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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: The Humming Cicada\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2020\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone saying “I can’t sleep.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“I can’t sleep.”\n\nThe man tossed around under the sheets, tried every segment of his pillow, and contorted his body to several adventurous yoga shapes in an effort to quell the restlessness.\n\nFinally, he called it. Looking at his watch to determine the precise time of death, it read: 1:42 AM. The fight was over, so like other nights, he retreated onto his back with his hands folded over his chest, looking at the ceiling blankly. \n\nNow in his 5th year of living alone, he had taken to the habit of occasionally talking to himself. If a thought vibrated long enough in the forefront of his mind, he released it as a monotone whisper. He couldn’t sleep, this was apparent by now.\n\n“What’s the matter now?” He went on interrogating himself.\n\nHe hated how his apartment bedroom looked. Empty and bare, save the few novels that were scattered around carelessly, earmarked archaically. Someone had suggested it might help with his organization if he removed distractions and unnecessary furniture from the bedroom, which explained the nomadic themed decoration choice. For every item that was removed, four or so books had replaced it. As for the effectiveness of the self-help remedy, he had yet to see any promising results. \n\nLeft awake, he couldn’t resist delving into the selfish folds of his own ambitions. Some dreamers found themselves induced through heavy sleep, while the man on the bed found his dreams were the very cause of his sleepless nights. His destiny simply HAD to be dissected and reassembled during these witching hours. Left exhausted from the day, the only place he had time to reformulate and reflect was here. It’s a big world, where would he leave his mark?\n\n A preference for tales from the past left him hopelessly crestfallen when considering options for his own future. Pirates were dead and hung and the cowboy’s torch had long faded into the fluorescence of comforts and sophistication. He knew that everything new and on the brink of exciting discovery was to be unraveled in tiny 1’s and 0’s, an online frontier. Maybe someone would find a way to crunch more data into a smaller space, develop a convincingly subtle AI sex-chat service, or toil away long enough behind a screen to develop an app that could captivate the youth for longer than 5 minutes at a dinner table. \n\nAchievements of this kind felt cheap, shallow, and were of no interest to him. No, this wasn’t the field where he’d make big waves, it had to be physical. A creation he could touch, something to see grow within an impressive stack of satin blueprints and crude prototypes. \n\nThis idealization of the tangible creation could be attributed to the reading material he had amassed within the last 3 or so uninspiring years of early adulthood. As chivalry novels had bewitched the immortal Don Quixote, 19th century novels, centered around men of great ingenuity, had supplied the thread to the restless man’s incessant nocturnal daydreams.\n\nMorning commutes and lunch breaks spent reading stories like Robinson Crusoe, Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Frankenstein, and David Copperfield had fed his determined fascination with the old breed of clever, determined men. His idols were rebels, natural geniuses, and captains. Learned men taking hold of their destinies in both hands and sailing in protest to the storms of hardships they faced, bearing nothing but their wit and an iron-crafted will. A will proven so potent, that it bordered on obsession. In short, he longed for an old-fashioned sort of industry. Entrepreneurship, manufacturing, international trade, handshakes, the invention of something… real. Something beneficial. He wanted to join the ranks of the great, to ascend to a higher calling.\n\nTry as he may however, he could never realize any of these visions of greatness past their initial planning phases. The halls of his memory were lined with previous determinations, aborted machinations, each one serving as a constant forewarning, that any future undertakings might soon take their place here too; framed and hung up like dried out fossils. An overambitious and unfinished senior year science fair project, left buried in the closet, an array of papers, half-assembled for the purpose of forming a startup company, one that never got past the DBA name filing application, and a piano lesson coupon which was never cashed in, instead left crumpled and abandoned in a kitchen drawer full of nondescript items. These were among his menagerie of ugly mementos.\n\nHe avoided reminders of his snubbed endeavors as the owner of a haunted house might avoid spirits hiding behind doors or around hallways. Regardless, his own ghosts always inevitably returned to him at night in the form of mental pangs. In short, he was painfully conscious of his inability to follow things through. Everyone has a monkey on their back, and this was his. \n\nNobody feels their shortcomings more than an average person who had been told their whole life that they would be great one day. The western world sells the idea of “special” to adults through tv and media, who turn around and pawn it off to their own kids by the spoonful at bed time, so who’s to blame when everyone grows up thinking themselves to be the next Warren Buffet, or Jimmy Buffet? He too was a victim of this sort of hopeful rearing. At least, he wagered, not many people by his age had broken from the spell as thoroughly as he had. There’s a fine silvery line that runs between cynicism and pragmatism, and he walked carefully along it when weighing his own strengths. He knew that greatness came with a price, paid in a currency most aren’t willing to part with, and that hard work and determination prevails over frivolous dreams. \n\nSometime this last year, he had reached a conclusion that he suffered from fits of ambition exclusively late at night. Consequently, this meant that by the next morning, he would regress into former habits of laziness, forgetting the previous determinations and kick into autopilot mode. For every step made by night towards achieving any progress, two steps were taken in the opposite direction during the hours of his day; spread somewhere between work, fast food, the bus ride home, and the walk up his apartment stairs. He was sure that this hidden struggle within himself was coming to some sort of cataclysmic boiling point, but in what state it would render him, he was less confident of.\n\nWhat’s more, he acknowledged only two possible lifestyles to be led. To clarify, this meant that one was to either adopt a doctrine of full commitment to dogmatic excellence or none at all. Caught between two extremes, with the meat and potatoes of moderation disregarded completely, meant that according to his restrictive standards, he would either end up a shining success, or a dismal loser. Unrealistic goals were set in place by night, but the follow-through never came in the day. By the very next night, he had already felt the loss of his failure to meet a standard. His cycle was self-completing, and left him in a perpetual no-win situation. How and when he’d emerge from it, awakened as a brilliant new man, was unknown.\n\nFrom after work until midnight, he would write down a list of itemized changes he meant to make the following day. Things would be different, he would be different, reborn as a new man. Bad habits would be crushed pitifully, left behind in his changing wake, and replaced gracefully with virtuous ones, such as newly adopted daily exercises or language study sessions. Admirable behaviors would adhere themselves to his character, dethroning the old threadbare personality, which he knew was timid and mildly disagreeable at best. His focus would be sharpened to that of a monk’s, and people would see him as a force of will to be reckoned with. \n\nHe couldn’t sleep after these resolutions were determined, and would go on picturing changes to be made to his newly proposed policies, which is exactly what he was doing at this very hour in the night. Had he overlooked something, a minute detail? Was this new and improved self really attainable, or did he have to start with a more realistic set of tenets? How many times had he already attempted a metamorphosis of this kind without a fruitful result? No, this time would be the one, he was positive of his power to overcome his unconscious failures this time. No more soda, no more slacking off. \n\nStill, round and round, these thoughts churned above his bed while he stared fixedly at the roof. He scratched a new amendment into his notebook on the nightstand every so often when they came to him. \n\nLike most chronic overthinkers, he had developed some methods for calming his mind when it was like this. Tonight was no different from the countless other nights, so he got up and pulled the blankets off his bed. The treatment was simple. He put some perfectly dry blankets in the dryer, then wrapped himself in them, laying heated and warm on the ground of the apartment like a bundled cocoon. He’d pretend it was Christmas, and that he was a kid again, tucked in under the tree. For around 10 minutes, he experienced a gentle numbness; fallen into a child’s bliss. Thoughts of destiny abated, as the feeling of adulthood drifted away, taking with it the weight and burden of responsibility. Children don’t know how good they have it until they’re older. The radiator on the wall clicked on, as a noisy car’s subwoofer passed by outside. \n\nSuddenly, he’s sucked right back onto the beige-carpeted floor, and the blankets are cold again. In those few minutes of illusion however, the dread of indecision slipped away, retiring to the back porch of his mind to have a quick smoke. But it was only a fraction of the feeling.\n\nThis repeating mirage was always accompanied by a warm familiar sound. Something old, and forgotten. A quiet popping, more of a fuzzy static, pulsing sensation. Like amplified underwater silence. He did tell a doctor once, and upon listening to the description, she suggested it may be the remembered sound of a parent’s heartbeat as he slept on their chest, or maybe blood flow in the inner ear. Could be, or it might be a childhood blanket, the ancient memory of its fabric rubbing against his ear. He was convinced for a while that it was the white noise of all the appliances in his early home blurred into a single homogeneous spectrum, or maybe just the sound of the ocean. A poetic friend once joked that it was the machinery of his brain in motion, his own internal resonant hum. \n\nWhatever it was, he could never form a distinct identity of it, as the edges never quite sharpened clearly enough to do so. The closest he got was “loud silence”. It’s hard to focus on something like that without losing it entirely, a reverse pink elephant of sorts.\n\nNonetheless, Dread finishes his cigarette, crushes it beneath a squeaky boot step, and struts back into the room, accompanied by the cold draft and clicking of the radiator. Suddenly, the dazzling strings of red and green lights, a plastic tree missing its top segment, the matching ruby-red gift wrapping, a tired, coffee-breathed mother mummified in a robe, the sloppy painted edges of the cream fireplace, all vanish away; like pulling the blinds open on captured vampires. The sound leaves just as suddenly too. \n\nThe half-read books and trash full of takeout boxes settle back into their respective place in the room. He reached over and scribbled down a rule about getting more sleep in the future, then checked his watch.\n\n“4 hours and 24 minutes until my shift. I can't sleep.” \n\nHe reluctantly got up to stuff some more blankets into the dryer. This procedure repeats itself multiple times on bad nights, and the suspicious lady across the hall watches him through her peephole during his many trips to the laundry room. She thinks he’s stealing socks. Sometimes she’s right." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Eve of september 22nd\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1014\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone discovering a photograph that has something written on the back." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The dinner was scheduled for 6:30 Amy had arrived on time. She thought it wrong to eat before her mysterious date appeared so she wiated. She scans the place impressed by the chandelier design . She hadn't known her suspect to be a romantic or classy, because this was the most fancy restaurant she'd ever been. Her waitress walked by with a smile like she was in on the conspiracy but part of her job for the night was to preserve the mystery and deliver a note that was bound by a thin red ribbon with a heart shaped knot in the middle. Amy pulls the ribbon it unfurled slowly and opens a paper, her heart drumming in suspense but there's no writings only the picture of a Bluish sky scraper, without counting she knows it's a fourteen storey building, she knows because she lived there. She turns the photo over in the middle of a swig and through the glass she sees an all caps triple K's. Immediately she forgets how to swallow, the wine rushes into different canals some strolling down her nostrils while a burn circles her head and tears barricade her eyes. She drops the glass and the sound buys the attention of the entire diner, she stares back at the paper but can't see anything now. This is not something one fears in 2020 but the images of her uncle's lifeless stares when she was a kid told her about the worst case scenarios. She never told this to anyone before but it was fear of devils that made her stay on the highest floor, so in event of emergencies she was as close to God and his Angel's as possible so her screams could reach them on time.\n She had known panic before but she never knew he could be this aggressive. She stirs and scans for any threat but she doesn't know how to identify devils hidden behind white smiles. The waiters tries to help her scrub the stain off her dress but she recoils she grabs her purse and makes for the door leaving a few concerned people at her table. shock clearly visible on her face, even over the layers of make up she poured over her face.\n Trying to dail her friend Danny her fingers are a little confused so it takes her longer than usualg, the call goes straight to voicemail and she hangs up and tries again but the response is unchanged . She wished she had Gods phone number because her situation didn't have the time to go through the long queue of people asking for petty things. She's in the street now legs halfway between a sprint and walking. Her shadow does a lazy job at mimicking her legs; it's just a blur. She reaches her left hand into her purse confirming the presence of the tiny knife girls have as an escort for when the Sun's shift ends, her fingers curl around its grip while her index slides off it's sheath.\nShe stands at the curb and flags down a cab with her right hand while her left hand was held strong on her safety precautions. She only prayed her self defence lessons can work a miracle now.\n A yellow taxi stops at her gesture and the back door pops open to reveal a friendly smile from the driver's seat, the young man asks her destination she attempts a reply only to notice that terror had removed volume from her voice it takes her some time to find the unmute button then she called. \"alex street please \".\n the engine growls and the tyres chase after the destination. She's still turning around throwing stares in all directions in search of this invisible predators whose existence or purpose seems to escape her\nThe driver sees distress in her face through the rearview mirror but her eyes are focused on nothing in particular outside the window. The sounds of the outside world fade and so does her trembling, she makes the sign of the cross and guilt spills over her mind for she had not been in church for some months. A few minutes later the car pulls to a stop, she was collected now. The cold tarred road welcomes her toes because her shoes are in her hands she pressed some squeezed notes into his palm and waves him to keep the change.\nShe had gotten the fear out of her walk but a large part of it still formed a lump in her throat so instead of responding verbally to the kids in front of the building she summons a smile that died only seconds after but it's just enough to get her to the door. With quick steps she disappears into the elevator and after a while it spits her up at the top floor. She walks to her door, she fumbled in her purse for her keys they jingle as she finds the right one, she inserts it and twists open and it's dark, she steps in and let's the breath she'd been holding fall into the darkness then she heard footsteps approach from behind her she turns and sees a silhouette with a barrel in it's right hand she tries to scream but there's no sound, her eyes becomes the source of two narrow saltwater creeks racing down her cheek . She hears a pop sound and opens her eyes to find it dark, it was a rollercoaster of nightmares :now she felt hot like she was in hell but. The sound of her name tears her from her delusions, it in Davids voice the lover boy had just opened a bottle of champagne for her, afterall it was her birthday. she's shocked she tries to find words\nShe mutters \"but the note...at the diner\"\nHe respond \"K B K, kick back kwei\"\nShe remembers he liked calling her by her last name. So it had been your bad writing all along. Shed been right all along david was not destined to be a romantic ...." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dirty plunder\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1760\n\nPrompt:\n\nAn apparent coincidence occurs. Write a story about a character who suspects paranormal, spiritual, or criminal causes." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "By Dumisani khumalo\nThe rain pitter-patter panning out asphalt bare long trenches ,drenched wet , and dug out craters in the road .The rubber tyres floated up and,down and sideways ,the power of air in them pulling heavy weights of cars ,like demons come up in them ,and brought them out of the road,sending them up high and afloat ,up and down and sideways, with the full water lifting up the air,and pulling them out of the road .\nThe drownings in river s brought victims out naked , water half way to the torso of man as to the diameter of the radial tyres ,increasing the size and width of potholes , muddy water splashing out of them in it's natural strength.\nThe potholes were like pot pans made of silver ,mud out of them splashed in ,a red and rusty mud pool of clay clamming ,impassible ,opening up here and there and everywhere, like sores of the napalm bomb ,that pulled and stretched the skin of the faces of refugees during the war of liberation, and at the roadside , stretched the cost on travellers in their search for food ,the ruthles truthless happening , wondering and laughing at themselves.\nHe looked left and some looked right,on the side ,as the black ,dark bituminous emulsions lost contact and adhesion with the grinding diety of corruption that was following the tracks,.The dry dust bowl on a windy day taking its sediments out of the road.\nStrips of dust dunes , craddling stones ,burst tyres and blasting tones raised heads ,raised confusion from motorists ,travellers bobbing heads ,and stuck to the road side for hours on end ,and on busy days ,for days on end ,before luggage and baggage would be carried to their destination,.\nThe market on the tarmac got a mind of its own ,and made many of them friends ,deals struck, for a dime or a dollar ,in the local dead currency ,or the green back ,as the broken up and cracking boulders made favour turn heads ,a rushing out of the .rubble creating more troubles with the law when soil was sold as land to construction companies.\nThey carried sand with handy men in providence ,, placed it inside the holes , pebbles at the edge of the road too ,as gabbage , the turning of wheels , ,racing on the muddy puddle , messing the side of cars ,their wheels,and on a very dry day ,dust came as high as the wind could carry it ,into the coughing covered faces , in the car that could barely see where they were going. opening up to the vagaries of corona , sounding scary with the continuous coughs ,as one with a chock,TB, slurry pneumonia ,made , the stats real of where people were going to town for\n,if not for their needs .\nThe scattering of stones to the windshield , breaking them for repair was a cost.\n Luis felt the pain in his heart. The innocent do when answers are not coming.\nSome of the cars turned around when on traffic accidents started happening , some cars stopped right in the middle of the road when a pile up ensued , stopping more cars ,slow at a snail's pace drives .demanding cash and wanting many more favors paid for the ride.\nTo get to town took two hours .One and half more than sitting in the dark abyss of the early birds cry taking pursuit of work a day earlier,and staying out on the town until Friday evenings .Some drivers devised a way of making people sleep over in their cars ,to the office ,to the market ,where poor government was discussed in mid sleep,,at emptying pockets that Luis had.\nWhere was the money going .What stopped the works on the road.\n Answers were a new ministry ,new contract ,open tenders ,to small minds to talk in their friendly parliament, of ,who was wrong ,why were people quiet with red mouths..They looked at each other ,big heads turning and searching around in fear of who was asking and talking too much .\nHeaps of sand with outgrown weeds by the roadside looked like the backbone of the city .The skeletal formation of the mounds were on the left hand side ,tumbling up and down ,and pushing to the right ,on on coming traffic.The heaps were coarse , compact ,no one attempted to put big boulders out of the road ,or trees ,grass ,weeds that grew out wild ,stones starting to create hiding areas for carjacking initiators , with youth hiding behind the mounds , making a touting ,with absconders from home , victims of aids , of corona , of a better living to be made in Town from their living in rural areas .\nIt was unnecessary to make stops ,as the police came ,motor inspectors to hound them .The youth to rob them.\nThe stops ,road blocks , breakdowns ,peeked at rush hour in the Town..The police wanted to get their bribes .They could not afford to survive , the economy, bending rules ,their shoes ,torn uniforms ,testimony of old ways mankind made and had in him in the time things were worn out.This took from them their pay packs .\nIt was a prerequisite that ,a uniform worn , got you hired ,so you bought it ,or you got fired, because you did not have one .\nThe parade was losing colour in fading uniforms, inspection visits, brought all forces of arms to reason , compromise, no officer did not take money back for the inspector , and stayed by the cash cow on the roadside.\n Luis saw big ,eyelashes ,long nails , at the parade ,after paying his fine .The good woman prospects that came , in broad daylight,,gave his soul to the pulpit of corruption , in the church ,many women afforded the trip abroad.\nWomen had the power not the racism or tribalism . Pushing cars out of holes ,the one mending tyres ,the tree brunch fetcher ,to help them out of their burdensome hole on a rainy day or his way out to pay touts who hollered for a penny less or a penny more ,and stopped any carriage,rules of law and good governance demanding at undisignated places ,and carrying bags ,came with a charge .and a price.\nCash and carry was the labor force, .\nSquatters settled by the road side,first ,.on fires ,for smokes , food ,,and made noise and started interests to people who preyed on others on the side of the road .First as security to travellers ,then as pirates who did,to them things that ,took their valuables and the sheer needs of the stomach ,goods ,money.\nChildren came into the road in the morning to play ,and pretended to fill the holes and brought out the begging bowl..\nSome children were born by the roadside in time as distance became compromising .The brave children you met , became more vivid when you met them in town at the wind screen side to beg and ask questions.\nThe girl child was compromised ,on the destiny of the travellers .Some asked for food ,some asked for money ,until milk packs with fuel in them put them to sleep,and they survived in it .\nThe stones ,sand ,drifted away and piled stone ,no one had the ability to change the course of things.\n Corruption was eating like a rat at the fabric of society , the reason wealth, not war , brought the countrys independence, no one would claim to enjoy it ,in the wicked whispers .The youth , grew up ,without a hope.\nOn the other side of the road,a lash green grass had grown trees ,bringing them to height held up in the soil that ,got dry ,as cars took the short way from the rough and tumble , bushes bringing trees ,and growing them to cover land..\nLand needed access and that access was closing clogged up activities made by man and his interests , the weather pointing a condemning four fingers at him ,while he pointed one at his enemy who allowed poverty ,hunger ,and image of his arch enemy to fight him blind. Luis had his enemy,lat him ,his lack of cash.\nHonesty was rare and when one came by it ,honor was, rare it was worth to keep the feeling of peace and tranquility,, with it and the government claimed destitution to donors to get the their backs green in foreign lands .\nWhen they were left alone ,without their honest friends by the roadside and their home A place where they could erk out a living than to relay on handouts ,they were chased when donor visits happened.\nThey were out i making frame and vendor stalls ,and made them to attract truckers who started draining big haulage trucks by the road side for resale..They were desperate as they walked out of their heavy trucks .Their mouths betrayed them ,and they were looking for a way out of the mess ,,thinking of their children's honor, not in themselves as the corruption was.\n The children to fend for and their relationships ,t their future, building ,was happening at the road side., desired.\nBroken down cars were not collected and became habitat , accident damaged cars , scrap heap, metal foundry, became the roofing,ttenting ,yawning ,from trucks ,on dug out trenches .\nPlastic empty containers moved out, there was no filling station anywhere close ,,and plastic containers were hidden in the bush ,,brought out, priced with their sunken bottoms, the pump price remaining the same .The sunken depression the normal profit made at the same capital rate of the green back.\nDay break ,desperate motorists looked ahead ,brow beaten and calculative , arguments starting over and r over on speeding ,bumps,humps , overcrowding,corona ,masks ,and there was the woman always sitting at the front ,as a woman can,,do her thing to the police officers .\nEvery driver loves a woman and every woman loves her man for his car ,as he loves his car like her, \nHowever she rots from the head ,like a fish and a man's from the heart ,like a dish .\nLuis lost his cardinal looking points ,he drove out in a rush, , threaded a way out in the bush ,dirty traction gaining speed, and plunder increased the wonder , the size ,the width of cars ,when the water splashed out of them,or when dust came into them ,all was not well in the dirty plunder" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: For the love of Candy\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2414\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character looking for a sign." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Tell me what does it feel like. To know what you're doing and never have to worry. To know something is inside you that needs to be proclaimed but it can’t. I can no longer lie to you. I have felt privileged to lead this congregation but now it has come to an end. I thank you for listening.”\n\nThat was my speech of resignation from my pastoral post in our small Chatham neighborhood in Chicago. After six long years I had led people to know the Lord's true and intent purpose in there lives but I was neglecting my own skills keeping them at bay. Not allowing my true talent to come out. I didn't want to be pastor. I stared at my wife and kids. They smiled affectionately at me. That was all the support I needed.\n\nI looked around at my church congregation. A shivering silence was in the room. Everyone was in shock. People were truly convinced I had found my calling. An ordained pastor at the age of 18. Son of Reverend John Presley whose father was a reverend and his father before that. It was a generational thing people said. Though in my heart I pursued something different. I wanted something that brought propose to my life.\n\nThe congregation remained silence once more as I made my exit off the stage. It was terribly embarrassing. The eyes of my father simmered in rejection. It had never been that way before. The were eyes of pride and love. Now as I stay seated I could feel his presence of disappointment like a gun to my chest.\n\nMy father lead the people in prayer and the worship team began. I tried to sing but the words weren't coming out like they used to. People said I had the voice of a beautiful canary as it flew through the sky. Now it sounded like a beat up raven who had given up hope in flying ever again.\n\nMy father sermon seemed to be geared at me. How people should follow their calling when it right in front of them.\n\n\"Now turn your bible to 1 Corinthians 12:28.\" With my father's announcement people frantically started to flick through their bibles. I just sat there already versed with the scripture in my head. With that my father began to read the verse aloud.\n\n\"And in the church God has appointed first of all apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then workers of miracles, and those with gifts of healing, helping, administration, and various tongues.\"\n\nMy father took a look at the congregation. He turned to look at me directly before addressing the congregation again.\n\n\"Church, let us not be fooled by what we think it means or what we suppose it means to us. It is very clear what it means. All of use were chosen to be either one of theses things listed. Many of us never find it straight away but to those who have it is a blessing. Let us not be swayed by the world's evil dictates that encamp us all around . Let us break forth into ministry. Build the kingdom for the Lord's name. Can I here the church say amen?\"\n\n\"Amen\" the church echoed back. Some hallelujahs quickly joined in succession. A few screams and stamping of feet were heard in the front and the back. Old ladies in the pews swinging there hymn books saying \"Yes lord\" and \"Preach his word pastor.\" The spirit of the Lord was here. I was in agreement with what was said. I know I was doing the right thing. I was going to minister in a different way.\n\nThe worship team came on once more and church ended with a final prayer. People started to scurry to the back of the room were food and refreshments were served. I took my time knowing too well I was going not be full by the food but by peoples questions and concerns of my future.\n\nAs soon as I was about to tuck into a juicy pie I was meet by Sister Paulina. An old resident in the church who made it here point to know everything about everyone.\n\n\"So Reverend Evan what are you gonna do now. I was sure you'd be a preacher just like your father. I know you can preach a good sermon too. We've all heard you do it.\"\n\nUsually at this point people would causally ignore Paulina when she was questioning somebody as a fear kicked in if she would target them next. But now people seemed to hoover around her also questioning what I was about to do with my life.\n\n\"Well,\" I began to say I casually put my first bite of pie back on my plate. I was slowing losing the ability to swallow anyway and sweat was slowly started to form form my forehead . I proceeded to begin again.\n\n\"I was hoping to start a business.\" With that said I quickly strolled away to grab my plate and proceed to grab items. The food looked delicious yet somehow the thought of it was making me sick. Anyway it was a good way of making it out of the situation. However it didn't seem to be working\n\nSister Paulina wasn't at all perturbed that I seem to be avoiding her. She seemed to be making progress into making herself unavoidable with more pulse racing questions.