I lost everything because of listening to you, to myself; and like the lost sheep HE found ME! I realized he sought me all along, but I allowed YOU, the worldly me, to hide that. In losing the world, I gained a far more precious treasure. For that, I thank you.\"\n\nI continued, \"And the day will come when I shed you for good, and that the path before me is straight.\"\n\nI almost thought he would wail, such was the pain on his face. For the moment, his arrogance gone, he turned away and trudged up the crooked path. The forest and paths disappeared and I found myself again on my street by my mailbox. Singing 'I Can Only Imagine' to myself, I retrieved my mail and headed back to my house." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Going Home\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1066\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with “It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.” (Hans Christian Andersen, “The Little Match Girl”)" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "[This story contains mentions of people freezing to death]\nIt was so terribly cold. Snow was falling and it was almost dark. The chilling wind cut right through her thin shawl as she huddled against a hard brick wall. Why were people so stuck up they couldn’t open their home for one night? Dare she try one more time? What harm could it do?\nSlowly Priscilla Matheson stood, shivered and made her way through the snow to the icy steps of the brick house. She approached the door and hesitated. The warm yellow lights beckoned her; tore away the fear of being rejected again. She raised her numb hand and knocked. There was a shuffling noise and then the door slid slightly inward. A woman’s wrinkled face appeared.\n“Hello?”\nPriscilla forced out an answer. “Hello. I’m sorry to bother you again but I’m ever so cold. Please. Could I just come in for a little while.” Warmth floated out the open door.\nRecognition lit the woman’s face and then it clouded. Without a word she began to shut the door.\n“No. No! Please! Just for a second.”\nClick. The door was shut. And locked.\nPriscilla tried to push back the tears. They would freeze on her cheeks and make matters worse. She sank down on the porch. Every place in this mangy town had closed their doors to her. Every emotionless face had mocked her with their eyes.\nI’ve got to keep moving, she told herself.\nShe stood and climbed down the four wooden steps. A layer of ice clung to the hem of her dress. Her loose brown hair was wet from the snow and before long it would freeze too. She focused on reaching the end of the street and then she would turn back.\nLord, she prayed. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Deliver me from this peril. If it is my cup to die tonight, can I please be warm once more?\nShe thought about the last time she had been warm. It was Thanksgiving Day last year.\nThe aroma of turkey spread through the little house, the fire crackled in the open fireplace, and Priscilla’s three brothers were running around laughing as she and her mom watched from the table. Delicious dishes were lined out in front of them. Buttered corn with herbs, Squash all mashed and laid out just right, some sort of salad with fruit and nuts, and other things like fried potatoes, biscuits, fresh vegetables, and of course, pie.\nIn just a little while the door opened and her tall father walked in. He caught one of the boys as they ran by and tickled him until he squealed.\n“Mm. Something smells good.” He said, eyes combing the array of food.\nPriscilla smiled. She had made a lot of it this year because of her mom’s cramped hand.\n“Looks like we’re gonna have an early snow.” Her father remarked.\nHer thoughts were cut short by what happened next in that part of her life. They had been snowed in so bad that they couldn’t even get firewood. Her brothers died from pneumonia and her parents . . .\nShe couldn’t think about that now.\nThe wind picked up and the snow blew harder around her. Her body was so numb that she realized it would be more miserable to live than to die.\n“Your will be done, Lord,” she whispered.\n“This day wilt thou be with me in Heaven,” came the answer.\nPeace, like none other, floated over her like a blanket warming her soul.\n“I’m Priscilla Caroline Matheson. I’m 17 years old and overall I’ve had a good life.” She shouted. “I have so much to be thankful for! I have my clothes, shoes without holes, and God. I’m just who God made me to be! Nothing that happened in my life was an accident. My parents are in Heaven and soon I will be too. Everything is perfect!” Her arms outstretched, she smiled for the first time in months.\nHer strength was leaving her and finding moving hard she sank down in the middle of the street. She faintly heard someone approaching through the whistling wind. They knelt beside her. It was a young man just a few years older than her. He murmured something that was lost in the night.Then he wrapped a blanket around her and carried her to a familiar brick building.\nInside the wrinkled woman turned from the fireplace to glare angrily at them. Her face turned an angry shade of red and she said something that Priscilla’s frozen ears could not pick up.\n“Mom!” the young man cried. “How could you? She’s nearly frozen.” A tear formed in his eye.\nShe wanted so badly to tell him not to cry. That everything was fine. That she was happy. That she was thankful he cared but there was no need to waste tears over her. He didn’t even know her. Did he know the peace she was now experiencing? If only she could tell him she was finally going home.\nAnything else the two said she missed. Through the numbness she felt a little warmth and a tear raced down her cheek. To think God had been faithful to her prayer and had given her warmth once more was overwhelming. She was laid on a bed but she didn’t know what else happened.\n“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.\nNow she could freely think about what happened to her parents and it didn’t make her cry, because she knew she would see them soon. They had been driving through the snow storm to get help for the kids when, according to the neighbor that found them, the wagon had gotten stuck and they had frozen on their way to town. Who could’ve known that the goodbyes they had said would be their last. No, in Heaven she wouldn’t think of them as Dad and Mom but it didn’t matter. There would be no more cold, or hurt. They would be happy and she would be happy. And as far as she knew her brothers would be there too.\nPriscilla closed her stiff eyelids and a gentle smile rested on her lips. Soon she would stand at the judgment throne painless and perfect. Soon this life would be forgotten and she would enter Heaven. Soon she would be home. Soon . . ." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Howl for Home\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2990\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They circled each other, the ancient ritual of the eijak, teeth bared, hackles raised. The snow was soft, but not fresh. Each member of the pack watched in agony.\nA low growl sprung from Aakon’s chest. He was willing to die, but not for his family. Because if he died for them, they all died. He imagined the newborn pups, bundled in their furs, too young to Shift. Helpless, blind.\nHe was not ready to kill, especially not his blood-brother, but Toran left him with no choice: one of them was to die. Toran had called upon the Tradition of Might.\nThis was a duel to the death for pack leadership.\nAakon’s dark coat outshone the snow with its brilliant blackness. Toran was broader, bloodthirsty. Toran charged first, but not until the eijak, cycle, was complete.\nA full three circles around each other was tradition. And the Wolf Spirits of the ancient Okkanil pack never broke it.\nAakon refused to bite into his older brother, but Toran ripped open Aakon’s flesh through the fur. A cry of pain shot through the air, but Aakon was fighting for something: Eeiga. Family. \nHe imagined the destruction of his everything. His world. And he pounced on Toran with a newfound anger, until they tumbled into the snow, the cold surrounding them. Snarling, Aakon pinned his older brother, but Toran curled from under him and gripped Aakon’s front leg. A hollowing snap pierced the still air as the bone broke in two. Aakon’s howl created a space in the void of silence that shook the ground. Toran stood triumphant as his younger brother toppled.\nStaggering to his feet, Aakon stared into the eyes of his blood-brother. “How, how could you do this to me?” a shuddering whisper.\nToran waited. Waited for him to fight back.\nAakon writhed in pain, but charged with all the strength he had, in a body that could no longer hold it. Toran’s jaws connected with Aakon’s flesh, but this time, his neck. Resounding cries from the pack made Aakon claw back. Giving the last of his last.\nBut Toran had tasted Aakon’s downfall. His victory. And he shook the vulnerable flesh of his brother with vigour.\nIt happened too fast.\nAakon fell, heaving as he gurgled in his own pool of blood. Toran prowled around him, hunger in his very breathing.\nDestiny had spoken.\n“It’s over, brother,” Toran murmured, a feather of sound against a stone of steel.\n“S-spare her,” Aakon choked out, feeling Fear as he realized his blood-brother’s face was Death’s. “P-please,” he begged. “The pups.”\nToran weighed his plea. “I’ll show you mercy, brother. The way you showed me mercy when you made me Omega.” He licked the fatal wound of his dying blood-brother. “I’ll send your wife, your pack and your new litter with you into the afterlife.”\nAakon didn’t even have time to choke out a howl of despair.\nToran bit into his neck, holding it with his jaws until Aakon’s body succumbed to snow, motionless. Etruia leaped forward, longing to cover her mate with tears. A piercing wail filled her howl. But they lunged towards her, tearing her apart, until she could cry no more.\nFinally, Toran ran into the sacred place, the Place of Peace. The pack’s den. He found the pups, still weak in their furs. One by one, he shook each violently in his jaw, until he felt the crunch in their tiny necks and their mewling ceased. Finally, only the smallest was left. Toran remembered him from the Naming Ceremony.\nThe runt, Silver.\nHis own wife was expecting, but he winced at breaking the neck of the weakest of weak. Aakon had once been a runt. He didn’t need to kill his blood-brother twice. And his pack would need an Omega.\nKarma was clever.\nWith a warrior’s howl, Toran left the small bodies of the litter in Peace, while he whisked the runt away to its new home, eeiga.\nSliver, he renamed him. \n()-/\\-()-/\\-()\nNorth nuzzled him, like a mother might, licking his wet nose. “You’re lucky, Sliver.” Staring at the stars, she smiled weakly. “This is your moon.”\n “You’re not supposed to be here.”\nI’m the Omega, North. A burden nothing could outweigh. If you stay, you’ll only hurt us both. You should know that. \n“You could run away to the Skyline,” she offered, innocently.\nHis hackles raised at the suggestion, “I can’t leave. This is my life.”\n“Sliver.” Her eyes became stern, like a biting frost. “You don’t deserve this.” \n“But I’m not a Stray,” Sliver muttered defensively. “I have an eeiga.”\nNorth mournfully eyed the dazzling black horizon. “I’d go, if I could,” a breath of words.\nSliver blinked at her, in shock. “You’re the joika.” The spirit path-maker.\nA sigh escaped her. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy.”\nHe was only fifteen, but his lanky body felt ready.\nThis was the night he would Shift for the first time and see his human form. His spirit felt strong enough, capable of controlling the cravings.\nSnow broke and resettled under the sound of approaching paws. Sliver sniffed the wind. Clay. His nemesis, the dominant one in their litter, but never the strongest. But the noise signaled two wolves. Sliver raised his nose again to the dancing wind.\nNot even trying to conceal his scent. Ice.\nIce was a playmate, soft-hearted -- the wolf didn’t even know how to fight with his teeth. But a rebel against Father when it came to helping Sliver. Ice shared his food, joined Sliver to howl together at stars.\nClay only needed to nod at North and she disappeared like a wisp of smoke. Clay circled Sliver, as if to perform the eijak, barring his fangs, tail raised.\nSliver stared blankly at him. “What do you want?”\n“Leave,” Clay snarled.\n“Make me,” Sliver challenged, unfazed. Clay always came to release anger. Not much better than how the Fearful oppressed packs because of their perceived foreignness. But Sliver didn’t understand why Ice was here.\n“Don’t tempt me, runt,” Clay shot back. “This moon is mine. Give it to me or I’ll take it from you.”\n“You want me to give you the moon?” Sliver grinned, his tail swaying. “Look, I don’t know why my Shifting came early, but it’s not my fault.”\n“Y-you’re mocking me,” Clay blinked, aghast. “Rot your fur, I’ll kill you.”\nSliver anticipated the pounce, the rough tussle, Clay grabbing his muzzle, shaking it. He was embarrassed by Clay nipping his stomach, forcing him to lower his ears in submission, but not surprised.\nUntil Ice joined in, grabbing Sliver’s neck. It wasn’t a play-grab or ruffling of his scruff to assert himself. It was Sliver’s throat. And it broke the skin.\n“Ice -- stop!” Sliver cried at his littermate.\nBetrayal cut deeper than the wound, but Ice only shook harder, as Clay pinned him. Sliver watched the stars blur his vision from dizziness. As he bled Sliver, Ice’s eyes were guilty, but that wasn’t enough. A realization that felt like getting winded:\nI am going to die.\nSliver scrambled, fighting for his life. He tried to find a gap between their limbs and strength. None came, like being held beneath water. He clawed at snow, sliding further under Ice. Almost. He dug in his paws, inching just close enough --\nHis teeth grabbed his brother’s underside and tore. A yelp of confusion, pain. But it was the crack in the ice. Clay released pressure, concerned with Ice’s cry. Sliver pulled himself from under them.\nAnd he ran.\nFlying across the land he called home, the wind whistled in his ears, find your new star path. He did not know where he was going. But he knew he would survive.\n()-/\\-()-/\\-()\nSliver couldn’t believe his eyes.\nHe’d heard endless tales of the Skyline. But that could never describe what he saw. Felt.\nIt was like standing on the edge of the world, the cosmos spinning around him. Traffic rumbled past, but he smelled a kaleidoscope of people, places. The snow was in brownish banks to the side of every pathway.\nThe Fearful really don’t follow, but carve their star paths.\nHe’d run all night, going opposite everything familiar, a straight line South. And just as his bleeding became too much, he had felt it.\nA tingling, from his fingers that thrummed through his head, like a war drum. Until it became an acute pain shooting into every limb. The Elder had spoken of the power, but not the helplessness. It had felt like dying. He had howled in desperation, watching his body crack, collapse, and create itself anew.\nThen he had sat up, gasping, to see himself, Shifted. Bare, cold. Looking exactly like a Fearful, except for his fangs, his long nails. His long black braid. In a pile beside him had been his shed fur, a blanket of silver. Wrapping it around himself, he had torn at it with his teeth, making holes for his new arms and legs, creating a tuuga. His fur clothing. It had stretched down to his ankles, warmth.\nI did it.\nSliver had almost laughed. I Shifted.\nThat was his very first moon. And he had celebrated it with the shadows of a creeping dawn. Alone.\nHe shook his head to clear the memories, clutching his tuuga closer. Skyline was an ironic name; the buildings destroyed the horizon, not built it. Unlike home, everything here had a place. Whether it liked it or not. The trees were allowed in a line, the cars were always only on the road, the water was allowed in the fountain. Signs littered the concrete paths, but Sliver couldn’t read them.\nPeople stared.\nA child pointed at Sliver’s tuuga, laughing. Sliver still struggled to maintain balance on two legs. He now looked like them, but he could feel how he looked to them. It was obvious he was a Wolf Spirit from his tuuga.\nNone of them seemed to be One. Each dressed differently, each on their own star path. Their arms didn’t bear markings of their pack.\nThese were people, the Fearful. They were unable to Shift during a full moon, they lived without a Wolf Spirit. Sliver had heard too many cautionary tales about them.\nThey will never let you in, no matter how you change for them. In the end, you are left with nothing, you become nothing.\n But having a home with the Fearful must be better than being Stray. Than being homeless, haunted by homesickness.\nCan they tell I’m a Stray? \nHe discreetly tucked his long braid into his tuuga; no other men wore it long. Sliver came to a crosswalk, but heard a faint click behind him, turning to see a young woman holding her phone at him. She’s documenting. Me.\n“You’re a werewolf!” exclaimed the woman, beaming as she stared into his eyes.\nSliver wondered if he’d accidentally gone Golden. “I’m a Voolnaki,” he corrected. “Spirit Wolf.”\nShe peered at him with too much interest. “Do you have a name?”\nSliver was offended beyond words, turning away from the crosswalk as a light changed behind him. How did she know I’m an Omega?\n()-/\\-()-/\\-()\nA blaring wail made Sliver cover his ears as he followed the scent of muted grass until he entered a fenced park. It was quiet, but there was another man with a darker complexion.\nHe has long hair. Sliver noticed his many braids. And he doesn’t seem to mind.\nSuddenly, the wailing noise grew louder. The other man looked how Sliver felt, before he ran. Sliver heard a shout from behind him.\n“Hey!”\nTurning around, Sliver looked directly at a burly man with a sunburned face. The man was angry. At him.\n“Get over here, dog.”\nSliver narrowed his eyes, indignant at being called the slur for a Skyliner.\n“Hey, take it easy. Whoa, stop that, now! Make your eyes normal! Steady now -- you’d better stop glaring like that. Eyes where I can see them -- attaboy, now: no gold.”\nSliver knew what Golden Eye meant. The Fearful didn’t understand it. Even some Voolnaki couldn’t control their eyes. Some said Golden Eyes was a curse, but the packs believed it was a blessing to protect them. But the sunburned man didn’t view it as either. \nTo him, it’s an excuse.\nSliver smelled the excitement radiating from the large man as he barked at him to place his heads above him--“No, higher”--to kneel, with his back towards him, on the non-earth.\n“What do you want?” Sliver asked, but the man only began patting at his tuuga.\n“Weird costume. You’re from the rural resorts, huh?” The large man squinted. “Imma need to see some ID.”\nSliver cocked his head.\nThe man became infuriated. “Pack ID.”\n“I don’t know what you mean.” Sliver glanced around; people were watching. Documenting with their phones.\nThe man seemed pleased. “Then I’m going to need you to step aside, while we sort this out.”\nHe yanked Sliver from the pavement, taking him to the car. Sliver knew people went inside cars, but instead he was thrown over the hood, splayed like a caught fish.\nHe squirmed to get free, trying to stay calm. \n“Listen up, yellow-eyes. You either show me some damn ID or we go for a little trip down to the station.” He pushed Sliver’s face into the cold, hard car. “You don’t want that.”\n“I don’t know what you want!” Sliver wailed, feeling tears threatening to pour.\n“Give me your fucking ID, dog!”\nSliver felt his eyes turn. That tingling in his fingernails, a twitch in his jaw. Then a surge. He growled, a roar from the back of his throat and stared at the man.\nImmediately, something metal clicked from the man’s pocket and he pointed it at Sliver’s head. A gun. \n“I don’t have any ‘ID!” The Fear was all-encompassing. “Let me go! Please, let me go!”\nThe officer holstered his gun, grabbing him off the hood, opening the door to the car --\n“How many times have I said don’t leave without ID, son?” a low voice came from behind them.\nSliver tried to look over his shoulder to see who was talking.\nThe officer let the stranger come closer. A shorter, middle-aged man with darker skin. “Look at the trouble you’ve caused the officer! Should’ve just listened,” muttered the stranger, patting Sliver on the shoulder.\n“Sorry, sir,” the stranger shook the officer’s hand. “Thanks for your time. Teenagers. Never listen, you know.” He winked at Sliver, showing the officer some ID.\nGrunting, the officer frowned. “Don’t let it happen again.” \n“Never, sir. Have a good one!” The stranger smiled, taking Sliver away by his arm.\nHe didn’t save me for free.\n“Call me, Julio,” he glanced at Sliver. “What’s your name, kid?”\n“Sliver.”\nA hearty laugh rumbled from Julio’s chest. “No, kid, your name.”\nSliver stared at him, confused.\n“Ohhh,” Julio drew out the word. “You’re from a traditional pack, ain’t you? I’ve heard of them.” Julio eyed his tuuga. “You’re far from home, kid.”\nI don’t have a home, Sliver wanted to say, but that would be admitting to being Stray.\n“How old are you?”\n“Fifteen. I just Shifted. My first moon.”\n“Wow, okay, so you’re really new, then.” He stroked his chin with his index finger, a black band on it. “You should go back, kid. You stick out here like a sore thumb. This ain’t your home.”\n“You’re a Skyline Voolnaki.”\n“Yeah,” Julio hesitated. “You could say.”\nDog was the word we called them back home for always adapting to fit in with the Fearful. Some dogs even filed their fangs. Skyliner was the politest way of putting it that Sliver knew.\n“People will think you’re a spy, pup,” he told Sliver.\n“I couldn’t stop it,” Sliver confessed, suddenly. “I went Golden Eyes.” He bowed his head, ashamed that he couldn’t control the shade of his eyes. The building Shift.\n“You’re new to the city, kid -- just Shifted. Why’d you come here? Most packs . . . out there . . . don’t like making contact.”\n“I-I, well, I was . . .” Sliver hung his head. Rejected. Hunted. Abandoned.\n“Hey,” Julio tapped Sliver’s shoulder. “Chin up, pup. You stay with us in the meantime.” He smiled, “We’ll get you proper clothes. And kid, you really need a new name.”\nSliver shrunk. “I like my tuuga,” he conceded. It felt -- smelled -- safe.\n“Fine, just a new name then. Sliver’s a nickname. I know you guys call it your ‘Spirit name’ or whatever, but here, we have our name-name and a nickname.”\nSliver hated his name, but most Omegas were nameless.\nJulio snapped. “Hey, why not Silver?”\n()-/\\-()-/\\-()\nSitting with his back to the Skyline, Silver had driven from the bustling centre to the city’s edge, where he could see the stars. It was a full moon eijak, cycle, since he’d lost his home. His eeiga. Every part of him felt changed, reinvented. The ancestors likely shook their heads woefully.\nBut I’m alive to feel their wrath.\nHe imagined Ice tussling with a new playmate. How Clay would have found a different Omega to pin in the dirt. And he wondered -- hoped -- North might be longing for him to return.\nHome.\nA cure, a blessing when there. And a curse, a sickness when absent.\nHis hand ran over his newly-shaven head, missing its traditional braid. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the Elder’s words echoed in his mind:\nWe, the Wolf Spirits, follow in our ancestors’ star paths.\nWhenever you are lost, howl for home.\nAnd we will always find our way to you.\nLifting his moonlit face, he climbed atop Julio’s truck. If only. Finally, he let the tears spill, the emptiness becoming his fill. If only you’d come find me.\nWith a loud cry, Silver turned to the North Star and howled a last goodbye to home." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Raw Deal with the Devil\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that starts with the line “So, what’s the catch?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Story contains allusions to torture, but no actual depictions of it)\n“So, what’s the catch?”\nThe demon hesitated. The sulfurous smoke billowing from his form dissipated slightly as his concentration wavered. His wings drooped. The arm he had been holding out lowered; the contract in hand, written in red ink on shining golden paper, dimmed.\n“The…catch?” He rumbled, bemused. “I thought I had explained it well enough. At the hour of your departure from the earthly realm, you willingly forfeit your soul. Thenceforth it will be entrusted to the care of myself, and by extension my master, the Lord of the Infernal Realm.”\n“Oh, yes, you did explain that.” The woman said, nodding politely.\n“…Well then. That’s the catch.”\n“I see.”\nThe demon frowned. Not wanting to linger on the negatives, though, he pressed on and proffered the contract to her again. The red ink ran slightly for dramatic effect (Blood was more traditional, but there were much better uses for blood in the long run. Still, people expected it, so red ink was the preferred substitute).\n“So, do we have a deal?” he asked. A roll of thunder filled the room at his words, and the smoke increased.\nThe woman sitting across from him frowned, considering. She was older, almost fifty years of age. Her hair was just beginning to gray, and the wrinkles were adding up on her face. She had a pleasant demeanor, and a gentle smile. At a glance, she was a typical, unassuming grandmother. If you looked closely, though, there was a sadness underneath that smile, a pain behind her eyes. Her’s was the visage of one who had lost much, and although she still persevered, the losses had taken a toll on her.\nThe demon, who was well versed in the reading of human emotions, noticed all of this. Not that he cared, particularly.\nThe woman sat there solemnly for a few more seconds. Then she glanced up and asked, “Is that the only catch?”\nThe demon began to grow impatient with this line of questioning. “Yes.”\nShe tilted her head. “Are you sure?”\n“Am I…Yes, that is all!” The demon boomed. His wings flared threateningly, and the room shook slightly from his thunderous tone. “Is that insufficient? You will be dragged down to the deepest depths of the nether realm and tortured for all eternity! Do you think making a mockery of the idea will lessen your torment? Because I assure you,” He said, low and menacing, leaning in to put his face level with the human woman's. “Your jests will make it no less painful when you’re down there.”\n“Mm.” The woman said, rubbing her chin. “You’re not very good at selling the idea.”\nThe demon spluttered. “I didn’t…listen, you were the one who summoned me—”\n“Also, you didn’t mention torture before…” She continued mildly.\nThe demon threw up his hands in exasperation.. “It was implied when I mentioned condemning you to hell!”\n“Oh, Hell, now? No, no, you never mentioned that at all.”\nThe demon paused with his hands upraised. “Yes I…didn’t I? What did I say, you will be, uh, brought back to…”\n“The nether realm, I believe.”\n“Yes.” The demon said flatly. “That means Hell.”\n“Ah, I see! Good to know.”\nThe demon leaned back on his tail, perplexed. “Are you entirely unfamiliar with the nature of the pact you are eliciting to make?”\n“Oh, no, no, I’m passing familiar.” The woman said, with a reassuring smile. The demon ground his teeth. This mortal was insufferably. “I just think the suggested terms of the agreement are… How can I say this nicely? Poorly articulated, is all.”\nThe demon’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. “You dare—”\n“I mean, I could probably guess that the nether realm means Hell, but this is a legally binding contract we’re talking about, isn’t it? Shouldn't the terms be clearly defined? And come to think of it, an ‘eternity of torment’ is incredibly ambiguous, in terms of the scope of the punishment. Will I be in constant agony, 24/7? Or is it a 40 hour workweek?” Her eyes lit up with a spark of mirth. “Do we get holidays off?”\nThe demon glared at her. “Amusing, mortal. Do you seek to waste my time then? Perhaps I’ll simply strike you down and collect your soul on my way out.”\nThe woman’s smile faded. “Hell has no claim on me, demon.”\nYet, the demon thought, but she continued.\n“You won’t kill me until you get me to sign a contract, and I won’t sign anything until I’m assured that the terms are acceptable, so let’s stop pretending that you’re in a position of power here. I have what you want, not the other way around.”\nThe demon considered her words, then inclined his head. Of course, she wasn’t entirely correct. He did have what she wanted, otherwise she wouldn’t have called him. Mortals were so easily blinded to how their desires controlled them. But he had to acknowledge that she was at least partially correct. He had nothing to gain by killing her now; best to let a proper deal play out.\n“Anyway, I’m surprised your conditions are so poorly defined, is all.”\nThe demon sighed. “The conditions are clearly spelled out in the contract, if you’re inclined to read it.” He shook the piece of parchment he held for good measure.\n“Ah.” The woman said, squinting at the golden paper. “I thought that was just for show.”\nThe demon shrugged. “It kind of is. The paper itself is irrelevant, but the conditions laid out are quite binding.”\n“Well, then, why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”\n“It’s…not in our best interest for humans to be well informed when making pacts with us.” The demon said, Then he paused, wondering why he was explaining this to her.\n“Well! That’s quite a policy. I imagine that’s going to get you some complaints.”\nThe demon gave her a quizzical look. “Yeesss?”\n“…But at least you’ve been forthcoming in answering my questions, so I thank you for that.”\nThe demon blinked. So I have. Had this unassuming mortal disarmed him with her demeanor and caused him to reveal more than he should?\nGoddamn it! He swore. Then he cringed and glanced downward. Sorry.\n‘Satandamnit’ just didn’t have the same ring to it.\n“Very clever, human.” He growled. “Shall I wait on you while you waste an eternity pouring over every legal clause?”\n“Oh, yes, if you would. That would be very kind.” The woman agreed cheerfully.\nThe demon glowered at her, but eventually settled back and watched as she carefully scrutinized the piece of parchment. As she read, he pondered. She was…perplexed. Based on a very surface level judgment of her character (Which was all he needed, most of the time), she was headed nowhere near hell. Why would she be seeking a literal deal with the Devil? Not that he was complaining, mind.\nHer fixation of loopholes and ‘catches’ was more familiar, though. Always the mortals hoped to outsmart the Devil, and always they failed. This woman would be no different, so long as he could successfully ensnare her.\nAt length, the woman glanced up from her reading. “Do you have to keep spewing that smoke?\nThe demon chuckled. He’d forgotten about the sulfuric fumes. “Not at all.” With a wicked grin, he morphed his form to more closely resemble a human.\nThis was a classic look for him. Tall, but not too tall, dignified features, white hair, neatly kept beard, dark skin. He found this look worked wonders on middle aged women. He smiled, recalling the number of flustered “Oh!”s he’d elicited from them over the years when their eyes fell upon his form.\nWhen the woman before him saw his new form, her face…fell, slightly. She did utter a soft “Oh…”, but there was no fluster in her voice.\nThe demon paused, taken aback by her reaction. “Is this form…displeasing?” He found himself asking.\n“Oh, no…” She said, “You just…reminded me of someone.”\nShe went back to her reading, leaving the demon more confused than ever.\nFinally, she finished. “Well?” The demon prodded.\n“Well, yes, it’s all well and good, but…the punishment still seems a bit vague to me.”\nThe demon rolled his eyes. “You cannot escape the cost of the deal, mortal. The price must be paid.”\n“Yes, but how?”\nThe demon frowned. “Well…by torture.”\n“What kind of torture.”\n“Why do you want to know?” The demon asked, just a tiny bit weirded out by this mortal’s obsession.\n“Well, I guess what I really want to know is what level of punishment is it. I mean, will I be put with the petty thieves, or the murderers? That kind of thing.”\n“Murderer’s could be arranged.” He growled.\nOf course, she remained undeterred. “Hm, yes, and I suppose that would be a bit better than the rapists.”\n“…If you say so.”\n“Well, let’s hash it out. I’m curious how the levels of hell are actually organized, incidentally…”\nAnd so began the longest, most aggravating conversation the demon could remember having, in which he basically haggled with the mortal about where she would end up being punished. She was very specific, and before long he just started agreeing with her requests to get her to move on. It didn’t matter to him in the end, so long as she signed the Godda— sorry, Satandamned contract.\nAnd in the end…she did. She signed the dotted line, took a shaky breath, thanked him, and walked out the door. The demon stared after her, baffled. She hadn’t even dismissed him. Technically, he could trash the place, then pursue and… not quite kill her, but get an early start on her eternity of torment. But…he just didn't’ have the energy, after all that\nAnd again, he’d gotten what he came for. She’d signed away her soul. The night was a success.\nRight?\nMany years passed, and the demon continued his work. He didn’t have a lot to do. Actual demonic summonings, and the subsequent signing of infernal pacts, were becoming more and more rare these days. A more widespread disbelief in the supernatural was a primary cause, but the truth was that it just wasn’t the most popular way to sell your soul these days. Most humans found much more mundane ways of doing it.\nOne could sell their soul for anything, these days. For ‘love’, for greed, for some addiction. The demon had to admit, his master’s methods were truly inspired. Why do all the work of corrupting human souls by hand, when you can just automate the whole process?\nThough years had gone by, he couldn’t get that woman out of his head. She’d been up to something. Plenty of mortals tried to abuse an infernal contract, but she was different, somehow but her motivation. The demon was a master at reading humans, but her motivation escaped him.\nAfter a few years of trying to put it out of his head, he decided to look her up. It turned out that she had been using her newly discovered money-making skills (Yes, she asked to be financially savvy) as charitably as humanly possible. She’d done everything: Donated to healthcare programs, started schools in Africa, contributed to wildlife preservation funds. Still suspicious, he watched her on and off until the end of her life, and by the time she passed on, she’d given away every penny of the money she’d made in her entire life.\nShe went with him without complaint, and he left her to rot in hell for a while. One day, when the nagging sensation of being had got to him again, he checked in on her. She was definitely suffering and miserable, but… there was someone she was with. A younger soul, with a striking resemblance to her. A son, perhaps?\nThere was nothing that needed changing, so the demon left them to their suffering. Still, he never quite shook the sensation that he’d been had, somehow, by a woman that asked, very specifically, to go through hell." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cassiopeia\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2756\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Around the corner of a run-down building, where the red brick is grey with dust and the blinds hang to the windows by a thread, is a large new street, crisp and black, sloping down a gentle hill. Follow that big bright street, turn a few more corners, and there, tucked beside an ice cream store and a parking lot, is a market, running without fail every Saturday evening, popping up at lunch and gone by the time the sun is down. For a few hours each Saturday, it no longer smells of sticky asphalt and cigarette smoke, but popcorn jumping in large metal vats, potatoes baking slowly, puffing open with little bursts of steam when a plastic knife pokes through the thick skin. Carrot stems pour off little wooden crates piled on top of one another, bright red tomatoes packed tightly into cardboard boxes being passed off hand to hand. Roasted corn is showered in salt and shoved into the hands of waiting children, gloved hands wiping away sweaty brows before turning to yell at the booths beside, fish arranged in little icy boxes, warm foreheads pressed flush against tall stacks of coolers holding sliced hams. When I was younger, my dream was to get away. Out of the small neighbourhood where buildings crumbled in the corners and tires stuck to the ground in the summer heat. But the little market beside the ice cream store was always there in my mind, the one thing I couldn’t see gone, couldn’t imagine a Saturday sun going down without the smell of roasted nuts in the air. Truth is, I never left, never stepped past the little welcome sign at the end of town, never saw the front side of that big redheaded clown pasted on top, swinging its cardboard legs and waving goodbye to the empty fields where cars don’t drive by anymore. So I still drag myself down the block to the little market each Saturday night, plastic bags in hand, stopping always at the end of the parking lot when I’m done, a cheap popsicle in my mouth, palms turning red from the weight of the bags on either side, looking out past the lot until I can see the fields and empty roads, looking at the back of that big redheaded clown, waving goodbye with an uplifted arm. And him and I watch the sunset together, both our arms heavy and tired, sweat rolling down my forehead and splinters forming on his. Then I make my way back home, stopping for a breath ever so often, until I reach my once bright blue door, fumble with the keys in the dark, and let myself in, sighing as a wave of AC blows through my sweaty hair, the faded blue wood swinging behind me, singing in its hinges. Today I look out the window, and just around the corner that new road shimmers in the heat like a big puddle of tar, sucking up the plastic flip flops that try and walk through it, turning everything into a sticky, hot sludge. It’s already well past noon and I’ve been too scared to step foot outside the house all day, but now it’s a Saturday evening and my fridge is empty, and my stomach growls for a cheap strawberry popsicle that I know will melt all over me before I can even get a taste. So I set out, locking my blue door behind me, plastic bags melting in the crook of my elbow, stepping only in the shadows of trees and houses until my feet bring me to that little parking lot and all its smells, stuffed to the brim with voices and people even when it’s too hot to breathe. I make my rounds as usual, pushing through sweaty bodies with little wads of cash ready to hand over someone’s bent head, taking the same number of everything I’ve always taken since I got my first job years ago, counting out each cucumber and carrot, making sure enough was saved to put in the tiny drawer beside my bright blue door. Every bill and coin saved went to that drawer, and after years and years, every bill and coin in that drawer went to a shiny red pickup that I drove in once, from the dealership across the street to my home. Ever since then, it’s been rusting on a patch of grass on my front lawn, the keys shoved in the back of that drawer and never picked up since. That drawer is filled with spare change I use for Saturday night popsicles now, jangling around against the wooden walls every time I pull it open to check, never pulling too quickly so the keys don't come sliding into view. The drawer collection tradition must’ve stuck though, because everything is always the same, my fridge always piled with the same amounts, my wallet always stacked with the same number of crisp bills, rarely more, never less. Tonight took more convincing to leave than usual, and by the time the market begins to clear out, I’m still standing with a couple bills left, looking up at the sky and trying to remember what else it was I needed, mentally going through each cupboard and drawer one by one. But it’s hot out, and even if the sun is setting, my shirt is still sticking to my back, my fingers are still sticky with bright pink juice, and my eyes hurt from squinting against the sunlight all day, so I go where my feet take me, looking half-heartedly at each near-empty stall, the wooden crates bought and empty, the cardboard boxes packed up and stacked onto dusty pickup trucks parked under collapsing tents. In the back of my mind, right behind my left ear, I hear a thumping sound, like faint footsteps, jumping up and down, over and over again. I tap my skull with my palm, trying to shake out whatever effect of heat stroke it is I’m feeling, but the sound stays, getting louder when I turn around and squint into the darkening night, trying to guess what it could possibly be. Walking closer to the noise, I look around, but none of the shopkeepers seem to notice or care, rushing around as they pack up the last of their supply, trying to get out of the crushing heat at last. The sound gets louder and louder, pounding in the back of my head, sounding less like a thud and more like the desperate flapping of wings, thrashing against something. I stop in front of a booth and look down, little ice boxes lined up in front of me. The ice has mostly melted, and the contents are all but gone, except for one crate, still mostly full, where dead fish are packed in with the ice, their glassy, wet eyes looking up at the night sky. Their gummy mouths hang slightly open, fins pressed to their sides, stuck in melting ice that runs down the tilted icebox, turning to mud at my feet. The sound stops and starts again, and I rub my eyes with a clammy hand, squinting at the fish. A flurry of movement squirms in the corner of my eye, and I look down at a fish with its head buried in the ice, its tail and fins sticking out of the ice cubes, scales shining. The sound fills my head again and the fish shakes, its tail thrashing back and forth against the ice, slapping against the ice as it dances, trying to wiggle out of the ice. I step back and look around, nervous, waiting for the shopkeeper to notice, but she keeps her back turned to me, rummaging endlessly in the back of a big pickup, grumbling beneath her breath. The fish keeps wiggling, growing more and more desperate, and I wring the paper wrapper of a long-eaten roasted corn in my hands, trying to decide what to do. For a second, the fish goes silent, and my breath catches in my throat. The woman is still cursing at her pickup, stacking crates in the backseat, and the paper in my hand gets damp with sweat. My head darts from side to side, behind me, then back at the woman again, then I unfurl the crumpled wrapper and grab the fish with my hand, shoving it in the greasy newspaper and sprinting off, pressing the dead fish to my chest as I run past the end of the market, past the parking lot, finally slowing down when my lungs won't go any further, sucking in the humid air. \nI just stole a dead fish. I can’t believe I just stole a dead fish. \nI look down at the damp packet still pressed closely to me, and drop it on the ground, stepping away to sniff my shirt, now stained with grease and the smell of warm, dead, fish. The bag doesn’t move, doesn’t thrash around or hop away, and I grab a twig beside me, crouching down, poking away the paper folds with the thin stick, peering at what’s inside. The fish is still dead, the paper falling away to reveal a big wet eyeball, gazing up to the stars with an empty, black pupil. Its gummy mouth is part way opened and its fins are pressed to its sides like every other dead fish on ice. Its body does not move, its tail does not shake, and I toss the stick away, sinking to the dirt ground, resting my head on my elbows so I can keep my hands away from me, the smell of fish wafting heavily off them. The thought of taking it home to eat drifts briefly through my mind, but the image of that fish sitting in that slushy, lukewarm ice bath all day in the scorching heat, warming slowly, the innards of its dead fish friends soaking in the melted ice around it makes me mildly sick. Scrunching my eyes shut, I sigh, looking up with closed eyes, pressing my hands to my face before quickly smelling the strong fish scent and peeling them rapidly off my face, tucking my hands under my legs to prevent further contact. I look past my shoulder at that big redheaded clown, thinking of my friends that drove away one by one in sleek new cars, not even turning around to see the clown’s smiling face as he waved them all away. I was the first one that said I wanted to leave, pointed at the big smiling clown and told my kindergarten teachers I would send them postcards of his face so they could see what he looked like from the front. I made little drawings that my parents pinned on the fridge and tucked in windowsills, explaining each time with a passionate gesture towards those lonely fields and the clown that endlessly waved them goodbye. In the end those kindergarten teachers drove away too, and I was the only one left. Left to walk down sticky streets in shoes with the soles half-burnt off, left to steal dead fish from melted ice boxes and eat popsicles with cardboard cutouts of clowns. Looking up at the many stars, my face flushes with embarrassment, and I groan, almost flinging my hands to cover my face again, hiding from the soft dots that blink in the distance. \nCassiopeia. The beautiful one who scorned the sea. \nChained to her throne of vanity, a divine punishment eternal. \nThe fish’s large black eyeball slopes towards me, its mouth closing slowly. \nDo not taunt the strength of the waters. \nWe are as many as the stars.\nIts eyeball rolls slowly back to its place, the now visible stars reflected in its big glass eye. I clasp both hands to my mouth, rushing over to stare at the fish lying in the greasy paper packet. \n“Say that again.”\nCassiopeia. \nI jump back, the breath rushing out of me in a short gasp. The fish’s eye follows me, its mouth closed. ‘Why do you know that’ the words come out from a shaky mouth, my fingers dragging down my cheeks, biting my nails as I bend over, looking at the dead thing in the grass. \nThe moon guides the waves.\nThe stars guide the ocean’s children. \nWe are one and the same. \n“You’re dead. You were dead all day. Dead in the morning and dead when I saw you. You’re a dead fish in an icebox, and I’m talking to you.”\nThe stars in the sky died thousands of years ago.\nBut they still burn brightly in the dark. \nFragments of the past. \nI want to turn or run away, but now if I turn around and run to the fields, I’m scared that the red headed clown will jump off its sign and start reciting Baudelaire. The fish keeps its eye intently fixed on the stars, its mouth moving ever so slightly, and my eyes narrow, looking upwards with it, tracing the few constellations scattered amongst the clouds. Then its eye slides downwards and its whole-body twitches, jumping towards the fields. \nEast. The stars point to the seas. \nIt tries to hop a bit, helplessly flopping in the grass. I watch the fish jump for a bit, its eye trained towards the horizon, thrashing against the dirt and grass. \n“There’s no sea there. It’s just fields. Look.”\nFeeling sorry for the thing, I pick it up, beyond caring about the smell on my hands that will by now never wash out. Its body is strangely cold in my hands, despite it having been on display all day in the sweltering heat, and its scales feel slick with saltwater. The fish says nothing, its eye taking in the endless rows of corn and wheat that wave gently with the night breeze. I can almost see it squinting the way a person would, trying to gaze past what is possible to see with the eye, hoping for more. The fish grows heavy in my hands, so I set it down, hunching down beside it, waiting for that deep, melancholic voice that fills the emptiness around us. \n“Hey. Sorry. Maybe there is something. I’ve never been that far. I just guessed. I don’t really know where the sea is. The stars don’t talk to me like that.”\nThe stars speak to all those who listen. \nThe sea opens its embrace for all those who take the plunge. \nThe fish trails off, its voice growing weary. It looks at me with that large eye, and I wince a little, looking away. \nThey are calling. \nIts eye blinks, closing shut, and it begins to flop away, inching towards the endless fields bit by bit. By now, its scales are dulled with dirt, and its fin must have torn at some point, but it inches forward, its body slapping against the hard ground with every push forward. \n“You won’t make it. You’re a fish I stole from an icebox. I don’t think you’ve ever even seen the sea, beyond those painted aquarium walls they plaster in bright blue to make you feel a little more at home.”\nThe fish doesn’t speak. It trudges forward endlessly, flopping back and forth in the night, covered in mud and grass, its eye fixed towards the stars. A lump in my throat, I sit on the cold ground beside my muddy shopping bags, and watch it jump forwards, the sky darkening all the while. \nBy morning, the fish was dead, its eye pecked out by a crow and carried away in the night. I woke up, my cheek stuck to the plastic bag, hair covered in dust, and walked over to the little fish, its empty socket staring up at the sky. I buried it in the field beside the clown as the sun rose, the stars still faintly visible through the orange clouds. Trudging home on that bright, new, black road, I scrounged around for the keys to my once bright blue door one last time, my shopping bags abandoned to the fields of corn. On the patch of grass on my lawn, a dusty red pickup rumbles to life, and through the window I see a single row of stars still visible in the bright daylight, a crooked W in the sky. The stars bow their heads towards the fields, where the red headed clown waits for me, his ruddy cheeks and red nose smiling as he waves me away, a crow perched on his cardboard shoulder." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Path To Paradise Begins In Hell.\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1250\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story inspired by this quote from Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy: “In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Midway upon a journey for life itself, there was a holy man known as Aliero who found himself within trees filled with worms and decaying bodies of the dead in a plain process of putrefaction, where the straight way was lost. His thoughts were confused, and his sight was obscured by the shadows that loomed over him. For this was Hell. He could not recall how he had come to be in that place, but the memory of a single phrase lingered in his mind like a beacon of hope.\n\"In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself,\" he repeated to himself, clinging to the words like a lifeline. \"Within a dark wood, where the straight way was lost.\" He knew that these words held the key to his salvation, and he resolved to follow their guidance, no matter the cost.\nAnd so he began his pilgrimage through the treacherous landscape of hell, guided by his faith and the flickering light of his memory. He encountered many dangers along the way, but he did not falter. For he knew that his journey was not just for his own salvation, but for the salvation of all humanity.\nAs he descended deeper into the infernal depths, Aliero's resolve was tested time and time again. He saw the horrors of the damned and the torments they suffered, and he wept for them. But he did not lose hope, for he knew that even in the darkest of places, the light of redemption still shone.\nAnd so, driven by his unwavering faith and his unyielding determination, Aliero pressed onward, through the darkness and the flames, in search of the truth that would set him and all of humanity free.\nDeep in the heart of the infernal abyss, Aliero found himself lost in a labyrinth of darkness and despair. As he wandered through the shadowed corridors, he heard a pitiful cry that echoed through the caverns, a cry that pierced his heart with pity and compassion.\nAliero wandered, lost and confused. He knew not his way nor his purpose, but only that he must journey on. With each step, the weight of his sins grew heavier, dragging him down into the inferno. And yet, he pressed on, for he knew that his fate was in the hands of the divine.\nAs he traversed the circles of hell, Aliero beheld the many torments that awaited those who had fallen from grace. He saw the wrathful fighting in the river of the dead, the gluttonous wallowing in filth, and the treacherous frozen in ice. And through it all, he searched for a reason why humanity should be saved.\nFollowing the sound to its source, Aliero stumbled upon a great tiger ensnared in a trap, its fierce eyes filled with tears of pain and desperation. Moved by the creature's suffering, Aliero approached the trap with trepidation, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he would have to face the great beast alone.\nDrawing upon his inner strength and the power of his faith, Aliero reached out to the tiger, offering him words of comfort and solace. To his great surprise, the tiger responded in kind, pleading with Aliero to free him from his prison and promising to spare his life in return.\nFilled with a sense of duty and a desire to do good, Aliero set to work on the trap, using all his skill and knowledge to free the great beast from its bonds. As he worked, he could feel the eyes of the tiger upon him, watching him with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion.\nAt last, the trap gave way, and the tiger was free once more. But as Aliero watched, his heart filled with a sense of dread, the great beast turned to him with a wicked grin upon his face, revealing his true identity as the Prince of Darkness himself, the fallen angel Lucifer.\nWith a fierce roar, the great tiger declared his intention to destroy all of humanity, to show them the error of their ways, and to mete out divine justice upon their heads. And with that, he set off in search of two other creatures who would serve as his judges and jurors, the tree Beelzebub and the buffalo Belphegor.\nThrough a series of cunning ruses and sly tricks, Lucifer convinced Beelzebub and Belphegor to join him in his crusade against humanity, to condemn them for their sins, and to call for their ultimate destruction.\nBut amid this great upheaval, a third creature appeared one whose true identity was known only to Aliero. For this was a white jackal, whose coat shone with divine light, and whose eyes held within them wisdom beyond measure.\nThrough subtle hints and allegory, the jackal convinced Beelzebub and Belphegor of the inherent goodness within humanity, and that there was yet hope for their salvation. The Jackal, clad in radiant white, stood firm in the face of the raging Lucifer himself. With a voice that thundered like the roar of the River Styx, the Jackal challenged the Prince of Darkness to prove his vaunted strength by entering the very cage from which he had been freed by Aliero.\nLucifer, consumed by pride and a thirst for revenge against the human race, was eager to demonstrate his power and dominance. He leaped at the challenge, his massive frame shaking the earth as he charged into the trap that had once held him captive. His eyes blazed with a fierce and terrible light as he prepared to show the Jackal and Aliero the full extent of his might.\nBut the Jackal, with a sly grin that belied his noble countenance, quickly slammed the door shut, trapping the Tiger once again. The beast roared in fury and disbelief, struggling to break free from the confines of the cage. But his efforts were in vain, for the Jackal had tricked him through his own hubris, and now he was at the mercy of the pilgrim and his holy guide.\nAliero, his faith in humanity renewed by the Jackal's cunning and mercy, looked on in wonder at the sight before him. For in the depths of Hell, where the forces of darkness and despair seemed to hold sway, he had seen the power of wisdom and compassion triumph over brute force and wickedness. And he knew that this was the true path to redemption, the way out of the dark wood of doubt and despair that had plagued him since the beginning of his journey.\nWith their task accomplished, Aliero and the jackal emerged from the inferno into the realm of paradise, where they were greeted with a wondrous sight that filled their hearts with joy and hope for the future of all mankind.\nFor there, in that blessed place, they beheld a sight that made their hearts sing with wonder and awe. They saw humanity, with all its faults and foibles, striving ever upward towards the light, seeking to live lives of goodness and compassion, of kindness and love.\nAnd at that moment, Aliero knew that he had done a good deed, that he had saved not just the life of a great beast, but the very soul of humanity itself. For in the end, it was the power of faith and the strength of the human spirit that had triumphed over the forces of darkness, and that had brought about a new dawn of hope and renewal for all the world to see." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: This Is All Your Fault, Alexander\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 1035\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Alexander, do you see that?\nDo you see the way the sun is disappearing right before our very eyes?\nDo you know why that’s happening, Alexander?\nIt is because you abused yourself.\nWhen young princes abuse themselves the way you have, the Lord above sees it, and punishes them by making the sun disappear. You may have thought nobody noticed, but the Lord did, Alexander. The Lord always does. Despite being told that you are a descendant of Kings, and must treat your body with the utmost respect and care, you decided to give into temptation and treat yourself the way your father treats one of his wenches. In doing so, you have cursed all of us. We are now thrust into darkness, because of your willingness to engage in sin.\nOh yes, this sort of thing has happened before, which is how we know the cause. Why, ten years ago, in 1603, your father abused himself, and the sun disappeared then as well. That was back when your grandfather was alive shortly before the Huns invaded and fed him to wild goats. Had your father not abused himself, perhaps the sun would never have disappeared and the Huns would not have invaded either. We can never know how the Lord is going to punish us when we misbehave, but you can be assured that all bad things come directly from the actions of lustful monarchs.\nI cannot expect you to know such things, because you are not a man of science, as I am. As the Lead Sorcerer in the Kingdom, it is my duty to inform you why things are the way they are. In this case, you treating your body like the royal petting zoo has resulted in the villagers believing that we have a witch in our midst. Now, we will have to murder fourteen or fifteen innocent women to calm them down. Yes, I know that there are no witches in the kingdom. You know that as well, Alexander, but there will be no convincing the villagers. I suppose we could always travel into the forest and find a real witch living in one of those candy huts, but who has the time? Better to just decide on the fourteen or fifteen or twenty most outspoken women in the kingdom, have a few quick trials, and then throw them in the river. It may be unjust, but crowd control usually is.\nAlthough it is not for me to forgive you, Alexander, I am happy to report to you that I do. Some sorcerers are more vengeful than I, and would turn you into a loathsome creature, like an earthworm or half a warthog. Instead, I will use this as a teachable moment. The moment may be dark, but I am a teacher, and so…Here we are. Now you know to wait until marriage before you give into carnal desires. Once you are married, you will be permitted to let your wife explore you in any way you wish, along with all the wenches in the kingdom that your father has not claimed for himself, provided he hasn’t been killed by then. I hear the Huns are planning another raid, but don’t tell him that.\nYou know, Alexander, back in the Darker Days, people had strange explanations for phenomena such as this one. They would say that there were many gods, and that those gods were mad about foolish things like whether or not a temple built in their honor was constructed properly or because someone thought they were the best at sirtaki dancing. You could not be good at sirtaki dancing back in the day, Alexander, because, chances are, there was a God of Sirtaki and if a mortal said they were the best at it, then that god would get angry, and throw the sun into the ocean.\nNow, of course, we know better. We know that there is only one god and that He does not anger quickly or for frivolous reasons. The only thing that upsets Him is a young prince unable to control himself every time a busty chambermaid passes in front of him. Coincidentally, that last maid was a favorite of your father’s, and if he saw your eyes wandering, you’d be up in the tower eating nothing but gruel for weeks. You’re lucky I was the one who intervened. Thankfully everyone else is staring up at the sky with their eyes uncovered. No doubt we’ll have an outbreak of blindness tomorrow the same way we did in 1603.\nAnd it will be all your fault, Alexander.\nWell, not entirely your fault. Only a fool stares up at the sun even when it isn’t being swallowed up by the moon. Nevertheless, we have quite a few fools in the kingdom, and you will be their leader one day. You must protect them. When Huns invade, you must be ready to go to war. You must not be lounging around your royal bedroom acting like a Frenchman. Oh yes, Alexander, the French haven’t seen the sun in years. If you knew anything about the French king, you’d know why. That man may as well sew his hand to the inside of his pantaloons.\nLife is full of inappropriate desires, Alexander. The older you get, the more you shall discover. Why, just today your father asked me if he could divorce your mother and marry his second cousin then say the Lord told him to do it. I said that was fine, because anyone who tells your father “No” ends up in the tower eating gruel and chasing after rats for a little extra protein. That doesn’t mean we all won’t be punished when he does, eventually, cast your mother aside to marry that sharp-chinned relative of his. There will most likely be another earthquake or perhaps the ferocious goats shall return.\nWhen you are king, Alexander, I hope you will be a chaste ruler. A godly man who does no wrong and does not bring about suffering to his people. At the very least, I hope you shall always check with me before doing anything questionable.\nBelieve in science, Alexander, and always consult with your sorcerer." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Through Foggy Veils of the Mystical Coast\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2171\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Mystical Coast showed her mystery and drama while the ship called Nightflight cruised under the shimmering stars.\n\nWinds of the Mystical Coast blew a dense veil of fog across the clear waters. Then the Nightflight was wrapped in a cotton cloud mist, hiding the stars and shores needed for navigation.\n\nA towering ocean swell over the bar from the sea to the Emerald River lifted Nightflight into the salty air.\n\nBlankets of fog hid the other ship that was coming from the starboard side. Through the haze a ghostly shape appeared.\n\nWham! The two hulls collided.\n\nEverything tilted. The ocean rushed over the Nightflight's deck. Samuel's feet slipped.\n\nTime seemed to move in slow motion at first, then everything happened fast.\n\nThe Nightflight's four masts fell, breaking on her deck. Sounds of hollering, scraping, the sea sloshing, and beams crashing filled the foggy night. \n\nNightflight leaned, almost turning onto her side. Her hull caught on the sandbar of the Emerald River and the sea.\n\nShe was battered and bruised, but Nightflight would ride the waves again someday.\n\nSamuel swam hard, fighting the current in the murky brine. Hope flickered and then courage rose in him, bringing strength.\n\nHe remembered seeing the other ship appear out of the wall of fog. Boom. Crash.\n\nGasping for air, he tried to float and look around. The shore must not be too far away. \n\nCrossing the Emerald River bar under the stars on a summer night, no one expected the sudden storm squall and wall of fog. But June could bring surprises.\n\nSamuel remembered earlier standing next to the first navigation officer, Raul.\n\nNow seventeen years old, Samuel felt his future was calling to him, from beyond misty veils of dreams.\n\nThe voyage of the 1890s hybrid steam and four masted ship, the “Nightflight,” was smooth so far. Samuel’s dream of learning ship navigation was coming true.\n\nA few days before this he waved goodbye to his family while they stood on the beach below the isolated lighthouse in the wilderness.\n\nSamuel felt a sense of wonder living on the Mystical Coast. Dreams shimmered like sunbeams on the ocean in his mind.\n\nAt the Mystical Coast black bears and their cubs roamed. Cougars slinked on the shadows and coyotes trotted in the wilderness.\n\nElk herds grazed in the meadows.\nThe sweet scented forests were full of birds calling and warbling.\n\nIt was all part of a life well lived on the Mystical Coast.\n\nSamuel felt it was a place where everything is intertwined with nature and he was part of it too.\n\nMystical Coast's moods could change quickly sometimes. She might be showing her peaceful side with flat seas stretching to the horizon.\n\nOr she might display her mysterious face with fogs and mists cloaking the ocean and shores. When she felt dramatic her winds lashed the waves with gales and gusts, her waves and swells towered, and ships needed to beware.\n\nLife there imparted a sense of wonder and beauty.\n\nBut now Samuel was ready to explore the rest of the world too. He wanted to experience faraway places, seeking out the essence of each one.\n\nBack at the lighthouse, he dreamed of himself standing on the deck of a ship pulling into distant ports.\n\nHis science studies at the little school below the lighthouse served him well, and he was used to helping his father, the head lightkeeper.\n\nA chance for training on the ship \"Nightflight\" offered opportunity to learn navigator skills.\n\nThe ship, Nightflight, smoothly rode over ocean waves on the sunny, June days. The shore was within sight, making navigation easy.\n\nThey saw seagulls, ospreys, eagles, sea lions, and whales on the voyage. Beyond sandy or rocky shorelines, we're the mountains rising sharply, covered with tall trees.\n\nThe Chief Navigator Raul watched while Samuel practiced using the sextant, telescopes, compass, star charts, ocean charts, almanac, and ship's log.\n\nAt night, the stars and moon poured silvery light on the sea.\n\nIn the calm June waters and the summertime warm temperatures, Samuel and the rest of the crew and passengers enjoyed stargazing and picking out constellations.\n\nMeasuring the angles and distance between the stars and the horizon with s sextant, Samuel calculated the ship's position for practice.\n\nOne day when a pod of whales spouted, sky hopped and thrashed their tails everyone ran across the deck to the railing to watch.\n\nSamuel made friends with the captain's dog, Pepper, a small, brown and white \"rat catcher\" dog known for keeping rodents away from the food supplies.\n\nIn an instant one evening, everything changed.\n\nInstead of anchoring overnight, taking his time, and waiting for daylight's visibility, Captain Johann Rasmussen was in a hurry.\n\nHis sharp eyes above the curly beard and tanned face glanced around quickly, and his solid figure wearing the captain's cap stepped rapidly around the wheelhouse and deck.\n\nHe decided to make good time in the silent seas of the night by crossing the Emerald River bar after dark. \n\nBut the quick weather change caught them off guard. \n\nIt began when the captain stood in the wheelhouse, checking the charts and steering away from the sand bars on the shores where the river met the sea.\n\nHe congratulated himself. They would enjoy a quiet cruise down the wide river to the port of Woodland, under the stars.\n\n\"Shouldn't we wait for daylight to cross the river bar?\" Samuel's voice was respectful.\n\n\"No. We'll be fine,\" said Captain Rasmussen.\n\nEntering the river, the captain and navigators saw the starry dome overhead disappearing when clouds and a wall of fog moved in.\n\nThe Captain Rasmussen hid his dismay from the crew. \n\n“Captain, now we’re in for it.” He heard the tension in Chief Navigator Raul's voice. More voices joined in.\n\n“We’ll be fine. Settle down, all of you,” he said.\n\nThe breeze picked up. A gust hit the ship.\n\n“Drop the sails all the way. Now.” He kept his voice deep and confident.\n\nThey heard the squall winds begin howling and wailing. \n\nFog so thick you could not see more than several feet flowed around them.\n\nThe ship was crossing the treacherous sand bar between the Emerald River and the Pacific Ocean. Dozens of ship wrecks littered the bottom of the water.\n\nThe proud captain, overconfident, eager to impress, knew he had crossed this bar many times already. \n\nWhy wait offshore, anchored overnight?\n\n They were behind schedule already.\n\nWhat could happen?\n\nWait. Was that a fog horn? \n\nWas there another ship nearby?\n\nOr was it the wind?\n\nThen a sound like thunder. Two ships struck each other in the deadly Pacific Northwest fog. \n\nNow Samuel felt the currents dragging him down and sideways.\n\nLet yourself flow with it, he thought. Don’t fight it.\n\nJust try to keep your head above water.\n\nAn image of his home at the lighthouse flashed through his mind. Somewhere his parents and siblings were thinking of him. They would miss him if he didn’t come back.\n\nSomething whooshed past in the water. He saw the long hair floating.\n\n\"Eliza! From the ship.\" Samuel lunged to grab her.\n\nHe pictured her young face framed by dark hair pulled into a bun, and bright eyes with a sparkle. \n\nIt was only a split second, but their eyes had met with something like laughter in them before she looked away. She appeared to be close to his age.\n\nWith a surge of adrenaline, he powered through the current and reached, grasping her arm. She spun, kicking and using her arms. \n\nSamuel’s hand closed tightly and he grabbed a splintered beam floating by with the other hand. Eliza reached for it with her other hand.\n\nAn ocean wave lifted them and they somersaulted in the water, clasped together.\n\nHe lost his grip on the wood beam. Eliza still held on to it. Another swell brought it closer and Samuel grasped it again.\n\nThe ships must be stuck on the sand bar. Samuel saw they were drifting farther away from the sinking hull of the “Nightflight.”\n\nMore booms like thunder sounded. There were calls and Samuel knew the crew and passengers were floating near him in the water.\n\nIt happened so fast there was no time to lower a lifeboat.\n\nNow Samuel heard a high pitched squeak. The captain's dog, Pepper, was crouched and trembling on a pile of floating wood.\n\nThen he reached over to the wood that was carrying Pepper and pulled it toward him.\n\nSamuel’s feet felt something underneath them.\n\nHe managed to sink his feet into the sand and steady himself.\n\n“We're on a sand bar now,” he said. Eliza stretched her feet down and stood on the bottom.\n\nSamuel's lungs felt tight, his heart pounding hard and fast, his limbs getting tired.\n\n“Over here,” he yelled. “Sandbar. Shore.” He saw others struggling toward the shore.\n\nThe bars at the openings of rivers to the sea had fast-shifting sand. The ocean charts were only for guessing.\n\nYells and calls sounded. People began to get out of the water and onto the beach.\n\nSamuel and Eliza struggled to keep their footing in the moving water. Soon it was waist deep, then they stumbled out and fell down on a beach.\n\nSamuel picked up Pepper and carried the small dog in the crook of his arm.\n\n“We must be near Drift Village,” Samuel said to her. “Town near the river bar. We can get help. In the morning.”\n\nWhat happened to everyone else on the ships? Samuel’s throat was tight, his heart racing.\n\nNearby he heard loud voices. \n\nGood. Other people were struggling out of the water and collapsing on the beach.\n\nExhaustion overtook Samuel and Eliza. The chilly night air cooled their wet limbs.\n\n“Come on. We need to get inland.”\n\nEliza’s hand felt clammy while he held it. Together they stumbled and crawled into the sand dunes.\n\nThey fell and curled up together out of the wind, in the shelter of a dip in the dunes, falling into an exhausted sleep.\n\nLater, Samuel felt the sand underneath and opened his eyes in the dim light of the colorful Dawn sky. Mystical Coast displayed her pastel morning hues overhead while the sun rose on a clear, serene morning.\n\nFlashes of the night poured through Samuel's mind like water rushing. He saw Eliza begin to stir too.\n\n“We made it.” His voice was raspy.\n\nEliza’s eyes were wide. She untangled herself from their embrace and stood up. Her head swiveled and she took in the surroundings.\n\n“We need to check on the others,” she said.\n\nThey climbed over the dunes and saw people scattered across the beach.\n\n\"Eliza!\" Two people ran to her with arms outstretched.\n\n\"Mama, Papa!\" All three clutched each other tightly.\n\nWisps of fog trailed like shreds of cotton over the ocean and sand. The sky overhead was clearing and the sun rose higher in the east.\n\n“It looks like everyone in the crew and passengers made it to shore,” said a voice nearby.\n\nSamuel recognized Captain Rasmussen, his damp clothing in tatters.\n\nThe captain saw Pepper cuddled in Samuel's arm with his expressive eyes fixed on the captain.\n\nThe little dog wiggled and Samuel handed his squirming body over to Captain Rasmussen's open arms. Pepper snuggled into the arms wrapped around him.\n\nThere was no mistaking the affection in the glance the two shared.\n\nCaptain Rasmussen nodded toward his ship, the \"Nightflight.\"\n\n\"Her damage can be repaired. She'll sail again,\" he said.\n\nOffshore, the two partly sunken ships rested on the sandbar. They learned against each other, groaning and scraping.\n\n“I trusted this captain,” thought Samuel.\n\n“It was a mistake to cross the bar at night.\n\nQuick changes of weather can happen in minutes.\n\nWhat was the captain thinking?\n\nWho could you trust?\"\n\n Samuel kept his thoughts to himself.\n\nHe heard voices yelling, and saw a rescue party coming over the dunes, from Drift Village.\n\nHours later, Samuel, Eliza, and the other crew and passengers from the ships, rested in the village, wearing dry clothes, sitting by warm flames, drinking hot stew.\n\nSamuel knew he would never be the same again.\n\nHe left the lighthouse station a few days ago still a child.\n\nNow he was an adult. \n\nThe glow of his sense of wonder still lit his playful, impulsive heart.\n\nBut a respect and new sense of awareness also filled him with deeper thoughts and responsibility.\n\nHe was no longer a child. But inside his adult thoughts, a child was still there too.\n\nEliza turned to him and said, “Do you still want to be a ship’s navigator?”\n\n“No,” said Samuel. The sense of wonder and light filled him again.\n\nEliza looked curiously at the young man.\n\n\"Who could you trust?\" The words echoed in Samuel's thoughts.\n\nSamuel's dreams drifted through his heart and into his mind.\n\nEliza's eyes held a shine while she looked at him.\n\nHis thoughts and feelings were clear, free of any foggy veils.\n\n“I want to be the captain.”\n\nThen, \"Eliza, how would you like to visit a lighthouse?\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Seduction of Herb\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2983\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that starts with the line “So, what’s the catch?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Seduction of Herb\n\n“So, what’s the catch?” \nEven the Party of the First Part was surprised at the quick response, the ease with which the words were spoken, void of any serious consideration of the required consequence. The implication of the message from the Party of the Second Part was that all prior elements were agreed to. \n“There’s no catch, Herb. That’s the deal, straight up. You get everything I’ve promised in return for your immortal soul.”\n“That’s it? There is no catch?”\n“That’s it, Herb.”\nSlick black hair, steely blue eyes, a calming voice. Herb was mesmerized by the mysterious stranger he had met just the day before, and he was excited about his wildest dreams becoming his reality. The only hangup at this point was that Herb had not yet finalized his list of desires.\n“Herb, I’ve been in this business a long time, and I think you’ve pretty well covered all the bases- wealth, power, position. I’m not sure what else is left.”\n“Uh…Mister…you know, you never told me what I should call you. The devil? Satan? Lucifer? The Dark One?”\n“I like to go by Milton’s Beelzebub. I think it adds a touch of class to my persona.” \n“Ok, Mr. Beelzebub, you’re missing…”\n“Herb, it’s just Beelzebub, like Elvis, or Madonna. One word for the truly famous. No Mister.”\n“Got it. But I’m still working on my list of extravagant worldly possessions. And we’re still missing a pretty important part, Beelzebub- the hot babe.\n“That’s not a ‘we’ thing, Herb. You need to figure that one out.”\n“Well, she’s got to be beautiful and sexy, with big b…”\n“Herb! We don’t need to go there. We need to be a little delicate here. I may be the Prince of Darkness, but I’m not a pig.”\nA moment of introspection for Herb; could he possibly be lower than the devil? Oh, well.\n“Look, Herb, let’s meet again tomorrow, same time, same place. We need to get this done.”\n“Fine, but do we have to meet in the church? Couldn’t we meet someplace else?”\nBeelzebub smiled broadly. Harvesting souls was always rewarding, but sometimes he liked to gloat with a little bit of “in your face” theatrics. He had sized up Herb for some time, and he knew he was in command of the process.\n“No, Herb, I like the setting.”\n----------\nHerb sat at his desk that night considering all the possibilities. This would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he didn’t want to miss a thing. His list was already quite impressive:\n-Beach house in Malibu.\n-Condo in Park City, Utah.\n-State-of-the-art bass boat.\n-Successful real estate career with a seven-figure annual income to support an opulent lifestyle.\n-Hot babe yet to be imagined.\nAlright, let’s not be judgmental. Before you condemn Herb for swapping his soul for a bunch of worldly stuff, you need to walk a mile in his shoes. Herb’s past was regrettable, his present nondescript, and his future bleak. It is understandable that a life of luxury would be tempting, whatever the cost.\n His first ambition in life was in the world of politics. Herb’s goal was to one day occupy a seat in the U.S. Senate. Unfortunately, a below-average wit coupled with the personality of a tree proved to be too difficult to overcome. Herb ran for Student Council Representative of his High School homeroom, and two students who didn’t even run for the position garnered more votes than Herb. His backup plan of landing a roster spot on an NBA team was quickly dashed when he was cut from his High School freshman team during warmups on the first day of practice. At Prom, he sat in a darkened corner of the gym with the rest of the guy nerds. You get the idea.\nThe adult world likewise showed no mercy. Herb was not college material, and he had great difficulty finding a job he liked. When he did find a job he liked, his employer would determine in short order Herb was “not well suited” for the position. He finally found an acceptable niche stocking shelves at Walmart. Today found Herb in the breakroom putting the finishing touches on his wish list, as well as making some revisions to his descriptions and a crude depiction of the perfect woman.\n“Hey, Herb what do you have there?”\n“Oh, nothing, Maggie, it’s just some doodling.”\n“Did you see the new drones? They’re pretty cool.”\n“Uh, no. I’ll take a look later.”\n“The gang is going out for the fish fry at the bowling alley Friday night. Why don’t you join us?”\n“No, I’ve got stuff to do.”\nA lot can be gleaned from simple exchanges. Herb wanted the world. Maggie, for reasons no one could have understood, wanted Herb. A quick comparison between Herb’s rough draft and the real girl sitting across from him revealed no similarities. Maggie was quiet, plain, pale, skinny, average in appearance, and dressed like your grandma. She was everything the girl on the drawing board was not.\n---------\nHerb felt uneasy as the heavy wooden door of the church creaked open. He had been baptized and received his First Communion at St. Patrick’s, and he was suddenly stunned by the recollection of his Confirmation.\n“Do you reject Satan and all his works and all his empty promises?”\n“I do.”\nHe did. Herb had rejected Satan. Not so much this day.\n“Herb, buddy! Right on time. Are you ready to sign?”\n“By the way, Beelzebub, how exactly do we sign? Will we need a Notary?”\n“Heavens no! We just shake on it. What do we have if we can’t trust each other? Ready?”\n“Not quite.”\n“Oh, God, now what?”\n“I’m getting close. Here, I just wanted to show you my rough draft of the perfect girl.”\n“Herb! Are you freaking kidding me?!”\n“What?”\n“I mean, don’t you think that’s a little much? She’d have to wear a counterweight on her back just to remain vertical. What the hell’s wrong with you? And you brought that into a church?! Shame on you.”\n“I guess I could trim her down a little. Do you have any pictures of the oceanside house I’ll get? A brochure would be nice.”\n“It doesn’t work that way. Herb. We’ll have to see what’s on the market. But I can get you some nice glossies of the yacht and your bass boat.”\n----------\n“Are you still going to apply for that manager position, Herb?”\n“No, Maggie, I’m done with that. I’ve got much bigger things going on. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in some stupid job stocking shelves and mopping floors.\"\n“That’s what I do, Herb.”\n“Sorry.”\nIt would seem that Herb forgot the words so often repeated in his sixth-grade class by Sister Martin: If one thinks too much only of himself, one can become thoughtless.\n“Herb, you’re always wanting more than what you have. I don’t know if you could ever be happy.”\nHerb could hardly contain himself as he flashed a devilish smile.\n“Happiness is right around the corner, Maggie, right around the corner.”\nMaggie could only wonder.\n---------\n“Hey, Herb, I’ve got those pictures. You could freaking sail to Europe with this baby. All you’re going to need is a captain’s hat.”\n“Awesome.”\n“Ready?”\n“You’re going to be mad at me.”\n“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Herb. What is it now?”\n“Well, all this soul business. Are you sure I’m not going to need it sometime?”\n“Totally useless for you. It would be like you having Bitcoin but no connection to the Internet. It’s just a competition I have going with the Big Guy.”\n“The Big Guy?”\n“God, you know, the Almighty One. Souls are like poker chips. We just want to win more poker chips. He pulls you people in one direction while I’m pushing them the other way. You might say it’s about bragging rights, like who’s the better salesman. Trust me, your soul is of no value to you.”\n“I was just thinking, you know, I hear so much about a person’s soul. Father Mel is always talking about it. Is he wrong?”\n“Absolutely. Who do you think would know more about such things, Father Senile or a guy who’s in the soul business? He’s got to keep you thinking that way to keep the church coffers full.”\n“Could I give you half my soul, and you give me half the stuff?”\n“Doesn’t work that way. Listen, you only live once, Herb, and I’ve had my eye on you. I’ve got to tell you, man, your life really sucks. I think Job would trade places with you. And now you have the chance to live like a king. Don’t be a fool. Let’s shake on it.”\nBeelzebub was right. His life did suck. He had been unhappy ever since the 6th Grade when Danny Johnston gave him a nasty wedgy right in front of Susie Miller, followed by the dreaded swirly. He had spent countless hapless, sleepless nights contemplating just how miserable he was, and now a new, wonderful life was standing before him, there for the taking.\nHerb stared at his hand as it moved slowly toward Beelzebub who extended his hand in eager anticipation. Fingers within inches, the deal nearly sealed. Suddenly Herb withdrew his hand, much like a child pulling away from a hot stove. It was done reflexively, without thought, perhaps the instinct of self-preservation at work.\n“Herb, Herb, Herb. I can see you still have some doubts. Listen, I don’t want to pressure you. Take some time to think about it. Talk it over with some friends. Oh, sorry, I forgot. You don’t have any friends. I bet you’d have lots of friends if you had that mansion on the ocean. You just think it over. I’ve got to run. I’ve got lots of people lining up to make their reservations.”\n“When do we meet again?”\n“I’m always with you, Herb, but as far as our little discussions go, I’ll be here the minute you show up here. Don’t take too long, Herb. I’d hate to see someone else sipping cocktails out on your veranda overlooking the ocean or entertaining snow bunnies in your Park City condo. It’s all about supply and demand.”\nBeelzebub left. Herb lingered. He sat down in a pew in the front of the church. There is nothing as quiet, so conducive to meaningful reflection, as an empty church at night. The figures in the stained-glass window came alive with the headlights of passing cars as he studied the face on the statue of St. Patrick and prayed for guidance.\n“Herb! I haven’t seen you here for ages. I might use this in my homily on the raising of Lazarus this Sunday.”\nOh, no. What would Father Mel think about Herb sitting alone in the darkened church after an absence of many years? Surely this must be the result of the commission of some mega-mortal sin.\n“Good evening, Father. I’m not here because I did something horrible or something like that.”\nGood thinking, Herb.\n“I didn’t think you did. Can I help you, Herb?”\n“Father, is the devil real?”\n“Of course, he’s real. There are many references in the Bible to Satan.”\n“I know about all that, Father. I mean can he show up as a real person, say, with jet black hair, blue eyes, about six feet tall, and wearing a black polo shirt?”\n“Uh, why do you ask that, Herb?”\n“No particular reason. I saw something on the Religious Channel about the devil and was just wondering, you know, if a guy could have one of those Close Encounters of the Third Kind with the devil?”\n“I see. Well, the devil appeared to Jesus. We’re not sure if it was in human form or not, but I would think it’s possible. He’s a tricky one, very deceitful. By the way, I loved that movie.”\n“How about souls, Father? Do I really need one?”\n“What?!”\n“Souls, you know, the thing we can’t see that you always talk about.”\n“Herb, asking a priest if we have souls would be like asking a podiatrist if we have feet. That’s my business, Herb. That’s what priests do. Of course, we have a soul.”\n“Do you really believe that, Father?”\n“Of course.”\n“And how about heaven?”\n“What about heaven?”\n“Is there one?”\n“Of course, Herb.”\n“Father, I’m a little unsure about some things. How would I get to believe, I mean really believe?”\n“I’m afraid I can’t get you there, Herb. You either believe or you don’t. I can tell you all about God, heaven, and souls, but you’re either touched by the Spirit or you’re not. Some kids like spinach, some don’t. I can only pray that you receive guidance.”\n“Guidance! That’s it, Father. I need some guidance. Thank you, Father.”\n---------\n“Maggie, do you believe in heaven?”\nMaggie almost dropped her donut on the breakroom floor.\n“Of course, I do. Why are you asking me that?”\n“Not sure. How about souls? What’s your position on souls?”\n“What do you mean what’s my position on souls?”\n“Like, do we have one or not?”\n“What is wrong with you, Herb? Of course, we have a soul. That’s our true being, our essence. It makes us what we are, created in the image of God. Dust to dust for our bodies, but our soul is eternal.”\nDust, eternal, souls, heaven, a mansion in Malibu. Think, Herb, think. Where is that guidance when you need it?\n----------\n“Good evening, Herb.”\n“Hey, Beelzebub.”\n“Step outside, Herb. I want to show you something.”\nBeelzebub ushered a curious Herb out to the Church parking lot.\n“It’s a Porsche, Herb. I thought I’d sweeten the pot. I’m throwing this in just for the hell of it.”\n“Wow, this is so cool, and my favorite color- black!”\n“Mine too! Go ahead, hop in.”\nHerb slowly inched himself into the car he had always dreamed of. He took hold of the wheel with the command of the pole sitter at Daytona.\n“It suits you, Herb. You can leave your Ford Tempo here and drive this baby home right now. What do you say, Herb? Deal?”\n“It is awfully tempting…and very generous of you, Beelzebub. I just…I just don’t know. It’s such a big step. I need more time.”\n“I’ll tell you what, Herb, I’ll give you a week. I get your stupid soul, which is worthless to you by the way, and you get the whole bundle of awesome stuff that you could never get on your own. Or…continue driving around in your rusted-out Tempo, keep stocking shelves at Walmart, and hanging out with that homely Maggie friend of yours.”\nHerb’s mind jumped the track. Visions of riches faded for the moment as he winced at those last words.\n“Beelzebub, don’t be saying that about Maggie. She’s a nice person. You didn’t have to say that.”\n“Girls like her have to be nice, Herb. The guy you’re going to be can’t have someone like that hanging onto your arm when you walk into one of the lavish parties you’ll be attending. No, that’s for the girl on your drawing board. You’re going to have the most beautiful girl in the world hanging all over you, Herb. I might even through in a couple of love-lusting floosies for you if you tire of your main squeeze. Seriously, what is your problem? Shiny new Porsche or old Ford Tempo. Beautiful home on the ocean or the upper flat at old lady Simpson’s place. Selling mansions and raking in tons of cash or stocking shelves at Walmart. Hot babe or a young Ma Kettle. This should be a slam dunk for you, Herb. Think it over. I pull the offer Friday night at seven o’clock and leave you with your own hell on earth.”\n----------\nFather Mel almost had the big one when he saw Herb sitting in the front pew at Sunday Mass. Herb hadn’t found guidance at home in bed as he fought sleepless nights, nor when he was driving to and from work, nor while stocking shelves at Walmart. He couldn’t even find it in the somber setting of the Church at night. Maybe he needed the full force, the communion of the faithful, the celebration of Mass, to garner the power of prayer.\nHerb closed his eyes, prayed, took communion, exchanged the sign of peace with the gnarly old lady next to him- nothing. No guidance, no visit from the Holy Spirit, nothing.\n----------\nHerb sat in the breakroom staring at the wall. He was exhausted, mentally drained, and unable to decide. He was ready to flip a coin just to get the ordeal over with.\n“Hey, Sad Sack, can I join you?”\n“Of course, Maggie.”\nHerb studied the figure before him. Suddenly he was Superman with X-Ray vision, able to see through surfaces with the power to discover the within. Maggie, he had seen her a thousand times without ever really seeing her. He could see and feel it all now, not giving a second thought to exchanging his soul for material things, Beelzebub, Father Mel, the Porsche, the base depictions of the perfect girl, heaven, his soul, Maggie. A quiet peace wrapped its arms around Herb. Who would have thought the Spirit would visit Herb in a Walmart breakroom as he sipped his Slurpy, sitting next to his mop and bucket with a hot dog wrapper stuck to his shoe? God is everywhere.\n“Herb? Herb! Are you ok?”\nA smile known only to those at peace slowly appeared on Herb’s face.\n“Yes…yes, I’m ok. For the first time in a long time, I’m ok.”\nHerb studied Maggie’s face. She was nothing like the girl in Herb’s sketches; she was like…Herb.\n“Maggie, will you be going to that fish fry at the bowling alley this Friday?”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Upside Down Day\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1971\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who is determined to not have their day spoiled — but the universe is trying their patience." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mornings are my favorite time of the day. Beginning long before the sun rises, and I'm surrounded by calm silent darkness, and the twinkle of the stars. No phones, no television, nothing to interrupt. Just quiet time and coffee with Jesus. This was going to be a great day, I could feel it in my bones. My spirit was peaceful and filled with joy, I was excited to start my day. I had plans for a terrific day that I had been looking forward to for a week. \nThis morning like all others, after sunrise I let my precious \"Olly\" out to take care of business. Olly is my shih-poo whom I adore. He's lively, fluffy, and full of mischief. Olly fills my life with so much love, and entertainment. So today, like any other, I called him in for breakfast. \n \"Olly Olly Olly, come inside it's time to eat eat eat\" I actually repeated this several times, yes I do sing to my dog...although i have no voice to sing with, but it makes me happy.\nOlly burst through the door which is typical and instantly I got a whiff of something that just wasn't right. He stunk!! OMG the odor was horrific. After chasing him around, which he thinks is a game and checking his privates, I discovered the problem. Olly is quite a fluff ball and sometimes things don't drop as they should, and this was a disaster. I spent the next thirty minutes cleaning up my puppy, not my first plan for the day. Here I am bent over with my bad achy legs, butt in the air, wrestling with a dog. It's a challenge holding him still, and washing his butt repeatedly. It's not an easy task cleaning up this stinking mess that's matted all over the back of his behind. Bitterly I'm thinking to myself, first note of the day, call the groomer. \nAs my morning moves on after a nasty beginning, I stop to check my social media and emails. Things are looking up again. I found the cutest picture of my grandson having breakfast at my daughters house in my inbox. It was just adorable, and my heart swelled with pride. Seeing the happiness on that kid's face over a plate of waffles, just filled my heart. Oh the simple things that make little ones smile. My daughter is the perfect Aunt to her nephew, and I couldn't be any prouder of that. So proud that I decided to make a Facebook post, sharing this adorable photo and highlighting his bond with his Auntie. That's what this Grandma does, shares the joy of her grandchildren. Little did I know that I'd get a nasty text from his Mother. I could not believe I was getting chewed out for posting a picture of my grandson over breakfast. She angrily explained to me that she took the post as a stab at her for allowing her son to eat breakfast at school. Nothing was further from the truth, or more ridiculous. She went on to tell me how nothing was ever good enough for me, how sorry my son was, and if I had a problem with her to come to her face to face. Well so much for the peaceful morning. Admittedly that did ignite a little fire in me at the moment. The audacity of her to attack me in such a way. It was hurtful, and I had plenty I could say, but I had to consider the source. I decided \"no response\" was in order, and that I wasn't going to let this ruin my morning, and the shopping spree I had planned for the day. \nPutting that aside I continued onward with my plans. Shopping, Lunch with a friend, and checking out some new books at the library. The rest of my day was heading toward nothing but simple pleasure. I was meeting my dearest friend at our favorite place, Alfredo's. We had a lot of catching up to do, and I couldn't wait. Lunch was great and we laughed endlessly about my Olly fiasco of the morning. As we were finishing up I noticed several call's I'd missed from my son, and a text to call him back ASAP. My anxiety kicked in immediately, it's never a good sign to get this message from Will. I held my breath thinking, \"Oh Lord, what is it now\"? You know there's always that one in the family, and Will is definitely mine. I left Jane Carol with plans to meet at the mall but first I had to make this call. \nAs soon as I got in the car and headed out to the mall I asked Siri to call Will. No answer, and I dreaded that because I didn't want to have a conversation with him inside the crowded mall while shopping. There's nothing more annoying than shopping around in stores listening to others' conversations. Two seconds later my phone rang. I could tell from the very beginning of the conversation that something was up. Little too much chatty conversation from Will. I played along with him, just waiting. And sure as day he spit it out!\n\"Hey Mom, you think you could lend me $1500 for a security deposit on a three bedroom apartment I found in Wilmington\"? \nI nearly ran off the road. Here came the anxiety and tightening of the chest in full force. \"He's lost his mind\", \"he's completely crazy\", are the actual thoughts going through my head! I took a deep breath and I went on to explain how I felt this was way above his price range and that he needed to think about this logically. He had just gone in debt with me for a family cruise in May for $1400, he'd just been hit with $425 a month for child support, he had a $450 truck payment and other living expenses. I did not feel this was the time to bite off any additional expenses. Well of course he did not like my response, but continued to explain to me how he'd make it work. Wisely I knew there was no way with his income that he could handle this. His next response was, \"I'll get a job as a bouncer on weekends downtown\". Shaking my head I asked, \"Who is going to keep your son\"? He was on a 50/50 custody agreement, which was being enforced. I knew what he had in mind, but I knew that was not going to happen. I love the child dearly, but I'm not a full time nanny. I also knew that when his money started running short, who he'd turn to. Now for the kicker of this conversation, he seemed to forget that I'd just spent thousands of dollars renovating a property for him to live in. Although I understood why the location wasn't working out for him, I also understood he was looking at a difference of Eleven Hundred Dollars a month in rent. He could barely make ends meet now. Well the conversation did not end well, and of course I was the bad guy, always making things out to be negative. He hung up on me and I later texted him an ear full. As usual I would be the one who'd be upset and spend the rest of the day worrying. I texted Jane and cancelled my plan to meet her at the mall. She was disappointed as well, but understood, I just needed to go home.\nDriving home in tears, I was furious. I was mad about my day being ruined over some stupid idea he had, and the nerve of him to ask me for money. I'd sworn that morning that it was going to be a good day, and now look at what had happened. Rather than continue in this frame of mind, I went into prayer and changed my attitude. I decided to go on by the library, which was a soothing spot for me, and check out some books. After sitting in the quiet and reading a few minutes I gathered my books of choice, checked out and headed home. I was feeling somewhat better. \n As I entered the house Olly went crazy as usual. He has this routine of jumping all over me when I return. That puppy can make me smile under the worst of circumstances and I decided I'd spend the rest of the afternoon outdoors with him. We ran and played ball until I was out of energy. We sat in the swing together just enjoying the warm weather we were having when the phone rang. This time it was my daughter, so I figured it was just chatting about the baby and the adventures of being a new mom. Today her conversation turned in a little different direction than normal. \nTiffany and her family were planning to come down the next weekend for her sister's Baby shower. We had so much planning to do and preparing we had decided they'd come a couple of days earlier than originally planned. I was looking forward to them coming and spending some grandma time with Dublin. Her husband would arrive a day later, but Snack the Royal English Bull Dog would be arriving early as well. All the planning was going well until she started telling me how I must baby proof the house. Now I raised three kids of my own and had three other grandchildren. I wasn't really sure what she meant, I'd always picked up and put away things they could get into. However her instructions were much more detailed and much more demanding of my time. I just sat there and listened for a moment, and jokingly remarked that he'd just have to play outside with the dogs. Wrong thing to say because she lit me up like a firecracker. Already on edge from the previous argument with Will, this just took me over the edge. I just busted out crying and hung up. I could not believe what she was expecting of me. I had no reason to completely redo my entire home for a weekend visit. And I did not deserve this type of disrespect. I'd never allowed one of the children to get into a dangerous situation inside my home, and I had no idea where all this was coming from. I gently explained to her later in the evening how she came across with what she said and that it had hurt my feelings. I let this pass but could still feel the jagger in my heart. \nDinner time was approaching and I had plans to attend a barbeque at the neighbors house. They always have the best parties with a band, food, and drinks, it was always a good time. We'd planned to watch the big Carolina and Duke basketball game, and I was looking forward to this rivalry between friends as well. As I was getting dressed the headache that had hit me earlier was coming on stronger. It began when Olly and I were outdoors playing and I had noticed my eyes and nose began running, but nothing Flonase wouldn't help. The pollen had been especially early in the season, so I knew what the problem was. However, that headache was extreme by the time I had planned to leave. I had to lay down because the pain was so intense, and I knew that party was not happening for me. Oh well, just another plan for the day down the drain. \nAs I laid on the couch watching my Tarheels lose the game, I knew it was time to call it a day. I crawled into bed, closed my eyes and whispered a prayer that tomorrow would be a better day!!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: On The Seventh Day\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1964\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who is determined to not have their day spoiled — but the universe is trying their patience." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "*** Religious Irreverence ***\n\nHe sat back and put His feet up; it had been a long week. \n\nIt had started at the beginning. If He had known then what He knew now, He may have had second or even third thoughts about attempting this crazy process. But it was too late. What was done, was done and even though He was exhausted, He was proud of what He’d wrought. \nIt was on the first day that He began. The day was easy, He created light. It was good to see, but He could see nothing. Lots of nothing.\n\n“What is the point of all this light, Your Most Holy and Honoured Greatness?” Gabriel asked. Gabe was good at playing Devil’s Advocate. Well, he and Lucifer were brothers of sorts, so maybe it was a family trait.\n\n“I like to see.”\n\n“But you’ve used so much energy to create light, and for what? What can we see? What is your plan?”\n\n“My dear Gabriel, My plan is My own.” This was code for, ‘I am flying by the seat of My pants here, and I am making it up as I go along, but I will never admit as much to you!’ Gabriel nodded, aware that one does not question the Almighty Creator with impunity, and left His presence.\n\nThe second and third days were harder. Creating the sky should have taken moments, but it seemed as if He had neglected to think about boundaries. The sky kept expanding in a seemingly endless glitch. It took all of His energy to contain it and by the time He had wrestled it into some form of order; the day had gotten away from Him. Getting up bright and early on the third day, He was determined to make up for lost time. He created the water and the land, then caused plants to grow upon the land. It was beautiful, and He sat back to enjoy the fruits of His labour. It had been such a long day, and He had excelled Himself in the creative process.\n\n“Um, Most Holy One,” Gabriel interrupted His solitary musings about the garden He had wrought. It was a good garden. Alive and thriving. “Um… the Angels have sent me to deliver their… um… their complaints… or neighbourly concerns, shall we say. It seems as if this constant light is getting to them, and they are becoming…. well… short tempered. I have had to step in numerous times to settle petty arguments. It’s the lack of sleep that’s causing some of the host to get tetchy.”\n\nHe sighed. There was always a price to pay for beauty. “Thank you for your report. Please let the Angels know I will take their concerns to heart and will rectify the situation tomorrow.” He would have to delay His next step and sort the light situation out or there would be anarchy in heaven.\n\nAnd so it was that on the fourth day, He sorted the light out. He created the sun and moon, and because He didn’t really like the darkness, He dotted the night sky with stars.\n\n“Stars, Your Most Holy and Honoured Great One?” Gabriel asked Him, his voice heavy with dismay. “There is not much difference between night and day then, is there?” It was true, while the Sun shone warm and bright during the day, the night sky was full of cold glimmering lights that lit up the land with dazzling brilliance. “Perhaps if you were to set those stars further away, like billions of miles further away, they wouldn’t shine so bright.” Gabriel suggested. “Subtlety, it is quite becoming, you know.”\n\nAnd so it was that at the end of the fourth day, the stars were banished to the coldest, most distant regions of the sky, so that the Angels might sleep.\n\nBy the fifth day, He knew He needed to create something that would tame the vegetation that seemed to thrive unchecked, threatening to overrun His beautiful garden with towering weeds and rotting fruit. It took a day of hard work, perhaps the hardest He had worked yet, to create a plethora of animals, from the tiny to the enormous. He then set them to inhabit the land, sea, and sky. By the end of the day, His whole self quivered with exhaustion. Not one of the millions of creations was identical to the next. Diversity and uniqueness were the keywords for the brief from which He operated today, and the toll was extreme fatigue, but in the end, He looked upon His creation and was well pleased.\n\n“Most Holy and Revered One?” Gabriel’s hesitant voice interrupted His rest and rumination. \n\n“Mmmm?” He barely opened His holy eyes, as He studied the angel who hovered nervously nearby.\n\n“It seems like your creations are a little unruly. Each different animal has run wild and is creating havoc for the rest. The strong prey upon the weak, the smallest are multiplying alarmingly and decimating the natural vegetation, which is impacting the balance between flora and fauna.”\n\n“Gabriel, I am exhausted. Can you not give Me just one moment’s peace before you start on about how I need to make even more modifications?”\n\n“My sincere apologies, Oh Exalted One. But it is your creation, and I would hate to see that much effort come to nothing as it falls into unbridled chaos. There needs to be some form of caretaker, one that can keep the balance and ensure all is well.”\n\n“Gabriel, that will be My first order of business tomorrow, I promise, but for now, I must rest.”\n\nIf all the other days were hard, the sixth day was the hardest. A caretaker required serious thought. He couldn’t just throw random ideas together and see if they stuck, like the platypus, or the axolotl. This one had to be perfect, and so He created a form, so like His own, from the very earth itself. He spent hours forming and reforming until it was just right. Then He breathed life into it, and created a second, into which He also breathed life. Although it had taken longer than He intended or indeed, expected, He was very happy with the results and He set the creation off with the tasks to be fruitful and multiply, and to care for His creation as if it were the creature’s own.