\n\n“Well that does nobody no good in answering anything. A business. Well, why so vague.? The only business we thought you would be running is right the in the church.\"\n\nSister Paulina words stung me like a blunt sword. When you think about it would hurt more than a sharp one. It takes it time to sink in. A slow and gradual pain. That's what everybody thought. I knew that was all that could be thought in this small town.\n\nI began to pick small chicken wings unto my plate before I spoke. \"I want to run a candy store.\"\n\nWith that there seemed to be a stunned silence in the room. Almost as if everybody had been waiting on what I was to say and were taken back in complete and utter confusion. It lasted for the longest three seconds until people starting to mind their own business and continue with their the conversations. Sister Paulina was stunned also for a few seconds but she continued regardless.\n\n“What are you thinking young man you have a your wife and kids to think about. Are you crazy? You have gone and lost you own mind! You can't expect me to believe the spirit of God is in you. You gotta fix yourself before the Lord right this instance.\"\n\nSister Paulina lectured on and on at me for a good 20 minutes. Quoting scriptures until kingdom come telling me all the things I should know being the son of an ordained Reverend.\n\nWhen she had finished she looked up at me hoping that my response was better. More logical for a christian person to think. More in line with the word of God. I lifted my chest up high before I began.\n\n\"Thanks for your concern Sister Paulina.\" First of all I would like to tell you a short story is that okay with you?\n\nSister Paulina nodded in return She started to straightened her skirt and her sunday best hat which had toppled from the heated discussion.\n\n\"When I was a kid I was always getting into scraps. I was always misbehaving and had a hard time doing what I was told. With my Dad being a minister everyone looked at me for an example in which they're kids should act. I can fairly say they stopped that game soon enough.\"\n\nSister Paulina began to laughed in response. She remembered well\n\n\"Well soon bit by bit I was making a name for myself in the street as well as in the church. Hanging with the wrong crowd and influencing the good people to become like me. Everyone was convinced I was a lost case. All but one. \"\n\nSister Paulina intrigued asked, \"Who Reverend Evan?\"\n\n\"Please Sister Paulina just Evan. Mr Peterson the man who owned the candy store. Do you remember him?\n\n\"Yes I believe I do said Paulina. He used to come to our service everyday. Never missed a single church service.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mr Peterson one Sunday came over to me and asked if I wanted to help out in his candy store. I quickly said no. He kept on persisting until it became an unrelenting yes. I figured it couldn't be so bad. I might get free candy. Although I got free candy I was getting a lot of council from Mr. Peterson. He was showing me the way I was acting was wrong. I needed to leave a life of purpose unto the Lord. I gave my life to God in that candy store\n\nSister Paulina was for once silent and urged me continue with a nod. I began again.\n\n\"Not only did I become saved in that small candy store I learnt how to make all types of candy. Mr. Peterson made all that candy in the store himself. He made mouth watering fudge, sour tasting lemon sherbets, jaw cracking gobstoppers the whole lot. Every candy you could think of.\"\n\nSister Paulina started to name off all different types of candy. With every candy she said I began to recall and repeatedly nod to every single one she could imagine. After she finished listing them off she told me to continue.\n\n\"With the counseling he gave me I was starting to become better at home and in church. I was my happiest at that shop. Not only was I eating candy all day I was making it. I working hard making licorice, homemade skittles, starbursts and other assortments. It got to the point where I was the only person making candy in the store and Mr. Peterson was simply supervising. Then one winter day...\" I faltered suddenly choked up with emotion.\n\nSister Paulina nodded with sympathy. Mr. Peterson had died six years ago. His old rugged truck had skied on black ice and swerved into a tree. We had held his funeral at our church.\n\n\"Well after the accident I vowed never to want to see candy again. I have never eaten candy in over six years in fact. I never wanted to looked at any candy. Nothing that reminded me of him. So I decided to become a minister much to everyone's delight at the age of eighteen. I have been ministering for six years shoving my old life in the corner not to be remembered until now.\"\n\n\"What do you mean until now Rev.. I mean Evan.?\" As an answer to her question I quickly gave her a letter which had been in my pocket. \"I received this yesterday,\" I said. Sister Paulina opened the letter and began to read.\n\nDear Evan,\n\nThis is the son of Mr. Peterson. How are you after all of these years? I hope we can come in contact soon and reminisce on old times playing in our neighbourhood . Besides meeting up with you I am writing this letter with great diligence. It concerns the candy shop. My dad has left it to you in his will.\n\nI know now that you're probably thinking how on earth weren't you told this before. Well it's quite simply. we never knew. It is only now we found it. Searching through the shop as we are about to sell we found an old letter scrunched up in his bible. His last will and testament. He left his house and all his allowances to us and the family. Thankfully we had already figured out as much and did so many years ago.\n\nThis shop however was not of interest to any of us yet we still wanted to keep it at the time to remind us of our father. Now as time has moved on and with bills to pay we as a family decided it best to sell. It was just there rotting away and not doing much. That all changed however when we found the will.\n\nWe hope this doesn't come as much of a shock to you as much as it did to us. We are grateful he left it to you knowing how fond his was of you. We need to meet up sooner than later to discuss your plans for the shop. In every case we hope you stay well. I have enclosed the keys to the shop so you can have a look beforehand so you know what you're dealing with. I wish you all the best.\n\nYours sincerely,\nMorris Peterson\n\nSister Paulina stopped to compose herself before she began to speak. \"It is now I see you reasoning for doing this… even when your plans seem still quite uncertain. It so peculiar but I remember now and how it's very odd you decided to resign today. Well because.. \"\n\n\"Well because what...\" I said earnestly confused why Sister Paulina was in tears.\n\nPaulina dried her eyes before continuing. \"Today... would be Mr. Peterson's Birthday. \"\n\nWith that we both cried and hugged. Many others who had been secretly listened soon followed to congratulate me on my journey on owning the candy store. A sign such as this was surely the move of God. I was almost finished embracing everyone when someone tapped me on my shoulder. It was my father. His eyes also glazed from tears of joy as well as understanding. The simmering eyes of rejection had ceased and love was felt as he embraced me and spoke to me.\n\n\"Go out my son and spread the Gods love to young and old with your candy.\" A ministry it will be to the soul as well as to the stomach.\"\n\nWe both chuckled at that and shared a few more heart to heart words. My father addressed the congregation beckoning them all to come and congratulate the path I was being lead to follow. I felt deeply touched. My heart was at peace now.\n\nThe people gradually finished eating and soon made it out to their cars to drive home. Me and my family walked out hand in hand. Finally accepting that the path was set by God. We could see it now. We could all see it.\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: No Time To Waste\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1319\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who starts noticing the same object or phrase wherever they go." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Akua knew something was off...what it was, she didn't know...this indescribable feeling overwhelmed her everytime she passed by the corner store at the edge of her grandfather's block. Akua visited him more often since her grandmother died earlier that year. She noticed he had become more and more withdrawn and reclusive since the love of his life for over 45 years had left him alone to roam the Earth. Timbu had missed Ayanni so much. They'd met when they were 17, married at 23, and here he was at 68 wondering what he was going to do for the rest of his life without her.\nEverytime Akua walked by this corner store she'd look up and see the sign, \" No Time To Waste\"faintly behind a more visible one, \" Benito's Bodega\". Those words, \"No Time To Waste\" lingered with her the entire time she rode the bus home. She'd peer out the bus window, staring at the world around her, oblivious to the strangers on the bus. Akua wondered what it meant, although the words were obvious it seemed to mean more, much more than four words could express. Akua knew at the age of 27, that she had wasted a lot of time with her life. She had been a wayward teen and almost a teen mother during those years. She went to school but her work and ethic was average. Never really taking interest in anything academic made school hard for her. Upon graduation she wasn't even enthusiastic about walking. She took no interest or pride in her accomplishment. Now as an adult she spent her time working at a coffee shop, and budgeting her money to pay for a tiny apartment that cost almost all of her paycheck. Wasted time equaled a wasted existence.\nThis morning Akua visited her grandpa as usual, but her grandpa seemed more agitated than normal.\" Pop Pop, what's the matter? You seem angry today...something happened?\"Akua asked Timbu gently as she made herself a cup of coffee.\n\" I'm wasting time...though I don't have it to waste...\" Timbu replied.\nAkua rested her hand on his shoulder and then took his hand, \" so what would you like to do? What can I do?\" Timbu looked at her with weary eyes and said, \"you're wasting time too..Let me take you somewhere.\" Akua sat down beside him thinking where he could take her. Was Pop Pop losing his mind? Did he know something she didn't? He was old and lonely but she also knew he was very wise.\" Ok Pop Pop, where will we go? What will we do?” Timbu peered out the window and said,\" we go to the garden in the morning, we won't waste anymore time.”\nAfter having dinner with her grandfather Akua leaves for the bus home, and again she sees the sign, “No Time To Waste”. This time she looks at it longer than usual, thinking to herself what does it really mean? She thinks back to the conversation she had with Pop Pop and how he wanted to go to the garden to show her something. She contemplates what her grandfather thinks he can do to make his time more valuable and what role she will play in it.\n What is time anyway? Who knows what makes it so precious when it goes so quickly? When she was growing up Akua was always told she was wasting time. Her grandmother Ayanni would repeatedly remind her that she should be on time and time waits for no one. Akua would continuously think we have plenty of time and it seemed like she did, but here she was as an adult feeling the waste she had given to time, how she ended up in a frustrating job, a tiny living space, no husband, no children. In reality she was quite unhappy with herself. She’d wished her grandmother was still here, and how she would help her Pop Pop get over Ayanni’s death. After standing on the corner for almost 10 minutes Akua hustles to the bus stop. Almost instantaneously the bus arrives, she boards and takes the ride but this time as she rides she looks at the passengers. Each of them is very different looking, doing mostly the same things like looking on their phones or talking on them. She notices a child playing with a furry brown and white stuffed bunny, a woman sits beside her looking at the child very intensely. Everytime the child smiles she does also. A man sits right beside her, grunting and vigorously texting on his phone. He mumbles something and grimaces without noticing that Akua is looking at him. Akua notices finally all the instances of time and how these strangers are using it. Time is valued so differently and time is so fleeting. By the time each of them reach their destinations much time will have been wasted, but wasted for who?\nEarly the next morning Akua gets up, showers, has a snack, and leaves to pick up her grandfather. The evening before when she had called him he told her to dress in gardening clothes. She knew exactly what he meant because the garden is where she spent a lot of her childhood with him and her grandmother tending to the garden, growing things over time and talking about hopes and dreams and who she was going to be when she grew up. Akua would always say a nurse or a doctor and her Pop Pop would say that's good and how he hoped she’d be happy doing that. Akua realized that she cherished the moments she had been given with her grandparents. She understood that those memories brought warmth and comfort to her when she was down and sometimes, especially after Ayanni’s death, consoled her through bouts of uncontrollable crying. \nWalking around the corner to her grandfather's house, the sign she always sees appears more emboldened and clear.\nAs Akua walks up the block to her grandfather's home she begins to think that Pop Pop is on to something. She begins to smile as she climbs the steps and gingerly rings the bell. It takes her grandfather awhile to answer the door, he smiles slyly at her as he welcomes her in. She walks behind him, touching him on his shoulder rubbing it.\n“You look ready to go Pop Pop, and your mood is much better!” Once they reach the living room she is surprised to see a man seated on the couches’ end staring curiously at her. \n“Akua, this is my friend, Benito...his father owns the corner store you pass on your way here. Benito helps me from time to time and today he’s going to help us with the garden.” Akua was a bit flustered at this announcement because her grandfather hadn’t told her ahead of time and this stranger, Benito, was handsome. He seemed to look at her with excitement in his eyes and for some reason she did too.\n“Ok, Pop Pop...the more the merrier is what they say...Benito are you that into gardening?...My grandfather is a master gardener you know”, she asks him trying not to continue to break eye contact with him, Akua felt a little sheepish. After a brief moment of hesitation, Benito stands up and says, “ yes, I love to garden. My Mom and Dad had me helping in our garden since I was a little boy. The times we had. I miss it so much. Since they passed away last year I haven’t been there in the garden. I finally decided that I wanted to be happy again... today will definitely not be a waste of my time.” Suddenly Akua felt warm and comforted inside. She smiled warmly at him and then her grandfather. Touching her Pop Pop’s face with the palm of her hand and then her finger tips, she says, “ok, let’s not waste anymore time…”." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Worth a Reason\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1075\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone discovering a photograph that has something written on the back." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a tradition. We spent every Sunday thrift store shopping. It was our way to distress from the everyday woes of being a college student. We knew that everything in that store told a story and we found pleasure in piecing that story together. Usually, we went there with no mission In particular other than the joy that it brought us. However, this weekend trip was different. Ari was pledging Kappa and needed something white. I had my own reservations about her joining a society where the customs and protocols were so out of date but I kept them to myself. It was her life and if she wanted to wear a white dress surrounded by girls that looked nothing like her or knew of her struggle to get her it was her choice. I would be the friend she needed and help her stand out to the best of her ability. \nI let her comb through the dress section while I sat my eye on accessories. Henley was in charge of shoes. I had no idea whose idea it was but it was the task she was given. Henley had a knack for finding weird things, it was as if they called out to her through the clothes racks. No matter where we were in the store, she would hold up what she found taller than her person and shout our names to the ceiling to get our attention. We would pull away from what we were doing to make commentary on what she had found. \nI had to admit I was also shopping for myself. Yes, I was keeping my eye out for white bags to match whatever dress she would find but I was also searching for myself. I had always been a collector of purses that I would probably only use once. However, combing through the isle only one caught my attention before my cart even turned the corner. It was a replica of the very first bag I had received. I was eight digging through my great grandmother’s closet and it fell directly on me. I wasn’t sure if it was the possible concussion from everything my GG kept in there or if it was true love at first glance. Whatever it was those feelings were replicated at the sight of this purse. \nI had to get it. It was worth suffering the wrath of Ari for the limited options I was able to obtain. I kept it separated from the things I acquired for her, after all, it did have white undertones buried within the pink purse. We had found an outfit for Ari while still finding some things worth the trip. We were off to our second tradition, stopping at the laundry mat near our favorite diner. We would eat and joke while our clothes washed and dried. However this time I didn’t want to put everything in. I kept the purse with me, afraid of what the wash could do to it. I combined through the pockets as the others loaded their washers. I was surprised by what rested in the purse pocket. \nA wallet, small in nature. I opened it hoping to find whom to return it to, all that was there was two dollars, two halves of a bus pass, and a photograph. It was rustic, the only color to it was the ware it had accumulated throughout the years. I sat gazing at it while my friends were distracted. I pulled it out hoping it would be clearer the closer I got it to my eyes. It was a woman not much older than me. She posed with her hand on her hip and a smile on her face, not one that was fabricated but caught in mid-laugh. \nShe looked happy. I turned it over remembering the notes my GG would have written on the back of her photos to remind her of the feeling she had in them. Written on the back was her name, Mary. Under it marked the date and location, Montgomery, April 5th, 1956. Everything began to make sense, the rustic nature of the photograph, the two halves of the bus pass were a reminder of her protest. I remember learning about the Montgomery bus boycott from 1955 to 1956 but to hold in my hands an object that was there at that time was an indescribable feeling. \nI didn’t know what I should do and after a while, my friends caught on to my troubled gaze. I told them what I had found and each of them had different reactions. \n“You should post it!” Ari said gazing down at the picture in my hands. \n“Why would she do that? You should see if she is still alive, maybe she wants her purse.” Henley had the biggest heart of us three so it was of no surprise her choice would be one of sentiment. \n“It found me for a reason.\" I said, not a slight idea of what that reason was. Instead of subjecting myself to the next comments I placed the picture back in the wallet and changed the subject to one we would all enjoy. Lunch was one of our favorite things to do together. We practically ate lunch together every day, no matter each of our schedules we found a time to have lunch. \nAs Ari once again brought up what getting into Kappa would mean for her, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary. As I sat in the diner looking around at all the different types of people sitting and conversing with one another I couldn’t help but think of her. I sat here around her age, a woman of color in a small town made up of majorly individuals that would not understand my life it dawned on me. I was the reason. \nI smiled, almost as big as the one Mary had in her picture. I wasn’t sure if my friends had noticed or thought it was a reaction to what was happening. I was living the dream Mary had walked for, had boycotted the bus for, and had smiled even though her life was not as easy as it would have been now. She had two dollars to her name and yet she smiled. She wouldn’t have been allowed in this diner but yet she smiled, laughed, and fought. I am Mary’s wildest dream and there I realized that was the reason." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sales Pitch\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 3038\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone saying “I can’t sleep.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "MLM spoof with a twist. You’ve been warned.\n\nMolly pushed open the door of the conference room. It was a loud, heavy, metal one that left her fingers smelling of dust. She brushed them on her colorful leggings. The conference room wasn’t well lit, but it was in a cheap motel on the side of the highway, so Molly hadn’t expected much. It smelled of stale coffee and sugary pastries that were piled like faux gold on the table pressed against one wall. Sadie turned and smiled at her. The women embraced each other. \n\n“Thanks for comin’ out, Beautiful!” exclaimed Sadie. Molly nodded back. Her eyebrows slightly raised at the memory of her husband asking why she was bothering to come at all. She had explained that Sadie did help them move in and she was always inviting her to things, but Molly always declined and it was just preposterous and the kids had sleepovers so they were occupied and…and…and he had stopped listening. \n\n“I was happy to,” said Molly. She released Sadie from her hug, but found that she held on. Awkwardly, Molly attempted to re-wrap her arms around Sadie’s long, thin body. That girl just never seemed to gain any weight. Sadie chuckled a bit and gestured at the pastries and coffee. “Coffee at 9pm, Sadie?” teased Molly. \n\n“I thought people liked coffee,” protested Sadie.\n\n“We do, it’s just a bit late, don’t you think?” said Molly as she approached the table. “Sadie? Don’t you think?” she repeated her question. “Sadie?” Molly spun around, but found her friend had walked off to the computer. She shrugged and snagged herself a cup. But the burnt smell put her off a bit. She grabbed a cherry danish and a napkin before taking a seat on one of the black, plastic chairs. \n\n“Oh!” exclaimed Sadie, “Oh, Sweetie, could you please sit in that chair?” She indicated the chair on the end of the row at the right hand side instead of in the middle where she could clearly see the presentation. “Sorry, Babe, it’s just, you know, more gals are comin’ so…” she let her “O” drag out uncomfortably and pursed her lips and then smiled at Molly who was scrambling with her pastry and purse. \n\n“Who else is coming?” asked Molly.\n\nSadie spun on her heel, “What?”\n\n“Who else is coming?” repeated Molly as she settled into her new chair. \n\n“Oh, some gals from the book club, I hope. And some friends of mine…” her words trailed off. \n\nMolly began throwing her hair into a bun, an old habit she had when she got nervous. She tried to be polite and asked, “Do I know any of these friends?”\n\n“No, Doll. But you’ll love ‘em. I promise,” said Sadie as she marched over to Molly. “Gawd, I do love that dress with those leggin’s. Just so cute! Perfect for fall,” she added, pointing with a polished red nail at the brightly covered leaves that dotted her friend’s legs. Sadie grabbed a napkin. She dusted off the chair Molly was just in. Molly, for her part, opened up her mouth to protest that she wasn’t dirty when another guest burst through the door.\n\nIt was quite clear to Molly that Sadie knew this girl better than her because they squealed at the exact same decibel. Molly overheard Sadie mention something about work. At that word, Molly frowned. She remembered work. She remembered lunch with friends, gossip in the break room, and feeling like she was actually contributing to something. Of course, that was all before motherhood.\n\nMolly rolled her eyes to keep from crying and raised her pastry to her lips. A few tantalizing flakes fell off, but when she went to bite down, she found the treat rock hard. Disgusted, she removed it from her eye line and wrapped it up in the napkin. She sniffed her coffee warily, but found a similar level of grossness at the sight of shiny oil circles catching in the light flickering above her head. Molly sighed, longing for her warm bed and beloved husband’s soft protests at random news articles that flashed by on the silent TV. \n\nShe noted Sadie’s new friend was permitted to sit in the middle and that the woman didn’t take a single snack or cup of tar. But hey, it wasn’t like she was missing out. She was rail thin, just like Sadie. Perhaps, she was part of the same spin class. A calendar without extra curricular for the kids certainly has more time. Molly sighed.\n\nA few more women entered, they came in pairs like on Noah’s ark. Two women in all black dresses. Two women in bright leggings that sent a bolt of envy up Molly’s spine. Two women in fur coats who didn’t greet Sadie, but joined the first woman with bright red hair in the middle. Sadie kept looking at the door and checking her watch. At exactly 9:15, Sadie flicked the lights off and wobbled to the front in her high heels. The presentation had started.\n\n“Welcome Beautiful Souls” flashed up on the screen. The words were decorated with pretty pink sparkles and brightly lit up the room. “Thank you for joining me so late tonight, my darlings. But as you know, I didn’t want a single excuse about work running late!” She clapped her hands together and it echoed around the room. The side chatter stopped.\n\n“I wanna talk to you about an exciting opportunity that has just changed my life for the better,” began Sadie. She looked like a creepy ghost behind the bright light of the presentation. Molly suddenly felt very cold. “Before I get into the nitty gritty details, I wanna share all of the perks that this lifestyle has given me!” said Sadie. She flashed the next screen where bullet points began to zoom into focus as she read them out, “It has given me eternal youth, a low calorie diet(which is totally customizable), incredible investment opportunities, and life long friendships!” \n\nSuddenly, the door burst open. In walked two women, clearly late to the party. But Molly was relieved because their hair was in messy ponytails, they looked around the room and mumbled apologies. She thought she noticed a fruit pouch from the same brand she purchased sticking out of one woman’s person. Sadie directed them to the chairs next to Molly with a sour look on her face. Molly eagerly made room for the women.\n\nSadie cleared her throat. “Now that all of our guests have managed to arrive,” she paused for dramatic effect, her gaze barreling down at Molly’s row, “We can continue the presentation.”\n\nMolly’s eyebrows furrowed with concern as she heard the words of her husband echoing back at her that this whole night was a bad idea because she, “didn’t even know these women.” But she missed the community of her old city. They had picnics in the park with the kids, a carpool schedule, neighborhood block parties. Of course, that was before it all fell apart.\n\n“How can you get these opportunities and more you may ask?” Sadie’s bright voice brought Molly back to the present, but got real screechy at the end of that question. Molly felt a cold shiver run down her back. “It starts with me! My name is Sadie Malone,” Sadie clicked the next slide and a beautiful professional photo of Sadie in a power suit beneath a weeping willow appeared. “And I have been involved with this group for well…” Sadie let out a giggle, “Centuries!” \n\nShe flashed a winning smile and clicked to the next slide which showed an image of an acrylic painting of her flashed on screen. She was dressed in a Medieval gown. The artist had captured the beauty of the very same tree from the previous slide-only smaller. Sadie seemed the same exact age. Her skin was less smooth, but the artist still captured it creamy color against the backdrop of the rushing river. Molly listened for the sound of bird chirping, insects as they flew past her ear, it was as if she’d travelled back in time. The piece felt familiar and she placed it as one she had seen during a visit to the art museum. A sense of dread began to fill her.\n\n“Yep! That’s me! Can you believe it?” she asked. Sadie seemed to grow taller as she leaned into the audience. “It’s like I haven’t aged a day! And neither will you if you choose to join our three step program!” her voice seemed to echo in Molly’s ears. She felt herself growing tired and colder with each passing second. She readjusted her position in the chair and pinched herself to stay awake.\n\nThe next slide showed a photo of Sadie embracing a woman in a side hug. “This is Bee Bee,” said Sadie, “She looks kinda sad, doesn’t she?” Sadie’s clicker turned into a single red laser dot which darted over the woman’s frumpy dress, unappealing limp hair, and sad teeth. “Well, after one month with me, she went from this,” Sadie clicked to the next slide, “To this!” Before them was a bright photo of a drop dead gorgeous model who Molly swore she recognized from a red carpet or two. She wore a long, red ball gown, her hair was curled into beautiful waves, and her smile was now white as bone. \n\n“Now, I will warn you ladies, that if you don’t follow every step of this program, deadly consequences await you,” Sadie’s voice seemed to drop an octave and the image of Bee Bee faded. Molly felt Sadie’s icy blue eyes lasering into her. It felt like everyone left the room except the two of them. She felt safe and warm in her friend’s gaze. The cold of the conference room had melted away, giving into the promise of eternal youth. \n\n“I….I…I can’t sleep…can’t give in,” mumbled Molly under her breath. “If I sleep, I’ll die,” she continued and gripped the cheap plastic chair with all her might. \n\n“But I know you gorgeous, gorgeous gals aren’t dumb enough to not listen to me, right!?” exclaimed Sadie. The spell was broken. Bee Bee was back to being bright, as was Sadie’s tone. “Now for the nitty gritty, darlings. And I want you to know, I’m only sharing this opportunity with you because I just feel so close to all of you!” she said as she clutched her hands into a fist around her heart. There were soft murmurings of agreement. \n\n“The first step to this whole thing is to let me bite you!” Sadie’s voice had a tinge of glee at the very end. “No, seriously ladies. I’m not joking! I summoned you because I just think y’all will make the very best vampires in the whole gosh, dang world! Because when I bite you, you pledge your undying loyalty and servitude to me! Your BFF! And after that, you can host vampire parties of your very own! So you, too, can create your own vampire communities! Isn’t that great?” \n\nThen, she used that icy gaze again, the world faded around Molly and she was left in the embrace of her friend’s warm spell as she said, “Just remember, you’ll always be a part of mine. And loyalty to me always comes first. Best. Friends. For. Life.”\n\nMolly sat stunned in her chair. Her heartbeat pounded like in the movies. Sweat formed on her neck and dripped down her body. She felt like a child who had put too many blankets on the bed too early in the fall. It was just so hot! And Sadie…Sadie had the solution! Sadie could cool her down. Sadie could fix her. \n\nShe blinked her heavy eyelids a few times. Her face was fully relaxed. Subconsciously, her hand drifted to her neck. She felt it drift up her face, pull back, and slap her cheek as hard as it could. It was a technique her father had taught her as part of her driving lessons. Suddenly, as the room came back into view, something inside her screamed at her to run! Grab her purse and run! But it was like her legs couldn’t or wouldn’t move. \n\nInstead, she found herself staring at the presentation before her. Like zombies, the women beside her began to stand and join the line in front of Sadie. It was a horrible, perverse version of communion. Desperately, Molly looked around for the exit. But the darkness around her made it quite the challenge. She reached down for her purse, coffee, and pastry. Slowly, she stood up, suddenly thankful Sadie had forced her into the aisle seat.\n\nMolly was careful not to turn her back and was slightly transfixed at the sight of Sadie pulling the women in closer around herself. She seemed to be whispering soft words as she stroked one woman’s long, red hair. Molly inched past the final row of chairs, careful to have it between her and the group of hypnotized victims. She used one hand to feel behind her, looking for the edge of the pastry table, but she backed in too quickly, and the table hit the wall. All eyes turned to Molly.\n\n“AAAHHHHH!” screamed Molly. She decided at that moment to turn her back and look for the door. She sensed that the mob had turned and began to stumble over the chairs, reaching for her, grabbing at her. Their arms and hands were like vines. Molly searched her memory desperately as she replayed the night. She had moved chairs. She had been at the center. She had gotten a pastry and coffee. But which one had been closer to the door. \n\nSadie’s voice rang high above the moans of her servants, “Molly…Molly….come back, Molly. Please? Won’t you be the best Vampire Babe in the world?”\n\nThe coffee! The coffee had been closest to the door so Molly turned herself around again and was face to face with the girl with red hair. Her eyes were glazed over. Her mouth hung open. And she was blocking Molly’s path. As the other women began to draw closer to them, Molly scrambled with what to do. She felt a bit of coffee slosh over her hand so she threw that in the girl’s face. When she remained unfazed, Molly threw her pastry at the woman. This seemed to stun her so she grabbed more pastries. Each one hit like the rocks they were and slowly, the stranger stumbled back. Molly bolted to the coffee, but was greeted by the pair of women in black dresses.\n\nThey smiled at her, holding their hands out like friends. Their fangs glistened despite the lack of light. Molly smiled sweetly back just so she could open the top of the silver carafe and push the coffee over. The women wailed in agony as burning hot coffee poured out. Molly found her door and pushed with all her might into an empty hotel hallway. She ran past the bewildered guests and the bored concierge. She considered telling them to call the cops, but knew from experience no one would believe her anyway.\n\nThe burst of cold, night air filled Molly with adrenaline. She pushed the alarm button on her car and ran to it. In the safety of her vehicle, she locked all the doors. She let out a gutteral sob. “I just want friends!” she wailed into the night. After a few moments instinct kicked in and threw the car in reverse to get her home. \n\nJames was asleep when Molly returned. She was shocked to find it was after midnight. She double, triple checked all the lights were on and the doors were locked. So were the windows. As she approached the bed, she reached beneath her husband’s pillow and wrapped cold fingers are the wooden stake. Then, her excuses Ted body wrapped itself in the warmth of her husband and attempted to fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of his beating heart. \n\nMorning came and went. The work week came and went. By the following Saturday, the nightmares of the last week felt like a scary dream. Of course, that’s when the letter came. It didn’t come by postman or dropped off at work. It was nailed to Molly’s front door one night when she got home from work. The letter’s envelope wasn’t like the normal white one you find at the office. The paper was rough and slightly yellowed, like when her son, Jake, had a school project so they soaked paper in coffee to make it look old. And when Molly flipped it to the front, it bore a pretty, pink, sparkly seal with the letter “S” on it.\n\nHer husband told her wait for him to open it. So after the kids went to bed, they sat up in theirs, and slowly broke the seal. Inside was a sheet of paper which had Sadie’s beautiful calligraphy that matched Molly’s original invite to the conference. The message was short and sweet: I really think you should reconsider, Babe! For your family’s sake. Call me! S\n\nMolly crumpled up the letter. “You gotta admit, it’s a new tactic. They usually just invite us over for a BBQ and a few cheap beers,” James said with a laugh. Then, realizing his wife wasn’t laughing with him, he added, “Guess it’s time to move again.” Molly remained quiet. A few tears gathered in her eyes. James once again tried to lighten the mood, “You think one of them would figure out I’m a descendant of the Van Helsings before inviting you over.” \n\n“Eh, maybe that’s why they keep trying, like some sick cat and mouse game,” she replied, her voice trembling. Then, with a frown on her face she added, “I just wish I could find some real friends.”\n\nHe offered her a warm embrace, much more comforting than last night as he whispered into her hair, “Someday you will, I promise.” James was wise enough to let her pull away. She marched into James’ home office she he couldn’t see her eyes and turned on the shredder. It roared to life, grinding the letter into tiny pieces of confetti." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: THOMAS THE MYSTERY MAN\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1120\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a mysterious figure in one’s neighborhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The man worked if one could call it work, as a sidewalk vendor. That was not unusual for the strip between Nostrand Avenue and Verona Place in Brooklyn. His stall was part of many along the road. What rendered this stall and man odd was only three or four people eventually saw him. When those who did mention the stall, people scratched and shook their heads. Some commented, “What man or you must mean another street.” No three people were not hallucinating, nor did they have a substance abuse problem. One was a highly respected attorney, Lauren McCutcheon, another a dedicated officer of the law, Riana Moore, the third Moore’s most efficient majordomo, Karen Colt, and last Moore’s son Jonathan.\n The man, Thomas Matthieu, Haitian by heritage and Louisianan by birth strutted around like Mardi Gras happened every day. One might say from his dress and smile for him it did. He wore clothing of large iridescent patches with a mix of smashing colors green, bright orange, and blood-red along and a black silk top hat. His deep, rumbling laugh reminded one of Geoffrey Holder’s in Live and Let Die. The voice a welcome light from his heritage. It contained a lilt and always a hint of mystery. Where he came from no one knew.\n Just before dawn on an empty street, a woman had her first encounter with Thomas. He startled her with a non-verbal, “Hello, ma soeur (my sister), I am Thomas Matthieu.\nThe rhythmic lilt in his voice caused her to stop and respond.\n “Hello, mon frere (brother), Riana Moore.”\nThey conversed silently about everything and nothing. When she took off her ever-present aviators, he looked into her gray eyes and said, “You are troubled.”\nShe tried to wave him off.\n “Look Riana,” he said. “you radiate unease.”\n “How do you know? Got connections to another dimension, have you?”\nHe didn’t answer but began rooting around in his never-empty treasure trove of oddities. Things flew out the specially made six-foot trunk. Cajun curses erupted from his mouth along with the comment, “I know it’s here somewhere.”\n “Hey Thomas, whatever it is I can get it another time.”\n “No, you need this.”\nTo tamp down her impatience, Moore called over a street person and sent him for Mauby and patties from an all-night West Indian restaurant. She dropped into one of his rickety folding chairs to wait for the food and Thomas’ seemingly fruitless search.\n Finally, he said, “Ahh, here it is.”\nMoore sighed and reached for it.\n “Impatience serves no one,” he said and lit sage incense to cleanse the still hidden article.\nThomas danced around the tight space, humming an old spiritual. His voice mesmerizing. He held the object away from her prying eyes. The food arrived and she munched on a spicy pattie. She set his on a red and black lacquered dollhouse-like table. Thomas turned in time to see her sneer after taking a sip of Mauby.\n He laughed. “Why order it? You know it has too much sugar for your taste.”\n Her mouth fell open. It was true but…. “How do you know my tastes?”\n “My sister, I know a lot about you,” he said and handed her a coral and amethyst necklace on a burnished gold chain and saw her eyes light up. “My Cajun aunt Louisa told me it has special powers. One is to see through the mist of life.”\n “Wow. It’s beautiful.”\nShe put it on and immediately energy pulsed through her system.\n “Wear it and it will protect you. You’ll see some things to ponder and others bright as sunlight. I perceive you as a warrior who’ll do some great things.”\n She laughed. “I am a homicide detective. What great things can I do?”\n “Ma soeur, life presents many twists and turns, and one never knows what direction lives will take, however you’re destined for greatness.”\n “Do you have a pipeline to the spirit world?”\n “No, just a sensitivity to people.”\n “In past societies, Thomas, you’d be called a witch or the devil and put to death.”\n He waved his arms, “There is much in the universe people don’t understand. They discount the paranormal because scientifically they can’t explain it. In you, I see something the world doesn’t know.”\n If only you knew the truth about me. “I am only one person trying to do the best job I can.”\n He laughed. “Keeping your truth close to the vest. Good. The world in time will know your true power.”\nShe rose to leave but he grabbed her arm.\n “Stay a little longer. I don’t get to speak to many people. They pass me by without seeing or hearing me.”\n “Like Ralph Ellison, a modern-day invisible man. Intriguing. Maybe they’re not ready to delve into a nebulous world.”\n He nodded. “And you are, why?”\n “My history is complicated and any help I can glean to navigate this world I’ll take.”\n He rose. “Let’s take a walk. I want to show you something only one with your vision can appreciate.”\nThey walked to Bedford-Stuyvesant’s Von King park. He led her to a bench. The clearness of the night and the lack of too much ambient light allowed Thomas to point to the stars.\n “Out there is a world waiting for you.”\n “Why? I have no wish for space travel.”\n “At this time no, but a time will come when escape becomes necessary.”\n “Can you tell me more?”\n “No. It’s hazy. You have much to accomplish and remember. All will help you grow.”\nThomas danced in the dark park, while Moore mulled this over. His smile was eye-blinding white in the moonlight. What did he know and wasn’t telling me? Do I believe him?\n He sat and took her hands. “You’re wondering if you should believe me and how it will happen.”\n “You read minds too?”\n “Riana Moore, you’re a special woman. You have an innate intelligence so yes I believe you’d ask yourself such a question. Over time you’ll come to realize we have met for a reason.”\nMoore watched Thomas’ eyes as he danced again. His bright iridescent colored attire glowed in the moonlight and bathed her in the reflected light. It pierced the sky and she saw an amethyst crystal mountain. She scratched her head wondering about it and her mysterious companion. He winked at her but said nothing. Thomas pulled her up to dance and she saw her feet dancing in air.\n He kissed her cheek and said, “Go home. I can’t tell you more. Time will reveal all.”\nShe bowed and thanked him and walked away. When she turned back to get a last glimpse of the mystifying person, the man and the light were gone." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: From a Deep Recess\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1029\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during exam season, when tensions run high and a minor incident sends your protagonist into a panic spiral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The panic erupted his sleep. It was a fire alarm going off in his head, a realization that he’d left a pot of soup boiling on the stove or the bathtub running, and he’d driven hours from home and had no cell service.\nIt was none of those issues, though. It was worse. Joe Boyle realized he’d failed to drop a course and tomorrow was the final exam. It was his last class in his final semester and how on earth was he still in it, how could he have forgotten? He tried to remember what the professor had taught in those first few classes, the ones he went to before deciding to drop the course; it was political science, something about European integration, he thought. Or was it about geology? He wasn’t sure which. Maybe he’d forgotten to drop more than one, but tomorrow, tomorrow for sure, there was a final, at least one final. God, what if there were two?\nGeology, he decided. Yes, it had to be. And it wasn’t “Rocks for Jock,” the easy course that got people through the science requirement. No, it was the real one, the hard one, the one intended for budding geophysicists which Joe Boyle decidedly was not. It was, oh God, the one that has a lab, a lab he’d never been to.\nThat would be his luck. He could BS his way out of a poli sci class, anyone could. But geology? No way. He tried to remember the layers of the earth. There was the crust. That was easy. And a core or maybe more than one. A mantle? Was there a mantle? And rocks, too many to recall. He saw volcanoes in his head. He felt the earth shutter with quakes, but no, that was him shaking.\nThis had happened to Joe before, at least once, maybe twice, where he recalled the date for a test and panicked – once he had dry heaves – only to realize that, phew, yeah he’d dropped the thing in question or had already taken the class. Crazy, right? But this one, this time, he was sure. It wasn’t good. It was two in the morning, too early to call the professor and try to get some sort of a break and what would that look like? Maybe he could take the exam later or do a paper. He counted the credits he had, that he needed, again and again but the sum never came out the same. It was like he was climbing a muddy cliff and falling back to the bottom. He couldn’t remember the professor’s name but saw before him a strict by-the-book tweeded sort of with leather patches on his elbows, a sooty briar pipe clenched in his mouth, and an ever- contemptuous glare for his students. A cliché in other words. A cliché that wouldn’t abide student accommodation.\nHe could almost smell Balkan Sobranie smoke and wasn’t sure how he knew such a tobacco existed.\nBoyle knew he should look at notes if he still had them, or the textbook. He went back and forth between the notes in his head, what he could remember. There were those layers below the crust. If it was multiple-choice, he might get those. Rocks. That was in the text; igneous, metamorphic. There were more that slipped in and out of his mind, but he couldn’t hold onto them. There was a chapter, he was sure, on map reading. He could get that. He had been treasurer of the school’s mountain club and they did that orienteering course. Boyle knew how to find his way around a map, he felt sure of that.\nAnd he could cheat. If he sat in the way back, far from the professor’s contemptuous gaze, he could maybe get away with it. He only needed to pass. Boyle figured, easy peasy, he’d cozy up to some jock, someone who’d make big marks on the test he could see. Not a girl, though. Or a nerd. They’d write too small and cover the test paper with their arm.\nA new realization blew him away. He didn’t know where the exam was being held. He didn’t know the time. He could call someone who’d been in the class if only he knew someone. Boyle couldn’t remember anyone. He was shaking. What if couldn’t graduate? He’d accepted that job offer; they’d take it away now. His parents were coming in. They kill him. Maybe he could get hit by a car on the way to the exam wherever that was. Or just fall down the steps that led to the geo building down the hill. That would be a great reason to skip the exam and take it later. The school would get that. The professor would have to agree. He’d study, cram, limp into the exam and, voila. It might work. \nThere were the steps down the hill that led to the bus stop. He’d fall on the final few steps, not enough to crack his head, but enough to break something, a leg or an arm. Enough to get him into the hospital. He’d put the geology text in his backpack, notebook if he had that, and they take it all in the ambulance. Six AM would be about the right time, he figured. Early enough so no one would see him fake the slipping, but late enough so someone would be around to call 911. He had to protect his head, that’s all. And his crouch. \nHe roused when the dog barked downstairs. Boyle looked at the clock; it was five-thirty in the morning. His dog was right on cue. Time for a walk, then breakfast. He tried to recall what he’d been thinking about. Geology, it was geology for God’s sake. An exam. In college. He hadn’t thought about that for a while, for a long while, and had to laugh. At sixty-three, forty-two years out of college – he’d graduated early – he thought it rather bizarre that such a memory, a panic, was anywhere in his mind.\nThe funny thing was he passed Geology, with flying colors, in his freshman year." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: No Need to PANIC - Oh Really?\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1088\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during exam season, when tensions run high and a minor incident sends your protagonist into a panic spiral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "NO NEED TO PANIC – OH REALLY? \nIn the fall of 1972, Greg Monson arrived on the campus of Indiana University. (The week before, he had received a letter giving him instructions on where and when to meet.) \nThe meeting began with each of the nine new candidates introducing themselves. Followed by: “The entrance exam shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes to complete... As you know, the exam consists of questions: English/Vocabulary, Mathematics and History-Geography. You’re on your own...there will be no proctor...we operate on the Honor Code. Good luck. \nGreg’s mind went into panic-mode: A TEST? No mention of a test was mentioned in the letter. History and Geography were no problem. For the past two years he had been teaching both subjects. English? So-so. \nOhhh, his brain moaned: Nothing in the acceptance letter mentioned mathematics (or maths, as the Brits would say...) As a young teenager, he started a course in basic Algebra, as was common practice. However, in late December 1954 he lost a four month battle with polio; actually, he had won, he was still alive. \nBulbar polio normally killed patients...or at the best left them in iron lungs—most of whom eventually died. The Paralytic Polio left Greg with the left half of his body mostly useless for six months...with permanent loss in his left foot and ankle but left arm and hand recovering gradually to a semi-normal capacity. (Purpose in elaborating on the topic/mention of polio. Chances are ‘you/the reader are too young to know much about poliomyelitis.) \nHis missing school for nearly four months...meant: ab Quadratic Algebraic Equations: An equation where the degree of the polynomial is 2 is known as a quadratic algebraic equation. The general form of such an equation is ax2 + bx + c = 0, where a is not equal to 0. \nExample: 3x2 + 2x - 6 = 0 is a quadratic algebraic equation. This type of equation will have a maximum of two solutions. \nCubic Algebraic Equations \nAn algebraic equation where the degree equals 3 will be classified as a cubic algebraic equation. ax3 + bx2 + cx + d = 0 is the general form of a cubic algebraic equation (a ≠ 0). \nExample: x3 + x2 - x - 1 = 0. A cubic algebraic equation will have a maximum of three roots as the degree is 3. \nWas ALL GREEK TO GREG: Ergo...he completely flunked the math portion of the entrance exam. Well, ‘completely’ is an exaggeration; he was able to complete the addition, subtraction and division parts. \nOne good element of the story... Greg’s other scores were high enough and he was allowed to attend Graduate School at I.U. to obtain a degree in Programmed Instruction with a minor in FILM-TV production. \nEnding up: Consulting for nearby Cummins Engine...as a writer director and producer on dozens of training programs/films. Later: While employed by Lockheed Aircraft-Burbank. Initially, Greg worked with helicopter pilots to produce training programs, films and all training for Lockheed’s AH-56 Cheyenne, an attack helicopter developed for the United States Army. It rose from the Army's Advanced Aerial Fire Support System (AAFSS) program to field the service's first dedicated attack helicopter. \nWhen the Vietnam war was in sight of ending, the U.S. Government ended financial support of the project and concentrated on the first wide-body jumbo-jet the L1011 Tri-Star. \nGreg worked with flight crews and engineers from Delta Airlines; Air Canada and BOAC who came to Burbank to design and create training manuals, films, for all of the major components: HYDRAULICS, AUTO-PILOT, JETISONING-FUEL and SIMULATOR. \nWhen Rolls Royce—one of the original ‘customers’—and its ENGINE MANUFACTURE for a variety of other BOAC planes, couldn’t get past a problem with the ‘heat shields’...Lockheed had to shut down until other U.S. Jet Engine manufacturers could begin manufacturing engines. ( Unfortunately, by that time...Douglas—basically copying the L1011 came out with their MD 11. And put the 3rd engine up on the middle of the rudder. ( Kindov funny, eh? ) But not so funny for the first months until Douglas could take care of huge problems with ‘vibration-factors’. \nFollowing my time at Burbank/Palmdale, California. I replied to an employment offer: Training consultant ( ITU used the word ‘EXPERT’...still may?) to work throughout Brazil; home office BRAZILIA. Wonderful...24 hours ‘A’ Portuguese. My brother spoke Brazilian Portuguese / Trained Agents from Spain and Mexico (for three years) for the CIA. \nSent my resume and cover letter to ITU – Geneva, Switzerland. \nTwo days later I received a phone call: “Blah blah blah How long will it take you to report for work in Brasília?” \n(I’m not married, not involved...mmm ) Two days. But I don’t have a passport?” \n“Do you drink or do drugs...? \n“Never...to either.” \nLong story short... They (ITU) cleared everything with the FBI, et al. A week later I was on a flight out of Los Angeles for Brasilia (in those days...nothing direct) \n“The ticket will be – LA/NYC...American Airlines...NYC / Brasilia VARIG AIRLINES.” \n********** \nThe flights were all 1st Class. \n“I met with the Telephone Company in and around Brasilia...and learned there were over four-hundred different phone companies...using everything from Siemens to Telefunken, a French Corporation...forgot the name. \nIt would take volumes to explain what transpired over the next three years. An ordinary/regular ITU assignment lasts one year. After the one year, TELEBRAS paid me almost double (the dollar was very high on the exchanges) too stay another three years. \nFollowing Brazil came ITU assignments to Papua New Guinea and India. (And in the process: traveling to/ visiting any other countries he had an inclination to visit.) \nAll’s Well That Ends Well - William Shakespeare (1564-1616). \nA true story! Only the name of the ‘lead character’ was created, to protect the innocent...me! \nD.T. Moon (February 10, 1936 — still in good health) \nP.S. David E. Hennessy – was one of the nine. We became best of friends and worked on the production of hundreds of training programs. Dave tried to get me to work with him in Saudi Arabia: “Come on, Moon... I’ll get you a great apartment near mine...here in Athens. We’ll fly to the oil fields (one or the other: Khurais / Qatif Project and Abu Safah field or the Safaniya Oil Field)...every Monday morning and fly back late afternoon to Athens. \nAnd, never to be forgotten: Henry Hank Shumway the gentleman who interviewed me for 30 minutes before hiring me at Lockheed Aircraft – Burbank/Palmdale. \n(How I saved Lockheed one million dollars + : Another story for another 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: Forty Two Steps\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1330\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Things have changed. I said to myself. All the memories of back when flooded my mind as I sat in the car and looked up at my childhood house. My feet seemed to be attached to weights as I slowly got out the car and walked to the sidewalk. I can’t believe I’m here. I said to myself. I never would have guessed that I would have to come back to this shitty ass town. I barely got out alive. I’m just glad I left when I did. I remember when I was younger and making a game out of how many steps it would take me to reach the front door from the sidewalk. Seventeen steps, on a good day. It would take me seventeen steps to reach the front door. Today, I dreaded walking to that door. Time to make up a new game. I wonder how many steps it would take me to get back to the sidewalk. My aim was as few as possible. Where was once well manicured lush green grass, was now dirt patches in some spots and over grown weeds in some areas. About six inches to be exact. They really did let this place go. Almost halfway there and I only managed 10 steps. I had to keep reminding myself that I only come here to collect what was rightfully mines and leave. People say walls don’t talk, but I know soon as I walk back into this house the familiar walls would remind me of all the pain I suffered and witness between them. Halfway there now. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck starting to stand. As much as I want to run away, I knew I had a mission to complete. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t. Slow deep breaths. It’s would all be worth it. I had to keep reminding myself. I got closer and my mind sank deeper. I remember all the hurt and pain that was brought upon me. Even just now to see the grass overgrown and bald in some patches, it hurts.\n*\nI remember the night I left vividly. Ma just had finished whooping me for something she didn’t do. She beat me and sent me to bed early because she didn’t have the house together and Pa would be walking through the door any moment. She spent the majority of her day outside in her garden and forgot to clean the house and cook supper. I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There was never any food in the house. I don’t see how I could get blamed for something that I had nothing to do with. That was just the way things worked around here though. I guess I was supposed to take care of the house and the man of the house at the age of 13.\nI was laying in my bed with my nighties on when I heard Ma and Pa arguing right after he came in shortly after 6pm.\n“Got-dam-it Linda! You were supposed to have supper ready by 6pm!”\n“Paul, I keep telling ya it’s that damn child of yours. She just ain’t ever going to get right. I’m telling ya; I have to keep eyes on her 24/7 or she would be out here laid up naked in a field fucking some boy. I can’t take my eyes off her a second. She would be running about pregnant by one of these little nappy headed boys she fond of.”\nWhen Pa when to work at 6am, Ma would spend all day in the garden and working on the yard with the smallest pair of daisy dukes on. She would put on a show for whoever would ride past the house and watch. They stopped having a real marriage a long time ago. Their days evolved around Pa molesting me and Ma beating me. I prayed on so many nights to disappear and die.\n“You don’t think the neighbors talk? I know all about your little show you put on all day for every darn car that passes by.” Pa said as he turned by around and left out the front door.\nMa tried to chase him down, but after two minutes or so, she came back in. She burst into my room and started hitting me with a metal hanger while accusing me of running her husband off. I tried my best to use my blanket as a shield, but she managed to pry it from my hands. Every time the hanger would touch my skin, I felt a hot burst shoot through me. After 17 hits, I lost count. \n“Shut up foe I give you something to cry about” Ma shouted before leaving out the room.\nWhen she left the room, I made up my mind that I was running away. Soon as they would go to sleep. While lying there silently crying, I heard Ma in the kitchen cooking dinner for supper. I took that time to write in my journal and pack my bag. That night Pa never came home and Ma never came back into my room, so leaving was easy. They wouldn’t miss a child they never wanted.\n*\nAs I knocked on the door, I heard Pa moan and groan about who could be knocking on his door. The sound of the floor boards squeak sent chills through my spine. I could see his shadow through the screen door. I took a step back so he could open the screen door.\n“Well, look what the cat dragged in” Pa said as he adjusts his glasses. “It takes for you mammy to die for you to come back to your old man.”\n“Look Pa, I just come to get the rest of my items out my room. I don’t want any problems with you. Please just let me get my things.” I said with a shaky voice.\n“You been gone damn near ten years, if it’s in there then gone get it and leave. You never were one to make a man happy. You wasn’t shit like your mammy. May her raggedy ass soul rest in hell” Pa stood to the side and let me in.\nNineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. I counted the steps in my head. I opened my door and it was like I never left. My white canopy twin sized bed, yellow curtains with matching beset, and my white desk. My bed was still unmade and clothes everywhere. I quickly snapped from my trans and went over to my old desk. My notebooks was right where I left them in the lose floor board under my desk. I quickly gathered them up and headed towards the door. I had accomplished my mission. I faced my fears, but I wasn’t safe yet. I had to get back to the side walk. Only then would I be safe. As I walked past my father sitting in the same old brown recliner, I had the certain urge to run. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four.\n“I hope you got everything you needed because next time you’re not welcome.”\nI wanted to tell Pa how I didn’t even want to come here today and he would never see me again. I didn’t go to Ma funeral and I had no plans of attending his. As I stood in at the door, I had flashbacks of the abuse I endured in this house. Tears escaped my eyes without my permission. I was just about to open my mouth when he started to get up from the recliner, so hurried and opened the door and took off taking big steps. I didn’t stop until I was safe in my car. I glanced at the door and seen Pa looking out the screen door. Forty-two steps. It took forty-two steps to complete my mission by facing my childhood fears." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Cielo Azul (Blue Sky)\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1642\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a metaphor about human nature." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Cielo Azul\nA short story by Mackenzie Littledale\n7/15/2021\nword count 1628\n “What do you mean, the blue sky is an illusion?” my mother asked, shock writ large on her face, hand poised on the door handle of the passenger side of my car. Her sheer terror scared me for a second. I thought she might get out of my car, so I had to ameliorate the situation.\nI was happy to explain, sure she’d grasp my meaning and praise my intellect. “I mean, when you look at earth from space, there is no blue sky. You can see straight through the air to earth’s surface. It’s God’s cleverest illusion.” I tilted my head with my hands out, as if to say ‘voila’. My mother seemed to catch her breath. Had I said something ‘bipolar’ without knowing again? No, I wasn’t having a psychotic episode or going off into la-la-land. She had this mistaken notion that any expression outside the lines was a smoke signal for help. I needed to explain further in hopes of calming her down. “At night time, there is no blue sky. From earth, we can see all the way to outer space. The blue of the day time sky comes from debris and particulates refracting the sun’s rays. The blue isn’t really there.”\n“Well, well, well. Aren’t you smart.”