\n\nSo much time and energy went into this final creation, that He was totally done in, His reserves of energy were spent and He promised Himself that He was taking the next day off in lieu for all His overtime this week.\nAnd so on the seventh day, He rested.\n\nOr He would have rested if He hadn’t been interrupted.\n\n“Most Holy One, there appears to be a problem.”\n\n“What now, Gabriel,” He sighed.\n\n“Your creations are touching things they shouldn’t.”\n\n“Gabriel, you are a grown angel. Surely you can deal with it. This is My day off.” \n\nGabriel retreated, only to return moments later.\n\n“Most Holy One, the creations have gotten into the garden!”\n\n“Gabriel, I fail to see the problem,” He sighed wearily. “I created them to tend to the garden.”\n\n“But Your Greatness, the Tree of Knowledge is in that garden.”\n\n“What is this Tree of Knowledge? I do not recall creating it?”\n\n“I am not sure, but it exists now. Perhaps it mutated and created itself.”\n\n“Or perhaps some ‘no good’ angel interfered?” He intoned severely, His voice dripping with disappointment.\n\nGabriel had the grace to look shamefaced. “I had only thought to assist You with keeping the plants and animals in line by providing them with the ability to understand. I had no idea that You would create a keeper such as You did.”\n\n“You created this ‘knowledge tree’, now you must tend to it yourself. Keep it within a wall and do not let it out to pollute My creation. I will deal with it and with you after My rostered day off.”\n\nGabriel scuttled away in a flurry of energy. It was likely that the Angels would be dissatisfied with their lot now, and perhaps need extra stimulation and responsibilities, especially as His creation seemed to be growing and developing beautifully. He’d think about giving Gabriel a job. He could run errands, kind of like a messenger. That would keep the meddlesome angel occupied.\n\nHe stilled Himself to enjoy the moment of unfettered down time, face full in the sunshine and eyes closed. Peace was a rare commodity in heaven, so much happening, so many angels to coordinate, that it was rare for Him to have moments entirely to Himself. \n\n“Oh, Holy One…”\n\n“I’m resting!” He called back with a tone of voice that implied what was not said, that this had better be an emergency- a true life or death situation- for Gabriel to seriously consider disturbing him yet again.\n\n“I am so sorry to disturb you once again, but it seems the creations have ignored my wall and all my warnings. The female one has eaten of an apple.”\n\n“Gabriel, it’s an apple, for the sake of My Holy Name! What can possibly be so dire about her eating an apple that requires you to interrupt me ON MY DAY OFF?!”\n\n“Well… it came from the Tree of Knowledge. She knows things now.”\n\n“So?”\n\n“Knowledge is power, Oh Holy One.”\n\n“So, she has power? Is that what you are concerned about?” He asked, lounging back in the sunshine again, trying to regain a sense of that inner peace and tranquility he so desperately needed.\n\n“Knowledge without wisdom is dangerous, and Your creations are so new, they have not developed any wisdom to speak of.”\n\n“And you are speaking from experience, Gabriel?” He asked, reminding the angel of his lack of wisdom in creating the tree in the first place. Gabriel flinched, acknowledging his error. “How did My creations even know of this fruit?”\n\n“It would seem that there is a serpent in Your garden.”\n\n“And who, pray tell, let the serpent into My garden?”\n\n“… Well… I may have caught up with my brother for a few drinks…”\n\n“You let Lucifer into My garden?” He was alert and upright now, indignant and working hard to contain His rising fury. Family was family, after all, and Gabriel couldn’t help but want to love his brother… But sharing heavenly secrets with the enemy was unacceptable.\n\n“Gabriel, you need to sort this out yourself. This is a family matter. Get your brother away from my creations and I will deal with this, and you, after my day of rest. Am I clear?”\n\n“I understand, Oh Holy One.” Again, Gabriel fluttered away in a whirl of agitation and distress. He almost felt sorry for the angel, but he did bring this on himself with his meddling.\n\nFinding that inner peace was even more difficult now that His mind was consumed with thoughts of His creations and what chaos the rogue angel had set among them. He finally stilled His mind enough to calm His rioting thoughts. They would keep until His day of rest was over, and He would be more productive after taking the time out for His own self care. He didn’t need a therapist to give Him that advice; He was well versed in the need to rest and rejuvenate- R’n’R.\n\nHe had just slowed His breathing and finally reached that Zen pinnacle where mind and soul began to vibrate in harmony, when peace was shattered yet again by an urgent cry.\n\n“Oh My Good and Holy One, Cain just killed Abel!”\n\nHe sighed in frustration. It was true that there was no rest for the wicked. But truer still is the fact that there is is no rest for the good." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hands of a Sailor\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2937\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I sat in front of Dobie as he got animated while telling his tale of the Turtling hurricane that he survived. I know a little was going to be from his imagination but I sat to hear the tale of a real storyteller on a starry night with a warm breeze against my cheek and the gentle rock of my ketch in the change of tide swell. He took a gulp of rum and began with a nod of head.\n‘The wind started to go all wrong and Cop’n had to order a reef in the main. Then he had to order the jib topsail down, then another reef. The seas were kicking up with the wind against the current and the confusion from the reefs way behind us they said. We pulled down the foresail and the outer jib and charged through with just the main, foresail and inner jib. It was wet sailing on a dry boat as they say. But it didn’t stop there, no. Soon, it was wet from above and decks awash, and a howling that pushed the schooner steadily sideways. We found it tiring just to sit on that bumping, slanting deck. We had to pull all sail down, and off, and stowed, as best we could, below decks. We were now just hove-to with the handkerchief of a heavy staysail stropped to the main mast and pulled tight amidships to keep our head on and slanted to some monstrous waves. \n‘The bowsprit stuck into the seas and put our decks completely awash with us hanging on to anything we could. Cop’n and Uncle Tubby were at the helm struggling to keep her at the right angles to the seas as we would go up and up into bright turquoise, then race down into a valley of dark green. We could see fish and even sharks and tortle in the waves turning over and over. My Junior Tote was gone along with his mates as the deck was cleaned off. A Nor’wester was what it was or a hurricane was what I was later told since it was the wrong time of year for a Nor’wester.\n‘Cop’n changed course as we went down a wave and put us on a beam reach with the waves surfing us but the bowsprit was out of the water and we almost stayed still but we were pointing away from our destination and toward the reefs again.\n‘I have to say though… that I liked it. No, I loved it. The wind and seas flying, the taste of salt something close to being really free, you know. With the wind on the beam you could stand up again and I remember standing there in the waist by the lee rail. That storm jib was strained and wet and shiny. The seas were foaming by us, aside us, under us. They had to be at least twenty foot and we just went up and up, then down, then up. The sky cleared and the rain stopped and the wind lessened a bit but Cop’n did not turn back the course at all.\n‘I volunteered to take the helm, some of the boys were below and I think scared but I was almost in heaven in that storm and wanted the feel of control the wheel gives. There were always two of us throughout that day and we were not going forward much just enough to keep the vessel controlled, you know. The teeth of those reefs were still where they were and we did not want to be near them, so no more sail went up until evening fell. Cop’n made the boys come up on deck and set the forestaysail, but kept the storm staysail up, as he turned us back toward Key West since the waves were lesser now. I was sure we were out of it now and was even joking with Tote about being in a real storm at sea. Uncle Tubby heard me and said we were not in the storm yet. That there was a hurricane coming up and Cop’n wanted to get us as far away from the reefs as is possible before it hits.\n‘I saw him tying two axes and a couple of machets to the main mast and an axe to the foremast. Tote told me we might have to cut the masts out. I had heard of that but when you are there it doesn’t make much sense and it too unreal, you know? When Uncle Tubby passed I called to him and asked if we would be cutting out the masts. He said if we have to but this hurricane was coming and Cop’n wanted to keep trudging toward Isla Pinos so we might have to cut them out. Uncle Tubby was of the opinion that we should reach over to Rio Largatos and hide in the mangroves over West in the Yucatan, in Mexico. But he knew it was not to be. Cop’n was a hard man to change his thoughts and was going to try for Isla Pinos and the reefs off there. Cop’n, Uncle Tubby said, thought the reefs would protect us since they would give us a windward shore. Thing was, Uncle Tubby said, hurricanes travel in a circle which could also make the reefs a leeward shore. It was too much of a gamble, he thought.\n‘Part of Cop’n’s reasoning was that we had already lost all the tortle on the deck and would have to try and get some at Isla Mujeres after the storm but Uncle Tubby felt that we might lose some time at Lagartos but still be alive. This was all exciting to me. Tote thought I was nuts. The seas grew again. Their power was truly grand, no, not just grand, more than that. It was threatening, menacing like it was alive and completely focussing on us. The seas pulled the sky down until you could not tell the difference. The seas were in command and made everything loud and black. Night fell and the hissing and howling made me scream and now I was scared. I was scared. I had to pee but couldn’t move. I couldn’t see anybody though Tote and Uncle Tubby were right next to me pulling on me to get down. Life was a screaming blur, man.’\nDobie stopped and looked around. He drained his rum and looked around again, then down to his hands that were shaking. He looked at me and shook his head with his mouth open, then smiled.\n‘Whoa, that was something, man. That was a true memory there, Rod. Man, I was there again. They say you can’t really remember a hurt or a fear but that is definitely not true because I just went through both. I was there and a tortle log flew at me and hit me in the arm. Uncle Tubby was yelling at me. I looked around at blackness and felt the cabin top, trying to raise myself up but being pushed down by wind. Wind. Wind pushing me like I was a piece of paper. I just felt it all, man.\n‘I don’t know how long I was laying on the deck holding on to the foremast. I don’t remember getting to the foremast. This hand of wind just pushing me straight along the deck with my legs streaming aft. I don’t remember us going up and down waves, maybe because I couldn’t see through the water and wind in my eyes. I don’t know. But the morning came in as the wind increased then dropped to nothing. The seas ran this way and that and Celia just jumped around like a football being kicked between boys. Big old vessel she was, she was still just a football being kicked around. I had to hold on to even get to a sitting position. I only saw a couple of the crew’s heads just above the cabin top forward. The Cop’n and Jamie were at the helm. Their waists were lashed to the wheel box and their heads were hatless and tilted forward studying in the compass, steering by the compass. Jamie looked up. I think he had just noticed the lack of wind. He spoke to Cop’n, who looked up and around and slowly shook his head. It was so hot that my eyes were sweating in the stillness with wavelets jumping all around and Celia bouncing up and down. Then, she settled and the seas lay flat. Uncle Tubby yelled to get the tortle from out of the hold. He was yelling and yelling and saying we didn’t have much time. Get that weight out of the vessel was what he was yelling to us. I ran to the hold and jumped in. Tote was already there. We were lifting two and three hundred pound snapping and scared tortle up to hands above us.\n‘Then the breeze started up and relieved the heat a bit as we hauled and hefted up by their flippers those shelled reptiles. I was glad that they were going back to the sea. Strange at that time to be remembering that I was glad that all of our work and time and pains of mosquitos, no-seeums, loneliness, homesickness was for nothing. I was really glad, man, deeply glad they were going overboard. Maybe I just had to think of something else other then this crap that I found myself in.\n‘The seas started rolling with a rhythm again, they started growing tall as the breeze became a wind, became a gale. We got all the tortle out and could barely gain the deck again my arms were useless and my weight was much more then I remembered. Some hands pulled me out and I looked up at seas as high as the masts charging toward us. Celia rose and rose and rose with us tilted backward. I was holding onto the foremast again and feeling like I was laying against a wall with no bottom for my feet. We started going down the other side and I wrapped my legs around the mast. Things and people rolled, bounced, flew by me. The wind hit hard like a fist against my back. Maybe I have gotten this all out of order, I don’t know. I was there with a wind pushing me and Celia climbing again.\n‘The wind had a soft whistling tune that I remember thinking of some song but could not remember what song. Maybe it wasn’t a song but a train whistle like in the movies. It was a train whistle but with deeper notes, then high pitched notes. It was a wind train charging at us pushing us up and pulling us down. When I looked I could see three men at the helm but did not recognise them because of the water spread across my vision. Then, trying to clear my eyes, I saw it coming from the stern with a clear blue sky above and perfectly outlined by that blue was a white mass of wave top, curling teeth-like, moving much faster then we were and we were not rising. I lashed the loose end of a water barrel line that was tied to an eye on the cabin side around my waist and waited. The wall of water sucked up the stern, lifting it and I could see Cop’n, Uncle Tubby and Jamie at the wheel all three of them with turned heads looking up at the sea.\n‘That was the picture that remains to this day in my head. That was the last I saw of them. I can still see the Cop’n’s white shirt with blood stains on them, Jamie’s chequered shirt buttoned to his chin and Uncle Tubby shaking his head with a corner of a smile showing on half of his face. I think he was just accepting the fact that he was going the way of his father and his father’s father. I want to go that way too, you know.’\nDobie paused after saying that to turn his head and wipe a few tears away that wouldn’t stop flowing. He got up and walked over to the rail and cried up his sorrow at that loss and memory. His back was shaking as he let it out with a moan of deep hurt. After a while Dobie came back, smiling.\n‘Yeah. Well, after that wave the seas got up bad and poor Celia was suffering. Somebody, on their sides so I could only hear them, were chopping at the main mast. Another big wave came and washed over us. No wheel. No Cook-rum. When it finished there was no main mast and the rigging had crashed across the cabin caving in a long streak of torn and splintered wood. Celia had turned to have the waves on her beam because of the mast dragging still connected to her by the rigging on her port side.\n‘The next big wave came and we turned sideways and leaned and she was going down. I, with a clear thought somehow, pulled my knife out and cut the barrel loose from the cabin side. The barrel was basically empty and we bobbed up to the top of the seas. There was wreckage and the foremast top sticking up with a few men clambering on to pieces of board and anything floating. Another wave came and another and another until the big ones all stopped and I was alone, drifting with the barrel.\n‘I saw a half of the cabin top and kicked my way over to it, hauling myself and the barrel up onto the top. There was still wind and a lot of sea but the big waves were only forming at one spot and Celia’s foremast with her wind pennant blowing sweetly was still sticking up there.There was nobody around that I could see but there was a dinghy upended floating a little way off. Somehow I tore off a part of the cabin top and used it as a paddle to get over to it. I got it upright and baled most of the water out with the scupper that was tied to the after thwart. Fishing lines were in a tangle but hooks and line were still aboard. A water cask held a little water in the bottom so I felt I could make do for a while. I broke up more of the cabin top to make paddles and the whole thing fell apart and mostly sank. The wind moderated and I went to sleep in the water in the bilge of the dinghy.\n‘When I woke up it was night again but the wind was gentle and the seas were calm. The half moon stood out like the world was a nice place and I kept trying to piece it all together but couldn’t. When I moved my arms and legs were a source of sharp pain so I just lay there and fell asleep again. The day woke me with heat. I saw that I had a bunch of cuts on my body and my left shoulder was really hurting and I could barely move my arm. I saw where the sun was moving and knew that West would be Mexico so I baled water out of the dinghy as much as I could and got up into the bow and paddled. Later, when I figured it out with the fishing line, I tied pieces of wood from the wood I had saved for paddles and made a short mast then tied my shirt and trousers like a very ill-shaped sail and the dinghy responded and moved forward. I used another piece of my cabin top wood and rigged a rudder and very slowly started reaching toward the bottom of Mexico. I followed the sun during the day and the waxin’ moon at night. Then, there was Orion racing across the sky and the Big Dipper circling the North Star. I could figure where I was but not how far to where I wanted to go. No use worrying about it though, so I just kept moving West.\n‘I would stop every so often to check the fishing line I was trolling with some of my blood soaked onto a strip of shirt. I caught a bonito and ate it too quickly. I vomited in the bilge while I was eating. I used part of that fish as bait and caught a small dorado. I ate a few chunks out of that and cut the rest into strips and laid them on the middle thwart to dry cook like we did at home.\n‘The first night a haze blurred the stars I did start to worry since I could only go by the current I hoped was going West too. That next day I could see that that haze was brown, meaning land and washed my worries away. The stars came out that night making me smile and my heart beat wildly as I saw my current thinking was right. The next day almost at day break I made it to a reef and found a small cut to get the dinghy through. On the shore were people sun bathing and some of the women were topless.\n‘So,’ Dixie had concluded, ‘that’s the story. And, as you can see I am here to tell it.’\n‘You went back turtling for years though, didn’t you?’\n‘Yeah, man.’ Dobie folded his thick right hand across his thick left hand." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: He was way too good!\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1173\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who would have complete happiness, if it weren’t for that one thing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Zac the Mac was ready. His name was really Zacchary MacDonald. He was in his final year of Deadbeat High School, in some leafy green suburb. He was the only son of his single mother, a nurse. She had brought Zac up to be a good Christian lad. He had stepped up to the plate to be the prayer leader of his local youth group at his church.\nUnfortunately for Zac the Mac, as he was nicknamed by his classmates, he was the shortest guy in their last year of high school. He had found it hard to compete in football and other sports. But he was a nifty runner, so he had been practicing.\n\"I'm in your corner!\" his mother had told him, when Zac shared that he wanted to train for the cross-country regional championships. So Zac and his mother had daily set their alarms, so he could train and develop his speed and endurance in running. His mother, with her simple faith, had always been there, in any sort of weather, timing him on her stop watch.\nZac the Mac surprised the other athletic students by being chosen as the last runner on the Deadbeat High School mixed cross-country team. He made it! The competition day soon arrived, Zac the Mac was lining up at the start, he nervously eyed off his own team mates. They were truly giants, like Goliaths of track running. But they had all grown up together.\nIndeed, Zac the Mac felt like little David. That had always been his favorite Bible story, from way back. God was on his side, he had his mother in his corner, cheering him every step of the way. She had the loudest voice, but her cheers and pep talks kept him going through thick and thin.\nThe bus from their opposition school had showed up in time. Their traditional rivals today were Posh Christian College,from over the hill in their little town in the world. They naturally thought they were superior, in snow white running gear. They too lined up, start time was drawing near.\nBy the way, Zac the Mac had always fancied himself as a ladies' man too. But, even more bad luck there. All the girls in his classes at Deadbeat High School towered over his short self. They snickered if he ever tried to chat them up, let alone ask them to dance at teen socials. Still, that was not an issue today. Zac the Mac had to run his best, he was in the team.\nBut, amazing. As Zac the Mac was doing his stretches, delayed by the starter for some reason, he glanced across at the Posh Christian College team. Their last runner on their team was a tiny chick. For once, Zac the Mac had noticed a girl even shorter than he was. She had a mass of brunette hair, tied in a swishy pony tail, big blue eyes, a lovely, pretty face. All over, a beautiful little package.\nZac the Mac smiled, a bit hesitant. Chicks like her usually had large, protective boyfriends. Very possessive, some teen males. Her name tag read, \"Ebony.\" Zac the Mac was even more amazed when this bundle of cuteness walked over to him. What could he say?\n\"Haven't seen you around her before! My name is Zacccary, but everyone calls me Zac the Mac.\" He attempted his winning smile. Surprise, Ebony wanted to chat to him, not some Goliath.\n\"Hi, I'm Ebony. I'm the new kid in town, just started in final year. I think I saw you in church the other day, my first time there. Are you the Zac that leads the youth group? Can I join?\"\n\"All welcome,\" Zac the Mac replied, \"Have you been training too?\"\n\"Absolutely, I love running, especially cross-country.\"\n\"Line up, teams.\" The starter held up his pistol, all were ready.\n\"Hey,\" said Ebony, \"Do you want to run together? Short stuff like us have got this. Best foot forward, Jesus is in our corner.\" One of the large Goliaths made embarrassing kissy noises at Zac and Ebony.\nJust then, Zac the Mac's mother yelled, \"Come on, Zac the Mac. You have got this.\" That set the crowd of parents off to cheering and mild applause. Ebony said, \"Don't worry. There's my mother, clapping the loudest. Some teens have mothers.\"\nZac the Mac grinned. Maybe God was walking at his side, presenting him with a cool short chick like Ebony. Was Zac having emotions? Not quite appropriate, on with the race.\nThe starter pistol fired, and the runners were off. Only a few miles, for mixed cross country. The large Goliaths of teens in final year galloped off, very confident that Zac the Mac would not be a concern.\n\"Well, der,\" Ebony muttered, as she and Zac the Mac started in last place, level with each other, but running at a steady pace. They kept in touch with the flashy front runners. They raced through the sloping fields at the back of their leafy green suburb, past one patch of forest, then into the large pine plantation. The runners had to follow the flags, round corners, up hills, then across a swinging bridge over the local river.\nThe path they were all following so keenly turned into gravel, and uphill. This was harder to run along, but Zac the Mac was very fit. This little Ebony was holding her own, definitely no slouch, and a great runner with it. Their breathing was getting a bit harder, but the pair of short stuff clung to the heels of the giant teens.\nDisaster! The leading largest teen boy appeared to stumble at the top of the hill. Soon, there was a massive pile up of collapsed teens. Zac the Mac was going to run past them all and claim victory. But he caught a glimpse of little Jesus in his heart. He and Ebony paused, reached their hands to raise the front runners, who all had gravel rash.\n\"Come on, \"Zac the Mac told them,\" \"You've got two legs, use them. We're in this team together.\" Then he and Ebony ran on, and finally crossed the finish line together, level all the way. The others staggered in behind. No one could believe that incredible victory, of Zac and Ebony over the teen Goliaths. Zac the Mac's mother was ecstatic. Phone photos were taken, as the medals were awarded.\nZac the Mac was still the shortest male there. Apart from that, he was completely happy.\nEbony placed her phone number in Zac the Mac's phone. Maybe his love life was looking up. One last wave as Ebony boarded the bus back to Posh Christian College, over the hill. Zac and his mother blessed themselves. It is very cool to be grateful. Zac the Mac was in his prime, Jesus had been at his side. Zac the Mac put on his hoodie jacket, like Jesus had worn a hood. Jesus had been way too good. That made Zac the Mac a winner!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Chasing Her Storm\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 3000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who risks their life to take a photo." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The world has a way of taking a peaceful life and bringing into it storms of turbulence. Skies once clear and cloudless overtaken by a dark overcast of depression. Rains of doubt and winds of worthlessness screaming down until they destroy everything in their wake.\n\nEvery feeling of hope and every ray of sunshine blotted out by a thunderstorm of the worst life has to offer.\n\nWhen I was eight, that was before the clouds started to roll in on the horizon. When I was eight, I had a toy astronaut. He had a shiny, silver suit and a space mask. His name was Rambo. I loved watching that old movie with my friends.\n\nRambo was amazing. I had him go on adventures to the moon, fight space aliens, and save the world from a deadly virus from Mars. Rambo did it all and still came back unscathed (most of the time, there were a few occasions where the rubber of his suit tore or the plastic on his arms chipped, but hey, what was a warrior without a few battle scars?)\n\nOne day, at dinner, while Dad was reading his newspaper and Mom was dishing out a second helping of pot roast, I made a grand announcement. \n\n“Mom, Dad?” I declared, practically boiling with excitement. I held Rambo tight to my chest. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be an astronaut.”\n\nMom looked up from spooning out the roast into my bowl. \n\nShe scowled. “Dash. Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t be an astronaut.” \n\nMy heart sank. I peeked at Dad. He was clicking his tongue and shaking his head in bitter disappointment. \n\n“Why...\" I swallowed hard. Rambo was pressed to my heart. “Why not?”\n\n“Because that’s an unrealistic dream.” My mom grunted. “Only the elite get to be astronauts. And,” she scoffed, waving her spoon to indicate our dining room. It was about the size of a small bedroom. With low-hanging ceilings and yellowing walls. “We are not the elite.”\n\n“With your grades,” my dad added. “We’ll be lucky if you can even make it through high school in one piece!” He rolled up his newspaper and tapped my arm. “Eat your supper, boy. Stop talking fool’s talk.”\n\nMy lip trembling and my eyes filled with tears, I shakily picked up my spoon and forced myself to eat every last bite of that tasteless cold dinner. \n\nAfterwards, I went up to my room. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at Rambo. He didn’t seem like a hero anymore.\n\nJust a hunk of plastic.\n\nA toy I’d dreamed into something special. \n\nTears streamed down my face. I glared at Rambo, like he was the enemy.\n\n“Worthless.” I whispered. “Worthless dream...\"\n\nI stood up and flung Rambo across the room. He hit the wall and slid down behind my dresser. \n\n***\n\nMy parents were right about me. I didn’t make it through high school. The work was just too hard, and my heart wasn’t in it. \n\nI wasn’t smart enough to amount to anything, so what was the point of trying?\n\nI dropped out a few months into my senior year. My little sister, who’d been born my freshman year, was four then. \n\nMadi was the joy of my life. I’d rather be with her than anyone else in the world. She was a cute kid, with a button nose and golden, fluffy hair with big brown eyes that made her look like a happy golden retriever. \n\nMadi reminded me of... me. Me back when the world was still all sunshine and rainbows. Me back when I still had hope in my future.\n\nBefore I became a high school dropout living in his parents basement. Ignored and locked away like an animal. A ghost lurking in the darkness. Best to forget about and never speak of, lest people judge you for keeping it.\n\nMadi was the only one who came down those rickety basement stairs to see me. She would bring her dolls and her stuffed animals, and I would play with her.\n\nSome of the games we played seemed insane. One time, she had us playing zombie apocalypse, where only two dogs, Bark and Fluffy, were left to save humanity from the virus. I laughed when she first told me the premises of the make-believe game.\n\n“Why are you laughing, Dash?” The four-year-old asked me, blinking her wide, innocent eyes. \n\nI smiled. “Well, I’m laughing cause something like two dogs saving humanity is...\" I trailed off, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Madi’s sweet eyes never left my face.\n\n“Is a wonderful idea, sweetheart.” I reached out, ruffling my sister’s fluffy hair. “You’ve got a beautiful imagination, you know that?”\n\nMadi grinned.\n\n“I know!” She chirped. ““Now, listen real carefully, Dash, cause we have to be…Pre… Prec…”\n\n“Precise?”\n\n“Yes! Because if we don’t, then the zombies will win!”\n\n***\n\nTwo years after I dropped out, a few days after my twenty-first birthday, the morning started off okay. I woke up. I got dressed. I poured myself a bowl of milk and filled it with fruit loops. I turned on the TV to the news and sat on my couch...and my bed... a mixture of both in one jumbled mess of blankets and throw pillows.\n\nThe weather channel was a chaotic mess of flashing red and yellow splotches all over a map of Kansas. The weatherman was practically jumping around in panic, waving his arms around like a stranded man trying to hail down a plane. \n\nHeavy rain here, and powerful winds there. Chance of tornadoes there, and warnings for anyone in this and that area to evacuate.\n\nI didn’t bat an eye. What did I care? If a tornado came and swept away my house that would be the most exciting thing that has happened to me in years...\n\nIt’d be neat to fly, but I guess thinking that is foolish and a dreamer’s mindset, huh, Mom and Dad? I cast a disapproving look at the ceiling above as it creaked and groaned from footsteps on the floor. \n\nI sighed. I got up and put my dish atop a mountain of them in the sink in my small kitchenette in the corner of the wide basement.\n\nI spent the day playing Xbox with Lance and Danny until I got a call from Walmart about my job application.\n\nAnother rejection.\n\nI hung up the phone just as the rain picked up speed outside. I glared out the one window in the basement. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared ominously. \n\nI heard the door to the basement creak open. Madi flaunted down the stairs, grinning.\n\n“Hey.” I said, swallowing my anger and disappointment. “How was school, rugrat?”\n\n“We got let out early!” Madi told me. She jumped up and sat on the back of my couch. “Because of the storm and the tornado warnings!”\n\n“You are back early, aren’t you?” I looked at my phone. It was 2:30. \n\n“Yep.”\n\n“Well, whatcha wanna do?” I wrapped one arm around my sister’s shoulders. “I’m all yours.”\n\nMadi didn’t leap into an explanation of her newest game idea. Instead, her face was contemplative. She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes and gazed out the window. My own smile slipped, and I kneeled down so I could look my baby sister in the eyes. \n\nI let my hand cup the side of her face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You look like someone just killed your best friend.”\n\nMadi blinked hard.\n\n“Dash?” She breathed, as though she could barely force out the words. “If I tell you a secret, do you promise not to tell anyone? Especially Mommy and Daddy?”\n\n“Sure, well, as long as it’s not anything dangerous.”\n\n“It’s not.” Madi promised. “But it’s special and it’s important, and it’s not something Mom and Dad will like, you know?”\n\nMy jaw tightened. An image of my old astronaut figure, Rambo, flickered in my mind. \n\n“Yeah. I know what you mean.”\n\n“Dash, I wanna be a storm chaser!” Madi’s eyes glowed. “We had a man come to school today. He talked to us about what it was like to be a chaser, and I just knew, in my heart, that that’s what I want to do! When I grow up...\" Her little face fell. “But I started to tell mom and she said... that man was a fool and that he was just a burden on hardworking folks like her and Dad. Is she right, Dash? Is wanting to be a storm chaser a dumb dream?”\n\nMy stomach clenched. My mouth went dry. I remembered that night, at the table, when all of my dreams were torn apart and ripped to shreds by the merciless sharks that had brought me into the world. \n\nI wasn’t about to let the same thing happen to Madi. \n\n“No dream that is important to you is dumb.” I told my sister. “And don’t ever let anyone else tell you what you can be. Madi, if you wanna be a storm chaser, you be a storm chaser. You’ll be the best one in the world; I know that much.”\n\nMadi beamed, gazing at me as though I’d just brought the sun out from behind the clouds to shine just for her.\n\nThe six-year-old hopped off the couch and raced to the window. She pressed her face against the glass and took in the storm outside with her body quivering in awe. I came to stand beside her, leaning against the wall and half-closing my eyes. Sparks crackled around gray clouds, and rain shimmered like diamonds as it fell across a violet sky. \n\nIt was a sight to behold.\n\n“I wish I had a camera. A camera like the chaser at school showed us. I’d go out there and get a picture of a real tornado.” Madi spoke so fast her words rolled along with the rumbles of thunder. “So I could put it up on my wall, right behind my bed, and look at it every night and every morning so that I can see my dream.”\n\nMy lips curled up as I observed her optimism. “Well, you could print one off the internet.” \n\n“Yeah.\" Madi’s shoulders drooped. “But it’s not the same as having one you took with your own camera.”\n\nI nodded slowly, thoughtfully. My eyes never left the storm. \n\n***\n\nAt 5:00 PM, Mom called Madi upstairs for dinner. When my sister left, I began digging through piles of clothes on the floor and rummaging through my storage space under the stairs. \n\nI found it lodged between a box of clothes and old stuffed animals. My camera.\n\nI picked up the camera. I tested its buttons and its zoom.\n\nEverything worked as good as the day I’d gotten it. I grabbed a backpack and put my camera inside. I picked up my phone and pulled up a map I'd been studying. A map marked with red splotches.\n\nBefore I left, I went over to the couch, to the place where Madi had left one of her stuffed animals, and I placed a carefully written note under the dog’s silk paws.\n\nI left my other gift to my sister, leaning against the toy’s side, where she would be sure to see it. \n\nI swung the backpack over one shoulder, and I made my way upstairs. I was careful not to make enough noise to alert my family of my presence. I opened the front door, slowly, and stepped outside. A blast of wind struck my face. Rain dribbled down from the gutter above like drool from a dog’s jowls. Goosebumps popped up on my arms. My teeth chattered against the biting cold. Holding an arm in front of my face, I fought my way from the house to my car. \n\nI got in and started the engine. The old Ram sputtered to life with a shake and a cough. I sat there for a moment. My phone, with the map on the screen, sitting on my thigh. I stared out into the downpour. \n\nWas I really going to do this?\n\nMadi’s face flashed through my mind at the same time that a flash of lightning lit the sky above. Her smiling mouth and her twinkling eyes. Her imagination in all its beauty; raw and untouched, magical.\n\nYes. Yes, I was going to do this. I was going to do for my baby sister what my mother and my father had been incapable of doing for me. \n\nI was going to help her chase her dream. \n\n***\n\nChasing down a tornado is no easy task, even with a map that predicts where one may form. I took back roads through thick woods and then raced down crowded highways before ending up on a deserted roadway cutting through pastureland. My old Ram chugged along, hacking like a dying man. \n\nIt was in the pastureland where I saw it. A thing of true magnificence. An embodiment of destruction.\n\nIt dipped down from the sky like an ice cream cone, its tip dancing over the fields. The wind was so powerful that it rocked my car from side to side like a horse on a carousel. \n\nAt first, I couldn’t move. I sat with my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight that it was a wonder I didn’t snap it into pieces. My breath caught in my throat, and my eyes watered with awe.\n\nWhat a wondrous, terrifying, phenomenon to behold. \n\nMadi’s drive to study and witness such events as this made perfect sense to me then. Oh, forget what mom and dad said. Anyone who has the guts to chase down beasts of glory like this spinning whirlwind before me was a person worthy of respect.\n\nShaking, I picked up my camera and slipped from the car. I pressed my body to the hood as the wind beat and battered my weak form. I held up the camera with trembling hands.\n\nSnap!\n\nI took that picture Madi wanted so badly. I could have left. I could have taken my camera and climbed back in the car, gone home to my cellar and my worthless world. A world so dull in comparison to the one I’d longed for as a child. \n\nSnap!\n\nI took another picture. This one was more detailed than the first.\n\nSnap!\n\nWhat a dangerous thing I was doing. \n\nSnap! \n\nBut I didn’t care. How was this for being a responsible and relational adult? Mom and dad would be disgusted. But I didn’t care. I just didn’t care anymore.\n\nSnap! Snap! \n\nI should have run when I realized that it wasn’t the camera making that grand funnel bigger and bigger, closer and closer. I didn’t though. \n\nSnap! Snap! Snap!\n\nI didn’t stop taking pictures until that powerful beast of the sky pounced upon me. Because this time, I wasn’t letting anything chase me away from where I wanted to be.\n\n***\n\n“Madi... Madi, honey. It’s been two weeks. You have to stop pouting and eat something.”\n\nI looked up at my mom. She looked furious, not sad. \n\nShe and Dad hadn’t cried at his funeral. They’d stuck together and whispered. They’d whispered about how devastated they were that their son turned out to be such a wimp. A fool who’d broken their hearts. \n\n“I’m not hungry.” I whispered, my lip trembling. I pushed my chair away from the table and ran. I started for my room before changing directions and rushing down to the basement.\n\nNo one had been down there since that night two weeks ago, when Dash had... gotten caught in the storm. \n\nThe police had come to our house. They’d looked at me with such sorrowful eyes. They told my parents what happened in hushed voices that I hadn’t been able to make out.\n\nThey gave Dad a memory card from a camera.\n\n“Somehow,” the cop had told him. “That little drive there made it out in one piece. Your son took photos before... before.” The man cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Thought y'all might wanna hang onto them.” \n\nI didn’t know what was on the drive at first. But when Dad came stomping out of his study after bringing it in there to check and threw it in the trash can, I knew I had to know. \n\nI was in a computer class at school. I had a school computer that people in my advanced class brought to and from school. I loaded the drive onto my computer and pulled up the pictures.\n\nBeautiful and deadly, picture after picture, far off and up close, of a twister met my eyes.\n\nI burst into tears. \n\nThrough those tears, I printed the photos and taped every last one behind my bed. Where I wrote on the bottom of each-.\n\nDash\n\nMy mind flickering back to the present, I sniffled as I shakily made my way down the stairs. \n\nThis was where my brother had been cast away from the family like an unwanted jacket. An outcast in his own home.\n\nI reached the bottom of the stairs and stood there.\n\nEverywhere I looked. I saw him. This basement to me was him. \n\nI stumbled my way over to the couch. A couch that we’d sat on together and watched movies or played games for hours and hours. Dash was never too tired for me, never too sad, no matter how bad things got.\n\nI sat down and yelped as something sharp poked at my skin. I jumped up.\n\nThere was an action figure lying in a pile on top of one of my stuffed puppies. \n\nA little astronaut.\n\nI picked it up. It wasn’t one of my toys. \n\nThat was when I saw the paper trapped under my stuffy's paw. \n\nI grabbed it and held it with my other hand, clutching the astronaut.\n\nThis is Rambo. He’s a good and faithful friend. I gave up on him. Don’t you do the same. Chase your dreams, Madi. Believe in yourself. \n\nLove you, kid.\n\n—Dash" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: I Have a Mouth but Cannot Speak\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1024\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which each paragraph begins or ends (or both!) with the same sentence." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I Have a Mouth but Cannot Speak\nStage One\nThere’s nothing quite like the smell of an old church. Perfume from the collective mothers of our congregation fills the air. When I take in their scent, I can see my wife getting ready with her padded shoulders and snake-crushing black heels. The worn cushions atop the wooden pews bring a peace that surpasses understanding. This is a foundational place. Matthew leads the church in worship. Great Is Thy Faithfulness echoes through the aging building. It’s the kind of music that feels like it could anoint us with fire and burn away painful memories. The power of the Holy Ghost manifests in the joining of our voices. God is good.\n\nSeeing him takes me back to the morning of his baptism. I can still picture every detail. The way the sun pierces the stained glass to create rays of holy light. Mahogany Jesus watching over my son from his cross, which rests just above the baptismal pool. The veil pulls back to reveal my son. He’s smaller. Timid. Not yet the man he will become. He hesitates while our pastor shepherds him into the water. He’s terrified of the water. But I know that fear has been overcome. God is good.\n\n\nStage Two\n I doubt we’ll ever know the beauty that was present in the Garden of Eden. I imagine Miranda’s handiwork comes as close as it gets. My wife has a way of cultivating something out of nothing. The same way she converted me to the faith, she converts these dead leaves into beautiful arrangements. Succulents of all kinds and colors decorate our backyard. Purples, pinks, one’s with little leaves that resemble bear paws. There’s a dog in the yard too. A lab mixed with a pit. Or a pit mixed with a chow. Or some combination of the four. All I know is she’s fat and old, just like me. It’s a miracle she’s still around. God is good.\n\nUsed to be our dog, until her stubborn strength became too much for us. She’s Matt’s now and he brought her along for the holidays. I don’t mind, so long as she behaves. The dog sniffs the succulents, then starts digging up the roots. Never did that before. Get! I call out. I whistle and holler, but she won’t listen. Those are my wife’s plants and by God’s grace they survived the winter. They won’t be ruined now. She only responds to her name. I try to yell her name, but it escapes me. My mouth hangs open for a moment, then two, then three as my thoughts stall. The damn dog’s snout is full of dirt. I can feel the name drifting further away like a plank of wood in the sea. Molly! My wife says. Molly rushes back with her tail between her legs. The name washes over me like a cold shower. Molly. God is good.\n\n\nStage Three\nThe drive from my doctor’s isn’t usually this bad. They need to stop all that useless construction. Things are fine the way they are. All those toll taxes and for what? Just to be stuck on the 417. It didn’t used to be this way. Before all the tourists moved down. There are countless cars ahead of me. I don’t recognize the license plates. I’ve been stopped for Lord knows how long. Who’s honking at me? There’s nowhere to go, jackass. Grant me patience, Father. God is good.\n\nHonking turns to ringing—a vibration in my pocket. Honey? Where are you? What’s taking so long? It’s my wife. I’m on the highway, I should be home in twenty minutes, I say. She asks me why I’m on the highway. I tell her about the traffic, the construction, and the idiot behind me. What grocery store did you go to? She asks. The groceries. I forgot. I apologize and tell her the doctor's appointment and traffic got me confused. I’ll be home soon. Her voice is more frantic. Your appointment was last week. Honk. Traffic moves. Four miles from home. God is good.\n\n\nStage Four\nThe light from my computer is bright. It’s crunch time. There’s a deadline tomorrow so my fingers type away as the incessant pressure to perform pulls me further into a state of blankness. 85 words per minute upon pages upon pages upon pages. The office feels cramped and I can't tell if the AC isn’t working or if I’m catching a fever. A disease. The doctor diagnosed me. Says I should rest and medicate. Well, I’m not tired and why should I have to swallow pills that’ll make me choke? I’m praying and I’m still sick so that just means I have something to learn. God is good.\n\nThe screen is so bright. The words are like ants crawling on the page. Only my fingers know what I’m typing. Next time don’t give me such a tight deadline. I have church in the morning; I could be doing church things. They have a prayer group for me. I’m praying. We’re praying, so that just means I have something to learn. Whatever it is, I can’t learn it from here. Dad, it’s time to get you ready for bed. Can’t you see I’m working? I’ll read you a story tomorrow. Dad. You’re retired. It’s late. Let me help. Don’t fucking touch me. I’ll be done soon. God is good.\n\n\nStage Five\nThey say the boy is my grandson. I see Matt’s face on this boy. There are more people. Shadows loom over my family. Stalking. Dark suits in men. Pitchforks in the air. I can feel warm fire outside windows dark. The Devil taunts. Great is Thy Faithfulness on this boy.\nGod is good\n\n\n\nStage Six\nI will make him a helper fit for him Wo man Blurred \n features black heels Shoulders shepherd into\n water She is all snake woman\n singing praise morning by morning Fear\n blooms like bear retired Groceries idiot almost\nhome More time 4 1 7 Prayers per minute\n Father grant me something learn \n Fear overcome Miracle Soon \n away Get \n alone\n God \n is \n good\n\n\nStage Seven\nGod\n\n\n is" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: HIS VOICE AMONG THE STARS\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2534\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story within a story within a story within a ..." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Prologue\n\nFrom the depths of ancient star clusters to the far-flung galaxies at the edge of the cosmos, I, Lord of Creation, He Who Causes To Be, shall make this universe my mercy seat, a residence without restriction to a single place, to be a life among fiery births and contortions in the fabric of space itself. Omnipresence is a state of being no mortal sentient can enumerate or calculate with any tangible result. Time is never the essence; I can see the temporal continuums folding in and out of themselves like an ever-revealing tesseract, each facet telling a different story, an alternate timeline, a unique experience. However, I still prefer chronological conformity. To change the course of events after they’ve graced the sands of age is to spite the natural order of things, to blaspheme all that has defined the tapestries of individual journeys and distinctive cultural summations.\nWhat I look for in every enclave, no matter how loathsome or elegant its present iteration, is the ability to change in the midst of its entanglements, constructs, valuations, to rise from the mess of its own design and refine itself like a diamond in the rough. Each civilization is a sculpture to be fashioned and kneaded into the model of its logical and teleological conclusion, to cull the propensities toward sin and rot and uplift itself to the image of all that is holy, to one day show for its spiritual maturity and to ultimately join my heavenly realm.\nTherefore, take heed, I have sent each world the codes of the universe, the keys to the kingdom by which to overcome the habits formed in the mantle of evolution, and build upon its moral absolutism to distinguish between right and wrong, growth and death. I would certainly vouch for their survival, for my Word transcends the disparities between alien races isolated by the vast expanse of space.\nDance with the angels, I say. Irrespective of how far you've fallen, I am here to pick you back up and rebuild you in my image. Listen and obey and I will bless you with the honor and testament of my will. May you live in peace, rest and sanctity!\n\n“In the Beginning…”\n\n1 There was the void, a massive empty void without substance from end to end. 2 From that vat of emptiness came a series of vibrations, the plucking of strings, and several points of light sprung to life; from these points of light came brighter points of light that lit up the sky. 3 And the Creator said, “These shall be my lampstands to light the path of my work!” 4 From this cluster He plucked one of the points of light and drew it up into the primordial whorl; He said, “This shall be the Sun from which all the days and nights shall be cast. 5 From the furthest reaches of the whorl came a torrent of comets filled with methane and carbon compounds, and He ground them into great oceans, pouring them around the Sun before the splendor of the burning sky. 6 A great upheaval arose, and heaps of rock jutted through the seas of methane in the same manner as the lampstands dappled the sky. “I shall call this land, an archipelago on which my work shall follow!” 7 And plucking the organic compounds from the roiling oceans, He adorned the land with all the vegetation known, turning the islands into bastions of lushness. 8 He had one more use for the organic compounds and forged all the fish and creatures of the sea, giving them free reign over every depth of ocean. 9 Keeping vigil of his progress, the Creator thus declared, “Upon this land shall the fishes go, for I shall teach them to walk and tame the elements.” 10 And as He did, He created time and seasons with which amphibius erectus would use to organize their days and collect their harvests.\n11 Henceforth, the world was created amongst the thousand suns, lying among a thousand clusters, strung across the raging river that split the skies of a billion dreams. 12 And on that day, with His work completed to his highest approval, the Lord resigned himself and came to rest.\n\n“The Devourers”\n\nVktrlzhkn watched in horror as her long-time comrade ripped her husband’s head off. The outrage was evident in the way she leered with her mandibles agape. Szrbjnt wiggled her stubby antennas in confusion. What’s eating her, she thought, jabbing at her own act of mariticide.\n“Vktryy,” she said, addressing her comrade in the diminutive, “haven’t you seen the rite of Consumption?”\nVktrlzhkn was taken off guard and shook her head to attention. “Oh––uh…it’s…it’s…”\n“Oh, spit it out,” Szrbjnt snapped, after which she spat out a particularly hard piece of exoskeleton before returning to her grizzly feast.\nVktrlzhkn barely had any words to express her discomfort. Yet it did occur to her that she was the odd one out in regard to her view of Consumption. She often questioned her opinions through daily prayers, but she always got back the same answer. It was revolting!\nHowever, she was still reluctant to insult her comrade, and resorted to half-hearted prevarications. “I…I don’t know. I guess I have a few things on my––” she flinched, becoming queasy as she watched pieces of chitin fall to the floor and get wedged within the reed matt. Those crumbs belonged to someone she once had jovial conversations with, and she would miss his belly-busting quips.\n“Come now. We’ve known each other for how long?”