\nTo anyone else unaccustomed to the difference in my mother’s tones of voice, I got the recognition I wanted. But I was no stranger or distant cousin. That tone was nothing short of passive-aggressive sarcasm. ‘Aren’t you smart,’ wasn’t praise. She felt stupid and masked her confusion by degrading my intellect. One day I would have to remember to tell other people besides my mother about my philosophical thoughts. Maybe I’d just grown too used to beating my head against this particular wall, because I had nothing else to talk about and I could bang my head one more time.\nMentally switching gears to reinforce myself, I said, “It’s true about human nature, too, I think. It takes the darkest of night to see the stars and that we’re not alone in the universe. It can also take the darkest depths of despair to find the light within ourselves.”\n“Humph.” She shook her head and refreshed her lipstick. “No one wants to feel despair, sweetheart. What would make you think such things?”\nI pressed on, though I knew I’d wind up surrendering to the impasse all over again. I couldn’t impress her. I had no deeper thought than this one. “In the daytime, all we have is the blue sky even though it’s not really there. All it does is keep us from seeing beyond to the other planets and stars. People can be like that, too.”\nHer lips transformed from faded fuchsia to a full, vibrant fuchsia. She smiled at her reflection in the passenger mirror, snapped it shut and put the visor back up. “Where to next?’\nI ignored her question. She knew damn well we were going to the mall for bath and beauty products. “People can act like, if they’re just happy-happy all the time, then they must actually be happy, but they’re not. Inside they’re miserable and desperate. They play pretend, like their mood is only allowed to be cielo azul day in, day out. They’re full of shit. There’s no such thing as being upbeat and positive all the time.”\n“What are you talking about now?” my mother asked.\nI pulled into a gap in the traffic on the four-lane boulevard, hitting the gas hard. “I’m talking about the blue sky illusion.”\n“For heaven’s sake, why can’t you ever not be serious? Why can’t you just enjoy a day?”\nWhy can’t I have a mother who gets me? “I am enjoying the day. I enjoy the thoughts and insights of my mind. Since I’m your daughter, you might take some pleasure from knowing I can think.”\n“You think too much.” She laughed in a chiding sort of way, not full on mocking but encouraging me to slink down to her mental level and cozy up there. Easy, oblivious, naïve.\n“Really?” I pulled out my vape and sucked on it hard. “I find most people don’t think enough.” In my mind, I included my mother with that group of unthinking people. We passed two intersections and I turned right into the mall entrance to hunt for a parking space, cognizant of how brilliantly blue the day’s sky was. \nWhile I inched the car forward in search of parking, a man and woman with a child in a stroller and another in a sling made their way toward the JC Penney entrance. I marveled at them. Their clothes were crisp and clean, solidly middle class. I made up stories about their home life based on their Birkenstocks and khakis. I imagined what values they’d impart to those little ones based on their cheery smiles and how close they walked together.\nI thought back to my parents’ parties for family; I never sat with the women. Once their conversations inevitably turned to crochet, knitting, recipes, and housecleaning, I lost interest. They weren’t keeping pace with the changing times and the men were always more animated, laughing even as they argued. Their debates had a dynamic balance of fire, intellect, and respect. The balance would ebb and flow: embrace, reject and embrace again. The men let their inner lions circle their prey with rhetoric and unassailable logic, but at the end of the night, they remained on speaking terms. No one got eaten. They’d debate the merits of feminism while the women giggled about eye shadow. I wanted to grow up to be a powerful and knowledgeable woman. I’d choose my eye shadow in the morning in private and never speak a word about it around the dinner table. \n“You should take a break from thinking.” My mother pointed down the next aisle. “There’s a good space there.”\nI directed the car toward the next aisle and maneuvered to back in to the space.\n“Why not just park straight in?”\nI let out an inward sigh and appraised my mother. Stubborn in her own way. She’d never talk back in an argument – at least not directly in a straight line. My mother spoke in concentric circles away from a point, whether she was right or wrong. She emulated Jesus facing his crucifixion. Never spoke a word in her own defense, and it incensed my father. I’d grown up to experience the trap myself. She’d doggedly pursue a habit that had no beneficial purpose for anyone and to ask her to change led to begging her to change, which led to blowing a fuse. But her silent response invariably led to feeling guilty for being a bully. The habit in question continued unabated, which led to feeling powerless and unable to cope except to surrender. My mother was water lapping against stone seawalls. One day, the walls would crumble, yielding to the never-ending, senseless lashing. We all crumbled around her, but wasn’t it our strength and worldly wisdom that she relied on to keep her safe? She undermined us, one and all. \nWe got out of the car and went inside the mall toward Bath & Body Works. With my deeper thoughts exposed for inspection and rejected, I resorted to the lighter side of womanhood – bath products that would smooth and soften, scents that would entrance and delight, sugar scrubs and body butters. I loved giving them a place. For an activity like shopping, my mother was a good companion. The philosophy would have to be shared with a higher mind, or I’d have to validate myself on my own terms. The final option would be to abandon philosophical thoughts altogether. If only Bath & Body Works had products for people like me. Instead of sugar scrubs to exfoliate the skin, they should offer a dictionary to exfoliate the dead from the spirit. Instead of body butters to smooth the skin, a thesaurus of words to smooth bruised egos. If I could pluck the right words to lubricate my spirit, I’d finally learn to master building and sustaining a meaningful relationship with the one woman with whom relationship should be easiest and deepest.\nA perky salesclerk separated me from my mother with her intoxicating invitation to sample smell A Thousand Wishes, Coconut Lime, and Black Cherry Merlot. I waved to my mother. “We’ll meet up by the register.” Her back was already turned and she wondered among the shelves as if I wasn’t there anyway.\nI reverted immediately to childlike enthusiasm for the wonderland of products and it didn’t take long to rack up a total exceeding a hundred dollars. After my purchases filled two shopping bags, I rejoined my mother with her modest purchase of bath gel and body lotion.\nMy mother’s eyes landed a sharp look a little too long on my shopping bags. “You sure like to splurge on yourself.”\nI sure like to comfort myself and smelling good is a happy byproduct. “These will last me for several months, Mom.” The temptation to resume my philosophical thoughts on the blue sky flashed through my mind ever so fleetingly. “Mom?”\n“What is it?” Her smiling face and hands clutching her shopping bag gave me pause. What good would it do to try to resist her water with my stone seawall?\n“Don’t you just love this store?” I asked, smiling back with my decision to revel in my commercial femininity. Why should I scare her with my deeper thoughts? We could simply look in the mirror and see ourselves, not each other. In my reflection, I’d validate my own philosophical musings, keep the bipolar managed, and blend into society, if ever I could find a place to belong under the brilliant blue sky." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Misadventures of an Introvert\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2964\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a metaphor about human nature." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Caution: Language\nInspired by true events \nOne morning I noticed a fledgling sitting in a bird’s nest outside of my window, chirping his lungs out with his wings spread. He seemed to peep over the edge of the nest, trying to garner the courage to try out his wings. He reminded me of myself. Trying to gather the nerve to leave the nest of my comfort zone, spread my wings, and fly. I guess that’s what led me to make what turned out to be a poor decision.\nI took the exit that led to Brooke’s apartment and stopped at the red light. Going to a club was way outside of my comfort zone. However, I had been trying this new thing called getting out of the house more often. Both my mom and my sister suggested that it would be good for me. They both complained about how much I stayed in. Getting out was one thing, but going to a club was on a more advanced level. How had I allowed Brooke to convince me to go out with her tonight? Oh right. The fledgling. My natural habitat included my bed with a hot cup of tea and a cozy mystery novel. After all, I am an introvert.\n Yet, here I was. I had gotten all dressed up to go out with Brooke and another one of her friend’s Tiffany. Ironically, we had all went to undergrad together at the University of Arkansas-Pine Bluff. It was a small school, in a college town called Pine Bluff, AR. I had met some amazing people there. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the best when it came to staying in touch. I’d recently relocated to St. Louis, and my mentor, Ms. Tasha, connected me with Brooke.\nI recalled seeing Brooke around the college campus, and we’d had a few conversations, but mostly we hung out in different crowds. She ended up pledging a sorority, which is a huge deal when you attend an HBCU (Historically Black Colleges/Universities). I remembered having a few conversations with Tiffany as well. Like me, she didn’t pledge, but she did end up joining the cheerleading squad, which kept her just as busy. Me? I was the studious one. It paid off when I was able to secure an internship two summers in a row as an engineering student. I graduated Summa Cum Lade with a job offer at a top civil engineering company. My professional life couldn’t be better. My social life, however, could stand to use some improvement.\n Brooke’s apartment was nestled within the Central West End. The Central West End was a quaint area in St. Louis, MO that housed a number of retail shops, restaurants, bars, and businesses. Two major healthcare organizations employed a host of medical staff that typically took residence in the area. A prestigious medical school connected to both the adult and pediatric facility. As a result, it was quite natural to see a wealth of medical students grabbing a quick bite at St. Louis Bread Company (when they were able to get out of the hospital) or the Starbucks that sat a few blocks down. I found the area to be too expensive to live in, as I preferred to get the bang for my buck. However, it was my favorite neighborhood to hang out in within the gateway to the Midwest. \n I pulled into a street spot on Euclid Avenue that wasn’t too far from Brooke’s apartment and marched to her door. While waiting for her to answer, I looked down and gave myself a once over. I had on a royal blue halter dress that stopped just above my knees. The white platforms caused me to stand at 5’7 instead of my true 5’3. So far, my feet weren’t hurting. We’d see how long that would last.\n The door opened, and I was surprised to see Jesse, Brooke’s boyfriend.\n “What’s up Faith?” He greeted me.\n “Hey Jesse. What’s up with you?”\n He shrugged. “Nothing much. Brooke is still getting ready. Come on in.”\n I stepped over the threshold and into Brooke’s apartment. It was a charming place with mauve accent walls in the living room and dining room area. I admired the open space in her kitchen and the modest five-piece dining set. The simple rectangular table made of faux wood had matching chairs whose existence seemed to be for admiring, not sitting. In her living area, a couch the color of caramel sat against the wall in front of a mocha-colored coffee table and two matching end tables. Small lamps sat on both end tables and gave the living room a soft glow. \n “Brooke!” Jesse yelled. “Faith is here!” he turned to me. “She’s back there with Tiffany.”\n I nodded and headed towards the back of the apartment. A hallway led to the bathroom which was catacorner to her bedroom. When I made it to the bathroom, I saw her in the mirror. Brooke was average height with a round face and round eyes. Her fair skin was a stark contrast to her long jet-black hair. Tiffany was shorter and a little darker than Brooke but still lighter than my cinnamon brown complexion. She had more of an hourglass figure with a small waist and wide hips. Tiffany’s hair was styled in goddess braids that fell to the middle of her back. Both were pretty girls. While Brooke was fussing with her hair, Tiffany was leaning into the door with a glass of some concoction in her hand. Her almond shaped eyes revealed irritation.\n “Brooke, will you come on?” Tiffany complained.\n “Alright Tiff, dang. Calm down; I’m almost ready.”\n Tiffany rolled her eyes. When she noticed me, she gave a small smile. “Hey Faith. You look cute.”\n “Thanks.” I told her and returned her smile. To be honest, Tiffany had always come off as intimidating to me. But she always treated me nicely.\n Brooke looked at me through the mirror. “Okay Faith! I see you!” she told me with a giggle. “Girl, we are going to find you a man, tonight.”\n “Aw come on. We don’t have to do that. I just want to have a fun girls’ night out.”\n “Hmph. Good luck with that.” Tiffany mumbled, sipping her drink.\n I furrowed my brows in confusion. Brooke rolled her eyes at Tiffany. “Jesse is coming with us. You don’t mind, do you?”\n It seems it wouldn’t have mattered if I did or not. I figured she was just asking to be polite. My eyes met Tiffany’s who shook her head and rolled her eyes again. I looked back to Brooke.\n “No, of course not. I’m just glad you invited me. I’m trying to get back out there.” I responded sheepishly. \n She waved off my comment. “Of course, girl. You’re always welcome to hang out with us. You know that.” She fished through her makeup bag searching for some cosmetic treasure. \n “Where is my lipstick?” She said to no one in particular. “Ooh. I think I left it in my bedroom.”\n Tiffany moved slightly so that Brooke could exit the bathroom. I stood there beside Tiffany.\n “It’s gonna be some shit tonight.” Tiffany asserted.\n “Why do you say that?” I asked.\n “Because Jesse is coming. There’s always shit blowing up when he’s around.”\n I nodded but stayed silent. Truthfully, I couldn’t agree or disagree. As far as I knew, Tiffany and Brooke were best friends. They even attended the same high school together before coming to UAPB together. She knew Brooke much better than I did.\nI thought back to our college days. While I would never tell Tiffany, I did get the impression that Brooke was a little naïve. Jesse went to UAPB as well and played football. I admit, he was an attractive guy, and awfully charming. Brooke seemed to be in love with him even back then. I’ll never forget my roommate mentioning to me how distracted Brooke seemed to be in Biochemistry class looking through different engagement magazines. I had even witnessed Brooke shoving the magazines in Jesse’s face in the café a few times. That had been 7 years ago, and she still wasn’t Mrs. Jesse Jenkins.\n “Brooke! Are you ready yet?” I heard Jesse yell.\n “Almost!” she yelled back.\n Tiffany huffed. “I’m gonna need another one of these.” She then took her empty glass into the kitchen. \nTiffany and I climbed into the back seat of Jesse’s Cadillac Escalade. After I buckled in, she poked me with her elbow and nodded towards Jesse as he helped Brooke into the front passenger seat. I looked back at Tiffany expectedly. She rolled her eyes again, but I didn’t see anything wrong. Had I missed it? While I had always liked Tiffany, I was now beginning to wonder if she was a hater.\n “Tiffany, are you dating right now?” I could have sworn I heard Jesse snicker at my question. She must have heard it too, because it seems she shot him daggers through the rearview mirror.\n “No. Not right now.”\n “Are you open to dating?” I inquired.\n “Sure. I’m just at a point in my life where I want something real, you know? I need a man who knows what he wants, and someone who wants a relationship; because that’s what I want. That’s what I’m ready for.”\n Her tone was soft; a complete 360 from the bravado she usually wore.\n “I hope we can find a nice area where we can all sit.” Brooke stated.\n “Are we going to a club to sit or to party?” Tiffany asked.\n “To party. I’m just saying for when my feet start to hurt in these heels.” Brooke replied.\n Amen to that.\n “Don’t worry, baby. Your man got the hook-up.”\n “What does that mean exactly?” Tiffany spat.\n “Don’t worry about it. You’ll see when we get there.” Jesse shot back.\n Tiffany folded her arms across her chest but didn’t respond. I was surprised.\n “As long as your hook-up isn’t Yolanda.” Brooke stated with much attitude.\n “Why you always gotta bring up Yolanda? I told you ain’t nothing going on between me and her.”\n “Hmph. Then why is she always hanging around you?”\n Jesse sighed. “Her sorority is linked with my fraternity. You know that. It ain’t nothing more than a brother-sister thing.”\n “Okay. We’ll see.”\n I saw Jesse open his mouth to respond, before snapping it shut. I had to give him credit. He wasn’t a complete idiot.\nOne thing I did appreciate about Jesse was his connections. He wasn’t lying when he said he had the hook-up. The three of us were sitting in VIP dancing. The lounge was crammed with people dancing, drinking, and having a good time. I appreciated that the music wasn’t ratchet but more so popular hip-hop and R&B. After dancing for a few songs, we sat down on the long white couch when a slow jam played.\n Tiffany finished off her drink and sat it on the small table in front of us. “Where is Jesse with our drinks? I’m still thirsty.”\n “I think he’s still at the bar.” I craned my neck to try to find him, but the dim ambiance made it hard to make out anyone.\n Brooke stood up. “Come on. I’m thirsty too. Let’s just meet him down there.”\n Tiffany’s face twisted into a frown. “What’s the point of being in VIP, if we’re walking down to the bar?”\n “Just come on.”\n You ever have that feeling that something crazy was about to happen? That was the feeling that settled in my stomach as we followed Brooke to the bar. I got the feeling that Brooke just wanted to find Jesse, so I shook off the uneasiness. For the first time, in a long time, I was out having a good time with some girlfriends. In retrospect, I realized that Tiffany was wiser than I gave her credit for.\n Brooke bulldozed her way through the crowd of people, and Tiffany and I followed. Standing at the bar, Brooke worked to get the bartender’s attention. Tiffany and I sang and rocked to the music when a Michael Jackson song came on. After a few minutes, Brooke passed us our drinks and we all clinked glasses. Brooke took a sip of drink before stopping suddenly. Her eyes resembled a deer caught in headlights.\n “Brooke, are you okay? Do you not like your drink?” I asked.\n She didn’t reply. She just stood there looking past me. I followed the line of her gaze to see what had caught her attention. Even with his back to us, I knew it was Jesse talking to some brown-skinned girl. He towered over the girl, so I couldn’t get a good look at her face. What I did witness was Jesse hug the girl, and Brooke take off towards them. \n Tiffany noticed my questioning gaze and responded, “Yolanda.”\n “Brooke!” Tiffany yelled. I trailed her as she went after her friend. But Brooke didn’t stop; not until she got to Jesse, that is.\n “What the hell?” I heard her yell. She looked from Yolanda and then to Jesse. In a swift motion, she threw her drink in Jesse’s face. Yolanda jumped back in an effort to not get wet. Jesse stood there motionless, eyes closed, and a cocktail running down his face and shirt. When her scene came to an end, Brooke stormed off. Tiffany and I followed after her.\n “I can’t believe he would do this to me.” Brooke sobbed.\n I was trying to keep up as Brooke raced down the sidewalk. Tiffany was right by her side trying to call an Uber. My feet were begging me for mercy. Damn heels.\n While I was debating on whether or not I was going to take off the heels and brave walking the filthy sidewalk, I noticed several people staring at us as we walked by. Their questioning looks screamed: What in the hell did ya’ll do to her? Slightly embarrassed, I picked up my pace. We finally stopped, and I noticed a black Chevrolet Malibu slowing to a crawl in front of us. Tiffany put Brooke into the backseat and she got in the front. I climbed in the back with Brooke.\n “How could he do this to me?” Brooke continued to sob. Tiffany turned from her seat in the front. \n “Brooke it’s going to be okay. Just try to calm down.”\n Brooke ignored Tiffany and continued to wail. Meanwhile, I was sitting next to her quiet as a church mouse. I noticed the Uber driver’s eyes plead with me from the rearview mirror. The only thing I could offer was a shrug. I was in the same uncomfortable situation that he was in. I felt I didn’t know Brooke well enough to comfort her, and it definitely wasn’t my practice to get into the middle of others’ relationships.\n “Fuck him!” Brooke spat. She had finally calmed down enough to become angry.\n Things had taken such an unexpected turn. What I didn’t know at the time though, was it wasn’t over yet.\n Back at Brooke’s apartment, she resumed crying. Tiffany and I sat on either side of her trying to console her. Every 30 seconds or so, Brooke would break for crying to ignore Jesse’s calls. Ironically, his ringtone was Jon B’s They Don’t Know. \n The silence was broken by a pounding on the door.\n “Brooke! Open up.”\n “Go away!” Brooke shouted.\n “Baby, please just open the door.”\n “She doesn’t want to see you. Go away!” Tiffany yelled.\n The knob rattled. With no luck, he went back to knocking.\n “Baby, please. I can explain everything. It wasn’t what you think.”\n Brooke’s tears subsided. Tiffany must have recognized the same look I did.\n “Don’t do it.” Tiffany told her.\n “Well…maybe there is an explanation.”\n “Brooke don’t.”\n Brooke ignored her and went to open the door for Jesse.\n He brushed passed her, and I hadn’t been prepared for what he said next.\n“Ya’ll gotta get the hell out.”\n I blinked. Surely, he wasn’t talking about us. Tiffany must have thought the same thing. Neither of us moved.\n “I’m serious. Ya’ll gotta get the hell out.”\n He held the door open for us.\n Tiffany rolled her eyes again, but stood. She glared at Jesse as she passed him. Without saying a word, I followed Tiffany out the door.\n We were almost to our cars when Tiffany turned to me. “Sorry you had to see that.”\n I shrugged. “It wasn’t your fault.”\n “I just get so tired of seeing him treat her like that. I’ve told her time and again she could do so much better than him. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been dating since freaking sixth grade, and he was her first, blah, blah, blah.”\n It seemed Tiffany needed to get some things off her chest. I always prided myself on being a good listener, so I remained silent.\n “You would think 7 years later, after he still hasn’t proposed…” her voice trailed off and she shook her head. Her mind seemed to drift before returning to the present. Tiffany was hard on Brooke. From my perspective, it just seemed she hated seeing her friend hurt.\n “Anyway. We’ll have to do this again. Without Jesse.” She told me and gave me a hug. “Drive safe and let me know when you make it home.”\n “I will.” I told her. I opened the door to my Honda Civic and drove home.\n One week later…\n My phone buzzed, and I noticed a text from Brooke.\n Hey, Faith! Tiffany and I are going out for ladies’ night tonight! You should join us!\n It took me all of five seconds to make a decision. I shut my phone off, grabbed my cup of hot tea, and settled in my bed with my cozy mystery novel." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hometown Boy\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1083\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who finds guidance in an unlikely place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Hometown Boy\nThe year was 1920. Nine-year-old, Dutch, moaned to his four-year-older brother, Moon, “This is all there is?”\n“Yeah, ain't it grand? Everything they promised. Well, nothing like the run-down row houses of Chicago. Maybe you don't remember them but they were crammed in pretty tight with no room to play ball at all. Had to walk down two or three streets and cross busy traffic lanes just to get to green open space at a park. Never knew what kind of riff-raft might jump out at ya. Ma wouldn't let us go alone and Dad, well, he was no better than he is now.”\n“I was hoping for a room of my own this time.”\n“What makes you so special? Lucky you only have to share with me. We all slept in the same room when you was born over that store front in that tiny hamlet. Can't even remember the name of that one I was too young. Tampy something. This ain't bad at all. We'll have a great time. Did ya see that fancy archway over the main street? It's new and was made to honor the veterans of the big war. There are big stone arches the railroad goes over on three of the downtown streets. We can probably climb on those if we don't let the folks know. They have ball fields and parks all over town, a library we can walk to and a beach down by the river to swim at. There's not much yard here but Dad has a job selling shoes finally. Maybe he'll do all right.”\n“I'm worried about fitting in at school. It's the middle of the school year. Everyone will have their friends and I'll be an outsider, again.”\n“Easier to make friends at your age than mine. We'll stick together like we always have. Our family don't need no one else. Ma, Dad, you and me. Once again in a new town. Don't need to get too attached to it 'cause knowing Dad we will probably be moving along somewhere else real soon anyway.”\nAlthough they stayed in the same town longer than any other town they had been in, they moved from house to house. The boys' favorite had a fireplace, a big yard, and a garage. Like most kids they still had to share a bedroom but it opened to a large tree branch they could shimmy up and down. Handy to get to the outhouse. Dutch liked to hide the few coins he could save under a secret loose tile of the fireplace.\nDespite his worries, Dutch was able to assimilate better than he thought. He was never more than an average student in school but he liked extracurricular activities like swimming and football so participated on the local teams.\nBecause of the father's sickness, as their mother called it, their family never prospered.\n“Hey, Moon. Dad is passed out on the front lawn. Come help me haul him in before the neighbors see him. Mom would be mortified.”\nTheir mother, Nelle, was active in a local church. She taught women's Bible classes and put on skits with the Sunday School kids which included her boys. Dutch liked those more than his brother. He made up his mind and got Baptized when he was eleven. He remained a Christian throughout his life.\nLuckily the Baptism was not held at the river. They learned some of the town's history included the collapse of Truesdell Bridge in 1873, the biggest road bridge disaster in American history. Forty-six people attending a Baptism were killed when the weight of the crowd caused the four-year-old iron bridge to fall into the Rock River.\nMost of the time Dutch was considered a shy introverted child being content to play by himself with tin soldiers, collecting butterflies or reading books about wolves. But he had a mischievous side, too. Once he launched an illegal rocket into the downtown bridge and had an encounter with police. Luckily the act did not bring down another bridge but he had to use some of those saved pennies to pay a hefty fine. Like all boys he rough-housed with others his age but still fished and trapped muskrats down by the river with friends, too.\nDutch went on to perform in more plays during his high school years. Besides being on the swimming and football teams he joined the debate club and became president of the student body in his senior year. Those swimming skills were put to good use during the three summers he took on lifeguard duty at the beautiful Lowell Park and was credited with saving seventy-seven lives at the beach on the river. (Or maybe it was only young maidens pretending to need rescue by the handsome strapping lad.)\nOverall, this small town ended up being a positive influence on these budding young minds. At the time, the settlement of approximately 10,000 people had a strong sense of community and amity for each other. Everyone knew each other and helped each other in times of need. What the parents lacked in formal education, they made up for in \"street smarts.\" They encouraged their sons to work hard in school and make something better of themselves as well. They found racial discrimination horrible and encouraged Dutch and Moon to bring their Jewish and African- American friends home with them even if doing so would cost them their popularity at times.\nDutch became the first member of his family to attend college starting at a time when financial catastrophe befell many. He worked his way through and even sent money back to his struggling family. As in high school, he wasn't the best student because he spent most of his time participating in school activities. Once again, he became a popular student body figure when he led a student strike to protest the college's decision to lay off teachers as the Depression approached. He majored in economics and sociology and graduated in 1932.\nHis first job after college paid an impressive ten dollars a week so he was able to help out more at home. That led to bigger and better including sportscaster for the Chicago Cubs which led to a screen test while in LA which led to movie career which led to...\nWell, as you probably figured out by now Dutch came from such unlikely humble beginnings to become one of the most recognizable and appreciated Presidents of the United States, Ronald Reagan." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Where's my baby?\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1066\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone losing faith in an institution." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a regular day like any other day. I wake up, get myself and my son dressed and ready for work and daycare. My son was 11 months old at the time. I was 6 months pregnant with twin boys. I was in so much pain, I barely got myself out of bed. I was a single mom and the only source of income in our household, so I had no choice but to push through whatever pain I was going through. I dropped my son off at daycare. I gave him all the hugs and kisses I could. \"Have a good day baby. I love you\" I said to him. I left and headed to work. I worked for a car dealership as an appointment coordinator. It was jsut me and two other women in an extremly small closet space, I cant say it was a room or office it was so small.\n\" Wow, that smells good.\" I said as I walked in headed towards my desk.\n\"Good Morning Jess.\" my collegue said.\n\"Good Morning.\" I replied.\nAlready the phones were ringing off the hook. People calling to scheudle maintenance for their vehicles.\n\"Good Morning, sunnyside toyota how may I help you?\" I asked while I answered a phone call.\n\"Yes, I'd like to schedule an oil change for my 2017 Camry.\" the customer said. Before I could even ask for the customers name I began to feel extremly nauseas.\n\" Im sorry, one moment please.\" I ran to the restroom and vomited whatever I had for dinner last night. I felt better after that. So I went back into the office space and continued to work. A few moments later I got really hot and began to sweat profusly. I felt nauseas again. Damn I think I have to throw up again. Oh my god I feel like Im dying. What did I eat? I thought to myself. I explained to my manager that I felt ill and needed to head home. I needed to lay down. I was now throwing up stomach acid, I had nothing left. I felt horrible. On the way home I decided to pick up my son from daycare so that I wouldnt have to worry about getting up later. This was extremly difficult being a sick single mother with a toddler. I couldnt tend to my baby like I wanted to. He needed me, he cried for me, he reached for me, but at this point I was so weak I could barely move. I called his grandmother to assist.\n\"Please keep him for the night I've been throwing up all day. I cant help him right now, I feel terrible.\" I begged his grandmother.\n\" Absolutely, I am on my way sweethart.\" she said.\nMy son cried until she got to my house. He was hungry, his diaper was full, and he was tired. He just wanted me to hold him and love on him. I couldnt.\n\"You need to go to the er. What if something is wrong with the babies?\" she said. And she was right. I hadnt felt any movement from any of the babies all day. What if something was wrong? She drove me to the emergency room, but did not stay with me because my mom was on her way. They immediately admitted me and sent me up to triage. I put on the gown and laid on the hospital bed. A nurse walked in with a smile.\n\"Im just gonna do an ultrasound to check on the babies ok?\" the nurse said.\n\"Ok,\" I responded nervously.\nThe nurse put the cold gel on my baby and used the wand to locate the babies heartbeats. She was quiet and turn the sound down on the ultrasound machine. She was looking at the screen for about 4 mintues, moving the wand at different angles. She left and then came back with another nurse. This nurse did the same thing. A doctor came in and asked me what happened. I told him how sick i was all of a sudden.\nHe looked at the ultrasound screen, took the wand from the nurse. A few moments later the second nurse grabbed my hand and the doctor said \" We found baby A's heartbeat, its strong at 160 beats per minute. But we could not find baby B's heartbeat. I am sorry.\"\nI looked at him.\n\" I just had a ultrasound appointment a few days ago, both of them are fine. Both heartbeats were high! They both were just health I dont understand. Is this why I got sick??!!\" I cried.\n\" No I dont think this is why you were sick.\" he replied.\n\"Let me see the ultrasound, maybe... maybe you missed it.\" I said. They turned the screen to me. They showed me my live babies heartbeat, but when they wen to baby B, it was dark. There was no flicker. No movement. Where is my baby??!! What happened to my baby???\nThe nurse holding my hand grabbed onto me tight and asked \" Do you pray? Do you believe in a higher power?\"\nI cried \" Pray? I thought there was a God, but right now I dont know anymore. God took my baby.\" After that, what God? The same God that made me carry both babies to term? I had to carry my dead son for three more months, being reminded at every ultra sound appointment that there was nothing there. What kept me going was my healthy baby. Not God. What God? The same God that didnt heal my relationship when I begged and pleaded? What God? The mercyful one, that apparently didnt have mercy on me? God took my baby selfishly. The same God that prepared me for two babies but only left me with one. What God?.....\nThe same God that, even though I lost my baby, pulled me through post partum depression. The same God that blessed me with another healthy son. The same God that never left me. I felt alone but I was never alone. The same God that carried me through the darkest times in my life. I didnt know it until I reached the light. That God that will never leave me nor foresake me. My faith was hanging by a thread until I started fiding the beauty of be alive." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Newcomer\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1281\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a mysterious figure in one’s neighborhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It wasn’t such a bad place to grow up in, this little town. The streets were narrow but straight, the shops old but clean. Residents woke early to take in the crosswinds of coffee and pastry pumping out of the corner bakery. The dew muffled the morning into stillness, quieted the quiet folk, weighted them down with complacency, comforted them with a familiarity that kept their routines on track.\n\nThere wasn’t much room for hate here. Most of the day was spent in reverie of time gone by, or in wonder of what lay ahead. Most folks were so lost in thought they couldn’t see what was right in front of them. It was a quiet town with a quiet past, except for the old oak tree and its little notch.\n\nThe volcanic chute of wood consumed the center of the town square, its tortuous arms twisting and writhing over the town as if in an aggressive embrace, a mother trying desperately to get the attention of her children. Its leaves reached out over the iron railing and freshly mown lawn at its base, out over the paved streets and squat shops. Its deep roots emerged from the hard-packed earth in knobby tendrils and stretched deep into the ground, spreading out to encompass the town’s outer limits. This mad, serpentine network of strands completed a connection that spanned both above and below the town.\n\nAnybody could tell you just by looking at it that the tree was older than the town itself, maybe older than any settlements or homesteads that had come before. Most towns planted a dignified courthouse in its center, but this old oak wouldn’t allow it. It acted as the courthouse and so much more. It was the center of all that transpired in this small town. It was witness to everything.\n\nAs for the notch, nobody asked about it, but they saw it. It had always been there, in that old tree, older than the oldest resident. A deep groove worn out of the heaviest branch, a few inches wide but deep. The exposed wood now clotted, smooth, browned with age. A wound that carved well into the mother tree’s rough flesh, a stain that she had sustained for the town. They all saw the notch every day, on their way to the bakery, to work, to school. And it was fine.\n\nWhen the newcomer strolled into town, they saw him, too. But they kept walking, to the bakery, to work, to school. And it was fine.\n\nHe was a lot like the notch in the tree. Out of place but not, a stranger but familiar. He didn’t belong here, but in a way he had always been here. Because he was just like the notch in the tree.\n\nThe newcomer hadn’t drawn attention to himself as he made his way across the town square, but he sure did stick out. Different hair, different skin, different gait. He didn’t smile, he didn’t say hi. Maybe he didn’t belong here.\n\nWhen he saw the tree with the notch in it, a sort of recognition appeared on his face. The newcomer focused on that notch, and he didn’t let go. Not for a second. The great old oak stared back, shamed, its mighty presence and age-old wisdom powerless to shield its wound from the newcomer’s cold stare.\n\nWith his eyes still transfixed on that old oak, the newcomer made his way to the corner bakery. He ordered a coffee, politely enough, and took it out to the quaint table outside the bakery entrance. From there, he just stared at that notch. As far as anyone could see, he hadn’t touched his coffee the whole time he sat in that chair of his. After a spell, the steam thinned out around him and his cup ran cold. Still, the newcomer kept his gaze on that notch.\n\nUnknown to him, the newcomer had gathered unemphatic attention, from the old couple who sat at the park bench every day for the past twelve years to the mayor’s wife now getting her nails done at the salon. Even the mail carrier had slowed his route to take in this unfamiliar sight. Soon, a crowd of townsfolk had filtered into the town square as though the church bells had rung out to gather them together for an important occasion. Those folks in the town didn’t like this newcomer after all. And they didn’t like what he was looking at. It was like he was communicating directly with that tree, learning her past, hearing her scream out the truth. Disapproval had come to town for the first time in a while.\n\nAs the newcomer got up from his seat, the townsfolk snapped to life. They all gravitated toward him, barricading him from his goal with their politeness, their quaint pleasantries, their small-town how-do-you-do’s. They offered him dinner, a place to stay, asked him where he was from. The man strode right past all that, right toward that tree, toward that notch. The townsfolk gasped when he reached up to feel the notch, tracing the calloused contour of that ancient branch, the groove where a line of hemp, weighed down by something heavy enough, had once cut right into the wood. The great mother tree seemingly flexed that lofty branch for him, parting the foliage and Spanish moss overhead to allow the sun’s rays to spotlight his curiosity. The newcomer studied the earth beneath that notch, his hand hovering over the dirt in the shadow of that tree. Imagining what had transpired here, seeing it as clearly as if it were happening now, before his very eyes. He handled the plot of dirt with all the care of a curator examining a precious exhibit.\n\nThe newcomer turned his attention to the townsfolk, a hard stare freezing the dew, shattering the years and years of complacency, a new weight now on their shoulders. The tree loomed large, menacing, above the newcomer.\n\nThe man strolled into the hardware store, just a block down the way, and came out with a simple handsaw. He then returned to the old oak, the tree’s screams of protest falling on deaf ears, and began sawing at the great big branch. He worked as though he wanted to chop it right off. The chattering teeth of the saw dug into the old bark, and dug into the hushed silence of the town square. Echoing off one façade and onto another, every corner of the square now filled with the saw’s rhythmic babble. Now the townsfolk stopped what they were doing, openly observing the handiwork of this newcomer. But when he turned from his work and noted the relief on the folks’ faces, as though some deep wound in their sides was finally being treated, he stopped short. He inspected the fresh gash he had made in the tree branch, roughly the same size as the notch just next to it, and nodded his approval. He removed the handsaw and pushed past the onlookers. The relief in the townsfolks’ eyes washed away the moment he stepped away from his work, replaced with a deep-running agony that was more transparent than ever. No one dared approach that new notch.\n\nAfter the newcomer strode out of town, the townsfolk went about their way. But he certainly left his mark. A new blemish on something that had always been, a reminder of what transpired. It changed the countenance of the tree. It changed the countenance of the town square. And when the townsfolk passed by, on their way to the bakery, to work, to school, the great mother tree’s screams were something they could no longer ignore." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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's wrath\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 3024\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a metaphor about human nature." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "MOTHER'S WRATH\nRichard!!!!,\" I heard my mother\ncalling me with so much venom in her voice\nI remained in my hiding place.\n\"Where is this idiot, bastard, scallywag?\"\nStill I remanded in hiding.\nThen I heard footsteps. They were my mother's . I\nbegan to shiver. I knew what to expect when she\ncatch me. Instant and merciless punishment. I had\nbroken one of her ceramic cups while washing the\nmountainful of plates I have been washing for over\nan hour.\nThe footsteps got closer.\nI shivered. My heart began to beat in a sporadic\npattern. My pulse increased and beads of tears\nbroke down on my skin. My feet wobbled and\nshook terribly. I couldn't control the motor\nmovements of my limbs.\nIn that moment, I wish I could be teleported to\nanother planet to avoid the recompension that was\nabout to befell me. It was not magic but mere\nintuition.\nMy mother's cane landed on my back before I had\nthe chance to ran away from her. She whipped me\nagain and again,\" gba, kpo, gba,kpoooo.\"\n\"You idiot!!! , you broke my ceramic cup,\"she\nshouted at me.\n\"I'm sorry , mama, it was an accident. It slipped\nfrom my.....\"\n\"Shut up, You nitwit. He-devil. Useless child, how\ncan you break my precious cup if you are not the\ndevil himself?\"\nThe cane landed on me again and again. I cried out\nloudly, screaming at the top of my voice but my\nmother continued to beat me without a trace of\nmercy.\nShe held me in her iron fist and cane me to the\npoint I realised I was about to collapse. Then my\nFather burst onto the scene and blocked the next\nStroke of the cane from landing on me.\nShe looked at my father with wild eyes and said,\n\"You are the one spoiling this bastard.\"\n\"No, I'm not. He's just a child of 16 years. Show\nhim some love. Its true he made a mistake by\nbreaking your cup but just because he broke a cup\ndoesn't mean you should sentence him to\neverlasting whipping.\"\n\"He made a mistake indeed, why wouldn't he make\na mistake. Like Father like Son,\"my mother retorted\nand stormed out angrily.\n\"I'm sorry son,\"my father consoled me, \"be very\ncareful next time so that you won't invite\nunnecessary punishment upon yourself. Who\nknows? Next time , she might killed you!!\"\nMy Father spoke like that because he was not\naware of the countless abuses I had to endure in\nthe house in his absence. In this situation, I was\njust lucky he was around to serve me from the\nclaws of the \"monster\" I called my mother.\nMy Father is a lecturer at the University of Ghana,\nlegon, Faculty of International relationship and my\nmother was a nurse at 37 military Hospital.\nAs a teenager growing, I have encountered so many\nabuses from the woman I called my mother. It was\nrather ironical. In my own little mind, I thought men\nare more wicked than women but my mother\nseemed to constantly proved my theory wrong.\nIf you cough accidentally in her presence, she will\nslap you, You made a little noise, she will scream\nat you. You delay in the washroom for five\nseconds, she would scold you and if you break\nsomething as has just happened , she will give you\n10 strokes of the cane.\n?One month later?\nFor the next one month, the home was peaceful. I\nwas beginning to relax. One Evening, Ghana\nElectricity Company caused a power outage. I was\nin the house but since I was not prepare for this\n\"Dumsor\" I didn't have my rechargeable Lamp\naround. I groped in the dark in search for the\nrechargeable lamp when my feet hit something. I\nfell headlong and smashed into a mirror.\nMy head was bruised and was badly hurt. Luckily\nthe lights came on just five minutes after the\nincident.\nI was shocked when I realised I have broken my\nmother's mirror she cherished so much.\nIn that moment, I knew I had signed my death\nwarrant. My mother would surely kill me for\nbreaking her mirror.\n**That Night**\nMy mother returned from her workplace. She was\nin a happy mood. I shivered. I knew I was standing\non a time bomb, waiting to explode.\nThen I heard my mother entered her room. It took\njust three minutes for her to notice her broken\nmirror. Then I heard a wild scream, \"Richard!!!!!\"\nI had prepared for this encounter already. I\nremoved my sandals and took to my heel just in\ntime to see my mother coming from her room with\na knife. She threw the knife at me when she\nrealised I was escaping. It missed me by half an\ninch.\nI dashed out from the room but I heard her saying,\n\" if I don't kill you tonight, then it's not me Akosua.\nThat\nyou foolish father Ben will bury you soon.\"\nUncharacteristically, my father came home late that\nnight. The sound of his car was unmistakably\nloud.I came out from my hideout and met him. He\nwas surprised. \"Richard , what are you doing\noutside?\"\nI was almost teary and find it difficult to talk. It\ntook a lot of energy from within me before I\nmanaged to say, \" Dad, you need to tell me the\ntruth, why did mum hate me so much?\"\nShe almost stab me with a knife because I broke\nher mirror when the Electricity Company of Ghana\ncause a power outtage.\nMy father shouted, \" What! She almost stabbed you\nbecause of a mere mirror? \"\n\"Yes, dad, she almost did\"I answered.\n\"Hmm,\"My Father was lost for words but it was\napparent something else was eating him up.\nThen my eyes chanced on a picture in my father's\nhand. I got curious and asked him, \"Dad, whose\npicture is that?\"\n[Narration from Richard's Father's Point of view]\nWhen my Son, Richard, asked me whose picture I\nwas holding, it sent me down the memory lane. I\ncould recall it vividly though it happened about\ntwenty years ago.\n~Twenty years ago~\nI met Akosua when I visited a cousin of mine at\nthe Divine Touch Hospital. She was a trainee nurse\nand I took a liking to her. By then I was doing my\nDoctorate Programme at Cape Coast. When I\nfinished with my Education, I got married to\nAkosua Afriyie. The wedding was full of pomp and\nflamboyance. Thousands attended the wedding\nceremony. Cars were parked at the Entrance of the\nRoyal Chapel International as if they were auctioned\nfor sale.\nThe wedding night was awesome. We had bouts\nand bouts of sex. I remembered myself geared up\nthat night and hit her at the right spots.\nSad to say, all my carnality yielded no results. Our\nhappy marriage began to crumble when it was\nobvious that my wife couldn't conceive. We tried all\nforms of medications both herbal and the hospital\nmedications but all our efforts proved futile.\nAkosua became very hostile to me. She didn't care\nif I eat, sleep or die. I tried to reason with her but\nshe became more and more aggressive. At a point\nin time , I became afraid of my own wife. I have a\nfeeling she wanted to kill me because I questioned\nher on her involvement with a certain doctor called\nVincent. She denied it vehemently and even\nthreatened to kill me if I ever question her fidelity\nagain.\nBut secrets don't stay secret for long. She got\npregnant for Doctor Vincent. She told me since I'm\nnot man enough to plant a seed in her and my\nfellow man has been able to achieve that fit, she\nhad no other option than to move on with her\nlife.She packed all her belongings and left me\nalone with our housemaid Sika, a modest but\nbeautiful girl from the Volta Region. Sika proved to\nbe a home maker. She did virtually everything in\nthe house. In fact , she worked as if her muscles\nwere made of iron.\nThe more we stay alone in the house, the closer we\ngot. The law of attraction began to work. After all ,\nwhat do you expect to happen when a woman leave\nher matrimonial home for a maidservant who was\ntwice as beautiful as her?\"\nOne day I returned from my bathroom ,n*de, and\nwas applying some pommade on my body when\nmy door swang opened and guess who\nmaterialised through the door, it was Sika.I knew\nthe stage was set for the inevitable event that was\nsupposed to have happened long ago.\" Sir, I know\nI shouldn't have banged in on you like this but over\nthe years, I have come to realise that women like\nmadam Akosua don't deserve men like you.\"she\nstood by the entrance of the door gazing at my\nn*ked body.\n\"Can I come in?\"Sika asked.\nIt was just a mere formality. Before I could decide\nwhether to allow her in or not, she came in, closed\nthe door and moved closer to me . She held my\nhands and pulled my body close to hers.Then she\nremoved her clothes and directed my hands\ntowards her n*pples. She started giggling when she\nlooked at my face. \"I know you like me too but you\nare just trying to be principled.\nSika, I love you but I'm married to .......\"\n\"Please stop it,\"she cut me off, In case you have\nforgotten, she's pregnant for another man. Your\nmarriage is gone. I'm here to ....\n......\"she trailed off and then continued,\"Make you\nhappy. Stop pretending and let's enjoy it.\"\n\"I can't,\" I cut in.\nSika looked at me surprised. She stood up and\nleft.\nShe was sad.I felt sorry for her.\nThe next day, Sika left me. She went back to her\nvillage Lokorpe in the Volta Region. She left before\nI woke up. It was from the letter she wrote down\nbefore leaving that I got to know she left to her\nhometown. Luckily she left her phone number and\naddress down.\nI didn't bother to call her. I hired another\nhousemaid. Unfortunately, she was not as hard-\nworking as Sika. Within two months , I fired her.\nI was beginning to miss Sika. I realised I loved her\nmore than I thought. Quickly, I took her phone\nnumber from the letter she wrote down and call\nher.\nMe: Hello Sika.\nSika: Hello, Please who's this?\nMe: Sika, can't you recognise my voice?\nSika: No, I can't. I'm sorry , this is a wrong Line.\nMe: No, no, no, no. Sika, don't do this to me. It's\nMr. Ben kuma .You used to be my housemaid in\nAccra, Airport Residential area.\nSika: OK. I got it. So why are you calling me now?\nMe: I want you to come back.\nSika: I'm Sorry, Sir. I can't.\nBefore I could utter another word, her line went\ndead.\n~Two weeks later after the call~\nSika returned to the house. I was so elated\n.Staying in the house alone was like being in\nprison. Sometimes, it takes the absence of certain\npeople in our lives to appreciate their presence. It\ntakes loneliness to appreciate companionship.\nI welcome her with open arms. It was a default\naction. She rushed into my arms like a daughter\nwho had missed her father for one hundred years.\nWe hugged. I kissed her. She looked surprised but\nresponded by giving me a more passionate kiss.\nWithout saying another word, I carried her to the\nbedroom.\nShe reached for my \"joystick\" and c*ressed me\nsoftly . I felt aroused. The blood within my body\nsurged furiously like a wild beast released from\nprison. My adrenaline pulsated sporadically.\nWe connected eventually sending a sporadic wave\nof pleasure running concurrently through our bodies\nlike electrical currents not willing to be\ndisconnected any time soon.\nAfter that night, b*nking her became a habit. The\nfollowing month, the inevitable happened, she got\npregnant. I was quite happy I was going to be a\nfather but underneath my joy, I have a feeling\nsomething bad was about to happen.\nIt was as if I have the gift of Clairvoyance, the\nfollowing week,my wife returned home. I was\nexpecting to see her baby but there was none.\nShe later explained to me that her child died just\ntwo hours after delivering him. Doctor Vincent was\nvery angry with her and even called her a witch. He\nthrew her out of his house telling her to go back to\nher impotent husband.\nI felt pity for her and accepted her back to her\nmatrimonial home. Technically, she was still my\nwife since I have not divorce her when she got\npregnant for the doctor.\nI told her Sika , our housemaid was pregnant for\nme too. She looked shocked but didn't say a word.\nI knew she was planning something evil.\nSika knew her stay in the house was dangerous.\nOnce again, she ran away from the house.\nAbout a year later, We woke up early in the\nmorning to meet the cry of a baby. I opened my\ndoor only to see a three months old baby in a\nbasket in front of my door, on the doorstep. I took\nit in and handed it over to my wife. There was a\nletter attached to the baby. It was from Sika.\nDear Ben,\nWords cannot expressed how I feel right now. I just\nwant you to know that my love for you is priceless.\nI cannot erase the sweet moments we share\ntogether. It was deeply etched into the secret\nrecesses of my memory. It break my heart to leave\nyou when your wife arrived but I can't stay in your\nhouse with your wife. But remember , I'm with you\nin the spirit and I'm sure you have seen the fruit of\nour love .I put him at your doorstep.\nYour love\nSika.\nI cried when I read her letter. I hide the letter from\nmy wife. To her, the baby was a gift from God\nsince she had not being able to conceive any child\nagain after the fist one.\nShe took very good care of the child until she\nchanced on the very letter I had hidden from her\nover the years. She grew very bitter with me and\nthe child. It was at that point that she hated\nRichard.\n\"Dad, dad, talk to me, whose picture is that you are\nholding?\"\nMy son brought my memory back from the\nmemory lane. Dear reader, don't tell my son the\ndetails of all that I told you . I will find my way to\ntell him the secret I have been keeping from him\nfor 16 years.\n\"My son, ....\"\n[Narration from Richard's point of view ]\nI woke my father from his reverie. He said, my son,\nthe woman in this picture is your mother. Her\nname is Sika Ametamemanya. I'm sorry I kept this\nfrom you all this while.\nI was angry at my father from keeping that secret\nfrom me and also cheating on my\n....\"mother?\"...erhhh. Akosua.\nBut dad, why did you cheat on her. Now she is\nangry with me because she saw me as a bastard\nand the evidence of your infidelity. No wonder she\nhated me so much.\nMy father said, \"son, don't be in a hurry to\nconclude. It might interest you to know that she\ncheated on me first.\n\"How , father?\"I asked.\nIt's a long story but listen, I will tell you, My father\nsaid and began recounting his story. He said It all\nstarted some twenty years ago. He met Akosua\nwhen he visited a cousin of his at the Divine Touch\nHospital. She said Akosua was a trainee nurse then\nand he took a liking to her.......\"\nI listen with rapt attention until he finished telling\nme the whole story. After recounting the story to\nme, I felt sorry for him. I also admire him for\nhaving such a forgiving heart to still accommodate\na woman who got pregnant for another man, left\nhim and stayed with the adulterer for close to a\nyear only to come back empty handed.\nHonestly , I don't know what I could have done in\nsuch a critical situation. My heart melted for my\nfather.\nThough Akosua , the woman I had come to know\nas my mother maltreated me, I still love her. She\nwas the only mother I knew.\nWe received the shock of our lives when one day,\nWe received the news that Akosua was involved in\na fatal car accident when she was returning from\nwork. Her body was deposited at Korle-Bu Morgue.\nOne of the things found in her bag was bottle of\npoison. What she had wanted to use it for was\nunknown but I can guess. She wanted to poison\nMy father and I and take over his properties but\nnature has its own way of metting out punishment\nto the evil ones.\nHer body was deposited at the hospital. Family\nmeeting was summoned and three weeks later ,\nshe was buried after a short funeral ceremony.\nSomething else happened at the ceremony. I saw a\nwoman starring at me curiously. I stared back at\nher. Then my mind went back to the picture I saw\nmy father holding when I went to his room to\nexplain why I was outside the house when he\nreturned from work. Involuntarily, I shouted ,\n\"mother! !!\"\nI ran towards her and she also ran towards me\nsaying, \"my son, I miss you so much\"\nThe tears in our eyes began to flow ceaselessly as\nwe remained in a hugging position. My father was\nat my back. Guess what , he was smiling at his\nwife's funeral.\nEPILOGUE\nMr. Benjamin helped Sika to further her education.\nShe became a science teacher in Accra Academy.\nAfter graduating from the university, He got married\nto her. They now have their second child Emma.\nRichard was happy he has met his real mother." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Sugarcane\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2402\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Wonji is my birthplace where I didn't celebrate my first birthday but had my first period on a visit when I was thirteen. Tadele's graduation parties at two locations, two happenings and two songs altered the course of my life. Tadele graduated from Teachers Training College thirty five years ago. His sister Tesfina, a family friend, hosted the first party. Their parents invited lots of people at their residence in Wonji town. The moment I laid eyes on Tadele's friend, Fantahun, I had an unabashed crush! That was some overnight party in this capital city! A week's stay in Wonji transitioned me from a girl into a woman. 'Upside Down,' by Diana Ross and 'Sunshine in the Music,' by Jimmy Cliff are the two songs ringing in my ears whenever I reminisce.\n\nDan, my big brother, had quite a collection of cassettes at the time. In his visits to our house, Tadele always checked out songs by inserting cassettes in the tape recorder. He assigned Dan the task of DJing at the overnight party. Konni, Tesfina's daughter, a year older than me, Bruck, my younger brother, and I were the only children mingling with the youth. They let us have first hand experience of what it is like to behave at social gatherings. We watch and learn with such devotion. They rank second in command but not anything like our parents. Dan doesn't hesitate to take action if he noticed what goes on is unsuitable for us. The question uppermost in my mind was, would Dan let Bruck and I stay the whole night?\n\nI was excited looking forward to the night out of home. It was a rare treat. Braiding my hair took me forever. I soaped the braid when I showered so it became manageable. I still remember the extent I went to cover my bare forehead. A strap of my mother's bra served as a bandana. I let few braids slip through the strap so it holds down just the way I liked. Three items I picked out of my closet. A canottiera which outlined my budding breasts, a jeans jacket and baggy pants. How acutely I felt my femininity when I was with Fantahun! Nothing had prepared me for the emotions I went through that night.\n\nWhen Bruck and I showed up at Tesfina's house, it was packed. As I ate dinner, I wondered where the dancing would take place. I needn't have worried for it was at its full swing at a neighbor's. Young men and women were drinking, dancing and loudly chatting. The music was deafening! Okay, I thought. This is it. The DJ, Dan, would tell Bruck and I to go home with mom. He would surely decide, it's no place for children. We presented ourselves at the spot he was at. He actually welcomed us beaming and all. Was he drunk or just drugged with happiness? A plump girl was with him. We sought out the graduate. Tadele was everywhere entertaining his guests, dancing and having fun.\n\nFun meant sitting next to Fantahun after the introductions. His curly hair and amazing teeth he flashed struck me. I was hooked. What's more, he wasn't drinking alcohol like his agemates but soft drinks. What was his excuse for the attention he gave me throughout the night? Konni and I danced with him taking turns. She kept breaking away from us to cater to the guests. How convenient for me. Teased him about his name. 'Fantahun! You are Mirinda! And a replacement a share a part!' Fantahun means be like Fanta in Amharic language. The second meaning befitted the situation. He was interested in Konni. He curbed himself not to jeopardize his friendship with her uncle. I was oblivious to this blinded by admiration for him. He willingly succumbed to it. I was the replacement. The unsuspecting shield.\n\nTurning off the light at home parties, signaled cuddling and kissing time. How I wanted him to kiss me! Fantahun didn't try to put his arm around me let alone kiss. I envied the ones who were holding and kissing when light is off as slow music plays. Dance moves I made in front of Fantahun resulted in tingling on my nipples. Unnerving but I loved it. He must have enjoyed my company or he would have made excuses to circulate or something. We were either engaged in exchange or dancing.\nHe told me he was to go to Russia to pursue his education. He was granted a full scholarship by the government. Special privilege used to be given to the children of families who serve in the army during the Derg Regime. Was I sad to learn of his leaving? Not that night.\n\nA week passed. Time stood still for me though. Fantahun ruled my world. Daydreaming, a favorite pastime of a young girl! School was out. Children spend time on playing and running errands for parents. Major responsibility was looking after my baby sister. She was two years and eight months old at the time. One morning, Tadele annoyed me asking me about his friends, 'how do you feel about Fantahun and Samson?' 'I love Fantahun but I like Samson.' I proceeded to prize out more information. Fantahun's father and sister live in Wonji. The graduate was the reason for the life changing experience I had but all I cared to talk about is his friend. Fantahun stays with his uncle and cousin Samson in the capital city. When mom gave me permission to go to Wonji for a week I was on the seventh sky!\n\nTesfina, her family and I packed clothes and arrived at La Gare to board Loncina heading towards Wonji. Mom and Tesfina, their friendship started at an evening school. Tesfina's husband, daughter, father, and some of her siblings live with her in Addis. The rest of the family resides in Wonji. When her mom, Tsedale, comes to see her family, she brings delicious food. How delighted I was to see Fantahun and Samson were to ride in the same bus with us! I asked boldly to sit with him. Was it his charm which fueled my energy? The journey was full of animated conversations! Normally, I talk about what I see through the window of buses on a long journey. I have no recollection of time and place on the way. My focus was on Fantahun. He disappointed me one time though.