\n“Well,” she began, forcing herself to focus on what she was trying to say. Be decisive, the Good Book admonished, especially when in service to His Holy Presence. She huffed and became forthright. “Maybe, it’s time to reconsider a few old customs we've been taking for granted for too long.” There! But it set the precedent for debate.\nSzrbjnt stared at Vktrlzhkn as she munched away, her palps wriggling through another piece of her hubby. “What are you getting at, Vktryy? How will our offspring grow into healthy predators without the nourishment of the mate? Consumption’s been with us since the beginning, way before we left the twig for the hovels. Imagine, Vktryy, the tree without its roots, a land without a red sun to blossom the fields!”\nBecome more decisive, Vktrlshkin! she prodded herself in the third person. You’ve been assigned to be a light in the world! “It’s just that you don’t need to kill anyone to raise healthy children. Mine turned out to be normal––”\n“Oh, please. How many do you have? Ten…twenty? Are they even healthy? They couldn’t even eat a gnat! As for mine, I’ve counted one-hundred and seventy-four, and they’re all natural born killers, ready to strike in a moment’s notice.” She began looking at her comrade in earnest. “Is it something to do with that crazy sect of yours? What have they been teaching you?”\n“Yes, Szrb, our faith is rather unorthodox to the ancient ways, but I wish you could see the results. One, we’ve bred ourselves beyond the capacity of the harvests, and we wonder why competition for resources has become so…internecine. Do you know how many wars we’re currently in as we speak? Have you heard of how many of us have already perished?”\n“A little competition doesn’t hurt, Vktryy. It only makes us stronger. I’d throw that book away if I were you. What a waste of papyrus!”\n“It’s not a waste, I assure you. And two; The Codex of the Living stresses the presence of the husband in the household who can teach and guide our children in ways we can’t or that we're too occupied to do. Our family units have become stable and our children providential. We’ve learned to forage without needlessly killing one another and one of our young adherents even came up with a method of allowing a parcel of the field to farrow during a season to preserve its fertility.”\n“Mm.” Szrbjnt was unimpressed. “Clever. But what’s your defense in the time of conflict? I don’t see any of you preparing your young to fight.”\n“Another fashioned a system of ramparts––”\n“Enough!” Szrbjnt paused, visibly frustrated. A fragment of chiton hung from one of her mandibles. “We’re not exactly dying out. “We’ve been doing this for thousands of years, if not, more.”\n“Thousands of years stuck at each other’s throats and a society filled with heads still stuck in the dirt! The only thing we’ve passed from generation to generation is murder and bloodshed. Yes. Consumption is murder. Our God has been recalibrating us, giving ourselves a new perception on values and ethics while everyone else indulges in coital cannibalism. We think. We’ve been blessed with a conscience, a soul––”\n“And weak in the knees! Everyone in your little love triangle would be overwhelmed by attackers in seconds––”\nSomething cut her off. She felt the gust of air as the reeded front door swung open and in came one of her progenies battered and bruised, several of his limbs missing. He panted for a moment before collecting himself.\n“Mama! Mama! They’re at it again. The province on the other side of the pass attacked our harvest. Everyone’s dead except those in the outlying field. They must’ve had a strong defense!”\nSzrbjnt was in shock, unable to respond to the news that all her children were gone. However, Vktrlzhkn knew better. Despite her comrade's tragic loss, she knew the underlying truth in her heart.\nThank you, Lord, for guarding our thoraces!\n\n“The Man on Top of the World”\n\nFrom a distance, Mit’yan saw the post erected as it cut the Sun rising just over the hill. It was as dark as the figures milling around its base. Not too far away in the eastern sky lay the great Wanderer with its bands of shade and a bright tail of stars streaming through the heavens. However, that was not the most ominous part of the oracle. Someone––a man who was not a criminal, Mit’yah knew, would rest eternally atop that ungodly spike. He would share the same fate as his fellow deplorables dangling high above the ground, out of reach by loved ones. The most horrific aspect was the torturous climb every condemned man was forced to make before they impaled themselves on the apex. Nothing would stop them from slipping and falling to their death. To them, it didn’t matter. Such occurrences happened often, and some of them hoped they landed on top of a sentry, taking their cursed oppressor with them. Had they cowered and clambered back down, they would meet with a circle of cold steel aimed at their hides.\nIt was barbaric. Adherents who swore by the Tome were trenchantly aware of this, but was it the case with the rest? The ethical codes stressed by the passages in the Tome were certainly not reflective of the savage society at large, nor any society Mit’yan knew of. Compassion was never considered a trait of the land; instead, it was regarded as a weakness. Yet somehow, this virtue made its way into a hostile world in order to tame it of its primal impulses. It was a code of conduct delivered by the messengers of the Great Sanctuary in the sky. Reflecting on the teachings handed down to him of moralities alien to these savage lands, Mit’yan lost control and choked on this new sentiment. Tears began to run down his green-colored cheek.\nThis innocent man, his mentor, limped several stades toward the towering spike. The feat was remarkable for someone in his compromised position. He was flanked by a small phalanx of troops, all armed with pikes ready for summary use had the captive tried to escape. But to the surprise of his disciples, he remained solemn in his conviction, unafraid of the corporal fate in spite of the bruises and abrasions adorning his bedraggled flesh.\nMit’yan knew the body itself was a temporary shell, insignificant when compared to what awaited them on the other side. The concept of the hereafter was not reserved to his faith alone, but common among the lay, however, it was usually taken as a perversion of egotistical desires granted upon their departure. It was not so with Mit’yan’s faith. And it puzzled others on to whom would ascribe to this strange philosophy that emphasized an outpouring of love unheard of outside the immediate family, or relationships of convenience. All this self-sacrifice sounded like a lot of work without the mutual benefits. The idea was cast in flames and spit upon.\nWhy? Why were so many of his compatriots offended by such magnanimous teachings? The thought of it drew tears again, especially when his mentor finally arrived at his post after a few stumbles and subsequent lashings. From that point, he began his painful ascent. He took his punishment like a trooper though, unphased by the combined heckles, taunts and physical abuse by both the onlookers and his captors. Even the guards were confounded at the sight of the man who gave them no incentive to beat him down when most of the other convicts kicked and spat in their faces on their way to the gallows.\nThe lone silhouetted figure inched up into the sky like a prepubescent insect crawling along the stalk of a shrub. Mit’yan was no stranger to pain and felt the needless suffering his mentor was going through. But he was taught to endure such hardships; his mentor foretold this day and accepted it as a fulfillment of his promise without protest. Besides, his sacrifice would be a time of atonement and recalibration of every living being on this planet. It was confusing at first, but Mit’yan was prepared for the occasion, regardless of his own fate in some indeterminate future. He simply stood tall, impassive of open emotion. Deep within, however, he mourned without end.\nThe shofars bellowed. The crowds gathered, followed by a wall of cheers. Who were these ingrates? They looked up. The tiny figure at the top crouched over the needle point and let go. Mit’yan’s blood rushed out of his veins, leaving him with a cold flush as if he had taken his mentor’s place and died accordingly. His impalement was silent, almost anticlimactic except for the uncanny way the sun was suddenly eclipsed by the Banded Wanderer and darkness enveloped the hills. The astronomical significance was unplanned by the state, yet it was foretold in the prophecy.\nImmersed in what became the Long Night of Sacrifice, Mit’yan uttered a prayer to the stars, whence his mentor’s father resided. It was a time of worship and the ushering in of the new era upon which the heavens would open to the mortal man. Tears dribbled down, but he was undeterred from his homage.\n\nOh, Lord of all Creation, Lord of the Stars,\nIn this time of retribution, make us pure and blameless,\nMay we live in forbearance and forgiveness,\nUnconditional and unabashed, for I am forever in your embrace,\nLet your stellar kingdom awash us in faith,\nTo uplift this world and flood it with grace.\nBlessed be Your Holy Name!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Prayer\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1137\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Life just feels so much different without you,\nSomedays I just feel empty and hollow on the inside.\nIt’s been rough getting adjusted to everything,\nEven though a piece of me feels like it died,\nBut a small piece of me is Still Alive on the Inside.\nSomedays are good,\nWhile others I remember so vividly,\nIt gets hard to not think of that one moment,\nBut it is forever etched into my mind,\nThat moment haunts me,\nEven looking at your pictures reminds me of that day,\nThat day my hope and faith were crushed,\nSo much so that I must redefine those words.\nMany days have been filled with light,\nAnd many have been filled with the dark,\nA piece of me feels like it died,\nBut a small piece of me is Still Alive on the Inside.\nI try to focus on the good memories,\nAnd that helps a little,\nBut many days when I close my eyes to sleep,\nI remember, …I remember that one day.\nIt has been rough but the lessons you taught me, and my brothers, have helped in my life.\nYou were so loving, kind, dependable and so much more,\nJust one moment you were here, the next you were not.\nThat day even though painful,\nDid teach me something.\nIt taught me to number my days,\nOur time is so important.\nJust like a vapor that appears for a little while,\nThen vanishes away,\nSo will we.\nThat day was a curveball for us all.\nI felt so helpless, hopeless, and powerless.\nTo feel so powerless is a terrible feeling,\nIt adds to the pain more,\nBut I know I must keep going and not give up,\nMany days I wonder what the meaning of all this is,\nAll this pain…. pain\nI guess pain is important depending on how you perceive it.\nEven through pain we are birthed,\nEven as I draw breathe, I have a purpose.\nEven though I am mentally, and spiritually battered and bruised,\nThere is a small piece of me Still Alive on the Inside.\nI have so many thoughts racing in my mind\nWhy do I keep having flashback to the time\nI wish I could forget, but it’s forever etched into my mind\nGuess this type of stuff takes time to heal?\nIt plays back everyday,\nLike a prisoner in my own mind.\nSomedays I just feel like crying,\nBut I know I must keep on surviving.\nMany times, I just feel like giving up,\nBut some small piece of me chooses to fight\nBut I feel tired and stressed\nWhy do I fail when I try my best?\nSome days I feel like a failure and that I’ve failed you.\nI just miss the old times.\nI try to search and find them in my mind.\nYou were so loving and kind,\nBut lately my mind has been a warzone, Am I Ok?\nEveryone always asks how I am doing, but I just them I'm fine.\nBut honestly I’m not, Even my faith took a hit, Even my confidence.\nWhy try? Why try? Honestly Why?\nIt just feels like nothing matters,\nLike everything we do is bad or it’s not good enough.\nI’m still trying and struggling with my faith.\nDo I even have faith if I’m questioning it?\nWhy do I feel this way?\nI am always asked What is God doing in your life?\nI just give the standard answers like he is doing everything good for me.\nI know I must trust Him fully,\nAt the moment with all honestly, I can say a little piece of me doesn’t fully.\nAt a critical time, I prayed, yet no answer.\nOr at least in the sense I would have thought,\nAt that critical time, the prayers the family prayed were serious.\nI thought if you pray and asked in good faith it would happen.\nBut utter silence\nThat day Hurt my faith and confidence.\nI am struggling with bitterness towards God\nAnd it’s not a good place to be.\nI am struggling to accept why he would allow this situation to happen.\nI mean it was quiet that day,\nI prayed and nothing.\nTo hear the doctors tell me you were gone.\nThat was the worst day of my life so far.\nJust three days from your birthday, Then you were gone.\nThat day, I hate it with all of me.\nIt started out normal, and I talked with you.\nShortly after you were not here.\nIt just left me thinking,\nWhy we even make plans if we can just leave at any moment?\nMaybe I am just frustrated because I don’t know the reason why God decided to take you, but I have to accept it.\nMaybe it will be clear one day, I don’t know.\nBut that day I tried to suppress my feelings, but no longer.\nI have to trust the Lord with all of my heart, with my life.\nHonestly, it is tough at the moment.\nI believe in Jesus as the Son of God and trust he died and rose again on the 3rd day.\nI know he is the author and finisher of my faith. To sum up how I feel is that God is writing about me, but I’m trying to take the pen and write myself.\nIt’s not a good way to think like that at all.\nGod knows all, and I know nothing.\nHow do I gain full confidence in God? And Trust?\nI just felt hurt by him honestly.\nBut I know he has plans for us to prosper and not harm us.\nI have to get up and truly dust myself off.\nHumans were made to be dependent on God,\nWe’re not made independent in that sense.\nBefore we were born, we were destined to die\nIt is just our fate.\nWith our very first breathe we begin to die.\nBut there is hope beyond the grave which is something we all face.\nThat Hope is Christ Jesus.\nI will continue to search the scriptures and pray\nFor I am battered, beaten, broken.\nI am a broken man right now\nWith no plans for the future.\nLife truly must mean something.\nIt is hard to even think about the future.\nI can’t let my life be all for nothing.\nAs time continues to move forward,\nI will continue to read the word and study.\nI will no longer put confidence in myself, but my confidence will be in the Lord Almighty.\nI understand my strength and others will fail me.\nBut God never will, because he is in control.\nNow I feel a lot better about getting that off my mind.\nI can start to truly heal and rebuild myself\nThank you, Lord, for always listening\nAmen''" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Finding Holly\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2966\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who sees a photo they shouldn’t have seen." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was late evening. We had just finished dinner and as I had cooked, my husband was on clean-up duty. I was in my bedroom, reading. My oldest daughter, Holly, had just vacated the foot of the bed and was en route to grab a shower before bedtime. Though she had her own bathroom inside, she had recently become very adamant regarding privacy. We had a separate room outside off of the carport. I thought it was weird that she wanted to shower out in what was essentially our second laundry room. Granted, it was a private, spacious room complete with a full-size refrigerator, a deep freeze, toilet, sink, and shower stall because... who doesn’t need all of that shit out by where you park the cars?\nI didn’t give it too much consideration, though, as mentioned, she had been getting weird about her privacy recently. She was about to be a freshman, moving on to the High School campus from the Middle School.\n I turned the page of my new book, a tome by Mr. Stephen King, “Under the Dome.” Suddenly, I heard a sharp chime that could only come from a phone, but it wasn’t mine. I glanced up and saw Holly’s phone lying there, unaccompanied by its owner. It was odd since that thing was usually glued to her hand and her eyeballs to it. It was like a lone sock, forever separated from its mate, resigned to a life of solitude at the bottom of a drawer. \nI’m not usually one to snoop through my children’s devices (though we required their pins, just in case). I don’t know what possessed me to do it but I entered the 4-digits and saw a text from her best friend, Katie, with a few simple words, “y not? Go 4 it! Be safe! hmu l8tr” Now curious, I scrolled up and saw what looked like a screenshot, it was of a text between Holly and her then-boyfriend, Colby. Heartbeat increasing rapidly, I told myself it was probably just a joke, you know, “Dude! I just watched a movie where a man's wife is viciously murdered and his son is left physically disabled. Then, when you think it can’t possibly get any worse, the same son is kidnapped and then the man has to chase the kidnapper thousands of miles with the help of a mentally disabled woman... ”\nI figured I’d read the joke; I needed a chuckle. I tapped on the screenshot to enlarge it. As I read the contents of the text within I felt my pulse set off at a trot, a flush rose to my cheeks that rendered them crimson, and adrenaline from fear flooded my body. Rather than a silly joke, Holly had taken a screenshot of a conversation between her boyfriend and herself less than twenty minutes before. In the message, Colby asked Holly to sneak out that night and if she did, would she please consider having sex with him... He goes on to assure her that it’ll be just like when he fingered her, only a little different. First, I re-read the text to make certain my bifocals did not deceive me. Then, I almost snickered—if it’s only a little different then he has problems that are far worse than his feeble grasp of “they’re, their, and there.” It was, at that time that a little voice encouraged me to scroll up. There was a photo; one of Holly that revealed far more of her than I’d been privy to over the past five to seven years.\nSo quickly, I knocked the behemoth novel to the floor, I hurried to the far side of the house, to my husband, Jim, and scrolled back to the screenshot. I held my hand out, phone resting in my palm but when I tried to speak, nothing but an amphibian-like croak came out.\n I watched him as he took the phone and his lips moved as he read the horror on the screen. The tips of his ears went red as if suddenly backlit by candles. Red started at the base of his neck and crept toward his face a millimeter at a time. By the time he scrolled up, I was certain flame would burst from his head orifices.\nComposed-as-a-cat Jim Miller, the unflappable dad starts to sit down at the bar, stands abruptly, tries to sit again, and stands again, apoplectic little sounds trying to escape his lips. I looked him in the eye, “We have about five minutes until that kid gets out of the shower and comes to retrieve her phone. We need to play this shit right-- right fucking now, or we’re going to lose her forever to some pimply kid with braces and whose prick apparently isn’t much larger than ....” I wiggle my index finger and giggle, bent at the waist.\nJim laughs; “Only we could laugh at a time like this.”\n“If you don’t laugh, they’ll eat you alive. United front, then?” I say, he nods. \n“Meet her on the patio before she can even go back in the house?” I nod at him.\nI plodded outside with him, single file, as if to the gallows. We both took our seats. I slipped a cigarette between my lips, dry from fear. I flicked the lighter a few times while the cicadas hummed loudly and fireflies lit up the backyard beyond TFR and the carport. We watch the door to The Fucking Room (TFR), as we’d taken to calling it eons ago. Soon, we heard the lock disengage. My heart speeds from a trot to a gallop.\nHolly steps outside into the honeysuckle-laced evening, the smell of damp earth lying atop it all after the recent rain, wrapped in a knee-length green robe, her feet ensconced in slippers shaped like frogs. She hesitates just for a beat at the sight of us sitting stock-still at the table, looking at her in a gravely serious way, then she grins and begins to walk tentatively toward us, I notice that her long legs no longer bear the scrapes, and bruises of childhood; they were the legs of a young woman. “What’s with the heavy, Parents?” she asks.\nI shove the patio chair across the table from me out sharply with my foot, “Have a seat.” I indicate for her to sit. I casually slip her phone out of the side pocket of my scrubs. \"Explain. Now.\"\nHer eyes go wide like saucers as I slide it swiftly to her. The small smile disappears from the corners of her lip as she glances at the screen, then expels an enormously bothered sigh, the kind only adolescents seem able to. “Well?” She asks, raising a brow. I look at Jim and he nods slightly.\nIt was now or never. If I brought the hammer down too hard, she would likely disappear into Colby's arms, or someone else’s, forever: Remember though, being on the cusp of fifteen: hormones raging, having secrets, getting that glowing feeling when a good-looking boy approached. However, go too easy and she’d probably hand me a baby for safekeeping within the year.\nMy eyes stay locked on hers, unwavering. She returns my gaze, “So,” she snaps.\n“So… I’d like for you to read the contents of... that-- aloud, please,” I stated, “Right now, please, Ma’am.” She flatly refuses and I drop my voice to an almost inaudible tone, “Oh, but you will. You see, at this moment we are reacting calmly but how you handle this very adult situation with all your fourteen years of wisdom will determine how this plays out.”\nShe sits, fidgeting with indignant rage. “Holly, I’m not trying to embarrass you and I know you hate my guts with the fiery, purple passion of a thousand suns at this moment, but, please...” \nShe glares one last time at each of us in turn and begins to read the series of texts aloud, her voice starting remarkably strong before becoming more and more faint, her cheeks burning crimson as she realizes the photo we had undoubtedly seen, as well.\n“What now, “she whispers, anxiety filling her eyes, her long lashes wet with unshed tears. “Well, as I said, that’s really up to you. Obviously, you are grounded… for a week. I want your phone and passcode. I want your tablet and Jim will be removing the laptop from your bedroom as well as the Xbox. You will earn these back by showing acts of maturity.” She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Whatever.” The attitude she’s going for is detached, completely beyond this. She starts to stand.\n“Uh-uh, I’m not done here. I will set an alarm on my phone to go off every hour on the hour. If your ass isn’t in that bed or somewhere in this house, fully clothed—you can totally definitely kiss summer camp goodbye. I will drive you directly to school and pick you up. I will speak to your coach about track practice…” I rise from my seat and start to make my way into the warm glow of the house. My bare feet smack the concrete as I go. I glance back over my shoulder. “Oh, one more thing… this discussion is far from over.” I open the glass patio door and drift down the hallway to my room. \nI close my bedroom door and lock it. I go into my bathroom, grab a towel, and step into the shower stall, it's only then do I scream until my eyes feel as if they will simply pop from their sockets by sheer force. I cry for my sweet little girl, white blonde hair in pigtails and bows, smiling her mostly toothless grin up at me, her hot little hand in mine as we adventure about the park. \nThat night, as I set up the alarms for my phone, I looked at Jim, “Do you think I was too harsh? Did I go all… extra?” I roll my eyes. He smiles at me, pausing a moment to clip his next funky, talon. “No, Babe, but I think you need to really consider what you say to her next. While we absolutely disagree with her on this,—we are always on her side, she’s not alone. We aren’t angry, per se, we’re scared and concerned.”\nI smile at him, “I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down, Man! I got this shit.” I say jokingly. “Seriously, though, I agree that’s the best approach.”\n“So when is this heartfelt yet heavy chat taking place and where do I need to disappear with Maddie, and Jeremy,” he inquires. \n“I’m thinking tomorrow after school. I’ve got to really consider what to say but if I dwell on it too long, it’ll drive me bug-shit crazy.” I tell him seriously. He snorts laughter and looks at me again, “You’re quite mad, you know that right?” he laughs. “Pick up your nasty toe shrapnel,” I say making a face befitting the remark.\nWhen we get home the next day, the sounds of a normal afterschool day play throughout the house. Purses clunk onto the cabinet, backpacks smack the floor, followed by the sound of vinyl being drug across the wood floor, the critical clickety-clack of dog toenails that are actually Morse code for, “I urgently need to pee, Ma’am!”\nAfter taking the dog out, Jim herds Maddie and Jeremy into the den and tells them that they’re going out for a while and then they’ll grab dinner. “What about Mom and Holly?” Maddie, ever the little kiss-ass good Samaritan inquires in a shrill voice. “We’ll bring them something back!” Jim grins good-naturedly at the younger two children. \n“Right now,” Jeremy asks quizzically. “Right now,” Jim states. “Do I get to pick the place we eat?” Maddie perks up, “Oh, and, can I, I mean, may I, ride in the front seat?” As anticipated this cues Jeremy to start his own grouchy protest. Jim looks at me, clearly sending a fake, but real, but not really real distress call, and ambles outside. I watch Holly meander to the couch and flop onto it. Soon, the hubbub fades as the front door closes, seeming to swallow them up. \nI look at Holly. She looks at me. She straightens her light grey skirt neatly—fans it out on the couch and then allows the rest of her body to droop backward as if her spine was suddenly ripped from her body. I glance at how she’s sitting, unintentionally, I hope. Her lavender cotton panties are on full display. “Cross your legs, please,” I ask. She sneers at me and promptly claps her thighs together and tosses her left knee over her right.\n“I thought we already had the grand inquisition, Mother?”\n“We have… but, consider this a bonus lecture, Daughter. Can you humor a half-deaf Old Bag for a few moments?” Her eyes soften the slightest bit at the old joke. This is it, this is my shot. I felt like vomiting, my palms began to sweat, but I plunged forward.\n“Holly, at this moment you are 14 years old. Yes, you are about to be 15, however, in the eyes of the State, you are 14 years old and as such, a minor. Colby is 17 years old. His birthday is coming up. Say you and Colby drive out to the middle of nowhere. You turn on some Marvin Gaye and…”\n“Mom, this isn’t the '70s!” she looks at me as if completely embarrassed for me. I shrug. “First, just how old do you think I am?” “Mom, everyone knows that song was released in the seventies,” she says, knowing for sure that I drag my knuckles when I walk. \n“Okay then, music you celebrate to… naked.” \nHolly buries her face in her hands. She says nothing so I push ahead. “In the eyes of the State, Colby is considered an adult and you are a minor. Do you see what I’m saying, Holly? Colby could be charged with rape, statutory rape, but rape all the same.”\n“Furthermore, while the act of having sex isn’t that difficult, the emotions that come with it are some of the most confusing to navigate. I know you love him.”\nShe looks up, her green eyes all shiny, “I do.”\n“Does he love you?” She gazes at me and seems to give the question deep consideration. “I honestly... don’t know. He can be kinda weird around his friends.” She shrugs. “Then, like when we’re alone, he’s all sweet again. But we’re making out so I don’t really know if he means it or if he’s just trying to make me feel comfortable enough to… \" she trails off, lost in thought.\n“These are the emotions I’m talking about are complex. They can make you explode with savage joy but they can also have vicious, heart-piercing fangs. When we say we don’t want you to get hurt, this is what we mean. Also, I may as well just toss all my\ncards on the table right now— I have a few questions I'd like you to consider: Do you want anyone else to know about the business you might get up to with Colby?” \nShe shakes her head.\n“See, there’s a cliché involving these little Romeos. In this, it’s completely fucking stupid. Yeah, I know we don’t use the word stupid but this double standard between men getting’ some and women getting’ some is ridiculous and backward and infuriating. If a boy ‘carves a notch into his bedpost’, he’s a fucking stud. He’s The Man!”\n“Sadly, if a woman does the same thing, she’s typically labeled a slut and endlessly shamed for it. I don’t think you want to be a ‘conquest’ or notch in some dude’s bedpost.” I have her full attention so I keep going.\n“On an even heavier note, say the condom breaks or if, 'just one time' he doesn’t use one and assures you it’ll be fine, or if you don’t think you can get pregnant while on your period and have unprotected sex and get pregnant... are you prepared to share your bedroom with a newborn? Is Colby going to help with the baby before and after school?” \"Oh, what the hell? While we're at it, why does he get to go to school and you’re at home reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar for the 500th time-- that day?\" I smile sadly at her and grasp her hand, now smooth, nails manicured.\n\"Or, if you decided to have an abortion, which is absolutely your right and your choice, is he going to hold your hand through it all; through the tears and the pain and the doubt and I'm not referring to just before and during the procedure? If your answer to any of those questions is ‘I don’t know,’ then you are not old enough to have sex.”\nShe nods.\nSee, you enter into a kind of pact, an agreement when you go down that road that you understand all of the variables. I’m not just being tremendously lame—I just want your life to be based on your choices, not on pressure from someone or something else, you know?” \nI look up from my blotchy red hands that I’ve apparently been grasping tightly together throughout the conversation and into her sea-green eyes. She looks like something inside of her has deflated, and changed, or maybe it’s just how I see her. I need a glass or six of wine. \n“Okay, Mom. I get it. How long have you been practicing that one?” Holly laughs. \n“A while,” I admit, “Go on, we’re done here.”\nShe looks jubilant for a moment. “I’m not grounded?” she asks.\n“Oh. No. You are totally still grounded. Go do something grounded people do...\"" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Coraline Factor\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2510\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As Vikky walked down the paths leading to the school’s quadrangle, other students moved aside or stopped what they were doing to look at her. Her black hair bobbed, her skirt swished, but her footsteps seemed to glide. Laura and Faye trotted behind her.\n\nAs they approached where the blood-nosed boys wrestled each other with the ferocity of alligator lizards, Vikky let out a loud wolf whistle, making everyone else turn around. She raised her hands together and widened them out in a gesture demanding that the spectators move aside. They parted like the Red Sea. The boys still fought. One observer immediately brought up his phone to photograph what may happen next. As soon as the surrounding students made way for Vikky, she ran at the boys, leaped in the air, and kicked them both down, landing firmly on her feet. They lay sprawled, and she promptly went up and kicked them both where it hurt the most. After inflicting just enough pain to stun them, she turned away.\n“I have no intention of going to the prom with either of you, so please stop it.”\n\nThomas stopped clicking and viewed his shots. He grinned as he transferred a few choice ones to his Facebook profile and sent them to all his contacts and friends. The one with Vikky in the air about to knock over the boys showed her in fine form.\" He titled them, “Vikky says ‘No’ to going to the prom.” It put her actions way out of perspective.\nMany of the comments applauded her ‘girl power.’\nA few described the two boys as eggs or used derisive, even profane, language. \nOthers wondered why the boys would want to go to a prom with a girl like that.\nHer actions came across as using a bucket of water to put out a candle.\n\nLet’s back it up.\n\nVikky sat at a table in the library, perusing a book on Art History—one that could only be read in the library. She could have been pretending to be a nerdy, studious girl, but not Vikky. She transformed nerdom and study to meteoric levels.\n\nWhen she wore her school uniform, she did not blend in. She stood out as someone to reckon with. She commanded a presence from the razor-sharp cut of her long black bob to her crisply pleated miniskirt and knee-high socks down to her chunky, black patent, block-heeled Mary Jane platforms, complete with black bows. The shoes helped raise her diminutive stature. The rest resulted from a creepy charisma. She had many admirers and those who proactively assisted her, but she needed none of them. Her enrolment at high school wasn’t to help her grow up. She already exuded maturity.\n\nLaura and Faye, from her class, sidled into the library and quietly arrived at the table where she sat. “Vikky, you’ve gotta help. Grant and Mark are both scrapping in the quadrangle near the canteen.”\nGreen eyes flashed up at the two girls. “Is this my business?”\n“Please, Vikky. They’re fighting over who will take you to the prom.”\nVikky rolled her eyes. “I told both of them, ‘no, thanks.’”\n“We know you are polite. But the fight is because they don’t know you said ‘no’ to both.”\n“Idiots,” said Vikky, “as if I’d go with either of them.”\n“We know you can get them to stop before they murder each other.”\n“That wouldn’t be a loss,” she muttered as she snapped the book shut, and they left. \n\nOnce the boys had been dealt with, Vikky marched away to class. The photos went viral after Thomas’ friends sent them to their friends . . . Before too long, the teachers found out, and the World followed. The principal alerted the parents of the three students and called them all in for a meeting.\n“Let me handle it,” Vikky said to her Uncle and Aunt. They were astounded to hear that prim and proper Vikky had been involved in a three-way fight with two boys.\n\nTwo guardians, one father and another two parents, sat with Grant, Mark, and Vikky in the office of Principal Algernon Forbes. He glowered at the three.\nUncle Jack broke the ice by introducing himself and Aunty Ruth. The others reluctantly followed his lead.\nThe principal cleared his throat. “It has been brought to my attention, and, in fact, millions of others, about a forbidden fight on school grounds last Wednesday. You three are the culprits. You boys have a reputation for disruptive behavior, but you surprise me, Vikky. Would you like to say anything?”\n“Yes, please, Mr. Forbes, sir. I was not involved in the fight.”\nAll eyes turned to her in surprise. The only mother present spluttered. “We all saw you in Facebook. You really hurt poor Grant. Gave him a bleeding nose. You are a nasty piece of work.”\n“Both boys walked to class, no problem. I did not kick hard enough to do them damage. They fought over which of them would go to the prom with me. As I told both of them I wouldn’t, the fight had nothing to do with me.”\nThe boys looked at each other with eyes wide open at this revelation.\n“So why did you join in?” asked Mr. Forbes.\n“While studying in the library, I was asked to stop them fighting. So, I did. They’d both made each other’s noses bleed, and it didn’t look like they’d stop. I got there before a teacher did and prevented murder. I didn’t join in . . . Unfortunately, someone circulated some photos with no proper context.”\nThe boys looked sheepishly at their parents.\nUncle Jack shook his head in disbelief and looked at the principal. “It’s obvious that Vikky meant well.”\nTwo fathers and one mother protested until the principal yelled, “Silence! I feel the boys have been humiliated and punished enough; Vikky needs to remember to get a teacher, or prefect, to deal with such problems in the future. So, you three can get back to class. And if your parents have nothing more to say, they can leave too. Good day, folks.”\n\nThey had been dismissed before further ado.\n\nVikky’s Aunt and Uncle cautioned her to use her moves only for self-defense, not offense. They couldn’t help but laugh about the misunderstanding that had lead to the boy’s fight and Vikky’s intervention.\n“I only did what I believe Coraline would have done.”\nUncle Jack rolled his eyes.\n“You’ll be picked up at the end of the day, darling. See you at home later.” Her Aunt hugged her.\nVikky waved to them as she walked away.\n***\nAs they drove home, they discussed what had transpired and Vikky’s reference to Coraline.\n“Honestly, I thought she’d given up on Coraline. I’ve noticed she doesn’t dress like her anymore.”\n“Oh, you mean the orange skirt with red and black tights and the striped long-sleeved red shirt. And when she went out into the garden ‘exploring,’ she wanted that damn yellow raincoat and matching boots, and only a black cap would do. I had to knit her green and orange striped gloves for winter, or she wouldn’t wear them. The rest of the time, she loved those orange sneakers and that ugly blueish cardy. Thankfully, she literally grew out of all that. But she’s kept her shorter haircut. I preferred her lovely long hair. She still wears the bright blue boots she insisted I buy her. I ordered them too big. Now she only wears things in red, orange, pink, blue, and black, and she’s more color coordinated, thank goodness.”\n“It all started with that scary Coraline movie you took her to. Then she wanted the book. We got her a picture book, and when she outgrew it, she insisted on having the novel. Why on earth did she want to be Coraline? What’s wrong with a Disney princess or Barbie?”\n“I asked her the same thing. She was in a huff with me one day and came out with, ‘I don’t want your love. I don’t want anything from you.’ When I asked her why she’d say such a horrible thing, she said, ‘You are not my mother. I don’t want everything. Nobody does. What fun would it be if I got everything I ever wanted? It doesn’t mean anything.’ I cried over that. She hugged me and told me it’s what Coraline says and there is truth to it. I told her we love her and want to give her everything . . . I stopped doing that. She said it made life ‘more real’.”\nUncle Jack shook his head. “After her mother died, I worried about her being so withdrawn and sad all of the time. Becoming Coraline definitely helped her be confident. But as an alter ego, she’s not a great choice.”\n“I asked her why she wanted to be like Coraline, and her answer confused me. She told me she is Coraline because she comes from a different place, doesn’t belong here, but hasn’t figured out how to return.”\n“Everything is better with us. She had a chance to live with her father but refused to see him. I thought she liked living a luxurious life,” said Jack.\n“I don’t think she wants either life. I don’t believe the place she wants to be is one she can go back to.”\n“We got her that black kitten she wanted, remember. She called it Wuss-Puss, after Coraline’s cat. She still adores it . . . We do everything for her.” He sighed.\n“But we never ask her if it’s what she wants. Does she really see her life with us as a ‘trap’? Everybody needs someone trustworthy to help them.”\n“It’s like she’s already grown up and wants independence. I guess we need to gradually give her wings,” said Jack, shaking his head.\nI wish she’d be excited about things like the prom. I’d love to go shopping with her for a dress . . . She’s such a different sort of girl.” Ruth sighed.\n“She’s a passionately creative soul. A funny wee girl. She sees things differently to the rest of us.”\n***\nAunty Ruth had pleaded with her to learn some sort of dancing, to no avail. They paid a tutor to come to the ranch and teach her basic dances so she knew the proper steps for when they held or attended functions. She also trained at home in the gym room Uncle Jack set up for her. He used it himself and had become fitter and more energetic. They regularly jogged together around the farm on a track he made for them. His philosophy is, “If we can’t talk her out of it, let’s join her.”\n\nVikky shrugged when anyone at school asked if she was the cool girl in the photos. It seemed a silly question as they captured the action perfectly, though she always kept her fight and self-defense training after school hours a secret. A leap and two kicks did not illustrate her abilities, even a fraction.\nBefore too long, it seemed that secret may become common knowledge.\n\nThomas walked past her one day and gave her a note. It said, “Roof, please, 12.30pm.”\nShe wondered what it was all about. Thomas had circulated the offending photos. Maybe he wanted to apologize.\n\nThe flat-roofed area of the main three-floored block had walls surrounding it, providing a panoramic view of the whole school. This was ideal for those who wanted private chats. \n\nWhen Vikky walked onto the rooftop terrace, Thomas waited for her. She folded her arms and looked at him with her head to one side.\n“I’m asking you to partner me to the prom,” he said.\n“Why would I do that?”\n“We make the perfect couple.”\n“I doubt it.”\nHe held out a photo for her to look at. The first photo showed Vikky entering the SEO Martial Arts Academy building, and the second showed her leaving, with a full view of her face. “I know you want to keep this a secret.”\n“Why did you stalk me and take them?”\n“Your moves against those two boys didn’t look like the full extent of your abilities. You avoid anything like cheerleading, gymnastics, or karate at school, even though you’d be brilliant at them. So, what’s the secret? I checked you out. The students who print the school paper would die to write an article about you and your skills. Reveal your secret to the whole school. You can get out of it by being my partner at the school prom.”\n“You’re pretty confident in your deviousness.”\n“So are you. As I said, we’ll make the perfect couple. You’d be a total danger to the other boys in the school, but I promise you we’ll be safe together.”\n“What makes you think you’re safe with me?”\nHe put his right arm out, she locked his wrist, and he deftly twisted himself free. Then he grabbed her wrist, and she twisted free. In a trice, he had her arm locked behind her back; her other arm flew up and around in a hit as she twisted free. She was about to assault him, but he caught her wrist--\n“Stop! Shall we stop? I’d rather take you to the prom to do dance moves than injure you in a fight.” He laughed.\n“You’ve made your point . . . Actually, my folks will be delighted if I go. I won’t tell them how you convinced me. But can I trust you?”\n“Like you, I wouldn’t have a problem going with someone else, and the article could have been printed already. I’ll gladly keep your secret safe if you come with me. I’ll return the photos afterward. Everybody needs someone to help them whom they can trust.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.\n“I guess I can oblige.”\n“By the way, what’s your deal? Aspirations to be a vigilante or assassin?”\nVikky had a deadpan face. “No. To protect myself from violent people.”\n“That’s a laugh. Your family, have you tailed by bodyguards.”\n“Where are they now? I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t take care of myself. I thought you met me here to apologize?”\n“I am sorry. . . for underestimating you. ‘My twitchy-witchy girl, I think you are so nice.’”\nVicky opened her mouth in surprise.\n***\nVikky walked into the house at the end of the day. “Hi, Aunt Ruth. A boy at school asked me to go to the prom, and I decided I’d go.”\nAunt Ruth clasped her hands together and rushed over to hug her. “How wonderful. You are going. I can’t wait to shop for your dress and shoes with you.”\n“I did think of you when I said ‘yes’.”\n“What made you change your mind?”\n“He had his ways of convincing me. He told me that everybody needs someone trustworthy, and I believe I can trust him.”\nAunt Ruth smiled ruefully. “I’d hate to be in his shoes if he proves otherwise.”\nVikky laughed. If only they knew.\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: to fight with god\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1082\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that formally utilizes a mathematical sequence; e.g., the Fibonacci sequence could determine the number of words in each paragraph, or start with a number and work backwards. Make sure the formula is made clear, either within the story, or before or after it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "why \n\ndid you \n\nleave me here? \n\ngod, i miss you \n\nwhy do i miss you? \n\ni thought i could do this \n\ni thought i was fine with me \n\nbut now you’re gone and i don’t know \n\ndon’t know what to do; you were my all \n\ni was wrapped up in what you said of me \n\ncan’t you see that what i’ve done was all for you? \n\nmy time, my worth, my love, i gave them free \n\nand when you left, you took them with you \n\nyou left me here, this world to rot \n\nit’s like you made the sun shine \n\nnow the wind knots my hair \n\nand the clouds are dark \n\nrain fills my shoes \n\ntears too, but \n\nyou don’t \n\ncare. \n\n\n\nplease \n\ncome back \n\ni was wrong \n\nyou know what, no \n\nthat is what you want \n\nbut i will stand my ground \n\ni will not crawl back to you \n\nyou can not make me turn my will \n\nI’ll be as stiff as you claim you are \n\nall of my days, i will run far from you \n\nwhen i stop, i’ll be so high you can’t reach me \n\nyou will have to crawl to me on your knees \n\nand then beg for me to take you back \n\ntill then i will stand in this storm \n\ni don’t care how rough it’ll get \n\nlet this noise shake the earth \n\nthe light pierce my eyes \n\nto show all things \n\nand then go. \n\nit’s dark \n\nnow. \n\n\n\nhey \n\nhear me \n\ngive me time \n\nwhy did you leave? \n\nhear me shout my hate \n\nlet me scream what i feel \n\nlet me tell you what i think \n\nyou are so great, so high, so far \n\nor so you think. i will prove you wrong \n\nmy words will make you fall in to my grasp \n\nand then i want to bring you down here with me \n\nso that you can know just how this all feels \n\nto lay face down in the cold wet grass \n\nand rip the turf up with your hands \n\nyour clothes stuck to your skin \n\nwhile the wind goes mad \n\nand my eyes glow \n\nand it’s cold\n\nbut i’ll\n\nstay. \n\n\n\nhey \n\nknow what? \n\nit’s not worth \n\nall that i give \n\nand if they ask me\n\ni will say you left me \n\nand i don’t care from now on \n\nso now you can go on your way \n\nstop with the pleas for me to come back \n\nyour voice just hurts my ears, i’ll turn it off \n\nyour words will stay in a vault with the key lost \n\ni’ll do just fine on my own path, you’ll see \n\ngo back to your light, i like this dark \n\na weird flash now and then is fine \n\ni can see just what i want \n\ni will breathe in this rain \n\ni will walk through mud \n\nand just you watch \n\ni’ll learn how. \n\ni’ll fight \n\non. \n\n\n\nwell \n\nit works \n\nhere i am \n\ni can go on \n\nsee, i don’t need you \n\nthen why do i still talk? \n\ni just talk to my self now \n\ni am more than you said you were \n\nfor i’m kind, i have sense, i am just \n\nyou gave me gifts, but i can give me more \n\nyour laws are in my past, i can make my own \n\ni make my own up and down, good and bad \n\nand you can not tell me what to do \n\n so i will go on with my life \n\nbut i fight on in this storm \n\nand i have fought so hard \n\nyet it still goes on \n\nit does not stop \n\ni am stuck.\n\nthis rain \n\ndrowns. \n\n\n\nplease \n\nhelp me \n\ni came back \n\ni can’t do this \n\ni’ll say i was wrong \n\nyou did not leave me here \n\ni’ll say it was me who left \n\nand it’s the most true thing i’ve said \n\ni want back the light you gave my life \n\nI am done with all this dark all the time \n\ni’m sick of this fight that i fight on my own \n\ni’m sick of this brawl that i can not win \n\ni’m sick of my self and my own tries \n\nmy hands are not as big as yours \n\ni was not made to guide wind \n\ni can not scold the rain \n\ni can’t stop the sound \n\ni still can’t see \n\nbut i know\n\nwhat i\n\nneed.\n\n\n\nwhy \n\ndo you \n\ncry so loud? \n\ni said i’m wrong \n\nso why do you scream? \n\ncan’t i pay my own debt? \n\nwhy must you feel all this pain? \n\nhow can you stoop to love me so? \n\ni can not watch you die in my stead \n\nbut yet you do it, and what have you done? \n\nthe world’s turned on its head with your love for me \n\nand i’m scared i might fall off while it spins.\n\nthe storm gets more thick. i might die too. \n\nthe ground on which my feet stand sways\n\nwhile the skies shake in full wrath \n\nthe rain turns red with blood \n\nmy tongue can taste it \n\nit chokes my throat \n\nsoaks my skin \n\ncoats me \n\nred. \n\n\n\nyou. \n\nyou’re back \n\ni don’t know \n\ni don’t get how \n\nbut now here you are \n\ni know you will not leave \n\nand that i will stay with you \n\nyou will keep me safe by your side \n\nand i’ll walk with you in peace through death \n\nfor naught can pull you from me. we are bound. \n\nyou have sworn an oath to me. your word is sure. \n\nmy soul is twined with yours in cords of blood \n\nyou hold out your hands and calm the storm \n\nthose nail pierced hands can kill my storm \n\nthe clouds part when we walk through \n\nand now the sun does shine \n\ni am dry and warm \n\nthe wind is gone \n\ni can breathe. \n\ni can \n\nsee. \n\n\n\nyes. \n\ni fought. \n\ni fought god \n\nand it was tough \n\nfor he is so strong \n\nbut i learned he is good \n\nhe does not leave those he loves \n\nand when we run, he will chase us. \n\nhe chased me up to the gates of hell \n\nhe ran for me while i ran for my doom \n\nhe raced me while my steps traced the path to death \n\nhe proved his love while i spit in his face \n\nhe gave his all to mend what i’ve done \n\nand then he freed me from my storm \n\nhe saved me from what i’d made. \n\nto fight god is to lose \n\nbut he is so good \n\nthat to fight him \n\nis to win. \n\nand i\n\nhave." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dear God...\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1560\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "God?\nYES, MY DARLING?\nI don't want to live any more, can you please take me to Heaven?\nI'M REALLY SORRY, SWEETHEART, BUT IT’S NOT YOUR TIME, YOU HAVE MUCH TO DO. WHAT ARE YOU STRUGGLING WITH? MAYBE I CAN HELP.\nIt's just, you made me to do great things, I know you did. You helped me to excel in undergrad so that I got a degree in Special Education Cognitively Impaired. Then you helped me through a Master’s in Applied Behavior Analysis and a Board Certification to be a Behavior Analyst. I was gifted in these areas, and so prepared, but then you gave me a severe mental illness that made it impossible to live out. I think I literally have spent more time in hospitals and residential programs than I have working. Why would you give me these gifts just to take them all away when I needed them most?\nDO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE FIVE AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY SAT TOGETHER TO WATCH THE JERRY LEWIS TELETHON ON LABOR DAY WEEKEND AND I MOVED YOUR HEART? WHAT DID YOU SAY?\nWhen I grow up, I want to volunteer at Muscular Dystrophy Camp.\nAND DID YOU?\nYes, I started volunteering when I was sixteen years old. I loved it so much. I prayed for you to cure muscular dystrophy so many times. I took phone calls on the telethon. I learned so many skills regarding medical care. And I fell in love with so many kids who were grateful for just one day. But it didn't matter. My bipolar started showing up and I was dismissed after just ten years.\nJUST TEN YEARS?! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY LIVES YOU TOUCHED IN THOSE TEN YEARS? HOW MANY PARENTS GOT TO TAKE BREAKS FROM GIVING TWENTY-FOUR HOUR CARE OR GOT TO SPEND SOME TIME WITH THEIR NONDISABLED CHILDREN? HOW MANY CAMPERS FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR SMILE AND MOTHERLY PRESCENCE AND JUST KNEW YOU WOULD KEEP THEM SAFE? AND FOR GOODNESS SAKES, THE NUMBER OF FREE ICE CREAM CONES YOU ALL ATE JUST BECAUSE THERE WERE NO RULES? AND YOU KNOW THAT I HEARD YOUR PRAYERS BECAUSE THERE ARE SO MANY MORE TREATMENTS NOW AND PEOPLE WITH MD ARE LIVING MUCH LONGER.\nOh...\nAND DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY AT THE GIFTED AND TALENTED SCHOOL WHEN YOU DISCOVERED THAT THE OTHER HALF OF THE SCHOOL WAS MODERATELY COGNITIVELY IMPAIRED?\nI was terrified.\nYES, BUT YOU'RE DREAM WAS TO BE A SERVICE SQUAD AND ALL THE GIFTED CLASSES WERE FULL SO YOUR ONLY CHOICE WAS TO SIGN UP FOR A SPECIAL ED CLASS?\nI was even more terrified.\nYES, BUT I KEPT NUDGING YOU AND YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH IT. YOU SIGNED UP FOR A SECOND YEAR AND BY THE END OF YOUR TIME THERE YOU HAD DECIDED THAT WHEN YOU GREW UP YOU WERE GOING TO BE A SPECIAL EDUCATION TEACHER.\nI know, and all through school I knew it was for me, but then I started teaching and my Bipolar got worse. I was hospitalized for the first times, and I was only able to keep teaching for about three years. I didn’t even make a bit of a difference.\nDIDN’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE?? DIDN’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE?! YOU WORKED WITH KIDS WHOM OTHERS HAD GIVEN UP ON. YOU USED EVERY SKILL YOU HAD LEARNED TO DESIGN INDIVIDUALIZED LESSON PLANS AND TEACH THOSE KIDS SKILLS THAT WOULD HELP THEM WITH THEIR DAILY LIVES. WHEN OTHERS CALLED IT GLORIFIED BABYSITTING, YOU WERE DETERMINED TO TEACH. EVERY CHILD THAT ENTERED YOUR CLASSROOM WALKED AWAY WITH SKILLS THAT THEY OTHERWISE WOULDN’T HAVE HAD, THAT MADE THEIR LIVES A LITTLE BETTER. THAT SURE SOUNDS LIKE A DIFFERENCE TO ME!\nOh..\nDO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE THREE AND YOU WERE WATCHING CHRISTMAS EVE ON SESAME STREET AND YOU SAW LINDA TEACH THE KIDS TO SIGN THE SONG “KEEP CHRISTMAS WITH YOU”? DO YOU REMEMBER HOW MUCH IT MOVED YOUR HEART AND HOW DETERMINED YOU WERE TO LEARN AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE ONE DAY?\nYes…I took an extra semester in college so that I could get as much ASL as possible. But what does it matter, I never used it, I don’t even know anyone that is Deaf!\nSOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO LOOK AT THINGS FROM MORE THAN ONE ANGLE. YOU HAVEN’T MET ANYONE WHO IS DEAF, BUT YOU USED THOSE SIGNS TO COMMUNICATE WITH KIDS WITH AUTISM WHO WERE OTHERWISE NONVERBAL. ALSO, WHEN YOU HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO GO TO AFRICA AND TEACH VACATION BIBLE SCHOOL AT AN ORPHANAGE FOR KIDS WITH SPECIAL NEEDS, YOU JUST KNEW YOU COULD TEACH THEM, EVEN THOUGH YOU DIDN’T SPEAK THEIR LANGUAGE. LEARNING SIGN LANGUAGE WASN’T ABOUT SPEAKING WITH KIDS WHO WERE DEAF, IT WAS ABOUT REALIZING THAT THERE ARE SO MANY WAYS TO COMMUNICATE AND THAT YOU NEED TO BE OPEN TO WHAT WAYS YOU CAN REACH THE CHILDREN THAT OTHERS CAN’T.\nOh…\nDO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU STARTED A MASTER’S IN AUTISM, BUT YOUR MENTAL ILLNESS WAS AT A ROUGH SPOT AND YOU DIDN’T THINK THERE WAS ANY WAY YOU COULD FINISH THE DEGREE? I SENT YOU AN AMAZING PROFESSOR AND FRIEND THAT HELPED YOU SEE THAT YOU WOULD BE GREAT AT APPLIED BEHAVIOR ANALYSIS, AND THAT MASTER’S YOU COULD GET WITH A DEGREE ONLINE, WHICH WOULD MUCH BETTER MEET YOUR NEEDS? DID YOU THINK THAT I SENT HER TO YOU JUST FOR FUNSIES? I SENT HER TO YOU BECAUSE I KNEW THAT SHE WOULD DIRECT YOU DOWN THE RIGHT PATH AND HELP YOU SEE HOW TALENTED YOU ARE.\nBut even after getting my Master’s and passing the boards I was only able to work for about three years. It was practically nothing.\nBUT IN THOSE THREE YEARS DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY LIVES YOU IMPACTED. YOU TAUGHT MANY YOUNG ADULTS TO LOVE THE FIELD OF ABA SO MUCH THAT THEY WENT BACK TO SCHOOL AND BECAME A BCBA, TOO. AND YOU GOT SO MANY YOUNG ONES WITH AUTISM SPECTRUM DISORDER ON THE PATH TO START LEARNING LIFE SKILLS AND BE ABLE TO COMMUNICATE IN WHICHEVER WAY WAS MEANT FOR THEM. I DON’T CALL THAT NOTHING!\nYeah, but then I was in such poor shape that I had to go to a short-term residential facility. I was at my lowest of lows. It was like I was starting over from square zero.\nYES…BUT DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS LIKE AT THE END OF YOUR STAY. YOU WERE CO-FACILITATING PRACTICALLY EVERY GROUP YOU WERE IN AND YOU WERE RUNNING A SOCIAL GROUP SO THAT PEOPLE CAME OUT OF THEIR ROOMS AND PLAYED GAMES OR JUST CHATTED. I NEEDED YOU TO SEE THAT EVEN AT THE TIMES WHEN YOUR DISABILITY IS AT ITS WORST, YOU ARE STILL ABLE TO BE A TEACHER. YOU ARE STILL ABLE TO BE A MENTOR. YOU ARE STILL ABLE TO SUPPORT THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU AND SHOW THEM THAT THERE REALLY IS HOPE.\nHmmm…but what about now. I’ve been on disability for a few years, I know that I won’t be able to work full time, I still have been in and out of the hospital, and now that I’m not making very much money I have to go to the horrible hospitals!\nALL IN THE PLAN, MY DEAR. I NEEDED YOU TO SEE HOW DIFFERENT MEDICAL TREATMENT IS FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE ABLE TO WORK AND FOR THOSE THAT AREN’T, ESPECIALLY KNOWING THAT THE MORE SEVERE YOUR DISABILITY, THE LESS LIKELY YOU’LL BE ABLE TO WORK. IT IS AWFUL WHAT IS GOING ON DOWN THERE. I GAVE YOU THE POWER TO WRITE AND TO SPEAK, AND YOU ARE USING YOUR VOICE TO MAKE THINGS DIFFERENT. I KNOW YOU LOOK AT THE ANALYTICS OF YOUR WEBSITE, BUT THERE IS TRULY NO WAY FOR YOU TO KNOW HOW MUCH OF AN IMPACT YOU ARE HAVING ON THE WORLD. ONLY I CAN SEE THAT. I AM SO PROUD OF YOU, AND I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE WHAT YOU DO NEXT! SO PLEASE DON’T GIVE UP NOW. I KNOW YOUR LIFE IS DIFFICULT AND YOU ARE RUNNING LOW ON HOPE, BUT TRUST THAT I HAVE A PLAN FOR YOU AND THAT ONLY YOU CAN FULFILL IT. REMEMBER THAT IN MANY OF THESE INSTANCES IT WAS YEARS BETWEEN WHEN I GAVE YOU THE SKILL OR DESIRE AND WHEN YOU HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO USE THAT SKILL. MY PLANS ARE LONG TERM, WHILE YOU CAN ONLY SEE A FEW MOMENTS IN ADVANCE. YOU NEED TO TRUST ME, I AM ALWAYS PREPARING YOU FOR THE NEXT STEP…BIG OR SMALL. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?\nYes, I think so. If I end my life now, it’s probably in the middle of a plan, and it could mean that that plan was never fulfilled. I have to keep fighting…but I know that You will be with me.\nI WILL. I LOVE YOU WITH A LOVE THAT IS SO BIG YOU CAN’T EVEN UNDERSTAND, AND I AM SO SO PROUD OF YOU FOR CONTINUING TO FIGHT. YOUR BRAIN WILL TELL YOU IT’S TIME TO GIVE UP MANY MORE TIMES BEFORE IT’S TRUE, BUT REMEMBER THAT I AM HERE AND WE CAN ALWAYS TALK THROUGH IT. I’M ASKING YOU TO PLEASE NOT GIVE UP, AND I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT WHAT WILL COME NEXT!\nThank you, me, too. I love you.\nI LOVE YOU, TOO. NOW GO CHANGE 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: From Scratch\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1002\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Now, I know this is new to you, Jerry-”\n“Jared.”\n“Like I said, Jerry, but we will have this cake done in no time.”\n“Well, I hope so, Margie, but the party is in two hours.”\n“The last person that called me Margie was my friend Ben in first grade. That was the day he learned what dirt tasted like.”\n“… So, it’s Margret?”\n“Only if you don’t want to tell me how fresh this flour is. Now, hand me the whisk from the tumbler over there.”\n“What’s a whisk?”\n“Boy, you haven’t been in a kitchen in a while, have you?”\n“Well, I figure it’s about time to start since I’ll be cooking all my meals on my own now.”\n“Yeah, that’s part of growing up and moving out. You’ll be ok; I’ll teach you. You ain’t gonna starve on my watch.”\n“Thank you.”\n“Yeah. The whisk is that metal-looking thing over there… No, not that one. That’s a meat mallet.”\n“What do you use it for?”\n“Tenderizing steaks… or pounding out my frustrations from the people who try to call me Margie.”\n“So, it gets a lot of use?”\n“Too much, Jerry, too much… Yes, that’s the whisk. Now, whisk the eggs into the flour.”\n“Did you measure it out first?”\n“Darling, I haven’t measured anything since 1984. I can eyeball everything.”\n“Alright… It just looks like a lot.”\n“Jerry, who’s been baking longer, you or me?”\n“You’re right, you’re right.”\n“As I was saying, whisk the eggs into the flour… You gotta twist your wrist; we are whisking, not stirring… There now you got it!”\n“That’s not so bad.”\n“Now, tell me you remembered to preheat the oven.”\n“Was I supposed to?”\n“Jerry, if I don’t remember, that’s supposed to be the baking assistant’s job.”\n“Since this is my first time baking, I didn’t quite know the rules or steps, Ms. Margret.”\n“Well… I guess that’s true. That one’s on me. I do like you calling me Ms. Margret, though. It sounds sophisticated or something.”\n“It’s meant for a woman who is to be respected and revered.”\n“Revered… You with those fancy college terms. Your momma would be right proud.”\n“Thank you, Ma’am.”\n“I hate that she didn’t get to teach you all this stuff before she had to go, but when the Lord says ‘it’s time to go,’ it’s time to go.”\n“That’s about the truth.”\n“Well, honey, you can come for dinner anytime. I’m glad you found our church.”\n“Me, too. I like it very well.”\n“Good. We enjoy your company, too. You know, after this, I’m gonna expect you to bring the cake to the potluck in a couple weeks.”\n“On my own? I didn’t take notes.”\n“Ah, you’ll remember. I got faith in you.”\n“Thanks, Ms. Margret. Can I call you if I need some instructions?”\n“As long as you remember that a whisk is not a spoon or a meat mallet, I think that can work.”\n“I’ll try my best.”\n“I know you will.”\n“Did your mom teach you how to cook?”\n“Nah, that was my grandmother. My mom worked too much to have much time at home. So when I was old enough, I started to cook for her.”\n“I’m sure she appreciated that.”\n“I think so. My grandmother loved to be in the kitchen. It helped her make time pass by after Granddaddy died. In a way, I like to think I can still feel her near me as I make the same foods she taught me to make and all… But, unfortunately, I didn’t have any children to pass them on.”\n“Really?”\n“Nah, I was too busy working to let myself settle down and all.”\n“Do you ever regret it? I’m not sure kids are in my future either.”\n“Well, there are days when the silence gets to me, and I start wondering what it would have been like. But this is who I am and who the Lord made me to be. If I was meant to have children, I would have had them. Sometimes, it’s just best to rely on the Lord’s provision.”\n“Yeah.”\n“Besides, He sent me a handsome college boy who needs to know his way around the kitchen, and I’m going to get to pass on all my knowledge to him. He will be an amazing catch for any woman he falls in love with.”\n“You really think so?”\n“Jerry, if you tell any woman you can cook, you have a shoe in the door.”\n“Do you think it's really that simple?”\n“If there was ever a man to have said it to me, I believe I’d have let him walk me down the aisle.”\n“Ms. Margret, you don’t mean that.”\n“Well, maybe not, but he’d have a shot.”\n“So… can I come back tomorrow?”\n“I’ll be home from the bakery at about 7 if you don’t mind eating a late supper.”\n“I usually eat about that time.”\n“Two peas in a pod, Jerry.”\n“My mom used to say that. You remind me a lot of her.”\n“I’m glad. Well, I think the oven is finally preheated. Let’s get the cake in.”\n“It looks good.”\n“It’s my favorite, red velvet.”\n“Is it true it’s just a chocolate cake with red dye?”\n“Did you see me put red dye in the batter?”\n“No, Ma’am.”\n“Then today, we have chocolate cake.”\n“I thought it looked too brown to be red, but I figured you knew more about it than me.”\n“Well, Jerry, there’s knowing, and then there’s doing.”\n“I’m sure it’ll still be a great cake either way, Ms. Margret.”\n“I hope so. Now, have you ever made icing before?”\n“It doesn’t just come in a can?”\n“Oh, we got work to do…”\n“Is it a lot of work?”\n“Nah, it’s relatively easy. We will need a spoon for this, Jared.”\n“Jerry.”\n“You sure?”\n“It’s growing on me, but only for you.”\n“Aw, that’s nice.”\n“Should we try Margie again? I think it’s sweet.”\n“Hand me the flour.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: God's Not So Boring After All\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1126\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story entirely of dialogue. Nothing but dialogue. No attributives (he said, she said, etc.). No descriptions of scenes or gestures or movements (unless these things are presented in the dialogue). Just words between quotation marks. Pure, beautiful, untainted dialogue." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Wendy, are you there?\nYeh, I’m here. What’s going on?\nMy parents are insisting that I attend church on Sunday with them. I don’t want to go. Dad says that if I don’t, I can plan to spend the day in my bedroom. That’s just not fair.\nMay I ask why you don’t want to attend church? \nSure. It is boring. Besides, I’m not sure that I believe in God.\nIs it boring because there are other things that your mind is on and you would rather be doing?\nWell, yes. Almost anything except sitting in church for an hour and a half.\nWhat is so bad about the service?\nThe minister is talking to the adults, not to me. And, he’s speaking about people that supposedly lived two thousand years ago. How can I relate to them, when I can’t even relate to stories my own parents tell about twenty or thirty years ago?\nLet me ask you this. Do you enjoy reading fiction books?\nDepending upon who the author is and the subject matter, for the most part, I enjoy fiction. It has to keep moving along, without a lot of description, and have some mystery to it - you know, something stimulating me to guess what will occur next.\nWhat if you listened to the church service like it was a fiction book that was being read to you? The bible readings, at least many of them, should have you curious about what will come next. \nI suppose that I could give it a try. That would mean actually listening to the entire presentation. It’ll take an effort on my part to change my habit of tuning-out the speaker.\nWhy not give it a try. I’ll check-in with you later on Sunday to hear about how it went for you.\nSounds perfect. Thank you, Larina.\nWell, Wendy, how was today’s church service for you?\nLarina, it took immense concentration to keep my attention focused. I am very proud to say, ‘I did it!’\nThe minister was talking about planting seeds, caring for them and watching them grow into produce like, lettuce, sweet potatoes, peas, beans, etc. Seeds had to be planted at just the right time for the ground to be ready - not frozen. The right amount of rain or water sprinkling is required as is the right amount of sun to ‘feed’ the seeds. \nDid you know that crops need Vitamin D, just like humans do? This was news to me. I already knew about photosynthesis from Science class. Some of the information was vaguely familiar from second and third grades, when we planted beans in a styrofoam cup filled with soil to take home, care for it and to watch it grow. How excited I was to witness the seeds sprouting and growing into beans that we could actually cook and eat.\nWhat did you get out of the message besides how the seeds became food to cook and eat?\nA bible story from Matthew 13 was read about seeds falling. Where they fell made a difference as to whether or not they grew. I remember part of the reading. It was something like:\nSeed that fell in the gravel—is like the person who hears and eagerly responds but because there is no nourished soil, the seed won’t grow. It was compared to when ‘human emotions wear off and some difficulty arrives, there is nothing to show for it.’\nThen there was seed that was tossed into the weeds, which is like the person, who hears the message but wants everything under the sun and nothing comes of it. \nLastly, ‘The seed cast on good earth is the person who hears and takes in the News, and then produces a harvest beyond his wildest dreams.’\nIt made me realize that I have been like the seed cast in the weeds. I’d hear a message but not actually listen with my heart, so I didn’t get anything from it.\nThis actually made sense to me today. Thank you for encouraging me to listen and to report back to you. You gave me a reason to pay attention. I didn’t want to disappoint you. But, it also made me think how other times I’ve gone to church, I must have disappointed God, since I wasn’t listening, nor was I caring to learn about God and miracles He gives us that we don’t even appreciate - at least I didn’t until today. I got to thinking how I planted a lima bean as a young child. As I watched it spread open and sprout forming a new bean, it was fascinating. With great eagerness, I checked it each day to see its progress. When the new bean grew, it was like a miracle, but I didn’t know about the word ‘miracle’ back then like I do now. As I wrote that, it got me thinking how God must watch me with the same intent as I did that lima bean. What a disappointment I have been.\nWendy, I am very proud of you for giving it your all during that time with your family - both family of origin and church family. My family members sleep-in on Sunday morning. I can’t recall when I ever went to a church service. Do you think your parents would mind if I joined your family one weekend? We could have a sleep-over, so that I’d already by at your house?\nI’d love that, Larina! There’s no doubt that my parents would too, as then they’d be sure that I would attend. Next week, the subject will be on the ‘Beatitudes,’ which is how we are supposed to treat others. \nPerfect. I’d be interested in that. \nWendy, is there a bible in your home? I’m thinking that we could look for the section about the Beatitudes and read it to be somewhat familiar with the subject before the presentation. What is your opinion about that?\nWhat a smart idea, Larina. Yes, we do have a bible. It is probably covered in dust, so I’ll clean it before you arrive Won’t my parents be surprised, if you and I begin talking about the subject before we even attend church! You, my friend, may be the miracle that my parents have prayed for. You are encouraging me to become interested in my religion. At the same time, you can now learn right along with me. Certainly, I’m leaning toward believing that there is a God, who developed the complexities of earth, the world, science, human anatomy, sunrises and sunsets, and ever so much more. Yes, we have much to learn, and doing it together make it clearly more interesting. God’s not so boring after all. Thank you.\nWords: 1123" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ghosties....\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1048\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story within a story within a story within a ..." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Just shut up and write!\" These words were resounding in Emily Hardiman's brain. By day, she was a petite 23 year old tutor, wearing bad skirts. That went with her profession, all she could afford. On Sundays, she was the mild mannered 'good girl', she taught the children at Sunday School.\nYes, Emily was such a good girl. She was a trustworthy friend, placid, with a trim figure and honey-blonde hair that brushed her shoulders. Her hidden secret burning desire was to be a Gospel singer. But how? Sipping her coffee, she avoided the crispy fried ant floating on the surface. A tiny miracle, no longer busily doing ant things. At that stage of summer, there was an ant plague.\nWhile she was teaching her class at Sunday School, she was devoted to making her simple faith come alive to the children, beaming smiles at her. Emily liked to sing hymns, and engage the class in joining in musical worship. They preferred some of the Old Testament figures who featured in story time. To Emily, they were like friendly ghosties from her own childhood. They all came with a message, to walk in faith.\nEmily had an idea, a concept for a new form of Gospel song. She was undecided about how to start it. She, too, had been busy doing her day job. Sighing, she told herself, \"Just shut up and write! This is it! God will show you your path!\" She sat at her laptop and began typing.\nSuch a long hot evening. To cool off, Emily had yet another cool shower. Taking on the slow running faucet, she started singing. \"Everyone sings in the shower,\" she told herself. Yes, the slightly different words fitted the old tune, her song. \"It may necessarily be so.\"\nIt all made sense. First ghostie, Moses. He could have been placed in the water. In those olden days, parents did dispose of their unwanted children in fields or rivers, for the jackals or crocodiles to eat. Turned the kids into ghosties. Perfectly normal behavior for their society, all good in the context. Emily's Holy Bible was full of stories within a story, both old and new.\nEmily was on a roll. \"Just shut up overthinking it, and sing!\" Jonah could have been found in the mouth of a whale, perfectly logical. No Jonah in the abdomen, the gastric juices would have taken over. But way back then, the people were much smaller, the whales and all critters were much larger. The whales were not hunted to the verge of extinction, much closer and friendlier to humans then. \"May necessarily be so, may necessarily be so.....\"\nEmily kept on humming and jamming her song. It was true in ancient times, the volcano Thera erupted, so the Red Sea parted. Then the ensuing Tsunami would have swept away the Egyptians and the old Pharaoh. So Moses led his people to the land of milk and honey, their land of Israel. His ghostie was still a favorite Bible story, even today.\nThat was her song. Little Emily was small, but she had an awesome God. She believed in ephemeral, ethereal spirits. They could be the ghosties of an ancient faith, still on Earth, blessing across the veil. From beyond the sunset, it was her task to make all this come to life for her class on Sundays, and hopefully to a wider audience. Emily hoped her voice was strong enough, to become a female Gospel singer.\n\"Cross bridges as they happen,\" was her father's saying, along with, \"Worry about tomorrow as it happens.\" Okay. Her brother called over to visit the next night, as she was singing in the shower again. When she emerged in her shorty nightie, he produced an ad for a talent quest at the local Karaoke night, the following Friday.\n\"Wear your jeans,\" her brother told her, \"not that dreadful skirt.\" \"Boys will be boys,\" Emily replied. She was daring to hope she could fulfill Christianity today, and spread her story as a singer of the Lord.\nAt the club, it was finally Emily's turn to step up to the microphone. When Emily sang, she transformed herself to a powerful stage presence. Her husky voice entranced the audience. She was best singer there, but she was not confident that her Christian message would win her any fans. But one man applauded with a cheer, yelling, \"Sing along with Figaro!\" It was harmless fun, brought the crowd to clap along.\n\"Encore!\" someone else called. They loved Emily. Not missing a beat, she launched into her version of the classic, \"Crying in the Chapel.\" It came as a surprise when a tenor voice united with Emily's voice, like a heart throb. Their voices soared in perfect harmony, celebrating their Lord.\nEveryone else faded into the background. The spotlight was on Emily. She was a natural star, wondering who the stranger in the darkness was. Thrilling the audience, they ended their song.\nSilence, then came massive applause. Emily had mesmerized them, her unique talents had reached new levels. She peered into the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of the tenor. The audience was fascinated, it was true magic in the air. Emily stepped away from the microphone, blinking slightly. Naturally shy and reticent, she had handled the challenge so well.\nShe won the talent contest, of course. Her path to sing the glory of the Gospel and her ghosties opened up for her. She did not let her fame affect her, she set off on the road to the USA, the big time. The musical gods smiled on her.\nFor years, Emily was a singing sensation, but she never again heard that blend of such a tenor with her voice. The stranger in the bar, vanished. Emily had only a glimpse of a memory, a happy few minutes of harmony and peace. She often reflected at night, about the voice in her, and the voice at her side.A story in her story, all a mystery, like faith on Earth.\nThe years rolled by, recording after recording, guest appearances. All along, her prayers were more important than any criticism of her unique approach. The faith never left her, and she never walked alone, with her ghosties of an ancient world, never forgotten...." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fist Bump\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1383\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet all or part of your story in a jam-packed storage unit." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Wayne nudged the file cabinet drawer shut.\n“Only people lost in the past keep paperwork these days Pops,” said his fifteen-year-old son. He flashed a copy of an Excel spreadsheet on his phone toward his father but seeing no recognition of this action from him, he lowered his head and thumbed one handed to more interesting sites. He murmured, “By the way, did I tell you I’ve changed my name from Jacob to Jay?” His voice tightened, “ I can’t stand being associated with a loser in the Old Testament who couldn’t even walk without a limp.”\nWayne turned within the cold shade of the storage unit to view his son. The shadow of the building cast a dark shadow across his body. Rays of morning sunlight blazed over the roofline to crown the top strands of his auburn hair as he stood near the lock gate of the unit. Tightness gripped Wayne. Am I seeing the light of an angel or enemy? he thought. Which will I meet today?\nAs Wayne stepped toward the lock gate, he scanned the contents of the rental unit to remind himself of the content's value. A flash of memory told him the old Indian motorcycle he planned to rebuild leaned against the back wall. He chortled. It would require the sale of all the antiques to even reach it. He buried the image quickly, for like his wayward son, it was something deeply hidden in his heart that always demanded something he wasn’t sure he had the power to give.\nHe inhaled to break free of these obsessions and clicked the metal wall of the exit with his wedding ring as was his habit to indicate he was done with business for the day. “You would do well to understand why Jacob had that limp,” he said. “You’d think differently of his name.”\nJacob stood back to allow room for his dad, eyes on the phone. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. \"I’ve heard it all before. At church and at home.”\nWayne stood on the threshold of the doorway; his voice heavy. “You would do well to understand just what it cost him to get that limp.”\nHis son raised his eggshell brown eyes to lock onto Wayne’s black as railroad ties. He raised the volume of the heavy metal music playing on the phone. He waved it back and forth like a Fourth of July sparkler to fill the space between them. Wayne raised an arm and shouted, “You’ve damaged your brain listening to such gibberish.”\nJacob yelled, “What you say means nothing to me.” He shut the music video and shoved the cell into his breast pocket. Yelling still, he said, “I’m only here cause you needed help shoving that dumb dresser into storage. Who are you saving it for? Like all the other stuff in there it will sit forever.”\nWayne lowered his voice, arms tight at his side, the skin between his eyebrows knit tight. “It’s solid wood. It’s quality. It’s not like the cheap screw driver put-together furniture you get from Ikea. You better keep that in mind.”\n“You think I’m stupid for listening to heavy metal and I think you’re stupid for living in the past. No one wants this old stuff. That’s what you need to learn.”\nWayne jammed his hands onto his hips. “Oh yeah, tell me, just what do I need to learn?”\nJacob pantomimed on the palm of his hand. “In business class we learn that to estimate profit margins you need to add the cost of the item with the materials and time it takes to maintain it, plus a portion of the rent you pay for its storage and the delivery fee. Then you deduct this total from your sale price.” Wayne’s forehead loosened. “Profit margins depend on the industry Pops. For as long as you keep your goods, I doubt you even get four percent profit.”\nWayne stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He uttered, “I’m impressed with your . . . your . . . sound thinking.”\n“Yeah? Well, you didn’t think I knew what was going on here but I do.”\nWayne withdrew his hands and pulled down the garage’s sliding door. He locked the combination lock. When he looked up, Jacob had already jumped into the passenger seat of the truck. Wayne counted his steps around the trunk bed to slow his breathing. He opened the door and slid inside. He pulled the seat belt across his chest and clicked it. He could feel the hard profile of his son. He glanced over at him and saw he looked straight out the windshield like a bird caught in a locked cage. Wayne shuddered and rolled down his window in an attempt to relieve the tight air between them.\n“Jacob. I’m proud of what you have learned and how you explained it to me. I want you to know that is how you would learn about Jacob and his limp too. He had to fight an angel to get what he wanted. The Ottoman king Mehmed studied Alexander The Great’s military strategy to conquer Constantinople. No other conqueror had achieved that for over a thousand years.” He tapped the stirring wheel to emphasize his following point, “He wasn’t even twenty years old.” Wayne wiggled the keys out of his front jean pocket. “We know stories like these as lessons for life.” He twisted the ignition and let the engine idle. Then he let the vehicle cruise down the road that separated the storage units. “Like them, you can change your life . . .”\n“I’ve got to change my life?” Jacob slapped both hands on his thighs and leaned back. He jutted his chin as though self-will alone would make the truck move faster and make his escape sooner.\n“Both of those men and the musician you admire studied those who lived before them in order to learn about life and how to succeed. They knew what they wanted and used their time to build skills.”\nWayne turned the truck left at the intersection that led to the exit. He let the truck crawl up to it. “What skills are you developing son?” Jacob sat hard as a statue. “What if we say for argument’s sake, that business law is your skill. Your math teacher told me at the parent’s night that you ace the tests without turning in homework. That’s why you receive a C grade.”\n“So.”\n“That won’t get you into college. I’m wondering if math isn’t the talent you need to develop.”\n“Who cares,” he said. He ran his hands up and down his thighs.\nWayne paused the truck at the main road. “I care. Math is simple to you. I’m going to enroll you in the college prep class. I’m pretty sure your teacher will back me on that decision.”\n“You’ll do this for my own good, right?” He pulled out his phone with a defeated sigh.\n“Hey. Don’t put me on hold with that phone like you say I do to you with those antiques back there.” Wayne braced his hands on the wheel. “Tell you what. I’ll sell all the stuff in the storge unit as you take that class.” His son looked at him. “In fact, I want you to keep the financial record to see that I keep my word.”\nJacob’s eyes widened.\nA sudden rise of giddiness rose through Wayne. He saw a mental image of himself riding that motorcycle. Another thought raced through his mind. He laughed and said, “Knowing the past gives us fuel for the future son.” He twisted his torso to face his son square. “Let’s do this together. Let’s hold each other accountable.”\nJacob shifted his position to face his dad and pointed across the few inches that separated them, “I’ll only do this if you give me twenty percent of the profit.”\n “Oh boy, I’ll have to ask higher prices then won’t I.”\n“I’ll have to ask a teacher to help me.”\nWayne nodded, the stagnant air between them vanished. He imagined that Jacob’s bird had finally taken flight. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay if you are.”\nJacob smiled and raised a fist. Wayne raised his fist. They bumped. In unison they said, “Deal!”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Joyriders Club\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 1410\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who wakes up in space." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Chewing Juicy Fruit during a Border Enforcement interrogation isn’t a great idea.\n “Lose the gum, kiddo!” Officer McNally said, reaching for his waste basket. \n “Who says so?”\n “You’re on the Moon now,” he said, proffering the bin. “That’s our rule here.” \n I had one last chomp on the gum, plucked it from my mouth in a pincer movement and flicked it into the hovering receptacle.\n “Thank you, Erika,” McNally said, passing the bin to his fellow officer, who removed my pack of gum from the table with a sneer on her face. \n I lowered my eyes. “Help yourself, why don’t you?”\n “Now…” McNally checked his notes. “Where did we get to—-?”\n “You’d just asked me why I’d stowed away on an interplanetary shuttle.”\n “Oh, yes,” McNally said, pressing the record button. “Officers McNally and Toll resuming interview with female suspect at Moon Base Omega—-”\nMcNally peered at me over his glasses and cleared his throat.\n “How about a name?” Officer Toll said, staring at me with beady avian eyes set in a granite escarpment. “Well?”\n “I’m Sheena. Sheena Bridge.”\n “A bridge too far, eh Ted?”\n McNally gave Toll a sideways glance.\n “I’ve never heard that before.”\n “She’s got balls, Ted.”\nMcNally shrugged and pressed the record button again. “It’s zero-eight-hundred hours, dateline two, fifteen, twenty-forty-one. Officers McNally and Toll are with suspect Sheena Bridge, who is calm and poses neither an immediate security risk nor an obvious terrorist threat…”\n I never imagined I’d wake up in space, to be honest. I thought Jimmy was joking around and we’d just curl up for a couple of hours and leg it before anyone noticed us. It’s funny how things work out. However, I’m not laughing now.\n I guess it all started when I said, ‘But how much do you love me, Jimmy?’ and he said, ‘More than all the stars in the universe.’ \n How do you prove a love like that? I mean, that’s a tall order for anyone.\n Afterwards, Jimmy told me it was supposed to be a surprise for Valentine’s Day. He just wanted to show me a sight I’d never forget. Jimmy was old-fashioned in that respect and a true romantic at heart. On a previous occasion, he’d prepared a surprise picnic and illuminated our rear garden with dozens of flickering tea-lights, leading me there blindfolded for a midnight feast. I couldn’t believe it when he whipped off the scarf. He’d transformed our scruffy garden into a glowing shrine of soft shadows and scintillating dreams. \n Anyway, despite our attempts to count the stars, we never achieved a good view of the night sky because it was too cloudy, maybe not dark enough, or perhaps a sudden downpour would curtail our reverie. We’d abandon our plan, retreat to our living room carpet, and lie side by side on a tartan blanket, pretending we were shipwrecked on a deserted atoll. However, peering up at the night sky through a gap in one’s curtains doesn’t cut it. I’ve got to hand it to him, he tried. He always rose to the task, filling the room with twinkling fairy lights and shimmering candles. We both tried. We had fun trying. It’s just that, well. You know how it is? There’s always more out there. Life’s always about defining the limits.\n Jimmy had been a baggage handler at Heathrow’s Terminal Eight for a year. He’d worked the night shift and knew the spaceport inside out. Jimmy had done plenty of moon shots as cargo crew and knew the routine. He’d access to all the secure areas, so a night of star watching beyond the main runway wasn’t all that intrepid, if we were careful.\n To be honest, I didn’t think he was serious when he said he’d prepared a picnic and asked me to grab a bottle of fizzy. We started off the evening in the control tower’s shadow and skulked past security to the space shuttle’s hangar. There’s less light pollution being away from the city and it’s darker out there.\n After we’d finished our picnic, we grabbed our blanket and basket and headed to the cargo area at the rear of Terminal Eight. We’d had a bit to drink and I remember clambering over luggage in the fuselage's rear. I know we were daft to make out inside the shuttle. Falling asleep in each other’s arms was a big mistake, too. \n When I woke up, it was dark and Jimmy was snoring beside me. I tried to bring him round, and he groaned. We soon discovered they’d locked the cargo doors prior to departure. Then, before I knew it, we were on our way. It was Jimmy who suggested chewing the Juicy Fruit. He told me it helps avoid ear ache. ‘Sudden changes in cabin pressure can be painful,’ he said.\n Hours later, Jimmy nudged me awake and handed me a scarf to cover my eyes. I got to my feet, and he led me in darkness through the pressurised cargo hold. I followed Jimmy, still blindfolded and holding his hand, and we clunked our way up the creaking metal walkway until we reached the spherical observation deck and then, Wow! A three-hundred-degree view of the stars; up above and all around. It was way beyond my comprehension. A myriad of stars twinkling in the velvety darkness of the universe and infinite clusters of tiny lights that spiralled on forever more.\n “Was it worth it?” asked McNally, turning to Toll, who rolled her eyes.\n “God yeah! Who wouldn’t catch their breath, opening their eyes to see billions of stars in every direction?”\n “Believe me,” said Toll. “It gets like wallpaper after a while---”\n “You were saying?” said McNally, stroking his bristly jowls.\n “I recall collapsing down on my knees and covering my open mouth with both hands. Jimmy sat down beside me and I saw a look in his eyes that I’d never seen before. His lips moved towards mine. We kissed each other. I can’t describe to you what I felt. It seemed as if my life had built in a slow crescendo to that perfect moment, and then Jimmy fumbled open a little metal box and I bit my lip…”\n Toll looked up from her paperwork and gave a gentle snort.\n “Then he said, ‘Marry me...’” \n McNally drew a deep breath and twisted his mouth into a lopsided smirk.\n “Am I in trouble?”\n “Well,” he said, removing his glasses to clean them. “This happens more than you might imagine.”\n “We should throw the book at her, Ted.”\n I swallowed and rotated Jimmy’s precious ring on my fourth finger.\n “You mean the special book, Officer Toll?” McNally extracted a two-inch thick, dusty ledger from his desk drawer, and held it aloft.\n “That’s the one,” Toll smiled, staring at me. “Do your worst, McNally.”\n “But we didn’t do nothing—-”\n The hefty volume thudded on the table top like a body-slammed wrestler hitting the deck. I recoiled from the impact and swallowed, but my throat was dry and my eyes stung like crazy as they welled up. \n Toll leaned back in her chair, extended her forearms and braced her interlocked fingers. She chuckled as her knuckles cracked under the strain, making sharp pops like chicken wishbones snapped for good luck. I imagined she enjoyed stripping down and shredding a carcass for kicks. \n McNally was oblivious to her behaviour, plucked a pen from his breast pocket and flicked through the ledger’s many pages to locate the last entry.\n “You need to disclose your contact details and sign the book,” he said, smoothing down a page of scrawled names and addresses. “You just joined the joyrider’s club.”\n “The joyrider’s what?”\n “This happens more often than you’d believe, young lady.”\n “But I don’t under—-”\n “We’re sending you back home with a slap on the wrist and—-\n “No way…. Is that it?”\n “Not unless you want a charge.”\n “You’re joking, right?”\n “There’re no second chances.” Toll popped the last two sticks of my Juicy Fruit between her teeth and clacked down hard. “So, don’t push it.” \nHer exaggerated jaw movements continued and did little to contradict her charmless bovine manner, scoring her worthless points in a game nobody cared about. \n “We’re done here, Ted.”\n “Interview with suspect Sheena Bridge concluded at zero-eight-ten hours. Miss Bridge has signed all the interplanetary transportation disclaimers. Officers McNally and Toll will escort Miss Bridge onto the next available flight to Heathrow Terminal Eight. No further action required. Case closed.”\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 Faith Of Thelma Faye\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 2137\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Faith of Thelma Faye\nI remember feeling protected as I snuggled in the warmth of my mother's strong arms. My bed was veiled in a green canopy. She spread her warmth so wide it encompassed our whole world as we could see it. And there were a lot of us. She was like the old women who lived in a shoe. So many children... Except she knew. She sheltered and nurtured us and taught us everything she could before setting us free out into a world unknown. She taught our family history and mysteries of what could be.\nWhen gentle breezes rustled the leaves she whispered be calm and know that you will always be loved. When tempests roared she assured no matter what could befall us we would be cherished and remain a part of the universe, a crucial arc in the circle of life. And so I matured watching the magic of a world just waiting to embrace and show me a place.\n“Mother,” I would ask, “what is the sound I hear?”\n“Ah, listen to the angels sing,” she answered as we surveyed a little white building with a tall point above the roof top and a sturdy glistening portal.\nI would watch weekly as beings filtered in and out of that building. Appearing downtrodden as they went in and uplifted as they filed out.\n“Why the difference?”\n“They have left their burdens inside.”\n“What is the point on top for?”\n“It points to the one who washes away their sorrows.”\n“What is the portal made of?”\n“Well, that is a family heirloom. Your grandmother gave her all for that doorway.”\n“Whatever do you mean?” So my mother told me her story.\n“I started growing up very close to my mother's knee,” she said. “A little too close and I was being overshadowed. Workers were busy building this edifice. They needed something spectacular for the opening. They realized the gift for their dilemma was standing right before them. My mother was very, very old by this time and had withstood many, many heartaches along with many blessings. She considered it to be a most honored blessing to provide the material necessary to create a masterpiece that became the great oaken doorway into their new chapel. You can even get a glimpse of the alter and railing inside when the door is flung open. Those are also your grandmother's contribution.”\nI gained a new respect and admiration of the little building after that.\n“Tell me, Mother, what will I be?”\n“What will be, will be. The future is not ours to see,” my wise mother reminded.\nAnd so the season seasoned forth and I took more interest in the beings I beheld. There was a cute chubby one. She often scampered about until a pretty lady the fair-haired tall man called 'Margretha' beseeched, “Don't get dirty, Gertie.”\nSometimes I could spot 'Gertie' with other children as they gathered about the stump I now knew was Grandmother's and they would listen to stories or sing songs much like the angelic ones I heard coming from the chapel. It was a peaceful and enriched time in my life when I could also watch the critters of the sky or the sneaky, squeaky squirrels, as Mother said they were, scurry about.\nThen the winds blew stronger and colder. I watched in wonder as so many of my brethren departed to a bewildering fate. The warm, green, friendly leaves that had veiled me for so long changed to magnificent colors then let go and floated away leaving me totally exposed!\n“Oh, Mother! What is happening?”\n“It is time. Remember all I have taught you. What will be will be. Go forth into the world.” She released me and down, down I went!\n“Oh, ouch!” I bounced and rolled but didn't go too far. I was sure one of those sneaky squeaky squirrels would gobble me up or save me for later, as Mother had told us. I would provide proper nourishment then go lickity-split out and become part of the warm humus of the earth ready for a new cycle of life. Is that really all there would be? I was hoping for so much more. But what will be will be. I will be grateful and as helpful as can be. Suddenly one of those beautiful, colorful leaves landed on top of me. Very welcoming and warm. Perhaps safe again?\nIt was only a day or two then the leaf was lifted. “Oh,Mother, look at this beautiful leaf I found! And look at the perfect acorn it is hiding!” It was cute little Gertie and her mother, Margretha!\n“Oh, that will be a cherished addition to our cornucopia for Thanksgiving on the altar.”\nAnd so I was carried inside the chapel, arranged with other beautiful gifts of the land and placed on top of the altar Grandmother had sacrificed so much for. I got to hear close up praise and thanksgiving to the One who had sacrificed so much for so many. Yes, it was so fulfilling to be so loved. I understood now how these people felt as they laid their burdens upon the Christ and were nurtured with His body and blood and heard the words of scripture balm their troubled souls. If I could have I would sing praises,too. I was proud to be a tiny part of His creation.\nThanksgiving passed to the next holy day and I was put away into a deep dark place. But I could still hear some of the merriment and singing and reading of the Word. I learned much. Time passed and as each Thanksgiving rolled around I was once again placed among the bounty. But some of my luster must have faded.\nMargretha rummaged around in the closet. “Here are some acorns that will work for the children's craft project. We will gather fresher acorns next Thanksgiving.”\nI found myself staring up at Gertie, her small pink tongue eschewed to the corner of her lips, as she meticulously glued me to a wooden stick and fashioned it with others to create a frame for a crayon drawing. For good measure she drew a little happy face on me beneath my burnished crown. Now I hang smiling out over the children in a small room. Of course, honored to be of use. Bonus! I get to hear of parables and miracles of the Good Shepherd.\nOnce again years pass. Gertie grows and I am pleased to see her as a beautiful young bride dressed to walk down the aisle with a long veil swirling around her ready to pool on the floor in a perfect photograph along side her handsome young gentleman with wavy dark hair. I can hear familiar chords drifting down from above having witnessed a few ceremonies in my time on the altar.\nSoon, Gertie has a babe in her arms whenever she passes through my room. That babe is dressed in a long white gown and I know she will be presented at the baptismal font for her Christening. Wonder what her name will be? Sort of wish I had a name and I could be Christened. “Acorn” is okay, I guess. I am content. I smile.\nYes, I have been forgotten about hanging a little lopsided midst other kid art creations. Suddenly Gertie pauses in front of me returning my smile.\n“I think this is a frame I made years ago. Kind of dull and crumbly. But the picture is of rainbows which my children love because it reminds them of God's promises. Maybe I should reclaim it and have the children refresh the colors.”\nSo she packed me up with her other teaching aids to take me to her house. Oh, good, I can get to know her children better!\nBut, alas, I never made it. Well, maybe my jaunty little cap clung to the stick and made it there but the rest of me was jumbled loose and fell on the way out the door.\nI rolled beside a large stump in the front courtyard of the little church. Kind of reminded me of the parable of the seed sower. Wonder where I landed. What will become of me? As I looked closer I realized there were two stumps. One much older and moss covered. Yes, Mother and Grandmother. Well, I felt old and dried up inside so figured it was now time for me to become fodder for the fold and be recycled for the next life.\nBut to my amazement I was veiled again with freshly falling leaves and a dollop of moist earth and could feel myself reaching new sprouts down into the earth to take root. Within a couple of years I grew to be a healthy sapling. Praise be to the Good Lord, I could look around the growing neighborhood and witness Gertie's children growing just as fast.\nUnfortunately, some long-nosed busybodies decided a sapling tree did not belong in this spot because it would grow way too big and ruin the foundation just like that other mighty oak had been doing for too many years. It had to come down.\nGertie came to the rescue.\n“You know the children have been wanting an experimental project making paper out of wood chips. The fine soft wood of this young tree could provide the perfect pulp for their creativity.”\nNot that any of it was pleasant but I was hewed, chipped, soaked, died a new color, wrung out, spread out to dry and miraculously I had a new form. Mother always said what will be will be. I don't think even she would have expected this. I was a very rough form of parchment the children could draw on. I traveled home with them and was pinned to some boards of cork more than once where I got new views of a variety of families. When they bored of me I was crumpled and thrown into bins to recycle. Now I had multiple lives. I was processed into many types of card stock. I can't name them all.\nMaybe I have passed through your hands, held your words on my face? I had the world to embrace still searching for my final resting place. 'Recycle, renew, reuse' became the cry of the land to save the planet so I have never been completely erased.\nBut let me tell you of just a scrap. I was on a rack, way to the back. Before me were greeting cards, sweet sentimental thoughts usually in rhyme. I was one of the chosen. I went along with a beautiful girl with long flowing red hair. She sat at a desk a long time deciding the perfect adjunct to say to express all her emotion. She held the card open long enough for me to catch the drift of the message. It was to her mother. How sheltered and special she had been made to feel while learning important life lessons at her knee. Of course, it reminded me of my own supportive mother.\nThen she picked me up and wrote in the very middle “Thelma Faye”. I rejoiced. I finally was given a name. It sounded melodious to me reminding me of the angels singing so many years ago in the simple chapel. She licked and sealed my flap and pressed a stamp for good measure. I was whisked away. Flew like the wind way above the earth. When I landed I barely recognized the cherub-like white-haired lady that plucked me out of the delivery tube. But, yes, harkening back years and lifetimes ago I was sure it was Gertie's little child.\nGertie's child must have been Christened 'Thelma Faye' just like me! What I learned about her was she never cared about recycling. She cherished everything ever given to her especially by her children. That is not to say she didn't reuse things because she reused me.\nI was tucked or more like crammed away with other mementos and long forgotten. Then one day a beautiful woman shuffled through all the confusion and found me. She was moved to tears. On the back of my unassuming facade, along with the gooey flap and jagged seam, was written in flowing script, never to be rewritten, a heartwarming poem about motherhood and how it would carry on into eternity. It included a phrase or two of apology for not being the kind of mother she had aspired to be. Oh, and a happy face smile! To this day, though she is starting to gray, the red-haired woman has me - a lowly envelop with faded rhyme - framed and hanging in a place of honor on her bedroom wall so she can be reminded daily of the faith of Thelma Faye." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Swav.\n\nGenre: christian\n\nWord Count: 1269\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who doesn’t know how to let go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "You might meet this fetching couple anywhere. Boy, did they have a tale to tell. The male significant other was Swav. He was around that age, cool, well built, tall, a handsome man. His female other half was Donna, just as tall, wavy red hair, emerald flashing eyes, creamy skin, athletic.\nThese days, they were a devoted Christian couple, parents of three good looking sons, all enrolled in Sunday school. You might never believe this couple survived a very rocky start of their relationship. Opposites do attract, or so it seems.\nDonna and Swav met by chance, on a drunken night club dance floor. Donna went there, all frocked up, for her girlfriend's hen night. Her love life up till then was nothing to write home about. Her career and height turned off a lot of potential suitors.\nShe was definitely not used to drinking, so her well-meaning friends got her a bit merry, daring Donna to keep up with her pals, and grab the best looking man there. She was going home with a wedding ring!\nDonna did have secret yearnings for a happy marriage, and to fill up a nursery. Normally, she did not wish to appear that desperate. She did not know how to give up on her dreams. She was nearly 33 years old. It was, after all, a Valentine's Day celebration of her girlfriend's love and approaching nuptials. Would Cupid ever strike a tall rooster for Donna?\nSwav was sitting casually at the bar, at that mellow stage of his nightly drinking. The music was good, the babes were looking pretty, his drinks were going down nicely. At some stage, a beautiful red head, displaying her charms in a short frock, asked him to dance.\nIt was magic, if you believe in the thunderbolt, instant attraction. Swav went along for the ride, when Donna's friends told him of their plan. They told him that Donna had a pad of her own, and a great job as a civil servant. The pals had even supplied a wedding ring, and arranged a late date with the wedding celebrant in town. Romance was in the air that night!\nDonna woke up the next morning, fully believing in Kismet. Her new husband God had sent her was still slumbering. She still had to get to work, until she could take some leave for her honeymoon. She paused, studying her new husband. He was a bit older, nice and mature, very handsome, but liked his booze. That could be overcome. Donna believed she could handle this.\nSwav peered through his normal hangover, not quite believing his eyes. After the best night of love he had ever experienced, he gazed in horror. He had not realized what being a civil servant meant. His beautiful new bride was getting dressed for work. First, she put on her underwear, then she put on a policewoman's shirt, a policewoman's trousers, a policewoman's doughty shoes, her uniform hat, and policewoman's weapon belt, complete with a baton and gun.\nWas Cupid stupid? Swav could not believe this, as Donna stood at her dresser, and lit a candle. She blessed herself, and prayed at a little altar. This could be Swav's worst phobic nightmare, a Christian policewoman! Donna came over and kissed dear Swav before she headed off to work. Swav was blindsided by the fickle roll of the dice that had come his way.\nSure, Donna had a nice house. He checked her cabinets, no grog. He dressed, time for some getaway plans. He still had his car keys, wallet and phone, so he summoned a taxi to take him to his car. Story of Swav's life, do a runner, until the next bottle shop appeared.\nHe nipped in and supplied himself with a little medicinal stash, and sat in his car, thinking, \"Yeah, just disappear.\" So he took off down the highway to hell, still shaking his head over that near disaster.