\n\nWe made a stop at a checkpoint. Soldiers went through our stuff after we vacated. Fantahun and I veered off to the Awash River nearby. I said to him, 'mom warned me not to go near the Awash River. It has a satanic power. It pulls you towards it and you drown.' Fantahun situated himself right behind me. Clapping his hands on his laps, feet pounding the ground, 'it's going to get you!' I was terrified! He burst out laughing. No, I didn't like what he did. I don't understand this about men in general. They get a kick out of scaring people. Mom must have used the story as a mechanism to stop me if I was tempted to go to the river. Fantahun trailed behind as I furiously headed back to the bus. I wouldn't talk to him.\n\nWonji town where mother gave birth to me is magical in my head. I grew up hearing stories about it. My parents met at Paper Factory. The way mom use her fingers to describe how many papers counted looks as if she is showing finger exercise. I developed fondness for the town picturing mom in uniform riding bicycle using one hand on the way to school, the spots she hang out with the girls, smooching with their sweethearts, weekly visits to the hair saloon, trouble they went to get the trending style, being bridesmaid, group pictures at photo studios, cooking with her aunt who raised her, the noisy neighborhood, the interaction with teachers and coping with the strict school rules. Mom's sweet childhood memories are closely tied to Wonji town where sugarcane is found in abundance.\n\nSugarcane(shenkora ageda in Amharic) quenches thirst. As children, I loved the way we ate it. We extract the skin biting into the tip of the stalk. Peeled stalk is held close to the mouth and as you wrench bits of it away, tugging at it is fun. There is a crunching noise as you sink your teeth in it. We chew while making smacking sound as we close our lips together to suck and retain the juice. The joy fills up the whole being! We spit the fibers out. Sugarcane plantation is suitable for the production of sugar and candy. Employees of Paper, Sugar and Candy Factories were given houses to live in. Kuma, mother's uncle, used to bring a package of Desta(Happiness) Keremela(Candy) when he came to see us in Addis Ababa City. The dusty town was far from welcoming. The cousins split at the bus station. We continued the rest of the way on an open carriage pulled by horse.\n\nTesfina's family welcomed us. They live in a big house which has a large yard. Heavy cooking was being conducted by lots of women. Part two of Tadele's graduation party already underway. We were ushered into the house. The rooms with no doors but billowing curtains uplifted my dispirited countenance! It blew away my bad mood. Way of living in this town was not what I was accustomed to. People design their lives adjusting themselves to the hot weather. Once you set foot inside the house, the coolness makes you forget the outside. Mosquito nets fascinated me! During the day, you fold and keep tied to the base. The hook securing the base has a cone shape more like an umbrella. All the beds have mosquito nets which make them look like brides anxiously awaiting grooms.\n\nLochinvar is a fictional romantic hero I used to idolize. Fantahun, my Lochinvar! All around me people were buzzing. I just beamed watching them lost in the fantasy world. Did the dust settle on him on the way home? I wish it was I instead of Samson next to Fantahun on that carriage! Is he affected by the hot weather like newcomers? What kind of house do they have? What was he doing? Would he come here? Would he show me around? Silly thoughts were dispelled by the appearance of the girl next door. Konni and Mimi hang out together. Mimi is younger than both of us. We hit it off right away. Food was served for those of us who arrived from the city. Konni and Mimi promised to show me around. Konni couldn't break away as she liked. Her grandma assigned tasks to her.\n\nMimi and I slipped out of the house off to the river to see the hippos. It wasn't that far from the house. We weren't lucky that afternoon. I admit the idea of watching a wild animal was disconcerting. You have to be quiet and motionless for the hippos to come out of the sparkling water. The rays of the sun were too much for my eyes. I obliged Mimi by following what she does. When she said it was enough, I didn't want to leave. The surrounding area of the river let me forget the dust for sometime. The town's dwellers didn't mind stepping in to the dust whenever they venture out of their houses. In my week's stay, I saw a bit of the back of a hippo for a brief moment. Mimi and I were inseparable. She took me under her wings.\n\nHer wings stretched up to two neighborhoods. Konni's youngest uncle, Belay, joined us on our way to my mother's uncle Kuma's house. Belay was delivering invitations to people. It was a celebration of his brother's graduation! Kuma was one of the invitees. I got to meet the whole family. It was only Kuma whom I knew. He's grandpa's half brother. He was a large hearted gentle soul. His warm distinct voice is etched in my memory. He spoke Amharic fluently. Oromigna is the language widely used in the area. The children used it effortlessly with their parents. The uniformed soldier I met intrigued me. It's Kuma's daughter. I couldn't find things to say to her. She wasn't friendly. Her younger siblings related better. Kuma bought us soft drinks. We were grateful. Belay left before we did. We head back home for it was already evening.\n\nGoat meat was served at the family dinner. We sat around the table eating out of a huge tray. I was hesitant to taste the fried goat blood for the first time. When Ababa Zewde, head of the family, noticed that I avoided it, he encouraged in that booming voice of his, so I ate. The second day, there was a feast. Relatives, neighbors and invited guests came to the house with gifts. Tadele's friends and acquaintances stayed for the overnight party. Come the third day, I regretted eating the goat blood believing it brought about my first period. Tesfina and Konni fussed a lot but I didn't appreciate it. It was beyond me to comprehend the fact that I started a different course of my life in a town far away from my mother. There was no pain, no discomfort, nothing. True, cramps marred my emotions for years. The weather played a significant role in the change my body underwent more than the goat blood.\n\nWhat Fantahun did at the party did contribute to the turmoil inside. A girl about his age wouldn't leave his side! They were kissing in the dark during the popular love song by Tewodros Tadesse which runs for five minutes! It was a depressing sight. I should have been the one in his arms not that girl I wailed inside. Konni was incensed too. How could he do this? The sense of proprietorship we exercised over a player! Fantahun eventually made his move cooking up ways of meeting Konni and I in the city. We were to go out on a date with the cousins! Mothers got wind of it. Konni had lickings from her mother. I got away with scolding because mom doesn't beat us. He kept in touch with us after he moved to Russia through letters and postcards. Fantahun asked to marry Konni when he came on a vacation. She refused." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Brown Skin Girl\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1008\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which the same line recurs three times." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Brown skin girl. Your skin just like pearls. The best thing in the world. I’d never trade you for anybody else. I silently sang the lyrics to the Beyonce song over and over. I listened to this on the entire bus ride to and from school. Only took my headphones out when they required it which was when I was in classrooms. The hardest things about going to school is riding the school bus, walking through the halls, and lunch period. Riding the school bus was hectic because the bus driver didn’t bother trying to stop the kids from running all over the moving bus and bullying others. Walking through the halls I have to deal with the stares and being teased by the other students. In lunch, the other students watched me eat and made jokes. Most times I refused to eat and just sat in a stall in the girls’ restroom. All eyes were on me. It sucks when you are picked on for the color of your skin. Music has got me through so much in life. A few times, it has even saved my life. \nI remember the first time I heard Brown Skin Girl. I was on the bus coming from school. The girls behind me were making jokes about me. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear them, but when they started to peak over the seat, I could no longer pretend to ignore them. The whole bus was laughing and pointing. A few people threw balled up pieces paper at me. As tears started to fall down my face, I heard someone say, “Look, Dark Chocolate is melting.” I closed my eyes tried to picture myself someplace else. I wanted to disappear. I would have done anything to be able to teleport right then and there. That’s when I heard the song come on through the bus speakers. Brown skin girl. Your skin just like pearls. The best thing in the world. I’d never trade you for anybody else. I listened to verses filled with words that made me feel the complete opposite of what the kids on the bus was saying . I opened my eyes. I could see a few kids out of their seat pointing and laughing, but I could not hear anything from them. I was mesmerized was the lyrics. Most things out of focus. But when you're in the room, they notice you. Cause you're beautiful. Yeah, you're beautiful. Even when the song went off, I heard the lyrics in my head over and over.\nWhen I was walking through the isle to get off at my stop, someone tripped me knocking me out of my trans. I fell in something wet and it got all over my clothes. I heard the same kid shout out. “I told you Dark Chocolate was melting!”. They all were laughing at me and calling me names. I ran all the way home. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be here. Maybe since everyone else thought it, it was the truth. Maybe, I was ugly. I wish could disappear into night since I was so black. No one asked was I okay, nor did they try to help me up. The bus driver just sat there letting them laugh at me. Dark chocolate. Nobody likes dark chocolate. \nWhen I got home went straight to my room and locked myself inside. Hoping my parents wouldn’t bother me, I told them I was okay through the door when they came and knocked on my door. When they left, I laid on my bed for what seemed like hours. It was dark when I woke up. I glanced at the clock and seen it was a little after 7pm. I got in the shower and went down stairs. I was surprised to see we were having some of my favorite dishes for dinner. Green bean casserole, chicken breast stuffed with dressing, corn bread, and mixed greens. From how my parents were acting, I’m sure one of the kids on the bus told their parents and they their parents called my parents. They were being extra gentle with me and they didn’t question me too much. I ate my dinner silently and only made conversation when I had to. They made sure they told me how beautiful I was. I admit it felt nice to hear it considering the day I has was so rough. I just wanted to finished dinner so I could go to my room and go through with my plan. Which I planned to put into effect when everyone was sleep. I didn’t want my parents getting in the way of anything.\nI had planned on taking a handful of pills before I went to sleep so I didn’t have to go to school tomorrow. I didn’t want to face the school after what I had just went through. I figured it would best of I left. No one would miss me and everyone would be happy I was gone. When I went back into my room, I suddenly remembered the song. I decided to listen to it to see if it would have that same effect on me as it did in the bus. Something inside of my just told me to listen to it. I sat on my bed and listened to the words over and over. After what seemed like the 20th time of listening to it, I knew all the words. I felt like they were talking to me and made the song just for me. I went from sadness to happiness. I felt like I was seeing things from a new point of view for the first time in my life. I went to my bathroom and looked in the mirror. As I looked in the mirror, I realized that it was them with the problem. I am perfect the way I am. I’m beautiful! Brown skin girl. Your skin just like pearls. The best thing in the world. I’d never trade you for anybody else." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Blu and the AlleyWay\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1071\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Whew! It's hot out here! Hotter than a fish fried in country grease! Why in the world am I sounding like my Mama and Big Mama? We used to say we wouldn't say all that stupid S.ugar h.oney I.ced T.ea stuff if you know what I mean.\nI' m standing here looking in the alley way and I remember when Mama told us if we go in that alley she would kill us like a dead doorknob...here I go again! It's so hot out here and I am reminiscing about some stupid alley way. There are apartments back there, but I have never been back there. The apartments were faced backwards so you couldn't see what in the world was going on there and who lived there, but I knew several people that lived there. Many were my classmates.\nMama and Big Mama always said 'trash' lived back there. We would sometimes here loud music and it seemed as if there was always a party (especially on Friday and Saturday nights). Big Mama was a staunch Christian woman and would not hear of such as thing. Big Mama lived with us and Mama. And, Mama seemed to fear her as did all of her children. The only one that could slightly stand up to her was my Uncle Mann. She so loved him! He was everyone’s protector…especially Mama, who was the baby of the family. He called her Play Doll. After, Daddy left, Uncle Mann stepped up and help us out a lot.\nHere I am coming to Big Mama’s funeral and thinking about an alley way! This is too funny! “Blu, when you gonna get your but in here and start getting ready? You haven’t even eaten breakfast.” I heard my aunt yelling at me. This was a little house and there were so many people in it already—prancing around remembering stuff I didn’t remember. How in the world did all of us live in this house—no wonder I am hot and sweaty just thinking about the house alone. I didn’t want to go in just yet, because I really wanted to go down that alleyway that was forbidden to all of us. Just as soon as I finished that thought, my sister and brother came out of the house and crisscrossed their fingers at me as if to say, you gonna get your but whipped! We all burst out in laughter at the same time.\n“I just, for once, wanna go down the alleyway to see what is there,” I said to my siblings. Savannah Blu, you are too crazy! My sister always like to say my whole name to make me mad. Most people called me just plain ol’ “Blu”. My brother went on to say, “ain’t nothing much down there noways”. “How you know?” I asked. “Cause I been down there plenty times!’ What?? You lying, both me and my sister said at the same time. “It must’ve been since you been grown and it has changed, I said.” Nope, it was when I was around 15. I snuck back there to see Glory Jean. You mean, Gloria Standham now? Yup, that’s here! She’s now a high falooting attorney in New York City. What!!?? Both me and my sister again said together! Big Mama always said didn’t nothing live back there but trash, but I guess she was wrong.\n“Well, said my brother Michael-Angel, “you know how Big Mama was.” She was overly protective when she didn’t even know why. All she heard was loud DEVIL music as she called it. Wasn’t necessary so. Glory Jean had a nice apartment, and her mama was really nice to me. I help Glory Jean with her math, and she was really happy about that because Glory Jean almost failed because she didn’t know math like that!\nI’m still listening to my big brother, Michael-Angel and I am in awe! I think my sister, Crissina and I both are! I can’t even imagine anyone of us going against Big Mama and Mama wishes and sashshaying down there. I know he was a boy, but boys in our family got whupping too—sometimes harder than the girls.\n“How long did you stay?” I asked. Only about 45 minutes, Michael-Angel said. Forty-five minutes? That’s a long time! Where was Mama and Big Mama? Sina asked. We called her Sina, short for Crissina. “Uncle Mann had taken them to the store, and ya’ll wasn’t paying attention to me, so I snuck out! What the hell? I said. No way Jose said Sina. I always knew where you were. No, you didn’t, especially if you were on the phone talking to that big-head fool, John, Jr. We all laughed!\nI had told Glory Jean that I was gonna try to sneak over at school, and she said it was okay because her Mama would be home, and that’s just what I did! As, Michael-Angel is talking I am still in awe! My mouth is wide open, and Sina suddenly says, you better close your mouth or some flies or gnats gonna get in there, if they already ain’t. I close my mouth, but I’m still in awe! I think, why wasn’t I that brave? I was often told, I was the one that would try anything, but I NEVER, and I mean NEVER thought about trying Big Mama and Mama!\nI remember sitting on our back porch stoop and talking to one of my friends that lived in the alley. She was talking through her window to me. She couldn’t visit me and I sho nuf couldn’t visit her. Visiting folks house back then was a NO NO, not matter where they lived.\n“What else was back there?” I asked. Well, there were a lot of old beat up cars in front of some of the apartments, and yes, there were some bad kids back there, but mostly good kids. Kids that you and I know. One of my best friends lived back there. It looked a lot worse than it does now, sis. As you can see, the apartments are remodeled.\nI wanna go back there I said! Crissina said want the hell for? Ain’t nothing back there for you, girl. Big Mama dead, and Mama probably think you crazy anyways. All of us just laughed and laughed. Michael-Angel said, I walk back there with you Blu. And, off we went – just because!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Warm Brown Hand\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1041\n\nPrompt:\n\nFrame your story as an adult recalling the events of their childhood." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warm Brown Hand\nby\nAmy Hughes Hinerman\nWhile searching through a box from the attic, I discovered my old diary. I must have been about 10 when I used it. I knew the key to open it was nowhere to be found, and lacking patience, I took some scissors to the latch. It opened. Each day was assigned to a small space with five lines to fill.\n I glanced at statements like “Mom and Dad are so weird!” or, “Cindy is so mean!” (whoever Cindy was.) There were several days where I wrote about not having any friends or how I hated school. Most of the days were filled with what I did that day — went to school, came home, played tetherball in the back yard, watched TV, went to bed. Then, there were no entries for many pages. After flipping for a bit, I came upon one that took up several pages, written in fat, purple print, and I read:\n April 7, 1968\n Dear Diary,\n I haven’t written for a while. Sorry! The last few days have been super strange. This might be kind of long, but I must get it all out and this is super important, I guess. Here goes! \nIt all started on Thursday when Mom and Dad ran to the TV, because a black man had been shot with a gun. People on TV were crying, and my Mom and Dad were yelling, and grabbing the phone and yelling over that too. It was BIG NEWS. He died. A lot of people are upset, like everyone. I heard he talked a lot about people getting along, no matter if they were black or white. They told us in school on Friday that he was a hero that way. I thought that everyone did get along okay for the most part, but I must’ve been wrong.\n This morning, Mom told me to put on a dress because we were going to church. Well, you know I don’t like church. I’m always bored to death. Plus, I try to avoid Mom’s friends that tell me all that junk about becoming a young lady, and men cracking the dumbest jokes and then laughing their heads off.\n I figured out that we were not going to our church, but some other church. We were traveling into a part of town we never go. It was the kind of neighborhood where people were poor, stuff was junky, and people hung around more on the sidewalk, maybe waiting for something like a bus. We went to a huge church that looked way older than our usual church, like something from Europe. Dad wore his dressy clothes that Mom must’ve put on his wooden clothes stand in the hall for him to wear, whatever that thing is called. He frowned a lot, pushing me by my shoulder a little into the church. A super wrinkly black man, who I guess worked there, walked us to a pew right smack in the middle.\n The place was packed. There were lots of ladies with hats with little veils and things. Some of them were dabbing their eyes with hankies, the men too. I thought maybe it was a funeral for someone I didn’t know. Dad finally told me it was for that man on TV who had been killed. He called it a “celebration,” which was weird, it didn’t look like one to me.\n Here’s the strangest part of this whole thing: we were the only white people in the whole building! This had to be Dad’s idea. He always has the weird ones, like telling us we were going to the finest restaurant in town and winding up at Pete’s fish n’ chips drive-through. I felt like an alien and just wanted to leave. We started out right away with singing, and I thought oh boy, here we go…boring.\n I wanted to stand between Mom and Dad, but Mom moved me to the side, next to a big lady. She was wearing a turquoise hat and was squishing in way too close. I tried not to look at her, and I was a little mad at Mom. The lady stood way over in my space, and she sang so loudly, I swear she was the loudest one in there.\n Here’s another strange part: suddenly, there was a new thing we were supposed to do. I had to give the lady my hand from the opposite side, crossing it in front of me to hold hers, and crossing my other arm over to Mom’s side to hold her hand. Sort of a self-hug. I thought maybe everyone needed that, I don’t know. Holding the lady’s hand made me feel stupid. We sang a song about overcoming something that must have been one of those soul songs. Everyone started swaying back and forth in their rows. It was fun, especially for church, it was almost like a party.\n While holding the lady’s hand, I noticed that she was not at all shy about it. She didn’t really look at me, I mean right at me, but her hand held on good and warm. I think she might have liked me a little. And when the song ended (and this is what I keep thinking about), she gave my hand a little squeeze before she let go.\n I know this stuff is important, somehow. I wish I was grown up already. Here’s what I think though: I think everything will be okay.\n ‘Nite Diary!\n I closed the small book.\n Now, I remember that day, although I had forgotten it. I remember being in the back seat of the car, being driven to a place that I never would have picked to go, for a reason I didn’t quite understand, to be with people I didn’t know anything about. I held the hand of a stranger whose eyes I never looked into, yet felt something for. I remember that warm brown hand like it was yesterday.\n Mom and Dad are both gone now. I swelled inside with sorrow, but also with gratitude for their wisdom. They showed me the power of love without saying a word. Little did I know how impactful, how powerful, “weird” could be." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Broken Mirror\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1091\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a reflection in a mirror." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "At dawn, Darryl was already down. Drawing an imaginary gun in the head couldn’t have been the right way to start off the day. Gone amid thousand thoughts, he believed his nightmare was the sole reason the sun hadn’t risen yet. Feeling his muscles contracted just like in the dream, Darryl growled then wondered whether he was not trapped in a dream loop. Touching his coronal suture and feeling nothing, Darryl pumped up his chest before releasing a sigh of relief. “It was a nightmare just a nightmare” He repeated the same words in and out of his mind a dozen times. And it’s over. He, furthermore, leaned on his pillow, handled his phone with two hands then typed “I am affirmation mornings” on Youtube. Before he selected the third video displaying on the suggested videos, a weird noise had brought his attention to his surroundings while Darryl’s heart rate began to double its speed. Could it be someone breaking into his house? Why would someone be stupid to steal in somebody else’s house in the morning? Darryl remained scared, confused, and thoughtful for less than twenty seconds then looked around, as the volume of that intriguing sound was stagnant. His first reaction was staring at the mini-fridge, next to his bedside, keeping its constant buzz sound. Next, he glanced at the noiseless vent above the short hallway leading to the bathroom, then felt a familiar breath blowing over his forearm. Delilah, his fiancé, was sniffing at the leftovers of love Darryl gave to her a few months ago.\n\nDarryl pursed up his lips. He stared at Delilah’s scattered hair rushing on the blanket and regretted sleeping in the same bed with her.\nPressing play on the video, he closed his eyes to begin his one-hour morning meditation. Unfortunately, an unpredictable kick aborted his peaceful meditation at the twelfth minute.\n\nDarryl grumbled as the orange sun warmly welcomed the angels and demons of his life. His daughter cried out for help while his desperate moves to wake up Delilah didn’t succeed at all. He wished she could be awake right now and take care of their daughter. However, he jumped out of his bed and left his phone at the bedside. Darryl headed to Mila’s room, turned her door handle, and his daughter stopped her cries yet didn’t cease to scream. Darryl strolled in Mila’s room while absorbing the dust on the floor within the bottom of his feet and murmuring his morning rituals in his lowest voice. “Here we go again. How could she even ignore the fact she’s a mom and we both are responsible for Mila’s life?”He shushed Mila while smiling and carried her out of her cot. « You must be… » Darryl blinked from an eye as he couldn’t handle the smell of his daughter’s poop. « too satisfied from what you ate last night my baby. Blood of Nebuchadnezzar! What did you guys eat anyway? » « bababa… » Mila cooed. Darryl had made a fool of himself before he realized his daughter couldn’t understand any word he had just said. Though they were only two in the room, Darryl seemed mortified as if someone else was standing behind him laughing in silence at his shame. He knew there was no one there, but he still felt odd to keep talking to Mila who hadn’t grown a tooth yet. Carrying his daughter like a handbag, Darryl opened Mila’s closet and took some clean pampers and wipes while his baby kept making some happy noise. As he looked at the clock hanged above the bathroom door, he happily sighed for the long break he would spend before work though he was not joyful at all when he glanced at his three-month fat tummy. Once in the bathroom, he stared at the mirror. Darryl looked at his reflection with disdain and the guilt of not working out. Yet, as soon as Mila sneezed and smiled he forgave himself. He turned on the warm water, cleaned Mila’s nose, rinsed her, heard a ringtone, and guessed it could only be his alarm he hadn’t shut down. If the ringtone burdens her, she will turn it down. Darryl shrugged then kept cleaning his daughter and smirked as he pulled up Mila and made some mugged faces to keep his daughter jovial. Lifting Mila’s left foot to clean it up, his daughter giggled while he noticed some heavy and angry footsteps coming on his way.\n\n« Who’s that slut? » Delilah showed a blank phone screen.\n« Good morning Delilah. How are you? That’s how civilized people start their day. »\n« I don’t care about your manners. Darryl, who’s that hoe? »\n\nDarryl sighed as he turned off the water before wiping out Mila’s body. Seeing Delilah awake with a frowned face wasn’t a first but with a mood to bust him out certainly was something he wanted to avoid at any cost. Darryl cringed as he wondered who could’ve called or texted him at such time. Why would it be today the day Delilah found out anything odd from his habits? Wasn’t it too much burden in a day?\n« Look. I don’t know why you’re getting mad, and I don’t have time to listen to you portraying me like a hoe. »\n« Don’t act like you don’t know and see what I’m talking about. »\n« I only see the whole me or your « hoe » through the phone screen since that’s how you qualifying me. »\nDarryl crookedly smiled while his fiancé desperately turned the phone and saw the lock screen not cooperating with her.\n« Unlock your phone and let’s talk about that Yasmina »\nDarryl snatched his phone off Delilah’s hands and said.\n« This discussion just started and I end it now. If you have anything else to say, tell Mila and she’ll report to me. Since you have nothing to say. »\nDarryl left the diapers by the mirror, put Mila’s on Delilah’s hands, and kissed her. « I’m out darling. Make sure your mom doesn’t take an overdose of jealousy.» Mila cried as her dad left the room with some angry gazes. Darryl unlocked his phone and found out Yasmina left him a message. “Should I come today?” Those four words shrank Darryl’s heart to the point he remembered what happened two weeks ago. He pocketed his phone and ran back to the bathroom and took care of Mila while glaring at Delilah. “Get your filthy hands off my daughter.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Mr. Fisher, the unlikely mentor\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2104\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who finds guidance in an unlikely place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mentor in an unexpected place\nIt was the summer of 1982 at the heart of small-town Cobleskill, NY. And me and my sister were up at the crack of dawn, dreams of dollar signs in our eyes. \nWe were sure the entire town would be showing up like gangbusters to buy our rocks. We set up our display on our front lawn, me, 8 years old, and Roberta, my sister, 6 years old. I mean, we had given up an entire summer day of playing to put our hard work into this. And it was such a beautiful day, one of the perfect ones that was not to hot and not to cold, just breezy enough to enjoy sitting on a swing. It was blue skies, with not even a whisp of clouds, sunny and clear. Instead, we had spent weeks scavenging the entire neighborhood for unique rocks, washing and scrubbing them in a bucket with an old toothbrush. Now they shined and sparkled. We thought everyone would want one.\n Roberta sat cross-legged on the blanket, short, dirty blond hair in a ponytail. She was arranging the rocks on the scrap wooden board with a cloth on it in pretty patterns to look more attractive. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt that hung loosely on her skinny body. The lawn had that freshly mowed smell to it, and our covered porch was a whole minute away. But we figured on the lawn everything was more visible, so we spread out our blankets and put our wares on our makeshift table. \n “See,” Roberta said and held up one, “This one even has some fossils on it. Look at it!\" she sighed, \"I wish we could keep them. But I want money more! What are you planning to buy with all your money?” Roberta asked. She put the fossil back and moved the coffee can down next to her. “I’m buying candy from the corner store, you know, the one mom says will rot all our teeth out,\" she said.\n“I'm getting acrylic paint and brushes from Harmony Acres,” I said, “One day I'm going to become a famous artist.”\nIt was about 8am, time when ma had said sales start.\nOkay, time to start,” I said, and Roberta helped me put my homemade cardboard sign over my shoulders. Connected by string, I had made two signs that went down to my knees in big words that said, “ROCKS FOR SALE 50 cents”. Slowly I walked up the sidewalk to Harmony Acres on the corner, turned, and walked towards the Zion Lutheran Church on the other side. Starting at fifty cents, as the hours went by and no one came, we had crossed that off, put forty, and so on. I had even yelled at the top of my voice, “Rocks! Rocks for sale!” Thinking it was going to be a sure winner. \nBut for some reason no one came by. By midafternoon, it was getting hot. We’d been outside all morning. Ma had brought us sandwiches and lemonade, and we were munching on those despondently. \n“Hello girls, what do we have here?” asked the kindly old eighty-year-old gentleman who lived next door, Mr. Fisher. His driveway shared ours. He had been walking down the sidewalk in his elegant manner with a full shod of bright white hair on top that swept back. He bent over his tall slim body to see what we had displayed on our makeshift table. His clothing was simple, but classic and well groomed.\n “Rocks for sale!” said Roberta brightly. “Ten cents, but we’ll make a bargain for you!” \nI felt bad though, for most of the rocks we had found came from his yard. They were cleaner though now, as we had scrubbed them thoroughly with soap and water.\n “Oh, I see,” he said, his bringing his hand to his big black glasses he aways wore, looking over them. They had a chain that was attached so he wouldn’t lose them. “Very interesting rocks you have there.”\n Roberta was very excited about the rocks with the fossils, so she made sure to hand those to him to look at. He stood up with the rock, turned it over and examined it, as though a professor pondering a question.\nMr. Fisher was one our favorite people. Once, he had been a rare book dealer, and though he still had the sign out in front of the house, barely anyone came to look at the book. The sign was simple yet elegant, on a post hanging down on his front lawn, old English writing in black. His house was white with roman columns and also of elegant design. Out back was his shop, filled with books.\n“Hummm…” he said, studying the rock. “I might just have a book in my shop that has information about this very rock. Why don’t you bring them by? These are spectacular rocks,” \nSuddenly the interest in making money melted away. He has information about our rocks? That was way cooler!\nWe placed all the rocks in our bucket and followed him to the shop. He opened the shed to his shop, and we stood there in amazement. It was dark, and had that old musty ancient book smell, and the books were arranged like a library in shelves all the way to the ceiling. He had lights that slowly flickered on, but even then, it was still dim. He had a giant ladder that went all the way to the top, and then rotated to wherever you needed it. And the books! They were ancient, brown, and dusty. Mr. Fisher specialized in book from the 1800’s and older but had some more recent books too.\n“Now, where would it be?” He said to himself. There was a giant ledger attached to the table near the door. He moved his spectacles attached down so he could get a closer look and thumbed through it for a moment. He stopped, satisfied and said, “Ah, here it is!”\nMr. Fisher walked over to his ladder, “Now,” said to us, “I’m not that spry anymore, but if one of you would like to climb the ladder…”\nI don’t Mr. Fisher had ever had such enthusiastic helpers. Climbing was one our favorite things to do. He knew we loved to climb, so he showed us how to move the ladder around the shed. It was hooked to a rail and could be moved where needed. I climbed up while he read off the title.\n“Rocks and minerals of the northeast.” I was looking at faded and dusty book bindings. This one had a colorful jacket, so it was easy to spot.\n“Found it!” I yelled. As gingerly as I could I took it off the bookshelf, went down the ladder and handed it to him.\n“Very good,” he said. “Now let’s go inside and check this out.”\nThe shed did not have a sitting area, so we went into the sun room inside his house. The sun room was in the back a short distance from the shed, after traveling along a sidewalk. Enclosed by windows, it was beaming with light. Plants, flowers, and ivy trailed everywhere. There was a small round table cover with a lace tablecloth and wooden chairs. We brought the rocks with us but were careful not to throw them all over his nice table.\n“Would you like some tea?” asked Mr. Fisher’s method of letting us learn was sit and let us discover things in the pages themselves. I opened up the book excitedly and Roberta leaned in to look. It had colorful pictures of rocks, plus maps of where they were found. We found pictures of the little seashells that were in our fossils, our shiny rocks called quartz, and more. Over the next hour, we learned big words such as limestone, sedimentary, and granite. We would compare it to our rocks, and then enthusiastically bring it over to Mr. Fisher to look at. He would act just as surprised as us and help us pronounce the bigger words we did not know. \nMr. Fisher’s home was exquisitely and elegantly decorated. He served tea to us in a silver tea pot, in intricate teacups with lace dollies, embroidered cloth napkins, and little biscuits. Even when sitting and eating, he had perfect posture. He was from some bygone age, one of class and elegance, of high quality and civility. Just being around him made us want to behave politely like him.\n“Honey,” called a shaky voice from the living room. “Is that the girls? I would like to say hi!”\nIt was Mrs. Fisher, but she could not leave the bed and needed quiet most of the time. Mr. Fisher took care of her. Roberta and I went in the living room and she was in a hospital bed. Her face was haggard and tired, and she was in a nightgown. She struggled to sit up slightly, but had a big smile on her face and her eyes brightened. She really liked having company. “Well, hello Grace and Roberta. Its nice to see you.”\n Roberta said, “We are learning about rocks! Wanna see?” Then Roberta walked (not ran because that would be rude in such an elegant home) and brought Mrs. Fisher a rock. She sat on the bed with her and explained the highlights to her.\nBack in the sun room, Mr. Fisher had taken out special books he wanted us to look at. There were two volumes. Volume one and volume two. They were dark mahogany and had faded gold lettering on the binding. They stored in a special place. To me they looked like ordinary old books, like the ones in the shed. But Mr. Fisher was very excited, which I never saw him excited. This was his prized possession. “This is the first edition of ‘Last of the Mohicans’ by James Fenimore Cooper. He was an author from this area, who talked about the past of upstate NY. This is very valuable,” he opened the book, “It was published in 1826 in Philadelphia. See this page? This is how I know it is a first edition.” And he showed us the steps. But it had no pretty pictures, like the other book did. He explained to us the reasons a book was prized as a first edition, by its condition, its dust jacket, its rarity, and its popularity. Upon opening it, he showed us the title page, the date, the publisher and its importance.\nWe were about to leave and go home when Mr. Fisher said, “By the way, I would like to buy your rocks.” And then he handed us each a five dollars bill. Surprised, we had forgotten all about the money we had so desperately wanted hours ago.\n“Thank you, Mr. Fisher!” we both said.\nMr. Fisher was an unlikely mentor to two little girls that summer of ’82. He taught us the value of loving books and learning all our lives. He never directly “gave” us anything. He let us always discover this joy for ourselves. Sometimes, it was by knocking on our door and casually telling my parents he was getting rid of books, and they would always be spectacular children’s books. Summer days and nights we had a hobby of catching bugs on his lawn in a jar. Bees, wasps, praying mantis, walking sticks, butterflies. Every time we did, we would run over to knock on his door to show him. He was never too busy to be amazed at what we caught. He always had a book about it, so we would learn the name of something extraordinary every time we went over.\nI had a secret spot. I climbed the fence and sat on the roof of the barn. It was hidden by dense thicket of trees. There I would curl up and read his books. The trees were covered with concord grape vines, so while I read, I would eat the sour wild grapes. All while breezing with the wind and the fresh air. \nMost of his children’s books were from the 1800’s. These are books that will never be in print again, old editions with wood cut pictures and detailed pen and ink engravings. They were among my most cherished possessions.\nThere are days, not often, that I dust off that box of foggy childhood memories. And in that box, like a clear picture in my mind, is kindly Mr. Fisher and his shed of ancient books and elegant manners, being kind to two little girls who are excited about 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: Someone Else\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2956\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which the same line recurs three times." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I waved as my grandmother pulled out of the parking spot and drove away. Heading up the stairs and towards the doors of the huge brick building, I stopped, turned around, and peered into the road. Once her red Toyota Camry was out of sight, I began walking down the stairs and in the opposite direction. People were out and about, and I took in the various storefronts, including the florist shop and a yoga studio. I was in a great mood and had worn my favorite pink and white polka dot fit-and-flare dress. The heels of my white pumps tapped against the sidewalk as I strutted and pearls were nestled around my neck and in my ears. The sun was shining brightly and felt warm against my skin. It wasn’t uncomfortably hot, but it wasn’t chilly either. Don’t worry, I was going to keep my appointment. I just had to make a stop first. \n I don’t know why I kept these appointments with Dr. Phillips. Grandma Lucy worried too much. As far as I was concerned, there was no real reason for me to go. The truth was I felt sorry for Dr. Phillips, especially since she was lonely. After six months, there was still a lot I didn’t know about her. At my last appointment on Friday, I noticed that she didn’t wear a wedding ring, so it was my guess that she wasn’t married. When I asked her about it, she was quick to change the subject. Still, I enjoyed her company and felt she was a good listener; better than Grandma Lucy. So, I guess I kept the appointment because seeing me was good for her; especially since she was lonely.\nWhy would any woman want to spend the rest of her life alone? I couldn’t wait until my wedding day. I often dreamt of the day when I would meet Mr. Right. He’ll probably be successful, tall, dark, and handsome; just like in the movies. Grandma Lucy always reminded me that I have plenty of time. I guess she has a point. I can’t wait too long if I want to have 5 children though. After all, I’m already 22.\nMy appointment didn’t start for another 15 minutes. Since I had some time to spare, I decided to drop into one of my favorite stores for a snack. I could have told Grandma Lucy that I wanted to stop, but she would have made a fuss to come in with me, and I didn’t need that. I casually browsed the aisle that housed an array of snacks: crackers, cookies, trail mix, chips, and pretzels. Nothing stood out to me, so I headed towards the front where there was a spread of different candies and chocolates. After contemplating the options, I selected a Snickers bar; it was my favorite. Then, I grabbed a second one. I placed them on the black belt that lazily rolled to the end, which the cashier then picked up and scanned.\n\"Hi, gorgeous.\"\nI looked up into the gaze of the most mesmerizing dark brown eyes I had ever seen. His nametag read Quinton, and his skin was the color of mocha. He looked like my favorite type of milk chocolate. \n“Hi.” I blushed.\n“Where are you headed on this lovely afternoon?”\n“Oh um…just to see a friend.”\nWe continued to make small talk and flirt. \n “$1.76.” He told me after ringing up my items. \n Pulling out my purse, I was able to find a dollar easily. It was that darn 76 cents that became a hunt.\n “I like your name.”\n I stopped searching for change and looked at him. “Excuse me?”\n He nodded towards my wrist, opposite the one that held my watch.\n “Kennedi. That’s your name, right? I like it.”\n My eyes followed his, and I noticed the beaded bracelet for the first time. A scowl replaced my smile, and I snatched the bracelet off my wrist and dumped it in my purse. My grandmother was constantly sneaking this bracelet on my wrist. I hated it. Thoughts of Kennedi sparked fragmented memories filled with pain and anguish. She was like a dark cloud, and I was determined not to allow her to ruin my mood. Don't get me wrong, I used to like Kennedi. That is until she tried to get rid of me.\n “My name is Charlotte.”\n Finally, I found the change.\n “Oh…then who is Ken…”\n “Here you go.” I cut him off and handed him the change.\n He gave me a strange look but didn’t say anything further.\n After counting out the change, he dropped the nickels, dimes, and pennies into their appropriate place, slammed the drawer, and handed me the plastic bag after placing the receipt inside.\n “Have a nice day.”\n “Thanks, you too.” I replied dryly, exiting the store.\nMonroe, Mississippi was a small quaint town. Not as big as Jackson, but much more robust than Vicksburg. Mostly everybody knew everybody. I, however, had only been here for the last year. I don’t remember exactly how I got here. One day I was in Alexandria, VA. When I woke up, I was here, with Grandma Lucy.\n Grandma Lucy was a heavy-set brown-skinned woman with a warm smile, wide hips, and natural ginger hair. Her all-knowing eyes never missed a beat. That’s why I was surprised she agreed to take me to my appointment early. I insisted so she could go see one of her old friends. She didn’t make a fuss about it, so I assumed she was eager to see her friend. I also assumed he was male.\nGrandma Lucy used to have a husband named Malcolm. I never met him, but she spoke fondly of him. They had a daughter named Marjorie and a son, who Malcolm wanted to name Julius, after his baby brother who passed away when they were kids. Grandma Lucy, however, named him Reno. After only four years of marriage, Malcolm, unfortunately, died in a mysterious accident. I don't believe the accident itself was mysterious, but it was a mystery to me. In one version of the story, she’d told me he had been in a car accident. Another time we were talking about him, and she mentioned he drowned. When I questioned her about this, she said I must have misheard. I didn't argue with her though. After all, she was old; her mind was probably slipping. In the end, he was still gone. What’s sadder than becoming a 25-year-old widow with two kids? Becoming a pregnant 25-year-old widow with two kids. Her youngest son, who never knew his father Malcolm, was named Julius.\nI’d never met Marjorie, Reno, or Julius. When I asked Grandma Lucy about them, she just said they had gone away. She didn’t seem to like to talk about them much, so I quit asking. As for me, I didn’t have a mom or a dad. I found it strange because everyone else I knew had moms and dads. Whenever I asked Grandma Lucy about it, she would change the subject. To be honest, I had never thought about it much until Dr. Phillips asked me about them. Before then, it hadn’t bothered me too much. Not that it bothers me now; it’s just I wonder about it a little bit more is all.\n When I made it to the front of the brick building, I paused to take in its massiveness. It was an old building that I believe used to be a library. I gazed down and no longer saw my shadow. The sun was now hidden behind clouds. Walking inside, I took the stairs to Dr. Phillips’ office. There was an elevator, but I found it to be unreliable, so I took the stairs. \n I sat on the yellow couch in the receptionists’ area with my purse and bag of chocolate sitting beside me. I always liked the décor of the waiting area. My favorite artwork was a large picture where an enormous wide tree stood proudly in a forest, while the sun broke through the branches and onto the grass that gathered at its feet. The carpet was a plush emerald green that seemed to be soft to the touch; the kind where you would love to scrunch your toes in it.\n The sound of a low rumble made me shudder. More gray clouds seemed to be forming now. I hope it wasn’t about to storm. Storms made me anxious, and I never felt quite like myself afterward.\n I glanced at the receptionist. She was a young girl who couldn’t have been much older than me. She had headphones in and was flipping through a magazine. If Dr. Phillips was so smart, why did she have such a lazy receptionist? That was the type of nonsense that made me question why I continued to see Dr. Phillips. Then I would always remind myself, she needed the company. She had become a constant in my life; just like Grandma Lucy.\n Moments later, a door opened, and Dr. Phillips stood outside her office.\n “Come on in.” she told me.\n I followed her lead and sat opposite of her on a caramel-colored couch. It was much more comfortable than the couch in the waiting area. She sat in an uncomfortable-looking brown accent chair. I can only presume it was her attempt at matching the furniture.\n Dr. Philips was a pretty lady with rich mahogany skin, honey brown eyes, and shoulder-length hair with bangs that she dyed to a golden bronze. I liked it as it brought out her features more. With her black thin-rimmed glasses, I estimated her to be in her mid-thirties. There weren’t any pictures in her office, so I guessed she didn’t have children either. It was so sad, especially since she was lonely. \n “How are you today?”\n “Oh, I’m well Dr. Phillips. Matter of fact, I brought you something.”\n I reached into the plastic bag and pulled out one of the Snickers bars. Hopefully, it would brighten her day. \n “For you.” I told her with a smile.\n She seemed to hesitate before taking it.\n “Thank you.”\n She took the chocolate bar and swiveled in her chair, placing it on the desk behind her.\n “Pronounce your name for me.”\n “Gosh, Dr. Phillips, you sure do have a bad memory. Are you sure you’re a doctor?”\n She chuckled.\n “It’s Charlotte.”\n “Ah, Charlotte, that’s right.” She began flipping through a large notebook. Dr. Phillips enjoyed taking notes.\n “How are you sleeping?”\n “Good and you?”\n She raised a brow. “Excuse me?”\n “How are you sleeping? It must be hard.”\n “What must be hard?”\n “Well…” I didn’t want to offend her, so I chose my words carefully, “It’s just you’re such a pretty lady, but it’s obvious you’re not married and don’t have kids.”\n She nodded. “And?”\n “And you must be miserable!”\n There was a pause.\n “Is that true, Dr. Phillips?”\n “Let’s just keep the focus on you today, okay?”\n There she goes changing the subject again. I shrugged, “Okay.”\n “So, Charlotte, you're not experiencing any more bad dreams?”\n I frowned. “What bad dreams?”\n “The bad dreams you spoke of previously.”\n“But Dr. Phillips, I haven’t had any bad dreams.”\n“You haven’t?” she asked me, lowering her black thin-rimmed glasses down her nose.\n “No. Why would you think I had?”\n She paused before responding. “Well, that’s what we talked about last time.”\n “No, it’s not.”\n“It’s not?”\nI laughed. “No, of course not. Last time we talked about my trip to California.”\n “When was this?”\n “Friday.”\n “And what’s today?”\n I sighed. It was obvious this woman worked too hard. She couldn’t even keep her days straight.\n “Monday.” I noticed the calendar on her wall with X’s marked through. She’d marked through Monday and Tuesday of this week. “Your calendar is wrong.”\n I expected her to look back at the calendar but she didn’t. Instead, she took off her glasses.\n“Charlotte, you don’t remember telling me about your nightmares?”\n “Dr. Phillips, I think you have me mistaken with someone else.”\n She didn’t respond. Instead, she placed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and wrote something in her notebook. \n “How’s Kennedi?”\n At the mention of her name, there was another rumble. It was a little louder this time. I gazed outside of the window. The clouds were becoming darker.\n “Dr. Phillips, you know I don’t like to talk about her.”\n “Why not?”\n “You know why.”\n I liked Dr. Phillips, but it was times like these that she would annoy me. I wanted to discuss more pleasant conversations, and she wanted to bring up her. I looked out the window again and saw a strike of lightning. A storm was brewing, and I felt a headache coming on.\n “Dr. Phillips, I’m not feeling well.” I stood. “I should go and come back another day.”\nShe closed her notebook and sat on the edge of her seat. “Why don’t you just lie down for a minute?”\n “Here, on your couch?”\nShe nodded.\n“Oh, I couldn’t do that Dr. Phillips. Your couch looks comfortable enough. Still, it would be most inappropriate. Besides, I would rather go back home, climb into my soft bed, and hide under the covers until the storm passes.”\nShe gave me a soft smile. “It wouldn’t be inappropriate at all. That’s what the couch is for; to help you relax.”\nI hesitated. “Are you sure?”\n \"Sure. You can just rest your eyes for a minute. You might feel better afterward.\"\n I was doubtful but decided to play along. As I've mentioned, Dr. Phillips gets pretty lonely.\n “I’ll be here when you get up.” She continued.\n I was about to decline when the thunder boomed so hard the walls shook. Then everything went black. \n I awoke to the rumble of thunder. Sleeping during a thunderstorm was the best; the patter of rain brought a feeling of calm and relaxation. All I wanted to do was stay in bed and sleep in my oversized tee and sweatpants. If I stayed in bed, maybe nothing bad would happen. That would have been a great plan had I not felt something on my head. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. There was Dr. Phillips, holding a damp towel on my head. I tried to sit up and saw rain pouring outside of the window. A tree branch bounced up and down with the rhythm of the wind. The window itself sat between two tall bookshelves, lined with rows of books. In front of one of the bookshelves was a table with papers stacked in a messy pile. I cringed at the sight. \n “How are you feeling?”\n “Um…confused. What happened?”\n “You passed out.”\n “Oh.” I sat up, taking in my surroundings. I was in Dr. Phillips’ office. “How did I get here?”\n “You don’t remember?”\n I shook my head.\n The last thing I remembered was having a picnic with Grandma Lucy in her backyard. I didn’t like to be away from her. She was the one constant I had in my life. Aside from Dr. Phillips that is.\n “No, I remember having a picnic. I don’t…I don’t remember coming here.”\n “It’s okay.” She told me in a soft tone. “You’re here with me, and you’re safe.”\n There weren’t many people who I would believe when they said those words. I'd been dealing with these memory losses for as long as I could remember. Lately, however, they seemed to get worse.\nYesterday, Grandma Lucy needed me to go to the grocery store to get some eggs so she could bake a lemon cake. I was intentional about dressing down in neutral colors. It was the best way I knew not to bring attention to myself. Everything was fine until a man tried to hit on me. He reached towards me, maybe to touch my hair. I flinched and hurried away. I told Grandma Lucy about it, and she told me she would go with me next time. I shared everything with Grandma Lucy. She knew I didn’t trust men and couldn’t stand to be around them. I accepted my truth; I was over 30, single, and intended to stay that way.\n“I thought I didn’t see you again until tomorrow.”\nDr. Phillips stopped writing to look at me.\n“When was the last time you remembered seeing me?”\n“Yesterday.”\n“What’s today?”\n“Wednesday.”\nShe closed her notebook and regarded me again.\n “Right. We had an appointment scheduled for today. You were even on time.”\n “I was?” This surprised me. Usually, I was perpetually late.\n “You were.” She seemed to study me closely. “You don’t remember bringing me this Snickers bar?” She held up the empty wrapper.\n I shook my head. “No way, I did that.”\n “Why?”\n “I don’t eat chocolate.”\n She nodded but stayed silent.\n I looked down and that’s when I noticed my clothes. Heels adorned my feet and a frilly pink dress with lace underneath that scratched my legs.\n “What am I wearing?”\n It seemed Dr. Phillips was trying to hold back a smile. “I think you look nice.”\n “I look like I’m about to be picked up in a pumpkin carriage to make it home before midnight.”\n I reached to scratch my head and felt the bun instead. My hair tumbled to my shoulders after pulling out the bobby pins. I sighed in frustration. This must have been Grandma Lucy’s doing. \nDr. Phillips examined me silently. \n“What?” I asked.\n“You mind if I ask you some questions?”\n “Shoot.” I responded, running my fingers through my mane.\n “Can you tell me what year it is?”\n “2021.”\n “Who is the president?”\n “Joe Biden.”\n “What is your name?”\n I gave her a look. “Dr. Phillips, you know my name.”\n She smiled. “Humor me.”\n “My name is Kennedi.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Reverse\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2978\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “You’ve got this.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When I was a child, my hedgehog ate her babies, just popped the little hoglets like popcorn shrimp one night while I slept, blissfully unaware, on the other side of the room. I couldn’t look at her tank without wanting to puke, and even the sight of pink jellybeans set my stomach roiling. Eventually, my mother foisted the infanticider onto my cousin, and as I said my goodbyes, I stared into those beady, remorseless eyes, and thought, “Monster.”\nBut, like… I get it now.\nThe Dinner Table Tyrant glares at me overtop Broccoli Mountain, her pink plastic fork clutched in her fist like a scepter. “Nugget!”\n“Florence.” I dig my fingers into my temples, desperately seeking the stress release button the YouTube massage therapist claimed was up there somewhere. “I said, ‘broccoli or green beans?’ And you said…”\n“Nugget!”\n“No. Nope. You said broccoli.” Provide them with a choice to foster a sense of control, the book had said.\n“NUGGET.”\n But when do I get my sense of control? “Honey, don’t you want to grow up to be big and strong?”\n“NO.”\n“Well, sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to in order to get things we do want. Give Mama three bites of broccoli and then we can watch Arthur.”\nHer face brightens. “Arthur?”\n“After we…”\n“Arthur.”\n“But first we…”\n“ARTHUR.”\nCrap. “Look, Miss Flossy Dossy!” I pick up a boiled floret, gone cold and mushy now. I sympathize with her; I wouldn’t want to eat it either, but she’d also turned up her nose when it was steaming and smelled of warm butter. I dance it around. “I’m a wee tree and I want the giant to gobble me up!” I poke it against her closed lips.\nHer expression remains flat as expired soda.\n“Florence,” I moan. “Please. I’m begging. One bite. Just one bite.” I hold my hands up in prayer.\nHer stubby fingers grasp a green chunk. My heart’s in my throat.\nThe broccoli leaves a smooch of butter grease on my cheek as it bounces off and lands on the floor.\n“Nugget!”\nI clamp my lips together, wrestling the urge to blurt out that top-clearance-level, classified connection between Nugget and Old MacDonald’s feathered friends. Gratifying as it might be in the moment, to do so would mean there goes the last remaining food item Florence has deemed edible, and then what? I get up and shove my head in the freezer (it was either that or the oven), and wait for the chilled air to bring what’s boiling back down to a simmer.\nJust wait until you have kids, a voice floats at me from the past.\n“Shut up, Mother,” I grumble as I close the freezer door.\nI turn toward Florence. Her face is a photocopy of That Sperm Donor (a pox upon his name), but her limp noodle blonde hair is lifted straight from my head. She’s going to hate that hair when she’s older. I want to smother her chubby cheeks with kisses and demand that she never, never think she’s anything less than perfect because every single square inch of her makes me want to cry.\nBut first I must maintain her cheeks at full chubbiness. I slide back into my chair.\nEleven days ago, my daughter discovered the concept of hunger strikes. Ever since then, every mealtime has become a protracted battle of wills, one that inevitably ends with me watching a plate of chicken nuggets slowly rotate in the microwave, until it’s time to eat again and the Sisyphean nightmare begins anew. I never wanted to be the type of mom who manipulates her child, but that was back when I thought children were people and not adorably packaged cosmic retributions for your transgressions against your own parents.\nI take Florence’s plate and dump the contents onto my own. Maybe this makes me a bad mother, but we’re approaching a fortnight with no sustenance aside from reheated chicken blobs. At some point scurvy sets in, so reverse psychology it is.\n“Goodie for Mama that you don’t want it,” I croon as I try not to gag on the cold, green slime. “Look at all this just for Mama. Yummy yummers.”\nFlorence is side eyeing me and sucking on a strand of noodle hair. I know I ought to pull her fingers away and keep her from doing that – I’ve read some hairball horror stories online – but one hurdle at a time.\nI jazz up my performance with a shimmy and gobble three more pieces in quick succession. \"Mm, mm. Delicious.”\nHer eyes are narrow slits, like the kind cut into medieval castles through which arrows are loosed, as she watches the broccoli disappearing. She is still years away from basic arithmetic, but even a two-year-old can grasp the concept of less.\nShe thrusts out a hand. “’Coli.”\nI raise my eyebrows. “What’s that?”\n“’Coli. Mine.”\n“No, I’m sorry. You didn’t want it so now it’s mine.”\n“No, Mama!”\n“Maybe I could share, but only if someone uses her Please and Thank You’s.” I eat another piece and immediately regret it. I’d had an opening and gotten greedy, and now Florence is purpling. The pink fork hits the floor. We’re moments from detonation.\n“BUT,” I say as I fling broccoli onto her plate, “I could never eat all this myself, so I’m happy to share with my favorite girl.”\nI should be celebrating as I watch Florence eating with gusto and humming contentedly, broccoli gripped in each fist, but a stone sits in my stomach. I doubt my performance sold the vegetable as the second coming of ice cream. It seems more likely that Florence’s newfound enthusiasm stems from the fact that she saw me enjoying something and she wanted to take that away from me.\nGod. Imagine attributing malice to a literal baby. I’m going to be the worst mother. I twist a strand of her hair around my finger. “Miss Flossy Dossy, what are we going to do with me?”\n“No touch.”\nMaybe I already am.\n\n##\n\nHe shakes my hand when he introduces himself, which I like, but he manages to do so ironically, that uniquely teenage talent for imbuing everyday gestures with sarcasm. In most respects, he’s still a reedy, squeaky boy bumbling his way in spurts toward manhood, but he holds himself with a degree of confidence, an assuredness of his right to take up space in the world, that one rarely discovers until their mid-twenties at the earliest. If I were his mother, I’d be thrilled by this solidness, a bulwark against an indifferent world, but I am most certainly not his mother, and as I watch his hand, planted on my fifteen-year-old daughter’s lower back, slipping lower still as they exit the porch light’s radius, I yell, “Kevin. Tomorrow. We’re having broccoli quiche. Get permission from your mom.”\nI shut the door before Florence can protest.\n\n\n\n\n\nThe evening has soured before Kevin even rings the doorbell. I’d surprised Florence with an expensive volumizing shampoo/conditioner set from Target and she accused me of implying her hair was too flat.\n“No, Honey, you have beautiful hair. Flaxen. It was on sale.”\n“It’s not the eighties anymore. Women’s hair can fit through doorways now.”\n“I’m aware of the passage of time, believe me.”\n“Should I wear blue eyeshadow too? Vote for Reagan? God!”\nThen, saved by the doorbell, I extract myself to let Kevin in. “Welcome, Kevin. Florence is as sweet as a lemon tonight. Come on in!”\n“’Sup, Ms. Brenner.” He pronounces it “Miz,” Miz Brenner, like it’s some hip, new Gen Z name. Please welcome to the stage Miz Brenner, here to perform an interpretative dance about the bleaching of coral reefs. Take it away, Miz.\n“Smells good in here.”\n“It’s broccoli. It smells disgusting,” Florence says as she rescues him from the horror of having to spend more than two seconds in my company.