\nOf all the police cars in that large town they lived in, it had to be the highway patrol car driven by Donna! She pulled him over, all sirens ablaze. Astounded, she leaned into his car, saying, \" How much have you had to drink?\" She took his car keys, and said, \"You're not driving anywhere until you sober up. You're coming home with me for our honeymoon.\" One determined chick!\nSwav attempted a weak grin. \"Lucky you're my wife.\" \"Don't get too smart with me, I am the law.\" He gulped. Donna blessed herself, and drove Swav back to hers, for a renewed night of the best loving Swav had ever experienced.\nDonna woke up and said more prayers. God had sent her a cross to bear. Swav was not game to tell her how his disastrous first marriage had ended. The bottle had done him wrong. Personally, Swav had not said a single prayer since he was expelled as a junior altar boy for drinking the communion wine. Stupid Cupid.\nDonna enrolled Swav in a support group with a psychologist for alcohol dependents, and drove him to his first session. Guess you might say they were both on a ride of enlightenment, a big battle ahead. Donna was a devoted wife, as well as a tiger in bed.\nSwav went along for this peer group trip, he could kick his habits. He was a bit scared by the police anyway. But his peer group at the Temperance Hall were grand companions. After their counselling sessions, they were soon all sitting around with a coffee. They told Swav where the specials were in the bottle shops, and how to stash the grog away from the spies at home.\nDonna did not consider this alcohol concealing habit was quite so hilarious. She was soon checking Swav's sock and jock drawer, to locate his hidden bottles. It was quite expensive, pouring all that good grog down the sink, but she was still dreaming of all the cute babies the stork was going to supply.\n\"We all have a cross to bear!\" she advised Swav. \"You can sober up. Why don't you come to Karate with me tomorrow? Sweat it all out.\" Donna believed in a healthy mind in a healthy body. Swav was surprised the next day at the gym. Donna was better at Karate than he was. He noticed the way all the gym junkie boys were eyeing off his wife. He put his arm around her to stake his claim on this pearl of a girl.\nWe all have our dreams, I suppose. For true love, Donna dreamed of a sober husband, and having his babies to raise in faith. Swav went along for the ride. He found himself some years later, an owner of a Karate college, managed with his wife, standing shoulder to shoulder by his side.\nHe still had the best love life in the land. He had somehow fought his demons. He found himself taking his three sons to Sunday school. He was fit and healthy, ripped, so fit, still a handsome man. Cupid was not so stupid after all.\nSo Swav sat down at the back of his local church, in silence. He did finally say his prayers. He thanked God for loving him each day, and twice as much tomorrow. His wife had arrived in his life, and made him the best person he could have hoped to become.\nDonna had never given up believing in Swav, and their marriage. Swav still faced his dependency tendencies, but now believed in miracles. Yes, anyone can have a cross to bear. Your faith will set you free....." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Rogue Wave of the Mystical Coast\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 1864\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story with a strong sense of place. How is the setting of your world the same as, but different to, our own?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The surge of icy water swept over her feet. Then rising above her knees, it pulled Elsie into the tumbling ocean surf, along with her puppy and her friend.\n\nThey surfaced in a cave of sloshing water.\n\nEarlier, Elsie was walking on the beach she loved near the lighthouse. It was a mystical and magical place. The next moment the ocean flooded the sand and surrounded her with a rogue wave surge.\n\nElsie and her friend Bret saw the dark, furry head of her puppy, Teddybear, emerge.\n\nA swell of water lifted them, then dropped, and they stood on a sandy bottom. Elsie saw they were in a towering cave. Sea lions barked from their perches.\n\nThe beach trek began that morning when the kids from the Mystic Lighthouse climbed over volcanic rocks surrounded by tidepools. They were looking at sea anemones, starfish, and bundles of kelp. Roaming away from the lighthouse station, they rounded the rocky outcroppings and explored what the low tide revealed.\n\n\"This is so different from the ranch in Texas and the place we lived in San Francisco,\" said Elsie.\n\n\"It's different to me too from where I lived near lakes in Minnesota,\" replied Bret.\n\nBoth of their families were now lighthouse keepers on the coast.\n\nClouds and mists floated across the ocean and got caught in the limbs of the trees.\n\n\"I wonder if I will ever know all the mysteries of this coast,\" said Bret.\n\n\"My father says Mystical Coast has many faces,\" replied Elsie. \"And many surprises.\"\n\nThe March sky was quiet and grey. The ocean waves were smooth without whitecaps. But the rolling ocean swells were huge.\n\nElsie breathed in the scent of the salt air and the mountain forests. \"I love the ocean,\" she thought. \"Living next to the sea makes every day special.\"\n\n“Be careful,” warned Elsie’s mother, Jeannie, when the kids headed to the beach, walking down the slope from their houses on the bluff.\n\n“It’s the season for rogue waves. Don’t get caught. It might look calm but ocean surges can surprise you.”\n\nThey were wilderness kids of the year 1898 living on an isolated coast, used to roaming wild and free.\n\n“What could happen? We explore all the time,” thought Elsie.\n\n“We know this coast and ocean like an old friend,” said Bret.\n\nLater, splashing through the water in the cave, Elsie gasped for air. Bret pulled her over to the boulders on the side. They climbed up the slippery rock and Teddybear followed. Bret reached down, grabbing Teddybear’s collar, to pull him up.\n\nThey were shaking, with their teeth rattling, and their deep breathes echoing against the cave walls. Bret said, “We’re going to need a fire.”\n\nElsie’s face was colorless. But for a twelve-year-old little girl, she recovered her wits quickly. She looked around to analyze the situation.\n\nBret admired her, knowing she was 4 years younger than he was.\n\n“I’m still alive,” Elsie thought. She trembled violently from the cold March ocean water. Her limbs felt numb.\n\n“Elsie,” Bret shouted, “Keep moving.”\n\nIn the darkness, they saw the shapes of sea lions sliding over the rocky islands protruding from the water in the cave. Their sea lion barks sounded rougher and more guttural than a dog barking.\n\nElsie’s shaking voice said, ”I’ve been in here before. There’s a way out through the ceiling farther inside the cave.”\n\nShe stumbled onto the boulders and began crawling. The movement stirred her circulation. Her arms and legs felt better.\n\n“Follow me,” she called.\n\nBret scrambled after her.\n\n“We need a fire. Dry moss. Kindling,” called Bret.\n\nThe shaking puppy, Teddybear, slipped and slid over the rocks, his nose bumping Elsie’s leg.\n\nGetting caught in rocky crevices, banging their knees, fingers working hard to move, they felt the cold creeping further into their limbs while they went along a rising trail, deeper into the cave.\n\nThe light from the entrance grew dim. Under their feet, they encountered rocks worn smooth like river rocks from running water.\n\n“I think this is the way. Come on.” Elsie’s voice sounded high and thin.\n\nShe felt her heart thumping hard. Teddybear panted next to her. Light filtering through from the cave entrance cast wavering shadows on the walls.\n\n“Look, driftwood.” Bret’s voice echoed against the cave walls.\n\n“I see moss, let's start a fire.” Bret hurried onward.\n\nThe roar of a wind squall with hurricane force struck the outside of the cave and howled like an animal. They knew the quiet sky was now a storm with winds battering the coast. \n\nBret searched for moss and kindling dry enough to start a fire.\n\n“Here, this might work.” Elsie handed him moss and broken wood bits.\n\nPulling his knife out, Bret grabbed a fist-sized rock.\n\nOver and over, he struck the knife edge on the rock. Wet and shivering, they watched for sparks on the moss.\n\nA tiny grey column rose from the moss. Bret breathed softly on it.\nThe column of smoke disappeared.\n\n“Again…we’ll get it,” Bret said.\n\nBret hit the knife across the rock. A tiny spark fell.\n\nElsie and Bret held their breath.\n\n“Yes,” thought Elsie.\n\nA brown crisping of the moss began to spread. Bret waited. Smoke rose like a thin snake.\n\nBret waited. It grew stronger. “Patience,” he thought.\n\nThe moss began to smolder. Bret blew lightly on it.\n\nSmall flames licked the air and then gathered strength. They reached higher and the air warmed.\n\nSlowly, Eslie and Bret coaxed the flames into a campfire. The warmth made their chilled limbs hurt, and they moved back from the fire.\n\nAdding small logs, and then a larger driftwood piece, soon they had a blaze.\n\nThe cave was brightly lit. Elsie and Bret felt their cold, stiff bodies become warm. They slumped against the cave walls, resting. Their wet clothes began to dry. Time passed while they recovered. They began to feel almost cozy.\n\n“How long have we been gone? Will anyone be looking for us?” Elsie’s thoughts raced.\n\nElsie tried to remember the time she was in the cave before.\n\n“Where was that opening in the ceiling where I crawled through and saw the lighthouse on the distant bluff?” Elsie tried to picture it.\n\n“We need to use the driftwood as torches and keep going,” she told Bret. “There is another way out. I think we can find it.”\n\nElsie felt strength and determination rising inside. \"She could do this. They would find the way out,\" she told herself. Elsie rose and began to move with purposeful steps.\n\nBret saw her eyes gaze steadily into the darker parts of the cave.\n“She’s incredible,” he thought. “Four years younger than I am, but look at her.”\n\nTeddybear’s lab retriever fur had dried nicely in the heat from the fire. He leaned against Elsie softly, wrapping himself around her.\n\n“Oh, you’re so warm now, Teddybear.” Esie lowered her head to cuddle against him. He gave her face the soft lick of a dog kiss. She heard her breathing coming slower and put her cheek against Teddybear’s furry neck. She always felt better near Teddybear. Together they could overcome anything.\n\n“Let’s go,” she said. “Ready?”\n\n“Here’s a torch,” Bret said handing her a long piece of driftwood with the lighted tip glowing while it burned slowly.\n\nThe torches lit the cave floor and provided some warmth. They stepped carefully and saw they were moving on an upward slope.\n\nThe cave zig-zagged back and forth, winding uphill underground. Their shadows stretched tall against the walls. They could wind blowing and whistling outside from hidden crevices.\n\n“Look.” Elsie pointed to a small, distant spot of light. She felt her chest relax and breathed slowly in and out with relief.\n\nThey moved cautiously, but with urgency, reaching the light, and climbing over boulders to an opening in the cave ceiling.\n\nLate afternoon was fading. Heavy clouds sat low to the earth. The wind was dying down. \n\n“See it.” Elsie pointed. \n\nHigh on the cliff above the ocean, sat the white tower of the lighthouse. Evening was falling and the beacon was lit. It swept across the ocean and rotated around, lighting the shores of the coast.\n\nElsie felt a sense of wonder. \"I never get tired of seeing this,\" she said.\n\n\"The light of the beacon,\" began Bret, then he was overcome and at a loss for words.\n\nThey watched the light flashing across the sea and shores, feeling a mystical and magical sense of joy.\n\n\"Our light, leading us home,\" said Elsie. They saw activity around the lighthouse and the keeper's houses.\n\n“They must be looking for us,” said Bret. Lights of kerosene lanterns were bobbing around on the distant bluff and trails, and some were heading down the path to the beach.\n\n“Wave your torch,” said Elsie. They began to holler even though they were too far away to be heard.\n\nThe kerosene lanterns swung back and forth.\n\n“They see us. They’re answering,” said Bret.\n\nElsie, Bret, and Teddybear slowly stepped along the dunes and then down to the beach, where they met the search party.\n\nLater, wrapped in blankets, sipping fragrant hot tea made from kitchen garden herbs, they chewed fresh warm muffins and told their story. The group of family and friends gathered around the wood-burning Franklin stove sat quietly in the dancing firelight.\n\nTeddybear rested his head on Elsie’s foot, stretched out on the warm floor.\n\nBret let Elsie relate the tale. He saw she seemed to have grown up that day from a young, unsure little girl into a more confident and mature lady.\n\n\"So we found our way out of the winding cave trails,\" she finished. \"I was scared, but when we built the fire and lit the torches, I knew we would find our way.\"\n\nElsie paused and thought about what she just said.\n\n\"We knew we could do it.\" Her voice was soft but sure when she ended her story.\n\nOutside the window, clouds scudded in front of a crescent moon and the ocean sang her songs to the rhythms of her waves.\n\nHundreds of feet below the Victorian lightkeeper's house, where Elsie and Bret gathered with their families, an ocean swell grew larger. It surged far up over the beach and into the rows of crops nestled against the hillside.\n\n\"The ocean has her own personality,\" said one of the lightkeepers who was a retired captain. \"Sometimes she likes her peaceful seas, but don't turn your back. She also likes to gather her strength and hurl her waters across the shores.\"\n\nElsie and Bret looked at each other with knowing gazes.\n\n\"I love her, but she's a rogue on some days,\" said the retired captain.\n\nElsie thought, \"I love her too, and now I understand her language better. She is still a beautiful ocean.\"\n\nWhen she fell asleep later that night, Elsie dreamed of the ocean and felt a sense of wonder.\n\nSnuggled under her blankets, she felt Teddybear cuddle up to her side and knew he had sneaked up the stairs.\n\nWrapping an arm around him, she felt her home at the lighthouse was still a mystical and magical place and she loved sharing it with her puppy." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Party\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 2992\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character staring at a picture they don’t remember taking." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My phone buzzed. I rolled over to look at the text my cousin Maya had just sent.\nCan you send photo you took of all the girls in costume last night? xoxo\nMy head was throbbing. Hanging out with Maya was fun, but she was eight years younger than me and she and her friends loved to do shots. I needed to stick with beer only if I didn’t want the hangover.\nThat’s what I'd do next time.\nI opened my photos app to find the picture Maya had requested. It was a group shot I had no memory of taking. It wasn’t everyone who’d been at the party - just the girls who’d dressed up, all five of them smiling cheesily. The starlet, the busybody, the social climber, the professor, and the old lady - everyone dressed to impress. The most incredible costume, by far, was worn by a girl named Lee who was a stranger to this group, the new girlfriend of Maya’s friend Patrick. She was a gorgeous girl in her twenties, but she’d come wearing make-up on her face that aged her fifty years.\nThe photo of the girls wasn’t great - there was a weird glare off of Maya’s microwave or something - but I sent it, and then began to scroll through the other recent photos. I had no memory of any of them.\nIt was a problem. I mean, I didn’t have a problem problem, and everyone had gotten a little sloppy last night. But Maya’s boyfriend Matthew had to get me an Uber - I was too drunk to drive home - and that was embarrassing.\nThere were photos of Maya and Matthew being adorable; a few selfies of me with others, which were mortifying, since my make-up had smeared without me knowing; and one photo of a dead body.\nI deleted that one - it was blurry - and rolled over to go back to sleep.\n*****\nThe idea of a murder mystery party had sounded corny to me at first, but Maya was great at selling the idea of a good time.\n“It’ll be hilarious,” she promised me over drinks a few weeks ago. “I’ve got dibs on being Josephine La Rosa, the movie star, though, so you can’t take that one.”\nI’d never been to a murder mystery party before, but Maya had explained the concept. Everyone was given a dramatic role to play, an entirely new identity for the evening. One of us would serve as the moderator, handing out index cards telling people different things they needed to say and do throughout the evening. There would be one card given to a character instructing them to pretend they’d been killed. The remainder of the evening would involve all the players trying to sort through the clues and solve the murder.\nI didn’t want to participate. “I’m not really into role play,” I told Maya. She wiggled her eyebrows at me, making me laugh. “You know what I mean - dressing up, acting.”\n“You have to do it,” she insisted. I got a vision of Maya as a high school student. She was skilled in the art of peer pressure.\nOf course, we didn’t go to high school at the same time. When I was in high school, getting bullied by the popular girls and trying to keep my head down, Maya was in grade school. My other cousin - Maya’s older brother Stephen - was a year ahead of me in school. We were friends back then, but I didn’t see him much these days. He was married, with two kids who were the kind of adorable that made me ache. I didn’t like thinking about Stephen and his perfect family.\n“I’ll come,” I promised Maya. “But I’m not dressing up.”\n*****\nBefore the party, I’d made a rule for myself - no beer, only liquor. I had a tendency to pound beers but was better at slowly sipping a mixed drink.\nA party like this was literally my worst nightmare. Every other girl was confident, impressive in their role. Maya was an effervescent Hollywood starlet. Her three closest girlfriends - Molly, Miranda, and Tess - had clearly gotten ready altogether, and their costumes were spectacular. They were a close-knit group, and it made me miss my closest girlfriends, who I didn’t see as much these days.\nIt was when Lee entered that I started to feel overwhelmed. There was a flurry of activity when she walked in with Patrick, the girls oohing and aahing at her costume and make-up, Maya’s buddy Aaron grabbing her cane and poking her with it flirtatiously.\n“So nice to meet you all,” Lee had croaked in a faux old lady voice. Why were some girls so beautiful that they could twist their faces gruesomely and still grab the attention of every guy in the room?\nEven Matthew stared at her, his mouth agape, when she entered. I elbowed him, which seemed to snap him out of it.\n“She’s hot, but you have a girlfriend who’s my cousin,” I’d whispered to him.\nMatthew had shaken his head, grinning back at me. We got along well. From our converations, I knew that he had also been an ugly duckling in high school. Maya had shown me his old yearbook, laughing affectionately at his bowtie and buck teeth. With a bit of dental work and a six figure job, he was now a catch and had the confidence that went with it.\nThat stung a little. Ugly ducklings can either grow into swans, or into sloppy ducks like me.\n*****\nThe next time my phone buzzed, I was still in bed, even though it was nearly noon. It was Maya again. She always sprang right out of bed after a night of drinking. That was the difference between twenty-seven and thirty-five.\nShe was sobbing.\n“Lee is dead,” she said, her voice quiet and trembling.\nI laughed. Lee had been a fantastic murder victim the night before. Really, what was she not good at? Matthew had handed her the index card - he’d fixed his staring problem by then, just smiled briefly at her - and she’d disappeared into Maya’s bathroom to splay herself out on the tile floor. When we discovered her, she was covered in red, having stolen a bottle of ketchup from the refrigerator for added effect.\n“No, no, Amy.”\nI paused.\n“Really dead,” Maya said. “Patrick just called from the hospital. She’s dead.”\n*****\nAn hour later, the eight of us - all the murder mystery party attendees, except for Lee - were at the police station.\nMaya was a wreck. I was trying not to throw up. I’d taken a shot of tequila before I left for the police station. Madness, maybe, but it was all I’d had in the house - my little effort at moderating, since tequila hurt my stomach. The other girls were crying. Aaron and Matthew were stone-faced.\nWe saw Patrick, down the hallway with an officer, too far away to see his face.\nWe weren’t supposed to speak to each other, and we were quickly separated. Maya looked at me longingly as a female police officer escorted her to a private room.\n“Ma’am?”\nI looked up.\n“Can you come with me?”\nThe room looked just like the ones I’d seen on TV - a large window, a rectangular table, two empty wooden chairs. I stared at the officer. “Is this an investigation?”\nHe was older - maybe my father’s age, with graying hair and rosy cheeks. He nodded. “Precautionary, I’m sure,” he said. “I’m Officer Myers.”\n“How did she die?” I asked.\nOfficer Myers narrowed his eyes at me. “No one told you?”\nI shook my head. “Patrick didn’t tell Maya.”\n“Ms. Latour, have you been drinking?”\nI could feel my face turn red. “It’s been - it was a late night, and then the news -”\nHe was frowning at me, sternly - the way Dad used to. “Can you tell me anything about the end of the evening - the goodbyes?”\n“Don’t you want to know about the murder?”\nOfficer Myers stared at me, and I flushed again. “Ms. Latour, no one has said anything about a murder, and you just told me you don’t know how Ms. Imogene Monroe -”\n“Who?”\nI regretted my question instantly. This officer didn’t like to be interrupted.\n“Imogene Monroe is the woman who died right after attending a party you also attended, Ms. Latour.”\nMy mouth felt dry. “I didn’t know - she said her name was Lee. I never met her before last night.” Officer Myers continued to stare at me.\nEverything was all wrong.\nWhen I’m nervous, I drink. If I can’t drink, I babble incessantly.\n“Did she - was it a car accident? She had a bit to drink, but not as much as Patrick.” I closed my eyes, picturing them at the door of Maya’s house. Patrick was slumped and sloppy, not that I’m one to talk, but Lee had seemed just fine. She had smiled at me and thanked me. Why had she thanked me? “I gave her a bottle of water, for the road,” I added, remembering.\nIt was the wrong thing to say. Officer Myers tried to keep his expression neutral, but his mustache twitched and I could hear his foot start to tap beneath the table.\n“Ms. Latour,” he said quietly. “Do you have anyone you can call?”\n*****\nThere wasn’t anyone to call. My mother had left me and Dad when I was a kid. A year ago, I could have called Dad, but he’d just been moved into an assisted living facility a few months ago after receiving his diagnosis. Early onset Alzheimer’s, just like my grandfather. Dad was in his fifties when we found out. Now, he was sixty-three, and he didn’t know who I was half the time when I went to visit. I didn’t visit him much, honestly. It was too hard to see him the way he was.\nThe only person I wanted to talk to was Maya, but Officer Myers explained that she was being questioned down the hall and us communicating wasn’t an option.\nThere was a phone in the room with us. There was only one person I could think of to call, and I really didn’t want to call him. I took my cell phone from my pocket.\n“I can’t let you look through your phone,” Officer Myers said sternly.\n“I just need to look up a number,” I said. “My cousin Stephen.” He watched me carefully. When I unlocked the phone, it was the photo of Maya, Lee, and the other three girls that popped up first. I quickly clicked away from it and found Stephen’s number, then dialed it on the station phone.\n“Amy? Are you okay?”\nMy eyes filled wih tears. My last interaction with Stephen had been awful. Yelling. Accusations. I wasn’t a good daughter. His father was taking care of Dad the way I should be doing. I don’t know what I expected today, but his voice was concerned and caring.\n“I don’t know. I need a lawyer. I think I’m in trouble.”\n“You are. Don’t react - I’m sure you’re not alone.”\nMy eyes shifted to Officer Myers.\n“Maya already called me. I don’t think they’ve figured that out yet, so keep cool, okay?” Stephen was a surgeon, and as he spoke I could picture him in the OR - giving instructions confidently, in his element, knowing what to say and do in ways I never did.\nIt wasn’t always like this. In high school, Stephen was a jock who partied and I was bookish and intelligent. I had a nearly photographic memory, a straight A average, and multiple college scholarship offers. I didn’t even drink until college. Then after college, when Dad started looking right through me when we talked, I started having a beer with dinner every night to take the edge off. One a day led to two, then six, and then a decade passed and Stephen was a hot shot and I was barely able to remember what happened at a freaking murder mystery party that I wouldn’t have attended if I was a normal thirty-five-year-old with a steady job and a family and a moderate amount of self-esteem.\n“Amy? Amy!”\n“I’m here,” I said quickly. “Can you find the number for the attorney?”\n“Good girl. Listen, it’s the waters.”\nWas he speaking in code? “Stephen?”\n“The waters you gave out as Lee and the others were leaving,” Stephen said. “She had a peanut allergy, and there were traces of peanut in the bottle she drank out of. She didn’t open it until she stopped driving. Patrick woke up in the passenger seat and she was going into anaphylactic shock. No epipen in her purse, either, and Patrick swore that she always had one on her.”\nMy head was spinning. “So now -”\n“My wife’s dad is an attorney - he’s retired, but he’ll have someone down there in twenty minutes, Ames.” He hadn’t called me that in such a long time. “Ames? They don’t have any motive, okay? They’ll release you. Just hang tight.”\nI nodded.\n“Ames?”\n“Yeah - yes. Stephen, you didn’t ask me -”\n“I don’t need to ask you anything. You didn’t do this. Stay cool and we’ll be right there.”\n*****\nThe only person who’d ever accused me of having a drinking problem was Stephen, and I denied it. I was a crappy daughter and a lousy cousin and friend, and I liked to party, but I wasn’t an alcoholic. Yeah, I drank when I was sad, and yeah, sometimes things got messy, but I was functional. I had a job, and I paid my bills, and I’d never gotten a DUI or passed out in a ditch or anything like that.\nYet as I sat there, waiting for my cousin to save me from the mess I’d created, I couldn’t deny that drinking had contributed to my predicament. I’d been a hungover mess all day, and not thinking straight.\nI used to be the girl with the level head, the girl who could think through any problem, the girl who did logic puzzles for fun. I’d been solving the Hidden Pictures puzzles from Highlights magazine ever since I was four years old -\nIt hit me suddenly. My head had been throbbing all day, but I forced myself to concentrate.\nThere was something I’d seen. Or was it something someone had said? Or both?\nThere was a knock at the door. An officer entered - the one I’d seen with Maya earlier - with a woman I’d never seen before.\n“Ms. Latour, come with me.”\nI rose, but I didn’t leave the room. Officer Myers had stepped in my path. “What the -”\n“Amber Griffin, Ms. Latour’s attorney. You don’t have the evidence to hold her, sir.”\nThey started to bicker, the officers and my attorney, and I bent forward, tucking my head between my legs and placing my hands over my ears to muffle the noise.\n*****\nIt was Miranda who murdered Lee - or rather, the professor who fake murdered the old lady, which we found out toward the end of our murder mystery party evening. Everyone dissolved in laughter when it was revealed, mostly because Miranda is such a sweetheart.\nMatthew was the one who solved it. He wasn’t drinking at all, which I think helped. He’d had one mixed drink while he, Maya, and I were prepping for the party, but nothing after the other guests had all arrived.\n“It’s because she was cruel to me in high school,” I remembered Miranda saying, giggling, almost apologizing to Lee for the affront. “Lee’s character. That was in our back stories. She used to bully me every day, so when I saw her as a grown-up, I snapped.”\nBy this point in the night, I was incredibly drunk, but those words stood out to me. To Matthew, too, I could tell. We knew what it was like to be bullied. The stories Matthew had told me over the past three years - the ways he’d been tormented.\nIt was enough to push anyone over the edge.\n*****\nThere was something that was eluding me. A memory. A visual.\nIf I can figure this out, I thought, I’ll never drink again.\nIt wasn’t just about my freedom, which I could tell was in jeopardy. Of course, I was terrified. I hadn’t done anything to hurt anyone, and I wanted desperately to go home.\nMore than that, though, I wanted to conquer my memory, my brain. I wanted my mind to be my own again. How many times had I lost my thoughts, my memories, been unable to retrieve something from the corners of my mind?\nWhen everything clicked into place, I lifted my head and looked at Officer Myers and my attorney, who stopped arguing and looked back.\n“Did you have something to share, Ms. Latour?” Amber said quietly.\nIt was the reflection I’d seen in the photo I sent Maya that morning - a distraction from the five girls in the photograph. The combination of microwave and oven and a trick of the light, I supposed, because what I remembered right then was what I’d seen that morning but not registered as important in my half-drunk, half-hungover state.\nA vision of Matthew, an open water bottle in one hand, his other fist closed tightly around something.\nIt wasn’t proof. I had no idea if they’d even believe me. I was still in a lot of trouble.\nYet I felt satisfied, the way anyone would feel when they find something - their keys, a fact, a memory - that they’d thought was lost forever.\n“There’s a photo on my phone,” I said quietly. “Passcode 5560, my dad’s birthday. You need to see 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: Do Not Touch\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 1054\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jen lived by the unwritten rules of being single but wanting a child. Don’t look at children. Don’t engage with children. Don’t talk about children. Don’t let other people talk about their children. And don’t, for the love of all that is holy, tell anyone you long for a child.\nA nearby suitor could be eyeing you up, biting their bottom lip at the sight of your untoned bum, lusting after your wide midriff, admiring your conical legs. They could be subconsciously sliding you through their mental mold of their dream woman, seeing you slot in just right. Only to see your face change from that of a promising conquest to a maniacal ovary, ready to snatch the sperm of the nearest purveyor to fulfill your vapid, barren life.\nLooking at, engaging with, talking about, or listening to stories about children will, to even the most gullible testicles-owner, immediately announce your desperate, ugly yearning like a tannoy in a tin.\nSo it was a treat for Jen to allow herself to sit in front of a beautiful, cherubic baby and gaze in unfettered awe and longing. She had been doing this almost every week lately. The museum, a former church, was on her walk home on Fridays, when she worked only half a day. The exhibition had been on display since January, but it was early Spring when she found herself sputtering around, trying to look interesting to a society obsessed only with the happenings of her womb. Trying to look like she was, indeed, living her best life, flitting from exhibition to dinner date, eating the world around, unburdened by responsibility.\nThe first day she went to the exhibition, she found Her. A mother, THE mother. A miracle hewn from marble, nursing Her baby beatifically. Stone had given birth, yet she was not. And this statue was a virgin for god’s sake. She loved Her instantly, though on her first few visits, she hastened past Her, fearful that those watching would delight in the poetic tragedy of the sight; a childless woman gazing up at the immaculate mother of mothers.\nJen’s childlessness oozed out of her. It soaked her sheets and rattled her guts. It was a repugnance only she seemed to acknowledge. But she noticed it so solidly for the last two years, she had thought of little else. She tried to hide her childlessness from onlookers, mask it from bystanders, but it was in vain. She knew that all who saw her, saw a woman, not a mother. All who saw her, with their modern views and progressive thoughts, forgave her on sight, of course. But the flash of forgiveness was mortifying. She felt it from everyone she encountered.\nEveryone but him. He was wiry and sort of ugly and smelled of the kind of sports deodorant that reminds everyone of sweat. He looked at the statue, looked at Jen, then back at the statue and screwed his face quizzically.\n“Is she bumming you out?” he asked with a raspy voice that sounded like an old lady who claims that smoking is what’s keeping her alive. \"Excuse me?\" Jen replied after checking her empty peripherals. \"Why are you looking at her if she’s making you sad?\" he asked, with a sense of informality she wasn’t used to. \"Do I know you?\" she asked. \"Do we just keep asking each other questions?\" he replied, thinking himself very clever. \"I’m sorry, can I help you?\" she replied, kicking herself for continuing the game she had no interest in playing. He narrowed his eyes and she saw a vague handsomeness somewhere around his jawline. \"I’ll leave you alone. You looked sad but I didn’t think you really were sad so I was making a joke. But…sorry, I’ll leave you to it\", he said without a single muscle of his body living up to this promise. \"I’m not sad. It’s art. It’s supposed to make you sad\", she said, far too defensively.\nShe felt rumbled. He was a hick. He didn’t have the sophistication to forgive her on sight like the others. It reminded her of the time when she, a serious teenager, was asked by a child why her face was all dots. And how the adults comforted the uninjured child but not her.\n“Is it?” he asked with what seemed like genuine curiosity. \"It’s art\", she repeated knowingly, the upper hand. \"I always find the stone ones so creepy. It’s because they don’t have eyelashes. They should use cat hair or something. Or fake eyelashes\", he meandered, seemingly unaware that Jen was winning. \"You’ve lovely eyelashes\" Jen said and brought her purse to her mouth hoping to vomit the words into it instead of the ether. \"Oh, sorry. I mean people have lovely eyelashes. Not you. You too. But, you know, everyone\". He smiled and she fell in love with him momentarily the way she fell in love with everyone with a vas deferens momentarily these days. \"They’re fake,\" he said, smiling proudly at his stupid joke. \"So, why does this make you sad?\" \nShe thought for a moment. Thought about wanting to be a statue, to be frozen, voiceless, heartless. Childless, but nursing another statue. She hated him. She felt naked, she wanted to run but was gripping to the galloping high horse she hoped he was aware of. She was going to make him run. She had a super power for repelling. \"Because I want a baby, and she has one\" she said, more quietly and tenderly than she had planned. \"Ah\", he replied flatly. \nShe waited for him to shuffle his feet, to check his watch, to answer his phone. She could sense him planning his apologetic escape. She felt him admonish himself for his uncouth lack of awareness, for missing the sillage of her childlessness. He seemed to be gathering himself. The years of manners beaten into him flooding to the front of mind, seeking ground after this calamitous misstep. How to politely, stoically, apologetically extricate himself from this hideous interaction. \n\"Well, if you think that baby’s great, wait until you see the size of the horse some soldier guy has in the next room. Come on, I’ll show you\", he replied, his smile softer but warmer. She stood up and they went to look at a marble horse." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Love.edu: Courtship and Coincidence in Modern Academia\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 2867\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people falling in love via email." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Thursday, Jan 18 2:12 PM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nSUBJECT: Your (Brilliant) Paper on Mirrors/Jane Eyre\n\nDear Professor Rhodes,\n\nI hope this email finds you well. I must confess that, although we have never met, I am a longtime admirer of your work—I was actually at your talk on Charlotte Brontë and Elizabeth Gaskell last year, which I greatly enjoyed.\n\nI write to you today to express my sincerest compliments on your paper The Beast Within: Mirrors and the Internalized Male Gaze in Jane Eyre. I know better than anyone how difficult it is to find something new to say about such a beloved piece of literature, but you managed it exquisitely here. You have me rethinking a book I thought I knew better than anyone else living.\n\nI’m currently teaching an upper level seminar on feminism in gothic literature, and I had my students read your paper in conjunction with good old Jane, so I thought it was only right that I reach out and let you know how much fruitful discussion it has engendered. And—seeing as you’re clearly an expert on the subject—would you happen to have any suggestions for my little seminar? It’s my first time teaching the course, so any guidance would be much appreciated.\n\nWarmest Regards,\n\nFrederick Laird\nAssociate Professor of English Language Arts, Greer State University\n\n***\nThursday, Jan 18, 2:47 PM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nRE: Your (Brilliant) Paper on Mirrors/Jane Eyre\n\nDear Professor Laird,\n\nFirst, my heartfelt thanks for your kind email. I’m sure you know as well as I that toiling away in the humanities often feels like shouting into a void. These papers that fill our waking hours are no small things, and yet we send them out into the ether, to be read by ten people if we’re lucky. So your generous compliments have made my week, and I would be delighted to help a fellow Jane enthusiast in any way I can.\n\nWould you believe me if I said I’ve long been a fan of yours, too? I actually just referred a particularly enterprising student to your (thrilling and evocative!) paper I Eat Men like Air: Du Maurier’s Rebecca as a Plathian Heroine earlier this week. One of life’s funny coincidences. If you choose to believe in those, that is—a la Mary Shelley, I do not.\n\nAnyways, on to your seminar. It sounds fascinating! I wish my college would release me from English 101 and Writing for Accountants purgatory and let me teach courses like that. If you’re teaching Jane, then I assume you’re also doing Rebecca, especially considering your own research. Might I recommend a recent Bluebeard retelling, one that’s more on the nose—Anna Biller’s divisive but worthy Bluebeard’s Castle? It might be a welcome reprieve from all those buttoned-up Brits if you’re up for it!\n\nFinally, a question (or two!) for you, which you need not answer if they offend you. Do you find it strange to teach a feminist literature seminar as a man? Do you think your gender gives you a unique perspective, or do you find it a hindrance?\n\nPlease let me know if I can provide any further assistance; I so rarely get to discuss such interesting fare!\n\nYours in Scholarship,\n\nElise Rhodes\nAssistant Professor of English Literature, Elliott College\n\n***\nThursday, Jan 18, 6:58 PM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nRE: RE: Your Brilliant Paper on Mirrors/Jane Eyre \n\nProfessor Rhodes,\n\nMany thanks for your quick, thoughtful response. And I’m so flattered that you enjoyed my paper—I agree that validation is sadly rare in our chosen profession, and your kind words mean the world to me. \n\nI was unfamiliar with the book you suggested, but I’ve just acquired a copy/done a cursory read and it looks to be a perfect fit for the class. Certainly controversial, but I think my students will enjoy a spirited debate. There is a dearth of modern gothic literature, and I’m so grateful to you for your excellent recommendation.\n\nTo answer your questions, which did not offend me in the least: yes, I do find it to be a little strange. I’m the only professor in my department with this particular expertise, but I still wonder if I’m right for the class. However, while I would never go so far as to say that a man could have a better perspective on feminism than a woman, I am not much hindered. The books do the work themselves, really.\n\nThank you again, and I will keep you apprised of how the seminar goes, if that’s agreeable to you.\n\nRegards,\n\nFrederick Laird\n\nP.S.: You truly don’t believe in coincidence? Mary Shelley notwithstanding, I believe you’re in the literary minority on that. I leave you with Tolstoy: “All this is only the coincidence of conditions under which every organic, elemental event of life is accomplished.”\n\n***\nFriday, Jan 19, 7:16 AM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nRE: RE: RE: Your Brilliant Paper on Mirrors/Jane Eyre\n\nProfessor Laird,\n\nTo be honest, I’m relieved you didn’t try to claim some unique male perspective on feminist literature—it would have disappointed me to end such an interesting conversation. \n\nI don’t know if I should be flattered or concerned that you took my recommendation so quickly. Looks like I’m not alone in having no personal life to speak of!\n\nAnd, as I’ve said, you need not thank me. Please, keep me posted!\n\nBest,\n\nElise (if we are to continue these emails, I must insist on first names!)\n\nP.S.: It almost seems like cheating to punctuate your point with Tolstoy—the man was so wordy that he has a pull-quote for just about anything! I leave you with Albert Einstein, who I would argue knew more about so-called coincidence than any author: “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”\n\n***\nFriday, Jan 19, 7:19 AM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nRE: RE: RE: RE: Your Brilliant Paper on Mirrors/Jane Eyre\n\nProfessor Laird,\n\nI'm sorry if I offended you with my joke about your personal life. It was unprofessional, and I can only blame the early hour.\n\nApologies again!\n\nElise\n\n***\nFriday, Jan 19, 11:00 AM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nSUBJECT: Fred’s Lack of a Personal Life\n\nElise,\n\nNo apologies needed. Your joke was both appropriate and spot-on. I—like you?—am “married to the job,” which is especially pathetic considering how low my salary is even after twelve years. And here I’d been told academia was where the money was.\n\nAnyways, I had a thought about my seminar. What about Northanger Abbey? A gothic satire could be a fun addition, and I’d love to include Jane Austen. Even if this was admittedly far from her best.\n\nLet me know what you think.\n\nFred\n\nP.S.: I hope you don’t mind that I started a new chain. Scrolling through the old one was exacerbating my eyestrain.\n\nP.P.S.: I’m out of quotes, so agree to disagree on coincidence.\n\nP.P.P.S: Do you have anything interesting going on? This conversation is feeling far too me-centric.\n***\nFriday, Jan 19, 3:02 PM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nRE: Fred’s Lack of a Personal Life\n\nFred,\n\nThat’s a relief! And, yes, I suppose I’m in the same sort of marriage (though mine is only eleven-years strong)—if only it weren’t so one-sided. I think my department forgets I exist half the time.\n\nI think Northanger is a wonderful idea! You said you needed guidance, but your instincts are faultless as far as I can tell. I love the Brontës, but I agree that a light satire to break through all that gloom would be welcome. Though you’re right that it’s far from Jane’s best—that would have to be Persuasion for me, Pride and Prejudice be damned.\n\nEnjoy the weekend!\n\nElise\n\nP.S.: “Interesting” and “me” don’t often overlap. Unless you consider grading a mountain of Freshman essays (most of which will inevitably be written by ChatGPT) to be interesting? I am driving up to my sister’s this weekend, though. And I promised I’d leave my laptop at home for once, so I’ll probably be out of reach until Monday.\n***\nFriday, Jan 19, 4:58 PM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nRE: RE: Fred’s Lack of a Personal Life\n\nElise,\n\nI’m sorry, and very surprised, to hear about your professional dissatisfaction. If someone of your caliber feels forgotten, I can only assume that your department is woefully mismanaged.\n\nAnd I should have guessed you would be the one to agree with me on Persuasion. My colleagues have accused me of being contrarian just for the sake of it, but I’ve always found it to be Jane’s most romantic work. There’s a pervasive melancholy to it that reflects a total departure from something like Emma, and I (perhaps selfishly) love the idea that more realistic characters who are past their youthful prime can still find perfect happiness. That it was Jane’s final novel makes me mourn her early demise all the more—who knows where she would have gone next?\n\nI hope you have a safe trip and a relaxing weekend.\n\nFred\n\nP.S.: It seems coincidence is not the only thing we disagree on. From our limited correspondence, I can already tell that a Venn Diagram of “Elise” and “interesting” would be a circle.\n***\nSaturday, Jan 20, 11:19 PM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nSUBJECT: Elise after a bottle of wine\n\nFred,\n\nOk i couldn’t figure out how to reply on the old thread. I guess I lied about being out of touch all weekend. My sister basically forced a bottle of wine down my throat then wetn to sleep. Is 2 days of emails enough for me to be telling you this?? Going with yes\n\nYou’re so nice to say all that. I think I kind of needed to hear it actually. Its been a while since i’ve felt seen by anyone and somehow you;ve done it over email. And yes yes yes about persuasion!!!! Wentworth’s letter at the end is the most romantic thing i’ve ever read. Half agony, half hope!! And i think about what jane would have done next every day. You get it\n\nDo you agree that emails are kind of like letters??\n\nElies\n\nPS: My sister looked you up on facebook and we know everything you;ve done since 2008. I can’t believe you were in marching band?? You should probably private that before your students find it. \n\nPPS: i think you’re interesting too\n\n(Sent from my Phone)\n***\nSunday, Jan 21, 8:01 AM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nRE: Elise after a bottle of wine\n\nElies,\n\nI’m glad you’re having fun with your sister, even if she did liquor you up then leave you to fend for yourself. And I’d say 2 days of emails is plenty. It’s not like I have anything better to do on a Sunday morning, considering my well-established lack of a personal life. Which you apparently know far too much about now—I think I’ll skip private-ing and just delete my Facebook entirely. I shudder to think of someone (else) important finding evidence of my frosted tips phase. \n\nIt hardly seems fair that I don’t know anything embarrassing about you, although I’m sure you’d argue that your last email suffices. We’ll call it even for now; I suspect your embarrassment when you wake up will be even worse than the hangover (not that I think it should be, to be clear.)\n\nYes, of course Wentworth’s letter is the best part. I agree that emails are a sort of modern equivalent to letters, and I think that the well-known ease of texting makes choosing to send emails all the more romantic. \n\nI hope you don’t feel too bad when you wake up.\n\nFred\n\nP.S.: I won’t lie and say it’s pleasant, but I recommend a shot of pickle juice for the hangover. Believe it or not, the marching band drank as much as any fraternity.\n***\nSunday, Jan 21, 8:16 AM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nRE: RE: Elise after a bottle of wine\n\nElise,\n\nI just realized that I used the word “romantic” without clarifying which of its multiple definitions I intended. I meant “romantic” in the sense of an idealized, aestheticized view of the past, nothing more. I hope you didn’t think I misunderstood the tone of your last email, and I apologize for any offense.\n***\nSunday, Jan 21, 8:21 AM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nSUBJECT: Fred and Elise’s Fresh Start\n\nElise,\n\nI fear that my correction has created a much bigger problem, and I ask that we strike it from the proverbial record. I leave my original response up to your interpretation, and you may read into every word whichever definition is most amenable to you. It also felt appropriate to start a new thread, for both of our sakes. Though I reiterate that you have no reason to feel embarrassed—that (dis)honor is all mine, I’m afraid.\n\nHave a safe trip home.\n\nFred\n***\nTuesday, Jan 23, 6:46 PM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nRE: Fred and Elise’s Fresh Start\n\nFred,\n\nI’m sorry for being MIA. I hope you didn’t think I was offended by anything you said! It was just my own embarrassment, and I didn’t see any of your responses until now (and now that I have, you have nothing at all to be embarrassed about?). Honestly, I’ve been avoiding my email since I woke up on Sunday. Which has been especially difficult because this is my work email! I needn’t have worried, though. Of course you would be so nice about it. Still, I promise that’s the last drunk email you’ll be receiving from me—I’m swearing off alcohol for the foreseeable future!\n\nAnyways, yes, I like the idea that there’s something romantic about emailing over texting. Actually, emails are almost a perfect marriage of the past with the present—we acknowledge that technology has facilitated ease of communication without completely doing away with the formalities and idiosyncrasies that gave letters character. \n\nWhile it might be easier for us to exchange numbers if we plan to keep this conversation up, I suggest we don’t, at least for now.\n\nHow’s your week going? Any updates on the seminar?\n\nElise\n\nP.S.: Thank you for giving me interpretation rights on “romantic;” that was very generous of you. I’ve always been of the camp that you should assume the most popular definition unless the author indicates otherwise. And if the author indicates otherwise, but immediately \"strikes that from the record\", then I guess that puts us back at the most popular definition of \"romantic.\" Which is perfectly fine by me. Unless you’d like to issue another correction?\n\nP.P.S: Call me crazy, but I didn’t think the frosted tips looked that bad.\n***\nWednesday, Jan 24, 8:27 AM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nSUBJECT: Fred’s Proposition\n\nElise,\n\nI admit I’m relieved that the late response had nothing to do with me. And I love your idea about emails bridging the gap between the past and the present. That actually sounds like an interesting paper, if you’re looking to try something new. And, yes, let’s keep the emails going.\n\nSpeaking of my seminar, I just had a thought: would you be interested in coming in to do a guest lecture? Funnily enough, we’re actually talking about letters in a few weeks. Nothing so romantic as Wentworth’s letter to Anne, sadly—we’ll mainly be discussing marriage as an instrument to subjugate women through Isabella’s letter from Ch. 13 of Wuthering Heights. A bit dark for right before Valentine’s Day, I’m aware. Still, I know you’ve written on this issue before, and we would love to get your expert perspective.\n\nThe class is Wednesday, February 13 from 5:00 to 7:00 P.M. I know you have your own classes, and that we’re about an hour’s drive from you, but please let me know if you’re interested.\n\nTo quote a more eloquent Frederick than I: I am half agony, half hope as I await your reply.\n\nFred\n\nP.S.: No corrections here.\n\nP.P.S.: If you are able to come, does “swearing off alcohol” mean I can’t persuade you to have a drink with me after class?\n***\nWednesday, Jan 24, 12:18 PM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nRE: Fred’s Proposition\n\nFred,\n\nI would be thrilled to do a guest lecture, especially on such an interesting topic!! I only teach in the morning on Wednesdays, so that should work. We can figure out logistics closer to the date, but I’m excited about this! And of course it will be nice to finally meet in person.\n\nElise\n\nP.S.: I see how you could read “swearing off alcohol” that way but I, the author, am indicating otherwise ;)\n***\n***\nWednesday, Feb 13, 4:42 PM\nTo: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nFrom: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nSUBJECT: Elise arrived (?)\n\nI think I’m outside the English building? Suddenly this “not exchanging phone numbers” thing is feeling very silly!!\n\n(Sent from my Phone)\n***\nThursday, Feb 14, 2:12 AM\nTo: eliserhodes@elliott.edu\nFrom: fredericklaird@greerstate.edu\nSUBJECT: Fred coming around to Elise’s view on coincidences\n\nElise,\n\nIf ever I did a good deed in my life…I am rewarded now. Or whatever it was Jane E. said.\n\nFred\n\nP.S.: I mentioned how brilliant you were today, right?\n\nP.P.S.: This may be my last letter for a while. I’ve found something much more interesting to occupy my time.\n\n(Sent from my Phone)" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Remove One Thing and Change a Landscape Forever\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 1086\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story imagining 'what if' one historic invention had never happened. How would our world be different now?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Isla awoke in her closeted existence. She’d always lived, safe and sound, with her family. She was thirty-three, but she felt no inclination to leave, or to travel further afield. She didn’t know what was out there, and that scared her. Some people are made to be adventurers, but she was a homebody. She loved it all: the scent of the coal fire that came from the living room downstairs, the sense of community in her closeknit neighbourhood, the fact that the sick cared for the sick; they didn’t just run and dig their heads into the ground like evasive ostriches whenever something went wrong. They were happy with the toils that came along with being alive. It was just part of the intricately woven story of life. There were lulls and there were leaps; there were times of turmoil and times to treasure.\nIsla had grown up in a big family. She had so many siblings that sometimes even she lost count. They had always shared bedrooms. The house they lived in didn’t allow for the separation that typically came with age and the awakening of independence. Isla didn’t mind it; she didn’t know any other way. Perhaps it is only through observing other existences that people learn to covet alternative lives. She could think of a handful of personalities she’d encountered in her lifetime that had given her the urge to run away. But all in all, she was happy with her lot in life.\nShe had an interest in history, both in her family tree and in the wider world. She was a curious person, whenever it came to reading about other worlds, but she had never seen one. As soon as the newspapers came off the press, she lifted one, feeling the rough tissue of it between her fingertips, coating them in black ink. It was a sensory experience as much as it was a cerebral one. She’d curl up in the wicker chair she’d been told had survived for generations in her family. There was no evidence of this, other than the stories she had heard of it. It had been the seat where her grandmother sat between washing sessions, it was the chair in which her sister Isabelle sat and cried at perceived wrongs she felt, it was the chair in which she had sat herself, learning how to tie her shoelaces. It was a rooting point, and she couldn’t imagine a life without it. She wondered about its origins, but whenever she asked an elder in the family, they were unable to give her a concrete story of its derivation. She cherished it, like a person typically cradles a family album, vowing never to leave it behind, whatever strength of fire might rage in the home around it. People did what they could to preserve the parts of themselves they couldn’t truly hold on to.\nIsla finished her chores. They were equally distributed so that no one had to spend too much time being busy nor too much time being idle. She willingly cleaned the floors until they shone. She took pride in her housekeeping. The house in which they lived was the absolute centre of her existence. Sometimes, Isla wished she wasn’t so easily pleased – that she wanted to go on real voyages, but she knew she never would solo. She was too scared. Her life had been so well contained that once the lid was removed, she still felt no temptation to jump out.\nIsla’s brother, Neil, came into the room carrying the duster and polish. “I have to do the surfaces today,” he said. “Do you need to move anything of yours first?”\nShe looked at a book that was sitting on her bedside table. It contained sketches of almost everything she had ever seen. She didn’t want him to see it; it was private. Neil wasn’t the kind of guy to purposely intrude on her privacy, but some things happened accidentally in the process of thorough cleaning. The only thing that saddened Isla that day was the thought that there were no printed pictures to accompany her own naïve drawings. She drew in a way that was only a step above stick figures, but it somehow captured the energy of everything around her more than a detailed portrait ever could. Still, it was good to have a point of reference.\nShe turned the overhead light on, and the room became illuminated. The coloured lamps were switched on, one by one, making rainbow patterns on the ceiling. And there was Christian, Isla thought, her favourite brother, missing everything in exchange for a worldwide traveling experience. They hadn’t heard from him. The letters had been scant at first, and then they had ceased altogether. He was busy with his uncovering of the wider world. Isla felt forgotten about, so she tried to focus her attentions on the siblings that surrounded her instead. She felt an equilibrium that she knew Christian had always lacked. They were just different kinds of personalities. Still, the love between them was unwavering. It would outlast their bodies and their lives on Earth.\nHer mother came into the room to admire their efforts. She showed no hint of annoyance at the fact that her children didn’t feel the desire to move out. They were permanent fixtures in her home, and she was glad of that since she had no real reminder of her parents. Once a person departed the world, their image was forever forgotten, apart from in hazy memory. She knew little of her son Christian’s life either. She’d seen it in written word, but she’d never experienced in. She was settled in her own small world, and she didn’t feel the need to explore the greater one. She hadn’t seen images of it that lured her from her home. It was a mystery so far removed from her own place that it felt like it would forever remain foreign.\nIsla was curious but she wasn’t a person that wanted to physically move around. She didn’t have the travel bug her brother possessed. Sometimes, just sometimes, in the quietest hours of night, whenever she missed him the most, she wished she had a way of seeing him – like a piece of paper torn from one of her informative newspapers, but one with bright colours, a copy of her brother, a still of his smile. If only you could capture the things you loved in picture form, less would be forgotten." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Butterflies\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 2200\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character staring at a picture they don’t remember taking." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "With both fingers I repeatedly zoomed in and out of the photo. Then I zoomed and un-zoomed even faster, until my screen was just a nauseating blur. I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to make myself feel sick, or if I was hoping that when I finally stopped – when the photo eventually came to a standstill – it would rearrange itself completely into something that made sense. But when I did stop, I was just as confused. Once more, I added up the constituent parts: dark hair splayed on the pillow, shiny skin dappled with bruise-like smudges of mascara, lips compressed into a lopsided pout. It was me. \nIt was me, but a me I didn’t recognise. Looking at the image, I thought of an apple-corer I’d once seen advertised on late night television – the strange sense of satisfaction I got from watching the circular blade biting into its pink skin, twisting efficiently and then withdrawing with a perfect cylindrical core, leaving a hidden emptiness at the apple's centre. I zoomed once more and caught a vacant glint in my eyes, like apple-pips dug out from the flesh. \nI whipped my phone screen around to face Em. “So weird,” I said “I really don’t remember taking this at all last night”. \nShe laughed absently ,“mate you were absolutely gone.” \nI let her laugh soothe me, protectively pulled up the blanket that we shared as we sat on the sofa in her flat. I still held my phone out, and eventually she pulled her gaze up from her own phone at looked more closely at my screen. \n“Where was that anyway? That’s not at yours is it?” \nI made a show of investigating the image, furrowing my eyebrows in concentration. I looked at the unfamiliar pillow beneath my head, the slither of blue wall in the background, swept my gaze quickly over my bared shoulders – before answering, “it must have been at Jake’s” \n“Jake’s?” Em turned to me now with her eyebrow raised salaciously. \nI raised an eyebrow back at her “I went back to his after the club. I drunk called him and he came and picked me up. My knight in shining armour.” \nI remembered the glare of my phone screen, the thrill of his voice down the phoneline when he picked up, the words halting, doubling and rebounding in my head like broken music. I remembered looking at my hand in the taxi and feeling with pressing certainty that it wasn’t my own. Sodium haze of streetlights, the fast synthetic pull of my seatbelt as I unclicked it, faded blue front door widening. \nI did not remember taking this photo. \nEm went back to looking at her phone and I burrowed even deeper into the blanket, so far that I pulled it completely over my head, cocooned. I read once that caterpillars digest their own bodies using enzymes before rebuilding themselves into butterflies. I thought about what it would look like, if the silken shell of the chrysalis was cracked open during this transformation. The soft pulpy mess of a self-destructing body. \nIn the darkness, lights danced behind my eyes. I felt vaguely seasick. \n* \nThat night, I dreamed that after I had sex with him, he split in two. \n A dull morning light was starting to seep through the curtains, weakly illuminating a blue-grey wasteland of empty glasses, abandoned clothes, records adrift from their sleeves. We were lying on the bed, a tangle of limbs and sheets. My head was tucked under his chin, and his arm was flung over my waist. We were perfectly still apart from the rise and fall of our breathing. I watched this from a space above our bodies. \nI watched as his head began to blur around the edges. Then a second head pushed itself free, gradually peeling up and apart from the original. It was exactly the same as Jake’s head – the one that lay next to me on the pillow – except translucent. I watched with a rising feeling of fascination and horror as – one by one – his arms, then his torso and finally his legs all did the same. A diaphanous twin of him sat up on the bed and swung his legs over. Then – in a change that made complete sense to me, in the way only dream logic could – he was instantly opaque, flesh and blood. \nHere, then, lying next to me on the bed, was one Jake. The one that – when I first told him my name as we waited at the bar – had stumbled over it and immediately blushed a deep maroon under the cool blue lights; the one that told me he particularly liked the way my hair smelled; the one that laughed warmly – not condescendingly – when I told him that one of my favourite songs was ‘Loft Music’ by the Weeknd and asked me what my favourite lyric was. \nAnd there – now standing over my still-sleeping body – was the other one. He was motionless, but I could feel hatred seething from him. It was so pure, so concentrated – but with no obvious sign of it in his face or body. It was like a colour I knew was there but couldn’t see. The whole room pulsed with the deep molten red of him. \nThen he crossed the room to the bookshelf by the window and started pulling things off. Slowly and methodically, he would take an item off the shelf – a book, a record, a photo frame – and lay it on the ground next to where he stood. Gradually he got faster and faster, flung the objects in an ever-increasing radius, started grabbing multiple things at once and flinging them wildly across the room. Finally, he turned on his heel – I could see his face now, terrifyingly blank – and started hurling books at the bed with blunt, unrestrained force. \nWhen I woke up, I wasn’t sure which Jake was the one lying next to me. \n* \nThe next weekend we went out again. It was the same series of bars as always – in a slightly different order so it felt novel. I allowed myself to ease into that sense of Friday night anticipation, that vague hum of excitement that accompanies you from one place to the next, baseless except for the liberating blank space of the two following days. Even as I felt it I knew that that itself was the best part of the weekend – the waiting and hoping. \nUpstairs at The Castle there was a gentle ebb and flow of people all evening. People arrived and left again amid the roar of voices and clattering glass. I was sat next to Stevie – head leant back against the wall, half-listening to a conversation about superyachts – when the crowd swelled and shifted with the arrival of a new group of people. Jake emerged, singular and completely unavoidable, like the spray thrown up by an aggressive wave. \nI felt my blood pulsing in the back of my head, against the wood panelling. Can that be right? Is it anatomically correct to feel a pulse there? This is what I was thinking as my body was already moving, springing up out of my seat and wrapping my arms around him. I breathed in his sweet woody smell and recoiled with the immediacy of it. Bare wooden floor, hand on my thighs, textured swirls of paint on the ceiling. I said yes but I wasn’t really sure what I was saying yes to. \n“Jake! Long time no see.” I said with a smile which I hoped was simultaneously coolly aloof and conspiratorial. As his hand left the small of my back I became aware of how desperately I wanted him to want me. \n“Hey Sim.” He smiled warmly before moving away, pulled towards the outstretched arms and hands of the people around us. As he did so I saw the underside of his chin, traced it down to the pool of shadow at the base of his neck, where I had pressed my thumb only a weekend before, as we lay in his bed in the morning. I liked the way it seemed to fit perfectly, and pretended to scan my thumb against his skin, like he was a fingerprint machine. I gave myself to him – the lines and whorls of my identity – and he told me who I was. I flushed red at the childish intimacy of the memory as he moved away, making his circuit around the room greeting people. \nThe night wore on, but slower now. It had been shunted off of its tracks by Jake’s arrival and now proceeded along shadowy, unfamiliar terrain. I couldn’t not keep looking over at him where he was sat a few tables across from mine. I imagined that he was hyper-aware of me, crafting every move and gesture and word in case I should happen to glance at him. I realised at the same time, of course, that this was what I was doing. \nFinally, he sat down next to me and put his arm around me, his gaze softened and blurred by drinking. I pretended to be surprised by his appearance, even though I had watched him crossing the room out of the corner of my eye. \n“I was wondering whether all of your biotech needs have been met recently?” \nI felt a bloom of warmth in my chest, gratified that he had remembered our joke, reassured that that night didn’t exist solely within the dulux-blue parameters of his bedroom. \n“You know how it is - competitive market for these things these days” \nPicking my words carefully, like a game. \n“It was fun though, wasn’t it, that night?” \nI caught it – that flash of doubt – like a lightning rod pulling in a lightning strike, sending it shuddering down to earth, setting the soil crackling. \nI paused, caught between a multitude of possible answers. Yes Jake, it was really fun, round two tonight? Or - Hahaha, it’s all a bit of a blur huh? Or - What did you do to me when I was so drunk I could barely stand up? \nAll the while, Jake was reading his own answer into my silence, “A little bit unexpected maybe? But it was fun. You seemed to have a lot of fun.” \nYes. That was the right answer, wasn’t it. I nodded, leaning almost imperceptibly into him. He lowered his voice and said gently into my ear. \n“You want to go and chat outside? It’s so loud in here” \n“Yes!” Managing to find my voice again – it was uncomfortably bright and high. “The smoking area out the back tends to be a little less busier than the front” \nAs we walked down the stairs, I stared at his shoulders and allowed myself to dream. Yes. This was what was supposed to happen. We would go outside and he would tell me that he couldn’t stop thinking about me. Yes, it was strange after having been friends so long, yes he’d just got out of a relationship and things weren’t straightforward – but he had to see where it went. Come back to mine tonight Sim, he would say, gently, playfully nudging me as we stood out in the cold – edging closer together. All of that nausea – that churning confused messy feeling that had sat in my stomach for the past week – would be resolved. It would make sense now, because he wanted me. \n“Listen, Sim- this is a bit awkward, but I just wanted to make everything super clear for both of us, make sure we’re on the same page.” \nI thought absently about how everything was much more grey outside than inside. The embers of Jake’s cigarette glowed in the darkness as he fidgeted with it. \n“I’ve been seeing someone recently, and it’s starting to become a bit more serious. Like I said, last week was really fun but- it's not the kind of thing I should be doing again.” He grimaced, making a performance of shame, “and I'd appreciate it if you kept it just between us, you know?” \nI waited – face upturned – for myself to have a reaction. I caught my silhouette, projected against the fence behind Jake, flattened and warped by the angle at which the light was hitting my body. \n“Yeah, I hear you completely. Super super chill vibes, you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about from me.” Relaxed, amenable, yet slightly aloof. Well done me. \n“Cool cool cool” perhaps taken aback by how accepting I was, Jake ground to a halt, before starting up again “You know we-” \nBut I didn’t hear him. I was off, walking, not running. Back through the pub, out the front door and into the street. I turned right, then rapidly left again, moving relentlessly towards the darker, quieter streets of the city. I had absolutely no idea where I was going. I was aware only of a slow, continual sense of unravelling, a glimmering silken thread left in my wake." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When I Was A King\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2140\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Donald Martin’s second grade class went on a field trip in the fall of 1993. It was a trip that’s destination was a local museum called the Relics of Old. Donald didn’t want to go. He puckered his lip and resisted the urge to stomp his foot while Mrs. Alisha was prepping them for the bus ride. He wanted to stay at school and have Mrs. Alisha carry on her reading of the book Shiloh. He wanted to get lost in captivating stories and riveting fairy tales. \n\nHe longed for knights and dragons, hero dogs, and brave steeds.\n\nHe didn’t see what all the fuss was about when it came to dinosaurs long dead and men and women who were now nothing but bones buried under mountains of rubble and dirt. \n\nWhere was the excitement in those things?\n\n“Donald?” Mrs. Alisha asked him on the bus ride to the museum. “Are you okay? Honey, you look so sad!”\n\n“Not sad… bored.” Donald told her, scrunching his face in bitterness.\n\nDoesn’t she understand? He thought, his eyes filling up with tears of disappointment. It’s Friday, and today we would have finished the book! Instead, we’re missing our reading for this dumb old field trip! Ugh. \n\n“Don’t wanna go.” He complained, folding his arms and putting his chin to his chest. Mrs. Alisha cocked her head. Her golden hair flowed down to her shoulders. It shimmered like it was sprinkled with pixie dust.\n\n“No?” She inquired gently. \n\n“No.” Donald repeated in a grumble.\n\n“Why ever not?” She patted his arm. Her hands were as soft as silk. Donald sighed.\n\n“Because it’s gonna be so,” he drew the word out, emphasizing the tragedy that was to come. “Boring.” \n\nMrs. Alisha smiled. Behind her, the two boys in the row across from Donald were drawing messy art into the morning condensation on the bus window. \n\n“Well.” Mrs. Alisha’s eyes sparkled. “You never know, Donny. This trip might surprise you.”\n\nDonald gazed at her, mesmerized. The teacher winked. A magical, joyful gesture that lit her body with a soft glow.\n\nThe hand-drawn pictures in the glass, little stick men and women, gave Donald a hearty wave.\n\nThe other boys had already lost interest in the sloppy creations they had made and were committed to a new form of passing the time, a thumb war. But Donald couldn’t look away as the stick figures danced, waving, hopping, and shaking their hips from side to side. \n\n“Woah.” He breathed, his voice cracking in awe. He gaped at Mrs. Alisha. She was grinning. “How… How did you do that?”\n\nShe held a delicate finger to her lips. \n\n“Shh, it’s a secret.” She explained to him. “I didn’t do anything. Except give you a very special gift, because you are a very special boy.” She tweaked his nose. “That’s what my teacher told me when she gifted me the magic to see what I can see. And now, I’ve given it to you.”\n\n“To see them dance?” Donald laughed, bubbling with happiness. His favorite teacher messed his hair.\n\n“To see stories.” She whispered to him. The stick figures played leapfrog. They laughed and frolicked like happy children. “To see them, instead of just hearing them.” \n\n“Only me?” Donald asked, eyes wide. Mrs. Alisha nodded somberly.\n\n“Only you. Until, one day, you choose to share this gift with someone else. Someone whose heart is as open and imagination as boundless as yours.\"\n\nDonald felt a mix of thrill and responsibility wash over him. He peeked around carefully, making sure no eyes were looking his way. He was a man with a great secret now, and it both excited and terrified him. \n\n“I can’t tell anyone?” He turned his attention back to Mrs. Alisha. She shook her head.\n\n“To tell is to gift.” She cautioned him. “And you only have this gift to give once, sweetheart.”\n\n\n\n***\n\n\n\nDonald couldn’t overcome his awe of his newfound ability. Everywhere he turned, he saw magic. Getting off the bus at the museum, he gaped at the statue of a saber-tooth tiger that guarded over the wide, flat, marble steps leading up to the building. The feline flicked an ear and narrowed his eyes. Donald passed him wearily as he trumped up the stairs. The tiger turned his head to watch him. His frown of thoughtfulness faded as he smiled a toothy grin and let out a purr of delight. \n\nDonald stopped and reversed a few steps in order to pat the tiger’s hard, cold head. \n\n“You are so weird!” One of his classmates, July Whip, sniffed as she strutted past him. Other kids laughed and pointed at him. \n\nDonald didn’t care.\n\nMrs. Alisha had said he was special, not them.\n\nInside the building, which was filled to the brim with the soft, welcoming aroma of books written long before the building they now resided in was any more than a puddle of unused clay and ginger-scented cleaner, Donald ignored his classmates, who Mrs. Alisha and her parent helpers were struggling to reign in as they eagerly raced from exhibit to exhibit, yowling and bounding about like sugar-high cats. \n\nDonald found the art exhibit, which was a lengthy corridor located toward the back of the building. It was deserted. People were too busy marveling over dinosaur bones and historic relics to spend time googling over paintings and portraits. \n\nDonald sat on a bench against the wall and leaned his head back. \n\nThere was a gentle, golden glow around him that seemed to light up the whole exhibit like a fierce flame. \n\nThe people and animals in the art twitched, like they’d been electrocuted. They came to life.\n\nMermen wielded golden tridents over their heads. Cowboys spurred gallant steeds into action, twirling their lassos while panicked cows galloped away from them. \n\nLions stalked through tall, swaying, prairie grass. Dragons circled castles, gushing out fire from gaping jaws. \n\nNoah’s Ark fought through a vicious storm, lightning flashing over its great sails. The Lord spoke the earth into existence, and there was a flash of light. Donald was frozen in awe as he watched—truly watched—nothing turned into everything that was his world. \n\nRed splotches of paint on a white background swam around like eager fish. Black lines slithered over their canvas like serpents.\n\nDonald felt as though he were dreaming. He was so lost in the magic around him—the displays of stories and history playing out before his very eyes—that he didn’t hear his teachers gathering up everyone to get on the bus.\n\nThey blew whistles and shouted at wandering students. The rapid, excited chatter that had kept the museum in a constant state of chaos for the past few hours faded away. \n\nDonald, the quiet bookworm of his class, went unnoticed as the students were herded out the door.\n\nBut he didn’t know or care that he'd been left behind. \n\nDonald no longer cared much for his dull, lifeless world at all. The magic one he saw within the paintings and portraits was much more enthralling. \n\nDonald got up from the bench as all the lights went out with a snapping sound.\n\nAll the lights in the ceiling of the building...\n\nNot the lights in the portraits... lights that were only Donald’s to behold.\n\nA night where the artwork was as living and bright as a golden stallion. \n\nDonald giggled to himself. He walked past a village of burning torches and let his hand crease the frame of King Arthur’s portrait. The king smiled at him. He took off his crown and held it out for Donald to admire. It sparkled and gleamed like life itself. Violet jewels decorated its three points. Donald reached out a hand, wishing he could touch the gold relic.\n\n“It’s beautiful.” He whispered, his eyes wide with amazement. King Arthur looked pleased. He placed the crown back on his head. He gave Donald a slight bow. \n\nDonald returned the gesture. He felt special. He felt like a king himself. \n\nDonald pranced like a buck in spring from one end of the hall to the other, then back again. He visited with angels and made small talk with dinosaurs. He imagined that he was sword fighting with knights, and he pretended he was the owner of a pack of hunting dogs all piled into one painting. \n\nHe named each one and bounced up and down with glee when they chased a raccoon up a tree. They wagged their tails at him like he was truly their master. \n\nDonald didn’t grow sleepy, even as the night stretched on. At one point, he did peer out into the hall and became aware that he was alone. His classmates and teachers were long gone, and the employees of the museum had closed up without thinking to check the art exhibit. \n\nDonald, as he was only a second grader, did briefly chew his lip and consider the benefits of panicking. Then, he simply let his shoulders droop and relaxed.\n\nWhat’s the point of getting all upset? He mused. They’ll come back for me. At the hotel tonight, someone will notice I’m gone. Or tomorrow morning, someone will find me. Donald smiled. In the meantime, I’m far from alone. \n\nWith that in mind, he slipped back into the art exhibit and continued a chess match he’d started with Han Xin. \n\nThe general was whipping him big time. But he didn’t mind. \n\nDonald finally had friends. Friends that were made of the magic and legends that he loved so dearly. \n\nHe finished his chess game with Han Xin. He played a riveting game of shadow with Abraham Lincoln. He hunted with wolves and swung from the trees with apes.\n\nHours and hours passed, until the moment when thin light began to sneak through the windows outside the art exhibit and snake across the floor so that Donald could see its flickering golden tongue. \n\nBy that time, Donald was curled up on the bench. His eyes were half closed in bliss, and he was simply watching the array of wonder spread out across the wall, history and stories taking place right before his very eyes, filling his heart with a sense of peace and belonging he’d never before experienced. \n\nA door squeaked open somewhere. \n\nShoes clip-clopped their way across the museum's smooth floor. \n\nDonald didn’t look up as a pair of jean-clad legs came to stand before him. His eyes only flickered to the person’s face when she laughed softly.\n\n“I thought I’d find you here.” Mrs. Alisha smiled, her eyes brimming with understanding. “The others thought we’d lost you, but I knew where you were. Where you longed to be.”\n\n“Find him?” An anxious voice called from behind her. Donald peeked past his teacher. It was an employee, wringing his hands wearily and letting his key ring twirl around his finger. \n\n“Yes. Thank you for the assistance.” Mrs. Alisha told him. She dropped down to kneel before Donald. “So?” She implored. “What was it like, little one? To see a night of living art?”\n\nDonald’s eyes slipped back and forth. His mind raced. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to grasp the right words to explain all that he’d experienced that wonderful night.\n\nThen, he just grinned.\n\n“I was a king.” He whispered, his eyes tearing up with joy. \n\n\n\n***\n\n\n\nBailey Wolfly’s second grade class went on a field trip in the fall of 2012. She didn’t want to go. In fact, she was downright mad that she was missing out on hearing the end of the story, Because of Mr Terupt, that her teacher, Mr. Donald Martin was reading to her class. \n\nWhy today? She wondered, slouching in her seat. I don’t want to see this stupid museum! If I want to see pictures and read about old people, I can do that on mommy and daddy’s computer! \n\n“Bailey? You okay, kiddo?”\n\nBailey looked out into the aisle. Mr. Martin stood there. He was so tall, Bailey had to stretch her head back to see his face. \n\n“No.” She complained, frowning. “Mr. Martin! This is so unfair. We were supposed to finish our book today.” Bailey’s fingers curled into her palm in frustration. “Why did we have to go on this trip today of all the days?”\n\nCrouching down to level with Bailey, Mr. Martin’s eyes twinkled with a mischief she couldn’t quite catch. “Yeah, the timing’s a bit of a bummer, huh? Funny how things line up sometimes…” His voice trailed off, lost in thought before snapping back to the present.\n\n“I don’t want to go.” Bailey breathed, blinking tears of bitterness from her eyes. Mr. Martin rested a hand on her shoulder.\n\n“Well,” he said, a note of excitement in his voice. “This trip might just be more exciting than you could ever imagine, kid.” He winked, grinning. “It may even be downright magical.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 selfie of Dorian Gray\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 1434\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin or end your story with a character taking a selfie." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "[Content note: substance misuse, suicide, transphobia]\n\nPicture this: Dorian Gray, 25, gorgeous bachelor of the Brighton gay scene #handsomeAF #queen #slay. Picture his blazing blue eyes set above aquiline nose and a rosebud pout of a mouth. Cheeks ready to blush under the lick of glitter from a make-up brush. Deep gold locks styled to perfection. Forehead wide and empty as a summer sky #beautynotbrains #imageiseverything #skindeep.\n\nPicture this: Dorian perched on the sleek leather and chrome of a barstool in the Poison Ivy, margarita in one hand and phone in the other – twin totems of the god of the gay bar. Picture his thumb hitting the camera app (muscle memory leads him there always) and hovering, now, over the shutter button. Picture him pausing for a fragment of time to check the image on the phone screen: it is, as always, empty perfection.\n\nClick!\n\nThere it is: the button is pressed, the shutter closes, the selfie is taken.\n\nAnd all around him life continues in the Poison Ivy: the disco-ball spins, Lady Gaga roars through overamplified speakers, a drag queen at the bar wipes lipstick and white wine from a red twist of a mouth.\n\nBut for Dorian Gray, life has stopped. Here. Now. In this moment – the moment the selfie was taken #liveinthemoment #lookgoodfeelgood #selflove. Because, as he licks the salt rim of his margarita glass from perfectly glossed lips, Dorian realises that he has taken the best selfie ever.\n\nWhat is it about this selfie that makes it so exquisite? Is it the background of dancers blurring to hot whorls of colour? Is it the shards of light from the disco-ball falling like a shower of diamonds across the face? No, it is the face itself, caught at the very moment of its blooming, like a young rose, beautiful.\n\nDorian knows, the instant he sees the selfie, that there, right there in front of him, swimming in a million pixels, is the great truth he’s searched for his whole life: beauty.\n\n‘What would you like?’ the barman asks, plucking an olive from a discarded martini glass and popping it into his lipsticked mouth.\n\n‘I’d like – ’ says Dorian, ‘I’d like it if this selfie aged instead of me…’\n\n‘You what?’ the barman hollers over Gaga’s jagged vocals.\n\n‘I’d like another margarita,’ Dorian says.\n\n*\n\nBut Dorian’s wish came true. Picture this: years later, Dorian is flicking through his phone when up pops the selfie #throwback #memories #tenyearchallenge. Picture Dorian, 35 and still on the cusp of blooming like a young rose, locking eyes with the image of his 25-year-old self.\n\nBut not the image as he left it, 10 years previously. No. For etched into the selfie, right there in front of him, are the tidelines of age – wrinkles beginning to show on the forehead, the skin wilting around the aquiline nose, twin creases either side of the rosebud pout of a mouth.\n\nDorian sees too a certain sneer, a certain curl of the lip, not present in the original selfie #bitchface #meangirl #judgingyou. Was it the many times he’d put others down on the basis of their looks, the many ugly comments he’d made on another’s “ugliness”, that had written that sneer into the selfie? Did the curl of the lip evidence a life lived in selfishness, selfie stick in hand and judgement in mind?\n\nDorian swipes off the selfie, a cold sweat of horror breaking out on his preternaturally youthful brow. He tries putting a softening filter on the selfie, hoping to erase those harsh lines. But the app glitches and increases the contrast on the image, only etching those lines deeper into brow and cheek. Like a Narcissus staring into troubled waters, Dorian recoils in disgust from the sight of his own image #uggo #notfeelingcute #badhairday.\n\nHe clicks off the app, fingers barely shaking, and runs to the bathroom. Looking into the perfect circle of the stylish chrome-rimmed mirror #homedecor #interiordesign #trendsetter, Dorian scours his face for wrinkles, blemishes, imperfections. But he finds, as always, the same strange youth, the same pure beauty, that is synonymous with his reputation in gay-bars from the pier to the marina.\n\nHands clammy on the cold porcelain of the sink, Dorian exhales and spits from his perfect mouth the salivation that warns him he will vomit.\n\nLeaning over the toilet, he pukes onto the perfect white porcelain, loops of saliva falling from his face like hot tears of shame and disgrace.\n\n*\n\nDorian commits himself to a life of velvety pleasures and empty aesthetics. He progresses his modelling career at the London fashion shows #strikeapose #modellife #catwalk. In his spare time, he buys designer handbags in the Lanes and showcases his latest outfits in the bars of Kemptown. At night, the selfie haunts his dreams, mouth twisted in hideous grin, cheek disgraced by defects, brow wrecked by wrinkles – a face defaced by imperfections.\n\nThe years pass in a blur of nights spent knocking back shots in Bulldog #cheers #downit #happyhour. But still Dorian’s face stays young.\n\nHe courts a beautiful drag queen, name of Sybil, dreams of the lavish wedding they’ll have. In bars they sip sex on the beach together and rate the other twinks on their looks in loud whispers #roastme #2outof10 #fugly. In dark bedrooms with drawn curtains they smoke Tina with hookers and dropouts. At the nudist beach they work on their tans.\n\nBut soon Dorian and Sybil are fighting, conversation withering to ridicule and cheap digs. Picture this: the couple at 2am on St James street roaring insults and comebacks at each other with beer-soaked breath like baying stags.\n\n‘You’re a right bitch!’ Dorian screams, ‘a nasty cheap tranny whore!’\n\nHe flings his pint glass to the gutter and struts off into the night.\n\n*\n\nPicture this: Dorian is 45 and as his age has increased so too has his reputation for youthful good looks. He launches his own line of face cream #skincare #antiaging #results. He proposes to Sybil, they break it off, they get back together, they break it off again.\n\nThe night they call off the engagement for the second time, Dorian sits sombre at the dressing table in his bedroom. He stares into the vanity mirror, his face flawless even in the bright white light of the bare bulbs, searching for flaws, any clue as to why Sybil left him. But he finds, as always, perfection.\n\nThe selfie haunts his thoughts like an unwelcome ghost. He pulls out his phone and clicks on the photo app. He pulls up the selfie and finds it more hideous than ever – crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes, scoops of black shadow underneath them, a complex network of wrinkles deep-cut into the face. And still that hideous exaggerated sneer like the face of a horrible puppet.\n\n‘It’s just a selfie,’ he says, ‘it doesn’t look like me! I – I cannot look that bad, surely?’\n\nReassuring himself, Dorian decides to take action. Why let a selfie ruin your night? Why let a photo curb your self-esteem?\n\nQuickly, before he changes his mind, Dorian clicks on the bin icon.\n\nA message flashes up on the screen: Delete photo?\n\nHe pauses for just a fraction of a second, shaking finger hovering over the button, and presses it.\n\n*\n\nPicture this: Sybil, the next day, hungover and contrite and missing her boyfriend, mounting the stairs to Dorian’s flat in her stilettos, heel-clicks echoing in the otherwise silent stairwell. She knocks on the door. Silence. She fumbles in her rhinestoned handbag for the spare key and lets herself in.\n\nInside the flat, everything is in its usual perfect order. Dorian’s designer coats hang in the entranceway, a half-drunk bottle of Chablis sits on the marble worktop illuminated like a yellow jewel in the beam of a kitchen spotlight. The Dyson tower fan blasts out cool air in the lounge #2000watts #700cubicmetersperhour #ultimatecoolingtechnology. It blasts a jet of cold across Sybil’s fishnetted legs like an icy river or a ghost passing through her.\n\n‘Dorian?’\n\nSilence still.\n\nShe checks everywhere and, letting herself into the last room, the bedroom, she finds it empty. She pulls back the bedsheets. Nothing. But seeing the door of the walk-in wardrobe ajar, she opens it to find – picture this: Dorian hanging by his neck from the rail.\n\nAt first she doesn’t recognise him. For the swollen purple face of the dead man is ugly, carved with deep wrinkles, pocked with blemishes, the lip curled up in a final expression of disdain.\n\nBy his side, there lies his phone." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Night Bird\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2113\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Paris, 1954\nThere are things in the world that can’t be explained with rational thinking or scientific logic. Sometimes, there are phenomena that baffle the mind, and no matter how hard we try to rationalise the irrational, we will never arrive at a rational conclusion. That is precisely what happened to Étienne Dubois in the spring of 1954 when he secured a part-time job as a security guard at the Louvre.\nÉtienne Dubois was a man of scientific reasoning. He took the part-time job as a security guard to help fund his final year at the University of Paris, where he was pursuing a degree in Physical and Natural Sciences. An incident on the second night of Étienne’s shift as a security guard changed not only his life forever but also his understanding of the probable and improbable world in which we live.\nThe incident I refer to concerns the wife of a Florentine merchant, Lisa Gherardini, and a painting in which she is the subject. The painting is known in French as La Joconde and in Italian as La Gioconda. But you, and everyone else in the world, know it as the Mona Lisa.\n“Now that you’re leaving the Louvre, my boy,” Juliette Dubois said from her armchair, her face adorned with anti-aging cream and cucumber slices over her eyes, “will I ever meet this night bird of yours? The mysterious Lisa that you’re very much in love with?”\nÉtienne glanced over at the replica 16th-century portrait painting that he had hung on the wall above the fireplace some six months previously. To the surprise of many, Leonardo da Vinci’s original masterpiece was smaller in size than most well-known classic works of art, measuring only 30 x 21 inches. Étienne had hung the portrait a week after starting his job as a security guard at the Louvre. “I’ve told you many times, Mother, you’ve seen my night bird many times, even before I started work at the museum.”\n“You’re just like your father,” Juliette huffed. “You speak in riddles. Why can’t you just answer a question like a normal French boy?”\n“Who dictates what is normal and what is not, Mother?” Étienne got up from his chair and kissed his mother on top of the head.\n“I dictate it, my little boy,” Juliette blindly reached out for her son’s hand and squeezed. “Mother knows best. Remember that.”\n“How could I ever forget?” Étienne picked up his satchel that held a studying notebook and snacks for the night.\n“Tell Lisa I’m going to miss your stories about her,” Juliette said as her son opened the door to leave.\nÉtienne glanced at the portrait painting once more. “I’ll tell her, Mother. Don’t leave the face cream on too long; I fear I may not recognise you when I return,” he chortled as he left and closed the door.\n“Cheeky,” Juliette jokingly chided. “Just like that wastrel of a father of yours.”\nIgor Moreau was sixty-two years old, portly, with a shock of white hair and a prominent nose that adorned his pox-marked face. He had been a security guard at the Louvre for nearly thirty years and was adamant that he would never retire. He often said those in charge would only escort him off the premises in a wooden box. Of all the fellow security guards he had worked with over the years, it was Étienne he was fondest of. Étienne was a good boy with good manners, always taking care of his appearance. Igor often remarked that Juliette Dubois, a single mother, did a noteworthy job of raising her son.\n“Ah, the traitor arrives for his final shift,” Igor turned in his chair, his face stuffed with a croissant filled with strawberries and cream.\n“Traitor’s a tad extreme, Igor,” Étienne said as he placed his satchel on his desk. “Also, didn’t the doctor tell you to lay off the pastries?”\n“The doctor’s a fool,” Igor waved Étienne’s concerns away. “He’s German too. I take what they say with a pinch of salt.”\n“Didn’t he tell you to lay off the salt too?” Étienne grinned as he sat down in his chair.\n“Very funny, school boy,” Igor stuck out his tongue in protest.\n“University boy, actually.”\n“I used to like you, Dubois. I’m starting to change my mind.” Igor ate the final piece of croissant and belched with delight. He then stood and wiped flakes of pastry from his mouth and chest onto the floor.\n“Thanks for that, Igor,” Étienne moaned. “I’ll have to sweep that up later.”\n“It’ll give you something else to do,” Igor shrugged. “Talking to that painting of yours isn’t good for your mind.”\n“She’s not my painting, Igor.”\n“Then how come she only comes alive for you?”\n“I have no idea. I’ve asked you plenty of times to stay behind and see for yourself.”\n“I like it when she stays in her painting. Less hassle that way.”\n“Hassle?”\nIgor tapped his temple. “Good night, university boy. Don’t be a stranger and come say hello at some point. It’ll have to be during waking hours though. No more late night visits to converse with La Joconde.”\n“I know,” Étienne said sadly. “I know.”\nÉtienne ate the last of his beef and tomato baguette before placing his notebook (now filled with three more pages of scientific musings that would help structure his dissertation to pass his degree) aside. He checked his watch. A smile of pending excitement formed upon his face as it was nearly 1:00 a.m. That was the time when the painting of Lisa Gherardini, his Night Bird, came to life. Why did she come to life at 1:00 a.m. and not 12:00 a.m.? Or why didn’t she come to life at 10:00 a.m. in the morning? He didn’t know. Lisa didn’t know. They would never know. It would remain a mystery just as much as the unfathomable reasoning behind Lisa coming to life at all, never mind at 1:00 a.m\nAs usual, Étienne found his Night Bird sitting on a wooden bench, admiring Jacques-Louis David’s The Coronation of Napoleon. The huge oil painting, which measured a dramatic 33 feet by 20, depicted the coronation ceremony of Napoleon Bonaparte at Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris on December 2, 1804. It also captured the moment Napoleon crowned Josephine, his wife, as Empress.\n“Every time I look at this painting, I see something different,” Lisa remarked to Étienne as he sat down beside her. “And I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat on this bench and looked at it.”\n“Did you ever meet Napoleon?” Étienne surprised himself with the question, realising he had never asked Lisa before.\n“Did I come to life for him, you mean?” Lisa continued to admire Louis-David’s work. “No, I didn’t. I toyed with the idea once or twice. Not that I have real feelings, but I had a strange inkling it wouldn’t be in my best interests to do so.”\nÉtienne was stung by Lisa’s words—that she didn’t have real feelings. He knew she was right, but he nevertheless wanted her to feel the same way about him that he did about her. “How many people have you come alive for?”\n“After all these months of conversation, you finally ask me a question I thought you would have asked me the first time around.” Lisa turned her attention to Étienne. Her brown eyes were mystical and endless. “Is it because this is the last time we shall speak?”\n“Will it be the last time?”\n“You know it will be, Étienne,” Lisa lay her hand on his. “And the answer is two. That’s how many people I’ve come alive for.”\n“Leonardo and me?”\n“No.” Lisa smiled as she tapped Étienne’s hand. “Not Leo, but his favoured student Francesco Melzi. He was convinced that Leo had made a pact with the devil and sold his soul to give me life. But I don’t have a life in the sense of yourself or Francesco. I don’t breathe, I don’t feel pain, I don’t get hungry, and I don’t have emotions. If Leo made a pact with the Devil to give me life, he was given a bad deal. Wouldn’t you agree?”\n“I do,” Étienne said, wounded once more by Lisa’s words.\n“Have I said something to offend you, Étienne?”\nÉtienne lowered his head and nervously fidgeted with his hands. “My mother called you my Night Bird.”\n“That sounds romantic,” Lisa chuckled. “Is she wondering when you’ll bring me home to meet her?”\n“Yes,” he said softly. “She’s most persistent. I have told her that she’s met you before, but she chastises me for talking in riddles.”\n“Ah, the replica of me that you hung above the fireplace.”\n“That’s the one.”\nLisa contemplated Juliette Dubois’s remark as she let her gaze fall upon The Coronation of Napoleon. “You’ve fallen in love with me, haven’t you, my dear Étienne?”\n“Is it that obvious?” he laughed sheepishly.\n“You’re a rational man, Étienne. How can you fall in love with something that’s not real?”\n“We’re having a conversation, Lisa. You’re real. You’re not a figment of my imagination.”\n“I’m real in a false sense. Not in the real sense,” Lisa sighed deeply and rested her hand on Étienne’s. Her hand was neither warm nor cold. It was neither light nor heavy. It was just so. “I’m a painting of Lisa Gherardini. She had real feelings, emotions, beliefs, and a real body. I have none of them. I only represent the shell of her. I am nothing more.”\n“Yet you talk like a real person,” Étienne replied harshly. “That makes you real.”\n“Hit me,” Lisa took Étienne’s hand to strike her.\n“No,” he said as he immediately pulled away from her grasp.\n“I won’t feel a thing. You know this. You could stab me, strangle me,” Lisa paused for a few moments. “You could kiss me or make love to me, but it wouldn’t matter, Étienne. I wouldn’t feel a thing, physically or emotionally.”\nÉtienne could feel his eyes becoming moist. “Then what is the point of you being alive? What is the point of the conversations that we’ve been having?”\n“The point of me coming alive is either a curse or a wondrous activity of sheer extraordinary events that can never be explained,” Lisa said. “Regarding the conversations we’ve been having, have you enjoyed them?”\n“More than anything!”\n“Have they made you feel good?”\n“Yes, of course they have.”\n“That’s the point then, isn’t it?” Lisa shrugged. “You’ve grown up a lot in the last five months or so.”\n“It seems a one-way relationship.”\n“You’re putting a term to something that doesn’t require it. It’s not a relationship we have. It’s not a friendship. It’s something a lot more and something a lot less. And words won’t define it, Étienne.”\nÉtienne slowly nodded that he understood. “I’m going to miss you, Night Bird.”\n“Miss who? The painting of a woman called Lisa Gherardini you never met? That seems irrational and unhinged, my dear Étienne.”\n“Rational but irrational,” Étienne laughed.\n“Enough of our philosophical musings,” Lisa announced playfully. “Have you completed your dissertation?”\n“I have.”\n“So I finally get to read it,” Lisa teased.\nÉtienne opened his satchel and took out his notebook. “I’ll go for a walk around the museum whilst you read it.”\n“Take your time,” Lisa said.\nÉtienne got up from the bench as Lisa began to read his notebook. As he was about to walk away, he turned and looked at her. “Night Bird.”\n“Yes,” Lisa said, engrossed in Étienne’s words.\n“Thank you. For everything.”\n“Ugh-uh,” Lisa said. “Thank you too, Étienne. Now, go. I want to read in peace.”\nÉtienne Dubois visited the Louvre Museum every year on the same day until his death in 1987. He spent most of his time standing before the Mona Lisa, admiring her and her alone. He swore that her eyes grew larger and her smile widened whenever he was there. Most of the Louvre’s visitors thought Étienne was strange for the way he stood and gawked at the Mona Lisa with a smitten look upon his face. However, Étienne didn’t mind their stares and whispered comments. To him, Lisa was his Night Bird, and she would always remain so.\nÉtienne’s heart broke in 1956 when the Mona Lisa was placed behind protective glass after an incident where she was damaged by acid thrown by a vandal. He knew from that moment on that the painting of Lisa Gherardini would never come to life again. This realisation made him sad but also, paradoxically, a little happy. Even if such feelings seemed both rational and irrational, they were profoundly true to him." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Rapha and Kafka\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 2034\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Won’t you get sick from sitting on a cold floor?” the baby asked.\n\n“Sounds like something she’d say to scare us into doing something without really knowing why,” I retorted, trying to sound authoritative with a voice that still hadn’t broken.\n\n“But we don’t have anyone to go to now if we get sick. What do we do if we get cold and die?” The baby’s tone was strangely calm, almost in acknowledgment that something this extreme could actually happen, which was a concern and news to me.\n\nI didn’t dare admit I needed the guidance, so I decided to wait a while before slowly getting up and relocating to an ornate wooden bench at the other end of the room, sidling over as if getting out of my fetal position on the floor was of my own volition.\n\nI hadn’t spoken to the baby in a while, but for whatever reason, he had decided to follow me after I left our house in Peckham with a rucksack of thin cheese sandwiches and three days worth of clothes. The decision to run away was still fresh, resulting in a somewhat chaotically packed bag with nothing of much use.\n\nThe cold marble floor bit at my feet. I scowled at the socks I’d selected, which were all thinning at the heels.\n\nI wasn’t known for my originality, but I questioned whether anyone really was. I had no prior plans to run away until I picked up a copy of ‘Kafka on the Shore’ by Murakami and read as much as I could absorb before Mum finished work at the bookies and the Oxfam shop closed.\n\n\"It's nice, dear, but not important,\" she'd said when I asked for the £1.95 to buy it. That night we walked back in silence as she smoked four cigs back to back, which most certainly cost more than the book.\n\nI hadn’t read much of it, so my loosely laid plan most probably had faults. Kafka could be dead in the book for all I knew, but his idealistic plan to run away and end up in some library in Japan had legs.\n\nI couldn’t very well copy him though; it didn’t sit well with me. I also had to consider that Mum might have clocked the plan because she saw me reading the book, but from her, this was highly doubtful.\nI’d therefore chosen the art gallery as an alternative, just in case. In my mind, it seemed different enough to a library yet the same in all the relevant ways. Kafka was trying to get away from his father, whilst I couldn’t figure out how to find mine, so the synergy seemed to work.\n\n“You know copying is bad,” the baby chimed in.\n\n“You think everything is bad.”\n\n“No, I don’t. I’m glad we came here; it’s pretty.”\n\nI looked up at the painting opposite my bench-come-bed. A dead girl’s glassy eyes looked out of the frame, floating in a flower-covered river in spring. The most tragic of all Shakespeare’s ladies.\n\n“Why did you follow me?” I asked after a time.\n\n“I didn’t want you to be alone, especially now.”\n\n“What’s so important about now?” I asked.\n\n“No one should be alone on their 14th birthday.”\n\n“I’m an adult now. Birthdays don’t count anymore. Adults have bigger and more important things to figure out, like who to vote for in the next election, you know, stuff like that.”\n\n“Impressive, and have you decided?” The baby queried.\n\n“Probably Labour like Dad, you know, promote the rise of the working class and all that good stuff, you know, protect the family and women and children.”\n\nThe gallery went very quiet as I surveyed the adopted family I now belonged to. A large collection of Pre-Raphaelite paintings stared back. A harem of mainly young women all looked longingly my way.\n\nDad had said we needed to look after our women. We were their protectors, their guardians. Across the room, the moon shone through one of the atrium windows onto a Rossetti painting of a woman wistfully looking over her shoulder, a plump pomegranate in hand.\n\nI slid off the bench and walked over to her, my mind imagined peeling that fruit for her, being her saviour, the one she couldn’t live without because that pomegranate was everything.\n\nMy trousers filled out thinking about it. Not that I knew why, it couldn’t be helped, but I wasn’t ashamed.\n\nWhen I bought my ticket to the gallery two days ago, I didn’t really appreciate what I was buying a ticket for. The Royal Academy of Art just seemed like a logical choice because I assumed there’d be offices and spaces to hide on account of it still being a school. The fact I happened upon the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition was a lucky coincidence.\n\nI didn’t know much about art and I didn’t get the point to a lot of it, but this work seemed to speak to me. Literally. I’d cried for the first few hours after the gallery closed and the lights went out, but after a while, I could hear my new family singing to me, the ladies all around chiming in unison.\n\n“We must get back to nature, back to what is good, back to justice and sincerity and our moral code.”\n\n“Do you believe them?” The baby asked.\n\n“With everything I have,” I dramatically replied. “Dad had the right idea, but he left. Mum has no idea what day of the week it is. We must protect what is good and right, like the Pre-Raphaelites did.”\n\nThe marble floor bit through my socks again as if in retort. The grey night surrounding us took most of the shine from the paintings on display, their truth dampened by the cold air.\n\n“And how do you know what is good and right?”\n\n“You just do, don’t be daft, and I can help show people the way, like Dad did. Help show them what’s right and wrong.”\n\n“But he left, Teddy, Dad left,” the baby said quietly.\n\n“I know, but he’s still a good man, there’s a reason, there must have been, and Mum wouldn’t tell me because she still sees me as a kid, I can take care of myself, she could have told me.”\n\nThe gallery appeared to go a little darker. Eyes from every painting seemed to watch in anticipation whilst I rubbed the cold from the soles of my feet again, bringing my knees to my chin.\n\nThe face of the same woman shone out of about 12 paintings in the largest room in the gallery. Her flame red hair and rosebud lips were instantly recognizable. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much Rossetti must have loved this woman, must have fantasized over her, protected her to immortalize her in such a way. A picture of perfection I’d never really known.\n\n“Have you seen the black dog?” The baby asked.\n\nI shook my head slowly.\n\n“He’s down the corridor; we should get a dog, like those homeless people you see outside the tube.”\n\nI ignored the dig and wandered through the adjoining rooms to the end of the corridor. A large black painting like nothing else in the collection loomed over the room, bigger than life-size and domineering even in the darkness.\n\nMarchesa Luisa Casati stared down at us via Boldini’s hand. The dark painting detailed her in a full black ensemble, complete with a regal-looking black greyhound at her feet. The only color in the entire piece came from her pale face and a purple sash around her waist. The whole piece screamed chaos.\n\nAll the other women around the room seemed to shy in her presence, this ominous threat that stood guard over them. It was the only painting not to center around nature; it couldn’t celebrate life, only death and destruction.\n\n“She looks like mum,” the baby said.\n\n“She does a bit, although mum hates hats.”\n\n“True.”\n\n“Who is she?”\n\n“Someone famous, I guess.”\n\n“Yeah, she looks like a celebrity, like an olden-day version of someone from Love Island.”\n\nThe baby snickered.\n\n“I wonder where they all end up, these celebrity women. None of us know their names, only the artists who make them important, I suppose.”\n\n“You mean the men that make them important…”\n\nWe let the silence wash over us for a while as we stared at the black painting, both of us imagining the life this woman must have led. What mum might look like in a hat.\n\n“I’m not sure you could show her the way, Teddy,” the baby chimed after a while. “I think she was on her own bad path.”\n\n“Why’d you say that?”\n\n“Well, the bit next to her painting said she died alone and with £20 million pounds of debt.”\n\nThe Rossetti model with the flame-red hair seemed to gasp, shocked at the company she was forced to keep. The rebel and the saint, sharing the same air.\n\n“I wonder where she’d be if she had someone to protect her, someone like dad around?”\n\n“Dad couldn’t have helped her, Teddy, he could barely help himself.”\n\n“Take that back.”\n\n“You’re an adult now, you don’t need to pretend, not like mum does.”\n\nSilence filled the room again, and the cold marble shot into my toes in some kind of agreement.\n\n“It’s all fake, none of this is real,” the baby said coldly, the voice echoing in my head. “You wanted to run away to find the truth, and it’s all here in front of you, but only if you’ll see it for what it is.”\n\nLuisa Casati’s portrait bared down at us. A woman with so much vibrancy, so much light to give the world, but at the same time, so much pain and darkness. It hurt to look at.\n\nI sat down in front of her, my eyes pricking, making my nose itch with tears. I wanted the truth, but I wanted it to be something specific, something beautiful and clean and easy. I wanted the Pre-Raphaelite life, one where honesty and justice were served, and parents loved their kids and stayed together. The reality was black with cigarette smoke and tar.\n\n“You can break this cycle, you know,” the baby whispered. “You can make something that they never could.”\n\nI cried until the gallery opened and the cleaners came in. They didn’t even notice me hidden under a bench in the main hall, though I’m sure one of them questioned the smell of cheese sandwiches.\n\nWhen they finished, I packed away my things quietly and headed to the bus stop to catch the 387 to Peckham station. Mum was still at home; I watched her from the back garden window as she pottered easily around the kitchen cleaning up around my sister.\n\n“Morning, Teddy, what do you want for breakfast, angel?” she asked as I walked through the kitchen, completely unaware I’d been gone for 32 hours, or at least she strangely made out that was the case.\n\nI shook my head and smiled as I walked up to my sister's room, hanging back to peer through the door as she played with two hand-me-down dollies before school, their voices just like hers but an octave higher.\n\nOnce in the safety of my room I immediately began rummaging through drawers to find an old piggy bank I must have raided the year before; a few rogue coins echoed in the bottom. As I shook the pig, two £1 coins fell onto the bed, which I took as a sign.\n\nMy face still felt tight from the evening's tears, but then I realized that Kafka hadn’t cried, and neither should I. I pocketed the money and left the house again with a better understanding of what I was leaving this time and what I would be coming back to. Oxfam opened at 9 a.m., and I needed to know what the ‘on the shore’ bit of Kafka on the Shore really meant.\n\nSo I set off in search of more truths; the pavement around the train station was now filled with men commuting to work, men who blindly followed one path as I headed in the opposite direction." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Too-Cute Eclipse\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 1218\n\nPrompt:\n\nPeople have gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomenon, but what happens next is not what they expected." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Too-Cute Eclipse\n\nRussell paced. Held the phone close to his face. Pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes as he felt the tension rise.\n“He's a grown man. He'll be alright. I'll do what I can but it could take all night.”\n“.............”\n“I know, I know, I KNOW. I can't be there, you know.”\n“..............”\n“I have a job. I have a life. I can't drop everything.”\n“.............”\n“I'll talk to him. It's all I can do. I'm too far away.”\n“.............”\n“What's that you say?”\n“.............. ..................... ..................... .................... ....................”\n“Well, maybe... I'll see.”\n“.........”\n“Yeah, you, too. Will do.”\nUgh! That family of his! Won't they ever survive without his intervention. He lives a thousand miles away from them yet they still expect him to solve all their problems. Yet, maybe this time he could turn this catastrophe to his own advantage. If what they said is true just maybe...? Oh, but he would never get Chrissy to agree to something so outlandish. She is much too sensible. A stable sort of gal. She doesn't have her head in the clouds. She is firmly grounded. He searched for someone like her his whole adult life. Would he go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like...? Oh, but what a kick it would be if...! Should he risk it? Could turn out to be a lot of fun. Besides being beautiful and smart, Chrissy is fun loving.\nRussell Koolridge, 'Mister Cool' to his seventh and eighth-grade science and math students, felt lucky getting to know his fellow teacher, Chrissy Merriman, better since Christmas time when they collaborated to help find the parents of five-year-old Carlson Conover after his grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack while at the same restaurant as Chrissy and her nana, Anna.\nHe cherished the quality time they spent together since. He knew in his heart that if he could ever be sure of her overcoming the one time resentment she felt toward him for the immature teasing he once aimed her way she would be the one. The only one he would ever want to settle down permanently with to start that perfect family he envisioned for his future. He adored helping with Carlson when they were pressed into service as temporary caretakers. He and the little tyke flew down a steep hill on a flying saucer sled, created snow angels and redecorated a pink room into a masterpiece space odyssey. Since then, Chrissy and he enjoyed the privilege of playing with the energetic little boy several times whenever Chrissy met with Carlson's publishing icon mother, Nora Conover, as they put the finishing touches on Chrissy's debut romance manuscript.\nThat life-time goal book was due to launch soon. Ooh, could that be the hook to get her to accept this wild notion he was hatching? He enjoyed success as a YA author that she was intent on matching. A travel opportunity could be exactly the spin and she would be all in. Careful, careful planning finesse would be needed to keep everything a surprise. He did wonder if that would be wise. Maybe he should conspire with Anna. She could be their chaperon. Chrissy would never go away with him alone.\n~~~\n“Oh, Russ, what a charming idea! Getting to meet your family, who you never talk about, and combining it with a promotion for my book. But the timing is all wrong.”\n“Oh, not really, Chrissy. It would only add a day to our spring break that is a little off kilter because Easter is so early this year. And each of us can get the other same-grade teachers to cover for us since not a lot of productive work will get accomplished anyway on that particular day considering the special activity. So what do you say we get away. It'll be a once in a lifetime opportunity. Almost cosmic. You'll make me so happy if you say yes. Please! Anna can come along to be sure we behave appropriately. Besides, we'll be surrounded by family.”\n“I would love that. But will they love me?”\n“They couldn't help but love you. Please remember they can be...difficult.”\n~~~\nSo as scheduled the three of them jetted away on the two hour flight to a warmer climate on a bright sunshiny spring day. They were met at the airport by two members of Russell's family, Rocky, his father and Conway, his older brother. They drove into the rolling hills, through the piney woods, passed by beautiful calm, crystal lakes and arrived at the Koolridge family campground where they were ushered into cozy cabins that would be their accommodations for the duration of the visit.\n“Russ, you never mentioned your family owns such a relaxing retreat.” Chrissy exclaimed.\n“It's been in the family for generations. There are lots of traditions and rituals that must be observed. I have been reluctant to follow the expected path and that's why I moved so far away. I hope you won't think less of me once you experience some of these customs.”\n“Russell, it is time.” His mother, Lollie beckoned. “Your sister, Crystal, has been urging him to come out but he's insisting it will be too dangerous. It's going to take all of your scientific know-how voodoo to convince him otherwise. He is hiding in the basement of the lodge with a blanket over his head. Listening to the song...again.”\n“Sorry, Chrissy and Anna. This shouldn't take long. We'll need to get to the stadium soon. It's my younger brother, Little Rock. He is suffering a bad case of loss love. He continually listens to a song that captures the essence of love’s complexities. It reflects the universal human experience of longing, vulnerability, and the desire for emotional connection. There's a ceremony today at Arkansas Tech University involving virgins and nuptials that embodies the sentiment. We have to get him there to let him know there is hope.”\nFor whatever reason Anna had convinced Chrissy she should wear her white flouncy dress with the white sweater embroidered with spring flowers today. Chrissy was amazed at how many other women were wearing white flowing dresses at the event. But then as the light of the sun dimmed the light in her mind came on.\nRussell, in his dark suit, got down on one knee, extended an antique ring and popped a very important question. “Chrissy Merriman, you light up my world like the moon and the sun. As they become one this hour, would you do me the honor of becoming one with me in a total eclipse of our hearts? I desire a deep emotional connection with only you. I pray you have the same longing for me.”\n“Oh, Mista Cool, you really know how to make heaven and earth move for me!”\nA kind of hush embraced the crowd, the temperature cooled as passions heated, birdsong ceased and stars came out while the earth stood still for four minutes. Along with 299 other brides and grooms, including his younger brother reunited with his newly re-found love partner, Russell and Chrissy universally pledged their hearts to one another as the moon totally eclipsed the sun in Russellville, AR, USA on April 8, 2024. A day not easily forgotten because of a too-cute eclipse." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: In 1898 - Trapped in the Ship's \"Museum\"\n\nGenre: coming-of-age\n\nWord Count: 1357\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a character who gets trapped inside a museum overnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Waves splashing against the ship “Pacific Odyssey” echoed in the dark hold beneath the decks. It was anchored off the shore near the Mystic Lighthouse and the year was 1898.\n\nA musty smell wafted in the still air. Dark shapes of the captain’s collections from faraway places created a twisted labyrinth. \n\nA rustle sounded from deep in a corner. What was that? A rat?\n\nFrom the shadows one of the shapes began rising. It became taller, wider.\n\nSlowly it moved closer.\n\nWhat was that?\n\nWhere was the way out?\n\nElsie stopped breathing. Her heart seemed to pound hard and loudly. She froze as still as the shapes around her. Her eyes widened. Slowly she drew some air in when she felt like she was suffocating.\n\nHad a wild animal found it’s way into the ship’s hold? Had one of the collected objects been something alive?\n\nA low growl rumbled from her growing puppy, Teddybear, nestled at her side.\n\nElsie’s hand felt the tension rising in Teddybear’s neck. \n\nThe shape stopped at the sound of the dog growling.\n\nHow long had they been locked in here? Would someone be coming to find her and help soon?\n\nTo a twelve year old little girl the time seemed to stretch for a whole night.\n\nEarlier, she and her family were enjoying the proud captain’s tour of his personal “Museum” of objects from South American, Asia, the Pacific Islands and Alaska. \n\nShe and “Teddybear,” her pup, roamed and played on the ship while her parents and brothers were treated to the objects in the captains locked storage part of the ship. He called it “The Museum.”\n\nShe followed them into the shadows of the “Museum” to see the statues, carvings, paintings, fabrics, trunks and treasures.\n\nThe captain’s voice bellowed out, “Strange things have been happening on this voyage ever since we came up from South America. Noises, things disappearing or being moved. The sailors are saying we have a ghost.”\n\nElsie heard her parents laugh at the idea of a ghost.\n\nThe captain continued, “I’m thinking we have a stowaway on board. He could even be hiding in here.”\n\nHe swung the kerosene lantern around the cluttered hold of the ship. “With all these trunks and piles of statues I’ve been unable to find anyone,” the captain said. \n\nWhile Elsie was investigating, the group moved to the doorway with their kerosene lantern, stepped through it, and the captain locked his precious treasures securely behind the heavy door.\n\nElsie tried to reach the door to pound and yell while they were still nearby, but she tumbled into something that banged hard against her knee. When she finally got to the door the group was already climbing up onto the windy deck above. Waves and wind drowned out her calls for help.\n\nThe midafternoon sun started to drop closer to the horizon. Soon Elsie’s family would get into the surfboat and sailors would row them back to the beach below the lighthouse. They lingered on the deck for a while, swaying while the ship rocked in the day’s gentle Spring seas.\n\nDown in the hold inside the locked “Captain’s Museum” Elsie and Teddybear heard the shape moan when it banged against a statue.\n\nThe storage cloth covering the figure started waving. A head shape appeared at the top.\n\nElsie crouched in a small ball against the corner. Teddybear’s growling grew louder and rougher. For a growing puppy he was doing a good job.\n\n“What’s there?” A deep, raspy voice said. “Who’s that?”\n\nTeddybear’s growls became barks.\n\n“I’m Diego de Iquique, Chile. Who’s there?” The accent was melodious and the voice sounded friendly.\n\nElsie still cowered in her corner.\n\n“Come out, whoever you are. I mean you no harm.”\n\nA narrow ray of light was escaping into the storage hold through the door. The figure stepped toward it.\n\nA tangled cloud of white hair rose from the head and a tumbled mass of white beard flowed down the front of the figure. Elsie saw shadowy hints of large, dark eyes and a weathered, wrinkled face began to form.\n\n“Get away from me,” she said.\n\n“Whoa, whoa, little chica. I’m just a seafaring traveler, too old to be working as a sailor. I boarded this ship in Chile when she docked at Iquique. An enjoyable voyage this has been, without the back-breaking toil of a sailor and the few tasty vittles I’ve borrowed from the cook.”\n\nThen the voice began to sing an ocean ditty in a soft, whispery, raspy voice.\n\nIn ocean's morning haze,\nOur ship rests in distant bays.\n\nAt every destination,\nMy heart fills with elation.\n\nDreaming like a child,\nMy heart goes far and wild\n\nMy heart and spirit uncontrolled,\nVoyages and quests so bold. \n\nOcean winds and swelling tides,\nDancing heart that flies and glides. \n\nThe voice began humming.\n\nOutside the door Elsie heard bumps. Someone was unlocking the door.\n\n“She’s a curious girl. I wonder if she followed us into the Captain’s Museum Collection and we accidentally locked her in.” The voice of her father, Joseph, came from outside the door.\n\n“Elsie, are you in there?” Elsie’s mother, Jeannie, called.\n\n“Yes, hurry, there’s someone here.” Elsie’s voice rose to a high pitch.\n\nThe door swung open and Joseph swept Elsie into his arms. Teddybear still stood growling softly at the stranger.\n\n“What’s this, the ship’s ghost who’s been robbing the cook?” The captain’s voice hollered.\n\nIn the doorway light Elsie could see a skinny old man, wearing rags, hair and beard like tangled ocean whitecaps, skin wrinkled like a lizard.\n\nHis eyes blinked in the light. He did not look threatening but instead appeared forlorn.\n\n“Take it easy, Skipper,” he said. “I’m just an old sailor who sings of the sea, with nowhere to go, too weak and injured to work on deck, spending my last days on the sea that I love.”\n\nThe man limped painfully toward the captain. \n\n“You don’t remember me, I see that. Many were the days I lifted cargo and climbed up the riggings doing repairs for you.”\n\n“Diego, is that you, old friend?” The captains mouth dropped open, he leaned forward and looked into the man’s eyes.\n\n“I would hardly know you. Come with me, we’ll figure out what we can do.” The captain used an arm to assist Diego while they walked out of the hold and up to the deck.\n\n\"First, I'm going to get a hearty meal of our cook's seafood strew into you,\" said the captain. \"I could use another assistant navigator, no heavy work involved. You're just the man for it. You can watch for lighthouse beacons through the telescope and sing sailor's songs for the crew.\"\n\nDiego gave a big sigh. The tips of his teeth showed as a smile began to grow.\n\nElsie drew in a deep, long breath. Teddybear wiggled all over and made high pitched yips.\n\n“Come on, love,” said Jeannie to her daughter. “It’s getting late. We need to take the surfboat back to shore. Your father has lighthouse duty tonight.”\n\nJeannie gave Elsie a hug and Teddybear joined in so all three shared the moment.\n\nAfter they plunged over the ocean swells in the surfboat and landed on the beach, their neighbor took them in the horse pulled wagon up the long sloping trail. There they went to the lighthouse keepers' houses on the high bluff overlooking the sea.\n\nWhen night was falling, Elsie looked out at the anchored ship from the veranda at their Victorian house.\n\n\"Good night, Diego, and good luck,\" she thought.\n\nThe image of the caring captain taking care of his old friend made her take a long breath.\n\nTeddybear cuddled next to her and she stroked his neck.\n\n\"I'll always take care of you too, Teddybear,\" she said. His big, dark eyes took in her voice tone and body language.\n\nLifting his ears, he gazed into her eyes and wagged his tail, the dark fur of his body rippling with his happy wiggles. \n\nThe night winds of the sea blew softly, and Elsie thought she could hear a sailor's voice singing songs to the ocean he loved." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cassiopeia\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 2756\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Around the corner of a run-down building, where the red brick is grey with dust and the blinds hang to the windows by a thread, is a large new street, crisp and black, sloping down a gentle hill. Follow that big bright street, turn a few more corners, and there, tucked beside an ice cream store and a parking lot, is a market, running without fail every Saturday evening, popping up at lunch and gone by the time the sun is down. For a few hours each Saturday, it no longer smells of sticky asphalt and cigarette smoke, but popcorn jumping in large metal vats, potatoes baking slowly, puffing open with little bursts of steam when a plastic knife pokes through the thick skin. Carrot stems pour off little wooden crates piled on top of one another, bright red tomatoes packed tightly into cardboard boxes being passed off hand to hand. Roasted corn is showered in salt and shoved into the hands of waiting children, gloved hands wiping away sweaty brows before turning to yell at the booths beside, fish arranged in little icy boxes, warm foreheads pressed flush against tall stacks of coolers holding sliced hams. When I was younger, my dream was to get away. Out of the small neighbourhood where buildings crumbled in the corners and tires stuck to the ground in the summer heat. But the little market beside the ice cream store was always there in my mind, the one thing I couldn’t see gone, couldn’t imagine a Saturday sun going down without the smell of roasted nuts in the air. Truth is, I never left, never stepped past the little welcome sign at the end of town, never saw the front side of that big redheaded clown pasted on top, swinging its cardboard legs and waving goodbye to the empty fields where cars don’t drive by anymore. So I still drag myself down the block to the little market each Saturday night, plastic bags in hand, stopping always at the end of the parking lot when I’m done, a cheap popsicle in my mouth, palms turning red from the weight of the bags on either side, looking out past the lot until I can see the fields and empty roads, looking at the back of that big redheaded clown, waving goodbye with an uplifted arm. And him and I watch the sunset together, both our arms heavy and tired, sweat rolling down my forehead and splinters forming on his. Then I make my way back home, stopping for a breath ever so often, until I reach my once bright blue door, fumble with the keys in the dark, and let myself in, sighing as a wave of AC blows through my sweaty hair, the faded blue wood swinging behind me, singing in its hinges. Today I look out the window, and just around the corner that new road shimmers in the heat like a big puddle of tar, sucking up the plastic flip flops that try and walk through it, turning everything into a sticky, hot sludge. It’s already well past noon and I’ve been too scared to step foot outside the house all day, but now it’s a Saturday evening and my fridge is empty, and my stomach growls for a cheap strawberry popsicle that I know will melt all over me before I can even get a taste. So I set out, locking my blue door behind me, plastic bags melting in the crook of my elbow, stepping only in the shadows of trees and houses until my feet bring me to that little parking lot and all its smells, stuffed to the brim with voices and people even when it’s too hot to breathe. I make my rounds as usual, pushing through sweaty bodies with little wads of cash ready to hand over someone’s bent head, taking the same number of everything I’ve always taken since I got my first job years ago, counting out each cucumber and carrot, making sure enough was saved to put in the tiny drawer beside my bright blue door. Every bill and coin saved went to that drawer, and after years and years, every bill and coin in that drawer went to a shiny red pickup that I drove in once, from the dealership across the street to my home. Ever since then, it’s been rusting on a patch of grass on my front lawn, the keys shoved in the back of that drawer and never picked up since. That drawer is filled with spare change I use for Saturday night popsicles now, jangling around against the wooden walls every time I pull it open to check, never pulling too quickly so the keys don't come sliding into view. The drawer collection tradition must’ve stuck though, because everything is always the same, my fridge always piled with the same amounts, my wallet always stacked with the same number of crisp bills, rarely more, never less. Tonight took more convincing to leave than usual, and by the time the market begins to clear out, I’m still standing with a couple bills left, looking up at the sky and trying to remember what else it was I needed, mentally going through each cupboard and drawer one by one. But it’s hot out, and even if the sun is setting, my shirt is still sticking to my back, my fingers are still sticky with bright pink juice, and my eyes hurt from squinting against the sunlight all day, so I go where my feet take me, looking half-heartedly at each near-empty stall, the wooden crates bought and empty, the cardboard boxes packed up and stacked onto dusty pickup trucks parked under collapsing tents. In the back of my mind, right behind my left ear, I hear a thumping sound, like faint footsteps, jumping up and down, over and over again. I tap my skull with my palm, trying to shake out whatever effect of heat stroke it is I’m feeling, but the sound stays, getting louder when I turn around and squint into the darkening night, trying to guess what it could possibly be. Walking closer to the noise, I look around, but none of the shopkeepers seem to notice or care, rushing around as they pack up the last of their supply, trying to get out of the crushing heat at last. The sound gets louder and louder, pounding in the back of my head, sounding less like a thud and more like the desperate flapping of wings, thrashing against something. I stop in front of a booth and look down, little ice boxes lined up in front of me. The ice has mostly melted, and the contents are all but gone, except for one crate, still mostly full, where dead fish are packed in with the ice, their glassy, wet eyes looking up at the night sky. Their gummy mouths hang slightly open, fins pressed to their sides, stuck in melting ice that runs down the tilted icebox, turning to mud at my feet. The sound stops and starts again, and I rub my eyes with a clammy hand, squinting at the fish. A flurry of movement squirms in the corner of my eye, and I look down at a fish with its head buried in the ice, its tail and fins sticking out of the ice cubes, scales shining. The sound fills my head again and the fish shakes, its tail thrashing back and forth against the ice, slapping against the ice as it dances, trying to wiggle out of the ice. I step back and look around, nervous, waiting for the shopkeeper to notice, but she keeps her back turned to me, rummaging endlessly in the back of a big pickup, grumbling beneath her breath. The fish keeps wiggling, growing more and more desperate, and I wring the paper wrapper of a long-eaten roasted corn in my hands, trying to decide what to do. For a second, the fish goes silent, and my breath catches in my throat. The woman is still cursing at her pickup, stacking crates in the backseat, and the paper in my hand gets damp with sweat. My head darts from side to side, behind me, then back at the woman again, then I unfurl the crumpled wrapper and grab the fish with my hand, shoving it in the greasy newspaper and sprinting off, pressing the dead fish to my chest as I run past the end of the market, past the parking lot, finally slowing down when my lungs won't go any further, sucking in the humid air. \nI just stole a dead fish. I can’t believe I just stole a dead fish. \nI look down at the damp packet still pressed closely to me, and drop it on the ground, stepping away to sniff my shirt, now stained with grease and the smell of warm, dead, fish. The bag doesn’t move, doesn’t thrash around or hop away, and I grab a twig beside me, crouching down, poking away the paper folds with the thin stick, peering at what’s inside. The fish is still dead, the paper falling away to reveal a big wet eyeball, gazing up to the stars with an empty, black pupil. Its gummy mouth is part way opened and its fins are pressed to its sides like every other dead fish on ice. Its body does not move, its tail does not shake, and I toss the stick away, sinking to the dirt ground, resting my head on my elbows so I can keep my hands away from me, the smell of fish wafting heavily off them. The thought of taking it home to eat drifts briefly through my mind, but the image of that fish sitting in that slushy, lukewarm ice bath all day in the scorching heat, warming slowly, the innards of its dead fish friends soaking in the melted ice around it makes me mildly sick. Scrunching my eyes shut, I sigh, looking up with closed eyes, pressing my hands to my face before quickly smelling the strong fish scent and peeling them rapidly off my face, tucking my hands under my legs to prevent further contact. I look past my shoulder at that big redheaded clown, thinking of my friends that drove away one by one in sleek new cars, not even turning around to see the clown’s smiling face as he waved them all away. I was the first one that said I wanted to leave, pointed at the big smiling clown and told my kindergarten teachers I would send them postcards of his face so they could see what he looked like from the front. I made little drawings that my parents pinned on the fridge and tucked in windowsills, explaining each time with a passionate gesture towards those lonely fields and the clown that endlessly waved them goodbye. In the end those kindergarten teachers drove away too, and I was the only one left. Left to walk down sticky streets in shoes with the soles half-burnt off, left to steal dead fish from melted ice boxes and eat popsicles with cardboard cutouts of clowns. Looking up at the many stars, my face flushes with embarrassment, and I groan, almost flinging my hands to cover my face again, hiding from the soft dots that blink in the distance. \nCassiopeia. The beautiful one who scorned the sea. \nChained to her throne of vanity, a divine punishment eternal. \nThe fish’s large black eyeball slopes towards me, its mouth closing slowly. \nDo not taunt the strength of the waters. \nWe are as many as the stars.\nIts eyeball rolls slowly back to its place, the now visible stars reflected in its big glass eye. I clasp both hands to my mouth, rushing over to stare at the fish lying in the greasy paper packet. \n“Say that again.”\nCassiopeia. \nI jump back, the breath rushing out of me in a short gasp. The fish’s eye follows me, its mouth closed. ‘Why do you know that’ the words come out from a shaky mouth, my fingers dragging down my cheeks, biting my nails as I bend over, looking at the dead thing in the grass. \nThe moon guides the waves.\nThe stars guide the ocean’s children. \nWe are one and the same. \n“You’re dead. You were dead all day. Dead in the morning and dead when I saw you. You’re a dead fish in an icebox, and I’m talking to you.”\nThe stars in the sky died thousands of years ago.\nBut they still burn brightly in the dark. \nFragments of the past. \nI want to turn or run away, but now if I turn around and run to the fields, I’m scared that the red headed clown will jump off its sign and start reciting Baudelaire. The fish keeps its eye intently fixed on the stars, its mouth moving ever so slightly, and my eyes narrow, looking upwards with it, tracing the few constellations scattered amongst the clouds. Then its eye slides downwards and its whole-body twitches, jumping towards the fields. \nEast. The stars point to the seas. \nIt tries to hop a bit, helplessly flopping in the grass. I watch the fish jump for a bit, its eye trained towards the horizon, thrashing against the dirt and grass. \n“There’s no sea there. It’s just fields. Look.”\nFeeling sorry for the thing, I pick it up, beyond caring about the smell on my hands that will by now never wash out. Its body is strangely cold in my hands, despite it having been on display all day in the sweltering heat, and its scales feel slick with saltwater. The fish says nothing, its eye taking in the endless rows of corn and wheat that wave gently with the night breeze. I can almost see it squinting the way a person would, trying to gaze past what is possible to see with the eye, hoping for more. The fish grows heavy in my hands, so I set it down, hunching down beside it, waiting for that deep, melancholic voice that fills the emptiness around us. \n“Hey. Sorry. Maybe there is something. I’ve never been that far. I just guessed. I don’t really know where the sea is. The stars don’t talk to me like that.”\nThe stars speak to all those who listen. \nThe sea opens its embrace for all those who take the plunge. \nThe fish trails off, its voice growing weary. It looks at me with that large eye, and I wince a little, looking away. \nThey are calling. \nIts eye blinks, closing shut, and it begins to flop away, inching towards the endless fields bit by bit. By now, its scales are dulled with dirt, and its fin must have torn at some point, but it inches forward, its body slapping against the hard ground with every push forward. \n“You won’t make it. You’re a fish I stole from an icebox. I don’t think you’ve ever even seen the sea, beyond those painted aquarium walls they plaster in bright blue to make you feel a little more at home.”\nThe fish doesn’t speak. It trudges forward endlessly, flopping back and forth in the night, covered in mud and grass, its eye fixed towards the stars. A lump in my throat, I sit on the cold ground beside my muddy shopping bags, and watch it jump forwards, the sky darkening all the while. \nBy morning, the fish was dead, its eye pecked out by a crow and carried away in the night. I woke up, my cheek stuck to the plastic bag, hair covered in dust, and walked over to the little fish, its empty socket staring up at the sky. I buried it in the field beside the clown as the sun rose, the stars still faintly visible through the orange clouds. Trudging home on that bright, new, black road, I scrounged around for the keys to my once bright blue door one last time, my shopping bags abandoned to the fields of corn. On the patch of grass on my lawn, a dusty red pickup rumbles to life, and through the window I see a single row of stars still visible in the bright daylight, a crooked W in the sky. The stars bow their heads towards the fields, where the red headed clown waits for me, his ruddy cheeks and red nose smiling as he waves me away, a crow perched on his cardboard shoulder." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: She Didn't Have The Right Words\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 1811\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They were in his favorite restaurant, downtown, in Tribeca.\n“Let’s do the eclipse”, he said.\nHe seemed very busy, so it came as a surprise to her.\n“Are you sure?” she said, “it’s such a long trip, to Maine”.\n“I can carve out time, but I might need to make a few phone calls on the road,” he said.\nShe didn’t mind. His work was important. She would find a place for them to stay.\n“Are you staying at my apartment tonight?” he said to her, as he handed the waiter his credit card. \n+++\nCouples, families, small groups traipsed from cars and pickups to the thawing sod field on the hill, where they clustered in islands defined by bags, blankets, chairs, and thickets of camera-tripods. In the distance, beyond the pitch and yaw of wintry Maine wilderness, beneath a brilliant blue sky, Mount Katahdin gleamed blue-platinum and ice-white, a giant origami construction.\nThe young couple from New York City occupied a second-floor bedroom in the small hotel that backed onto the hill-crest field. It was a cheap, bare-bones place, with neither spa nor gym, but it was only two nights, so they could tough it out. They might even checkout early, stay overnight in Boston and get a decent meal, or do the pit-stop marathon down the Interstate, full throttle in the BMW.\nThe man, thick black hair, good-looking, was hunched over a laptop. The woman, pretty and petite, stood at the window. Outside, a boy tossed a football, two girls hurried into a wood-thicket, a small white dog barked at a Black woman in a silver jacket. She wanted to be part of the restless crowd on the snow-flecked field.\n“Perhaps we should go down now?” she said.\n“I’m still on this damn conference call”, said the man, removing an earbud. He rolled his eyes, “the internet up here is so slow!”\nThe woman looked up at the blue dome of sky, and side-eyed the golden sun. Why was the moon not visible? Surely it was very close now. She put on her eclipse shades for the first time. The sun appeared as a small yellow dot against a black background.\n“I cannot see the moon at all,” she said.\n“This whole thing…”, he said, but he was interrupted by someone or something on the conference call. He put the earbud back in his ear.\nWhy could she not see the moon? Her left hand was the sun, her right hand, fisted, was the earth, between them hung an imaginary moon. She rotated her right hand, twisting it toward her chest. She felt very close to comprehension. She was surfing on this small orb.\nHe resurfaced from the conference call. “Why don’t you go on down? I will join you when this blasted call is over. It should end soon. It’s getting late in Singapore,” he said.\nShe left the room, went down through the deserted hotel, out the back door and joined the buzzing assembly of sky-watchers. Men fiddled with tripods, adjusted cameras, nudged lenses directly at the sun. The internet would be flooded with identical images of the eclipse.\nA large truck roared up the hill, threading the narrow gap between vehicles parked on both sides of the country road. Perhaps its operator was the designated driver, tasked with an urgent delivery? Would he pull over soon, or just keep on going, cursing at three-minutes of gloom?\nPerhaps there should be designated photographers, she wondered.\nA cheer over to the left; a purple-haired woman was staring at the sun. “The moon has taken a nip at the bottom right corner. We’re missing a piece of the sun!” Laughter.\nThe young woman pressed the cardboard spectacles onto the bridge of her nose and confirmed the missing sliver. The sun, the orb, had a corner. More cheers, a group of college-age kids. She looked back at the second-floor window. How would he find her in the crowd?\n“Exciting, isn’t it?” said an elderly woman with hair that was drawn back tightly into a braid. Her unprotected eyes were screwed up, her tan face was creased. Where had she come from?\n“Yes, but I’m not sure why,” said the young woman, but the braid-haired woman turned in the other direction; she was talking to an elderly mustachioed man wearing a U.S. Navy Veteran’s cap. He was squinting at the sun, also without shades, also tan. The young woman wanted to ask them where they came from, whether they were Trump supporters.\nThe light was changing, warmth was draining away. She searched for words. Pallid? Leaching? Watery? She texted her partner. “Started. I am near woman in silver jacket”. The Black woman in the silver jacket who laughed away the dog incident.\nShe took photos of the wilderness, of the crowd, of Katahdin, with her iPhone. Flat, uninteresting, all-subject; nothing held the eye.\nShe donned the star-spangled eclipse shades. A total eclipse, an American eclipse, goddammit! Arizona, Illinois… Ohio? The moon, the sun, which? The fly-over states, moving at the speed of… she was lost. The speed of sound? The speed of light? A shadow going coast-to-coast, sea-to-shining sea at the speed of an American bullet.\nWhere was he? Not at the window? She pivoted to the south-west, then toward the paper shoulder of Katahdin. A narrowing strip of daylight spread around the horizon, a frame around the darkening dome, accentuating the overhead vastness. He, her boyfriend, he should be here. He would make sense of this, she thought, the fist, the rotating orb.\nThe light was seeping away. Leeching? Leaching?\nA third of the moon was gone, gobbled by a mythological dragon, or – more likely - a frog, or a squirrel. It had to be a small creature because the sun was so small, a yellow dot. How could they see it all happen, back in the day? Were they shocked? Did whole villages go blind? She removed the shades and squinted at the sun as if she were a primitive… tribal... a native… no, not a native... a woman? Always a woman, not once a warrior, or at least a man.\nTwo hawks flew up from the woodland, circled briefly against the now-indigo sky, then glided over the farmland to the North and out of sight. A cock crowed. There were dogs in the crowd, doing normal dog things.\nElectronic buzz, where? A drone swept over the crowd. More buzzing. A second, a third drone. Red and green lights flashing. They hovered, fixed overhead, threatening to plummet, to cut and slice. Unwanted.\n“It’s Mom. She’s texting. It’s finishing in Buffalo,” said someone.\nThe young woman stared in the direction of Katahdin, at the stretch of wilderness. Her mother was dead, died without seeing a total eclipse. Linda Bean too, the wealthiest woman in Maine, died last week; she missed the eclipse.\nThat word again: leached? Watery? Dilute? What exactly was happening to the light? The sun was on a dimmer-switch. Was this it, already? Her shadow sharpened against the panchromatic ground. The sun was a curved shard. Any moment now. He was going to miss it. Talking to Singapore. Singapore, in the middle of their night?\nOohs and Aahs, from the college students; a girl’s outstretched hand refracted light prismatically onto the side of a cooler.\nThe cock crowed again.\nA dull shadow dropped on Katahdin and onto the wilderness, then raced towards them, up the hill.\nAnd then it happened. The sun was eclipsed by the moon.\nStars! Stars in the dark dome, near and around a gold-fringed hockey puck. Cheers and catcalls. A spectral dawn hung around the rim of the world, beyond the umbral shadow. Two fists, an imaginary moon; things pivoting, circling, elliptical and… and… and… oh, the stars! The crowd hushed, the wind blew chill from the universe, from space. The stars! Icy peaks of Katahdin, glinting. Silhouettes of the awestruck in the golden ribbon of light between heaven and earth.\nAlone, so alone. From nothing, to nothing, am nothing. Nothing. Nothing.\nAnd then it was day again and the young woman, the throng, her people, woke from the dream. The crowd stirred, sunlight spilled around the side of the disk, Katahdin sparked, the stars faded.\nApplause? They cheered at the celestial performance. Applause, but for whom? For the diminished sun or the fearless moon? Not for the earth, a mindful observer.\nThe young woman clapped at the moon, she clapped for the moon. She clapped for this unutterably strange interruption. She clapped at the moon’s audacity. She felt sorry for sun, revealed by its eclipse to be smaller and less.\nIt was still cold, and the light was thin, pallid, watery, leached? Spectral crabs played in the shadows on the ground. A new noise aggregated from the crowd; it was the sound of people concluding, packing, of the mundane. It was an ordinary day again.\n“I’m sorry I took so long”, he said, ambling up to her with a grin on his face, “this is amazing!” He spread his hands out. Goofy jazz hands, out of character. He was performing, a distraction or an apology.\nIt was less amazing than it had been.\nShe agreed that it was amazing. He hugged her, pulled her into his chest, a long embrace, a memorialization. He whispered that she looked lovely but said nothing of the stars. She could smell nicotine on his jacket, and on his breath.\n“How much did you miss?”, she said.\n“I saw it from up in the room!”, he said, “it was eerie, right? Mind-blowing.”\nHe saw a dusk and a dawn.\nPeople drifted toward the road. The Black woman in the silver jacket trod unsteadily across the clumpy pasture. She looked out of place in the field, eclipse-watching, in rural Maine; a thought that arrived unbidden, and the young woman wanted to apologize for it.\n“I think we should leave, soon. Never mind the traffic”, she said.\nThe young man released her from his embrace.\n“I felt like I was watching a Spielberg movie,\" he said, \"What was it like for you?”\nIt was like nothing else for her. Katahdin was crumpled paper. The light was watery, leached? A squirrel ate the moon. She surfed an orb. A shadow crossed the land. Spectral crabs too. Never a warrior. A diamond in the corner. The sun was a cuckold. The moon was fearless. She was alone. The stars! He was a fool. The stars! She didn’t have the right words.\nHe filled the silence, “well, I hope you enjoyed it”, he said, generous, earnest, indulgent.\nShe felt like the small yellow sun, diminished to a dot. One hand, the sun, the other, fisted and rotating, the earth, and between, an imaginary moon. The eclipse was just a story to tell at a dinner party.\n“I took some photos,\" she said." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: How We Forgive is Different for Everybody\n\nGenre: contemporary\n\nWord Count: 1223\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Out on 9, as the locals call it, the highway runs parallel to a flat plain that runs the stretch of road over ten miles. Lines of wire fences, not noticeable from the roadway unless you’re looking for them, block off the plots of land every few hundred yards. Every so often a row of power lines cut gently through the fields. The farm-kept bison and horses catch any traveling eye. Cows, destined for slaughter and dairy production, dot several farms with modest houses on them. There are small ponds and marshes off the side of the road from the melting snow. Ravens and magpies quarrell through the air. Elk and pronghorn bask in the sun, some lying down while others slowly, cautiously grab nibs of grass. On the west side of the plain, nearly a mile wide across, is a small ridge line with different firs and pines leading up the spine, the first break of the flat plain in any direction. Beyond that, enormous snow-capped mountains like a panoramic photograph. The sky above, blue in the way only a clear mountain sky is, stretches like a sheet further than the human eye can see. It dissipates into the horizon the same way the mountain range does. One does not overtake the other, rather, they travel together, softly until neither can disconcerted from the other. Small puffs of white clouds hang lightly in the air.\nJake, smoking a cigarette, sits outside of his car, naturally a Subaru, as he leans back onto the hood of his car, his legs crossed at the ankles. It isn’t cold, but it isn’t a hot day. He’s in a loose t-shirt and jeans. Emily, inside the car still, grabs the two pairs of eclipse glasses they picked up at the local library from her purse. \n“I got our glasses,” she says. \n“Thanks.”\nStill smoking, he puts the glasses on, the cigarette pursed between his lips. He looks directly at the sun, a small dot with the edge of the moon just starting to block it. He pulls a drag, still staring at the sun, says, “This it?”\n“Not entirely.”\n“Okay.”\nEmily grabs her glasses, and before putting them on, looks out at the mountains. She starts to think about everything that she could have been that she isn’t. She stares a little harder, as if she were looking for herself in those peaks. She looks at Jake, still with his glasses on looking up toward the sun. She waits for him to look at her. When he doesn’t, she puts her glasses on and looks up at the sun. \nNot in totality, yet still enough to cast shadows a little longer, to make the fields glow in a warm hue of gold and orange, and a sense that the world is in a time that doesn’t exist. The entire event lasts only minutes, but in those brief moments, with the wind blowing a chill of unease, Emily begins to cry. She takes her glasses off, walks back to the car, and gets in. Her tears start slight, then increase to a heavy sob. Her elbows on her knees and her wet face in her hands, she can’t seem to control herself. Jake continues to look out, his glasses still on, at nothing in particular, a cigarette resting between his fingers. \nA red-tail hawk glides through the air over the plains. It doesn’t seem as if it’s going anywhere in particular. Taking a break from her sobs, Emily looks up and sees the hawk gliding into the distance, smaller, smaller, and smaller. With each inch she tells herself that she will stop crying when it is completely gone. She has to give herself these types of limitations. It is gone moments later, disappearing the way an airplane disappears across the sky. She places one hand on the window, as if to say goodbye to the bird. She looks at Jake through the windshield, still leaning against the hood of his car, both hands now rested back onto the hood holding him up, the cigarette nearly entirely gone resting in the web of his index and middle fingers. He has taken his glasses and is holding them in the other hand. He’s looking up, not at the sun, but up at the enormousness of the sky with a contemplative look in the wrinkle of his forehead and brow.\nThe air outside of the car is cool, brisk as the first day of spring. Her long hair gets tossed across her face and shoulders and she doesn’t try to control it. She doesn’t look at the mountains or the plains or the endless sky, too afraid to embrace her own soul. Without noticing, small tears begin to trickle slowly down her reddened cheeks, hang on her chin for a brief moment, then fall to the dirt. She stands in front of Jake, his hazel eyes looking at the mountains in the distance. His blonde hair is blowing in the wind, standing up in the back like he just woke up from a deep sleep.\n“Do you ever feel like we aren’t enough for the world?” she asks.\n“Sometimes.”\nShe places one hand on his face, cupping it softly in her palm. He takes a drag of his cigarette, flicks it into the dirt, and exhales a big cloud of smoke. She rubs his cheek with her thumb in slow circles. \n“Do you think you can ever forgive me?” she asks.\nHe doesn’t answer right away. He looks over the plains, a single elk stalking slowly over the crest of a hill. \n“I think so.”\nShe nods, pulls her hand away, and walks over to the cigarette butt that Jake tossed and picks it up. She snubs it into the dirt and brings it back to the car. She gets in the passenger seat, puts the orange cigarette butt in an empty cup holder, and buckles her seat belt, Jake still leaning on the hood of the car. A few cars drive by at high speeds down 9, slightly blowing the car side to side. She doesn’t resist, only moves with the car, as if she were a blade of grass blowing in the heavy winds outside. She looks for the hawk from earlier, and when she doesn’t see it, decides not to cry any longer.\nThe door creaks open, and heavily Jake sits in the driver’s seat. Neither of them say anything. He starts the engine and pulls onto the highway, the slow hum of the static radio station in the background like an afterthought. Jake rolls down his window, a heavy breeze throwing itself through the car. One hand on the steering wheel, one arm out the window, the wind cutting through the webs of his fingers as he moves his hand up and down like a wave, he feels a hand rest on his thigh. It startles him, but not enough that Emily notices, and he doesn’t remove her hand.\n“The next one isn’t for twenty years,” she says. Jake doesn’t answer, but nods. “We’ll have to go somewhere to see the whole thing next time.”\n“Yeah.”\nAnd in a way, that was all she needed to know. Life was about to change. She reached over, turned off the radio, and watched as the world drove by." } ]