\n“I dunno. I enjoy some helpings of leafy greens,” Kevin mumbles and the two delinquents snicker conspiratorially as they slink off to the living room, confident the old fogy couldn’t possibly decipher their code. Unbelievable.\nWith that bolstering my resolve, at dinner I commence Operation Au Revoir Kev.\n“So, Florence tells me you play drums in marching band?”\n“What? He’s the drummer in his band.”\n“Ah. Do you have a name?”\n“Yeah. It’s Kevin. Nah, I’m joking with you, Ms. Brenner. We’re called The Marvellettes. My cousin made us an album cover.” He whips out his phone and shows me a mockup. Female versions of male Marvel comic book heroes pose like centerfolds, their fishnetted thighs and overinflated breasts sketched with a level of detail not afforded to their faces. I don’t bother informing him that band name was claimed back before I was born.\n“Striking color palette. Thor has the same hair, I see.”\n“Yo, Ms. Brenner. You know Marvel?”\nFlorence crosses her arms. “They have album art but zero songs.”\n“Who can dictate the timeline of the muses? Kevin, you’ll appreciate this. When I was young, back in dinosaur times, I saw Pearl Jam live.”\nAs dinner progresses, everyone must surely be delighted as Kevin and I keep finding ourselves on common ground: his apathy toward a college degree (“Your hesitancy to get entangled in student loans shows admirable financial restraint”); if deodorant is a corporate conspiracy (“Women have managed to find dates for millenniums without smelling of lavender breezes”); if a kangaroo could be a viable pet (“Excellent for robber deterrence”). I offer him seconds of quiche, then Florence’s slice, seeing as she only poked at it and sulked all dinner. I send him home with a doggie bag.\n“It’s been a pleasure, Kevin.”\n“Thanks, Ms. B, and I’m so serious. When we get a real gig, you should totally come.”\n“I’ll mark my calendar. Get home safe.”\nLater, I knock on the doorframe of the bathroom, then lean my head through the open doorway. “That was fun,” I say to Florence as she aggressively brushes her teeth. I should tell her to be more gentle, but I hold my tongue. “Your friend really won me over. Very open. Fascinatingly structured thought process.”\n“Hmph,” she grunts, foam collecting at the corners of her mouth like a rabid animal.\n“Homecoming’s coming up.”\n“Mhm.”\n“Are you and Kevin going together?”\nShe spits. “Maybe.”\n“Why maybe?”\n“I don’t know. He’s kind of annoying.”\n“You don’t like him anymore?”\n“God, Mom. Get a job at Jeopardy if you love questions so much.” The bathroom door swings shut.\nAu revoir and bon voyage, Kevin.\nSomeday my daughter will bring home a nice man, or woman, with a genuine handshake, who worships the ground she walks on. I’ll be sure to critique their hairline and posture, then I’ll go put a Mother-of-the-Bride outfit on reserve.\n“Night, Flossy,” I say quietly to the closed door, and after lingering for a moment, I slink downstairs to microwave a sliver of quiche.\n\n##\n\nShe stomps into my bedroom and hurls a crumpled piece of paper at the trashcan by my nightstand. Air resistance reduces its speed to a gentle glide, then it bounces off the rim and ends its journey on the floor, all these factors undercutting the drama of her entrance. “Ugh,” she shrieks, plops down on the foot of my bed, and declares, with her back to me, “I’m not going!”\nI set my book aside. “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s their loss.”\n“Why do you immediately assume they said no? I’m just that rejectable? I got in. I’m just not going.”\n“Help me understand what’s happening here.”\n“There’s nothing to understand. I’m eighteen in three weeks so you can’t force me to get onto a plane. That’s trafficking.”\nBeside me on the bed, the book’s front cover teases a golden Tuscan countryside and the promise of infinite wine tastings. Ah, to be a protagonist in a women’s lit novel. If only.\nI peel myself away from the Italian tableau. “Congratulations, Honey?”\n“I’m not going and I’m only telling you so you’ll stop asking about it all the time.”\nI don’t believe I’ve asked her for a status update even once. I lean over the side of the bed and retrieve the letter, then smooth it out.\nDear Ms. Brenner, we are pleased to inform you of your selection…\nFrom among four digits of applicants, my daughter is one of twelve chosen to attend a documentary film intensive this summer in Prague. The one she’d told me she’d rip out her own fingernails and dunk her hand in lemon juice for if it would boost her chances even one percent. The one she’s not going to. Apparently.\n“Florence, don’t bite my head off, but I have to ask -- why don’t you want to go anymore?”\nShe shrugs. “The whole thing feels like... a lot.” In her voice I hear a tremor of embarrassment, the same one as when she’d admitted she’d gotten her first period, or when she’d asked me how her first two piece bathing suit looked (I’d told her she looked very cute and she’d called me a weirdo and wore a giant t-shirt over it every time we went to the beach). It is the tone of someone mortified by their own vulnerability. My baby is scared to go.\nThis is an incredible opportunity for a burgeoning director (and young woman) and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her miss out on it because of some nerves. Time to break out the tried-and-true reverse psychology.\n“That’s probably the right decision,” I say. “It’s a big undertaking, and you’re going to college this September. Maybe that’s a big enough adventure for one year.”\nHer already rounded posture slumps more as she deflates. “Yeah. You’re right.”\nWhat?\nI’d heard other mothers speak about a mythical turning point when their daughters had transformed from wet, snarling cats into human beings. Sometimes they’d even become friends. I’d never bought it.\nBut here’s Florence.\nAgreeing.\nWith ME.\nThe trashcan. Oh my god, the trashcan.\nFlorence had tramped through the whole house past several suitable trashcans to toss her letter into mine. She’d wanted me to see it. Even as she’d snapped and snarked, she’d remained seated on my bed when typically, her verbal jabs would be punctuated with a slamming door. She’s seeking my advice. And heeding it.\nI sigh. “This is my fault. I didn’t make you eat enough vegetables as a child and your brain didn’t develop. And now you’re dumb.”\nFlorence twists around and her glassy eyes shoot shards in my direction. “Excuse you?”\n“Florence, of course you can handle Prague. You claim you want to make movies about jungles and warzones and warzones in jungles. Obviously, I’d prefer you investigate things more in the vein of quality air filters and patisseries…”\nShe’s glaring at a spot on the wall past my head, but her face has a wobbly quality to it and there are pink spots on her cheeks.\n“I have full confidence that dusty, old treasure of a city will be a cakewalk for you. I mean, you’re practically named for a European adventure.”\n“I’m nervous.” Her voice has never sounded so small.\nI scoot next to her and place the letter in her lap. “It’s not often the world provides you with statistical evidence of your exceptionalism. You grab that when it comes.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “But if you don’t go, you can always stay here and marry that Kevin boy.”\n“God, no. There’s someone who didn’t eat his vegetables.”\n“He has what my mother called, ‘bedroom eyes.’”\n“Mom!”\nI give her a squeeze. “I’m so proud of you. And nervous for you. And so, so excited.”\n“I’m sorry, Mom.”\nThe room seems to tilt at a Dutch angle, which is a cinematography term I’d learned from Florence. Also the term “cinematography.”\n“I know I’ve been the worst child for, like, a while.”\nI stroke her hair, the same angel hair pasta I see when I look in the mirror. “I’m sure Vlad the Impaler’s mother had a harder time. It’s only your first time being a daughter. No one’s good at anything on their first try. And I’m always on your team. God knows I’m not a perfect mother.”\n“You’re a first timer.” Florence relaxes into my one-armed hug, her weight leaning into me and mine into her. I could just cry.\n“You are going to have the most amazing time.”\n“You really want to get rid of me, huh?” She’s smiling as she says it.\n“If I could keep you in my pocket always, I would. But you’ve got this.”\n“Maybe.” Her voice is still small, but there’s a seed of excitement in there, a little piece of her that’s willing to consider all those big, scary, wonderful possibilities.\n“You’re the best daughter anyone could ever ask for.”\n“Yeah, sure. You have to say that. You’re my mom.”\n“Just make sure to thank me in your Oscars speech, okay?”\n“We’ll see.”\nI chuckle, a low contralto sound, one that could easily spin into giggles or tears with the lightest touch on the scales. “Oh, Honey. Just wait until you have kids.”\n“Why do you assume I’m having kids?”\nOh no. “I just meant if-”\nShe rockets off the bed. “That’s so heteronormative. Women today aren’t required to be baby machines.”\n“Florence, I was born in the seventies.”\n“The eighteen seventies.”\nI call after her as she clomps down the hallway. “Start packing, Missy. I’m shipping you to Prague early. One way ticket.”\n Down the hall, a door slams. But it was weak, done out of habit, not conviction. Besides, I know it will be open again soon enough. I smile as I pick up my book and find my place. Congratulations, Flossy Dossy. Congratulations everyone." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Coach's Talk\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2989\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who has a love/hate relationship with their mentor." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Ah, who am I kidding, you’re not listening anyway.” David Cross swung back the brown bag and felt some more cool courage flow down his throat. “Y’know,” he continued regardless, you always said you knew the best for me… what do you say now?” \nYou’ve done well, replied a voice, somewhat distant amongst the wind which whistled through the hibernating winter branches.\nDavid scoffed. “Well, yeah… Well enough to be sitting here on my ass, wondering how you are.” \nI’m fine. \nThe bottle was done, this one at least. David put it gently into the grass, noting the sun was setting behind a sheath of silver clouds He reached into his backpack and pulled out another one, feeling the knobby grass underneath his left hand as he leaned back, staring into the blank sky. “Y’know,” he said after a stifled burp, “I never thought I’d make the league. I never saw it in myself.” \nYes you did, said that same, detached voice. You saw it in yourself all through high school, all through college. You remember what you told me when you first came into my office freshman year?\nDavid smiled at the recollection. “I told you I was tired of watching the NFL from the sidelines. I told you I wanted to throw a touchdown in Foxboro in the snow. I told you I wanted to run it in for the game winning score, a walk off, and I wanted to do it in the playoffs at home. I wanted to be on my teammates shoulders, the ball still in my hand, maybe some blood on my face or my fingers, showing that toughness they all said I had.”\nYou did that in college, didn’t you? The Orange Bowl?\n“Yeah… but it’s not the same,” muttered David. \nThere was a silence in which David flexed his right knee, bringing a couple acorns towards him. He grabbed them with his right hand after setting down his drink carefully in the grass. Picking them up, he threw them with a casual flick of the wrist and they landed twenty yards away, glancing off of an oak tree. A woman in the distance raised her eyebrow and began walking over with a small child in tow. Surprisingly, David smirked at their approach. \n“Honey, you ready to go?” she asked. \n“Whaddya say, coach?” asked David. \nWe can talk a little longer. Let’s finish these beers. \nHe looked apologetically back at her. “Sorry babe, you heard coach.” \nShe understood and picked up the child, who was fussing to try and connect two broken pieces of grass together. Several other blades were already in his mouth. The hood of his silver puffer jacket kept moving back, exposing curly blond hair fluttering in the breeze. It matched his mother’s hair, which flew about her face as she said, “Alright, David. I’ll be over there when you two are done.” \nAs she walked away, David turned to the coach and said, “God, isn’t she beautiful?” \nDon’t ask me that, kid… If I say yes, I sound like a creep; you know how old I am? If I say no, I sound like a jerk. \nChuckling, David said, “Fair enough.” He paused and took a long draught of this second beer and continued, “remember that throw against Penn State in sophomore year? The one to Coolidge?” \nThe post route over the middle? Of course I remember it. You were like Houdini, kid. Coming out of pressure two, three times, flushed out, then back up the pocket… then finding Drew Coolidge out on the post route for a sixty-yard touchdown. I’ll never forget it.\n“Yeah, pretty cool,” said David. A cold wind stirred up some of the fallen leaves which had been spared the leaf blower. It sent a flash of annoyance across David’s mind, unbidden. “You know, coach. You could’ve been nicer to me in those days.” \nNicer? How? \nDavid grunted. “How? How about giving me a compliment every once in a while. Instead of saying-” \nThat I want the best for you?\n“Yes,” said David emphatically. “God, I hated that. I could’ve made ten, fifteen straight completions in practice; I could’ve ripped a seventy yard bomb into a tight window, and what would you say? ‘Take the open man, Cross’, ‘Don’t throw that ball off your back feet, Cross.’” \nWas I wrong?\nSpluttering, David replied, “It’s not about being wrong! I was just a kid! A little encouragement wouldn’t have killed you, would it?” \nSilence on the other end. \nDavid slapped the ground angrily. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” \nYou know what I’m gonna say to it, though. Same thing I’ve said the last three years you’ve come to see me. I’m getting a little tired of saying it.\n“Well say it again,” said David, his blue eyes somber. “Maybe I need to hear it.” \nSilence again, but this time only for a few swirls of the wind. Then, a reply: You never needed encouragement, Cross. You know that. The fire that burned inside you was so bright it almost blinded me when I first saw you. Ain’t nothing on this heaven or hell or earth alive that could’ve stopped you. I was trying to make you a weapon. I was trying to… give you the best shot I could to be great.\n“Whole lotta good it did,” said David bitterly.\nNo one could’ve accounted for bum knees, Cross. You should know that. You still got a chance.\nDavid smirked, his gaze vindictive as a fresh gale ran through his own handsome blond crew cut. Dimples formed effortless in his cheeks, and his lips were of the perfect size. Add in the chiseled jawline, and you could see how young David Cross had featured on the covers of so many magazines as early as his freshman year, before he’d even started a game. His career came back in flashes, the way it always did when he got a buzz going, whether he wanted it to or not. Now, he couldn’t help it. Whenever he was with his coach, he thought back to the past. \nFreshman year, where he started only three games at the tail end of a disappointing season for their Big Ten team. They had talent, the papers said, but no one to use it. \nSophomore year, earning the starting job, keeping his nose clean, studying his butt off, and making all his dreams come true in a Rose Bowl game, not in the playoff, but as a matchup between conference champions who hadn’t made that final cut. They’d lost, but only by three and only because his wideout Julian Young had decided to cough up the ball with a minute left on the clock. \nJunior year. Sky high expectations, a solid season. He was building a case for himself to be an NFL quarterback. He was flashy, he was strong, he was attractive, and his team made the Orange Bowl. They faced off against a tough defense, one of the best in the league, and David picked them apart. It was a shootout; his own defense was apparently deciding to mimic Swiss cheese that day, and so the score with 90 seconds left in the game was 45-42, in their favor. David exercised such cold precision that he couldn’t hear the crowd at all; it just sounded like a numb rush in his ears. With twenty seconds left and no timeouts, he was looking at a third down at the fifteen yard line. He made a mental error on that play, his first of the game, nearly throwing an interception after holding the ball way too long. Only ten seconds remained, and it was fourth down. Last chance. \nDavid remembered getting the snap, but what happened after he would only recall after seeing the film seven times. He had looked to his first read. Covered. His second, tangled up. His third, not looking. Checking it down? Not an option. They had considered just kicking the field goal, but both David and his coach were worried about their porous defense. So coach had said, Lay it out there, Cross, and if you screw this up by God I’m gonna fillet you and send you back to Nebraska in an ice box. Warm words, but not out of the ordinary. \nSo there David stood, a collapsing pocket and out of options. They were playing man coverage though, and he saw the linebacker they were using to guard against his running slowly turning to bail into coverage. David pump-faked, and then took off. \nHe juked the first guy easily at the ten; he already had his hips turned. David took the move to the right, and felt corners converging on him. But he was too fast. He slipped through one of their tackles and then had just the safety to beat at the five. David, an imposing figure at nearly six and a half feet tall and 250 pounds, saw the safety square up to make the tackle and realized he had no option other than brute force. He hit the guy dead on, the first contact crunching his helmet and making him bite down hard on his mouth guard. He kept his legs churning. He felt hands on him. He couldn’t tell whose. He put both arms on the ball to protect it. He was being pushed forward. He kept those legs churning. He heard the crowd roar for the first time, and it nearly deafened him. He kept those legs churning. All of a sudden, the hands fell away, and David opened his eyes to see that he was in the end zone, his teammates rushed around him, screaming with their helmets off. He heard fireworks, he saw fans charge the field as he was hoisted up on his teammates shoulders, his hands bleeding, and he raised the football, screaming something profane, and tears fell down his face. They won. \nThinking about that Orange Bowl?\nDavid sighed, the reverie broken. “You know me so well, coach.” \nShame what happened next. \nScowling, David was forced to remember the next season. Now, it was playoffs or bust, and three weeks in, they were undefeated and looking as sharp as ever. But then week four hit, and David’s knee went one way while his body went another. \n“A clean tear,” several doctors had told him in the coming weeks. “Reconstructive surgery on that ACL and the proper rehab should mean you see the field again, if you want to.”\nOf course David had wanted to, but his parents weren’t so sure. He had played this season against their wishes. They wanted him to declare for the draft; cut his college career short to begin it in the pros. Even his friends on the team said it would be a good idea. Only one man opposed it. Coach had said that his résumé wasn’t airtight yet. He only had about two good seasons worth of play, given that he hadn’t done much his freshman year. He said that David needed one more solid year; one more great year, in fact, to become a true NFL draft prospect. \n“Y’know, I only played that last season because of you,” said David edgily. \nI never made you do anything, Cross. That was all on you.\nHe’d said this to coach before, and gotten much the same response, but David swiped his eyes angrily and said, “I… You know why I came back?” \nSilence. \n“I knew my résumé was good enough for the pros. Maybe not to start right away, but good enough. I came back because… I thought this might be the year…” \nThe year to win a championship?\n“Screw the championship!” said David, louder than he intended. His wife looked over from near the oak tree and raised an eyebrow. He calmed her with a hand and then turned back to the coach. “I thought… it might be the year I earned your respect.” His voice broke, and he began crying in earnest, and he hated himself for doing so, as he knew the response already. \nCrying? Again? C’mon kid, are you that soft? \n“I’m not soft, dammit. You’re just a jerk.” \nThe jerk that got you to the NFL. \nAnd it was true, and David couldn’t deny it. The following year, David’s draft stock had dropped considerably. A second day talent, maybe third. Maybe likely to make it to a training camp, maybe not. He was in the midst of despair, wondering if he should try for a redshirt year, even if that was a long shot. Then coach called him into his office, saying he’d made some calls to old friends of his. David declared for the draft and ended up going in the first round to Cleveland. When he got there, he learned from coach Kevin Delhomme that the only reason he’d gotten the pick was an emphatic boost by his college coach. \n“Y’know, I swore if I ever got to the NFL, if I ever saw the field, I’d never turn back. I’d make it my home. I wouldn’t let anyone else come near it.” \nShame, was all his coach could say. \nThat very first season, in his first NFL game, David had taken off running and felt his other knee give out like it had been shot. He lay on the ground, weeping, slobbering, shouting and punching the turf, but none of it made the pain go away, and none of it would make the rehab any easier. In spite of the team of trained doctors and physical therapists he had access to now, the progress was slow, grinding, and humiliating. It was only two months ago, in his second season in the league, that he had gotten another shot. And promptly re-tore his first ACL, requiring complete reconstruction. \nHe felt the long, immobilizing cast on his left leg now. He’d been through surgery two weeks ago, but the doctors were a lot more grim now than they had been. Instead of suggest a return, they suggested he try for a career in football analysis, either at the college or the professional level, and above all to make sure his money was invested properly. It was, but there wasn’t a whole lot of it given that he hadn’t played much of anything. Over the last couple of months he had seriously been contemplating his life. His son had been born at the beginning of his tragic NFL career. He had married his high school sweetheart, and there she stood, as beautiful as a model herself. He knew she’d stick with him, but he saw the pain in her eyes when he had been in the hospital, and when he talked about going back for a third season. Could he put her through all of that again? Could he afford not to?\nHow long did he have before his knee gave way entirely? David took another drink and said, “I don’t know if it’s worth it, coach. I really don’t.” \nI can’t do much to help you anymore, kid. You’ve had a hell of a journey already. I just didn’t think you’d quit, that’s all. \n“Quit?” repeated David. “Quit? How dare you, you…” He couldn’t finish the sentence without gritting his teeth. \nA long silence passed between them. Finally, the coach broke it. Listen, kid, I’m sorry. Guess I just feel sorta helpless looking at you now. I thought you were gonna be so much, I hate to see that potential wasted. \n“I just… I don’t know if I can do it anymore. What if I get hurt again?” \nThen you get hurt again. Maybe you’ll have to learn a new way to play. Stay in the pocket, bounce around. Go to the ground instead of taking hits. You’re gonna have to sense pressure coming the way you always did, but instead of taking off, you’re gonna have to sit your butt down and live to fight another play. It sucks, but it just means you have to throw it better.\n“On Cleveland?” scoffed David. “We’re about as bottom of the barrel as it gets, coach.” \nYou’re not always gonna play in Cleveland, Cross. When you do move teams, you’ll need skills that work in multiple systems. Being a pocket passer… that’s deadly if you can do it right. \n“So you think I should go back?” asked David, taking a deep breath and staring up at the sky. “God… I don’t know. I just don’t know.” \nThen don’t go back. I don’t care.\n“Yeah right,” said David, glaring at the coach. “You’ll hate me. You’ll… You’ll never be proud of me.” \nKid, if you’re waiting for my approval, don’t waste your breath. I’m not gonna hold your hand like your daddy. You’re the best player I ever coached. If you never play another down in the pros, that won’t change. I… I’ll always be proud of you. Do whatever you want to do.\nHearing the coach that vulnerable shook David. He collected himself for several moments, noting his wife’s curious gaze and the darkened sky. He beckoned her over. She came and helped him to his feet. He used the crutches to stabilize himself while she grabbed the empty beer on the ground. Looking down at the coach, he said, “I’m gonna play one more season. One more. And if it… If I get hurt, I’ll stop. How’s that?” \nSilence, but David smiled this time. He turned to his wife and son. “It’s gonna be okay.” \nHe poured the rest of the beer on the ground, and it slurped a little as the earth accepted his offering. Then he gave the bottle to his wife and placed the cap upon the large rectangular stone which read, “Ernie ‘Coach’ Williams. Father, friend, mentor.”\n“See ya next year, coach,” said David, turning and crutching his way across the dirt, away from the grave, away from that distant voice." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Candied Yams Amid Controversy\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2013\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a meal or dinner goes horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Candied Yams Amid Controversy\nBy: Shavon C. Evelyn\n\n We stared at each other for an interminable moment as the candied yams congealed between us. Widened eyes met lids lowered in shame. Aunt Glenda glared from face to face around the table trying to determine who knew it first. Who held the secret and for how long? How many members of the family that she held so dear had come to her home for Sunday dinners knowing her life was built on a lie. Eight sets of eyes stared back in silence. Uncle Joe appeared stricken, not shocked. Like he’d known all along and just hadn’t wanted it to come out this way.\n I always thought it was odd that Cousin Roni was the only one on this side of the family who wore glasses. Everyone else had perfect 20/20 until print started to blur signaling the time had come to acquiesce to reading glasses. Roni was the only one who’d had four eyes since second grade.\nWhy is Aunt Linda so damn petty and cruel? Always starved for the spotlight. She should have been a ringmaster. In typical fashion, she dropped a bomb on our first Sunday dinner since quarantine then escaped to the porch to smoke. She left us to grapple with picking up the pieces. Not this time though. She’s not going to get away with it. I won’t let her just slither away from her wreckage. I slid back from the table and stormed out to the porch. She turned to face me as the screen door slammed shut behind me. She seemed shocked that I would approach her, but this was no time for niceties.\n“Aunt Linda, why would you do that?”\n“What, tell the truth? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?” She tapped her cigarette on the railing to flick a clump of ashes to the ground.\n“At Sunday dinner? In front of everybody? Why would you embarrass them like that?” I demanded.\n“Who are you to question me and my decisions Mona? Isn’t there a video game waiting for you somewhere?” She turned her body to dismiss me.\n“I’m not a kid anymore Aunt Linda and it’s not fair for you to hurt the family that way.”\n“They’re my family too Mona,” she turned back to face me. “And it wasn’t fair for my older sister to screw around with my boyfriend, get pregnant, marry Joe and live happily ever after.”\n“So, this is all about jealousy? About a boyfriend from almost 30 years ago?” There must be more to it. She can’t be childish enough to still be holding onto this grudge.\n“More than a boyfriend, child. I was planning a future with him.”\n“But Aunt Linda, he clearly wasn’t a good guy.”\n“Oh, he wasn’t a good guy, but you want to stand here and tell me my sister is a saint?” She rolled her eyes and tapped her cigarette again.\n“No, but she’s family.”\nI left her with that before walking back into the house. Uncle Joe and Uncle Barry had retreated to the den. I knew the conversation would shift if they saw me, so I leaned against the wall to listen in.\n“Did you know?” Uncle Barry asked his younger brother.\n“Yeah, I knew. Glenda took a pregnancy test about a month into us dating. Told me her ex was a jerk and it didn’t end well.” Joe replied.\n“But he left her with a parting gift,” Uncle Barry continued.\n“Yeah,” Uncle Joe stared down at the patterned rug, “but I knew she was the one for me, so it didn’t really matter.”\n“So that’s why you guys got married so fast.” Uncle Barry nodded as though puzzle pieces were coming together in his mind.\n“Yeah, I convinced her it was okay and that we could have more kids. I never looked at Roni as anything but my own daughter.”\n“That’s honorable man. I don’t know if I could have done that. So, what’s Linda’s beef?”\n“I don’t know. She must have liked the dude or something. Glenda said they went out once or twice, but it wasn’t anything serious.”\n“Guess it was to Linda.”\n“You know she’s always been bitter.”\nUncle Barry nodded in response. “Where’s Roni now?”\n“In the kitchen with Glenda.”\nI tiptoed toward the kitchen, torn between being supportive of the woman who helped raise me and the need to indulge my own curiosity.\n“Why didn’t you tell me?” I could hear Roni’s pain as she interrogated her mother. My heart ached for her, but I wanted to hear Aunt Glenda’s response before stepping into the room.\n“Roni, I wanted to tell you. I agonized over it, but the time never seemed, never felt right.” Her voice trailed off at the end.\n“So instead, you let me live a lie?”\n“What lie?” I could hear Aunt Glenda’s defenses firing up. “You have two parents who love you more than you can imagine. Isn’t that what matters most?” Roni was silent for a moment. “Roni, baby look at me,” Aunt Glenda softened. It’s amazing that she’s only two years older than Aunt Linda. They are decades apart in terms of maturity. “You know your father and I love you more than life itself,” she continued.\n“My father…” Roni’s voice was barely above a whisper.\n“Yes, your father. The man who was the first to shed a tear as he held you in the delivery room. Who read you bedtime stories, taught you to drive and cheered for you in every single moment of the past 25 years.”\n“You’re right,” Roni’s response was muffled. I figured that meant they were hugging and took the moment of calm as my opportunity to enter. I pushed the swinging door a bit and popped my head inside. Aunt Glenda caught my eye and waved me in. She was standing next to the stool where Roni sat.\n Roni leaned against her bosom sniffling. Her shoulders shaking as she cried. Aunt Glenda rubbed her back gently. I walked around to the other side of the island to stand across from them. I wanted to be close without intruding.\n“Are you two okay?” I asked softly.\n“I think so,” Aunt Glenda replied. Roni nodded her head yes.\nWe’d grown up more as sisters than cousins. I went to Aunt Glenda’s after school for most of my life while mom either worked two jobs or worked days and went to school in the evenings. She did her best to help me keep up with the private school crowd even when I told her she didn’t have to. Don’t know if we’ll ever be as close as Roni and Aunt Glenda though.\n Roni sat up after a couple of minutes. I handed her a napkin to dry her tears. She thanked me, then looked at Aunt Glenda. “Does he know about me?”\n“Reggie?” Aunt Glenda asked as though it were the first time she’d even pondered it.\n“I guess. Is that his name? My fa -- biological?”\n“Well…honestly, I did tell him that I was pregnant. But also told him that I was getting married in the same breath. He may or may not have assumed the baby, you, were Joe’s.” She looked down at her hands, then up to make eye contact with Roni. “I haven’t spoken to him since.”\nRoni inhaled deeply as though she were on the verge of a weighty statement. Then just exhaled slowly and remained quiet. The kitchen door swung open again and Uncle Joe stood in the doorway. “Can I come in?” He asked as though he weren’t in his own home.\n“Of course, dad,” Roni responded reaching for him. Tears welled up in her eyes again as they embraced.\n“I’m sorry baby,” he whispered into her hair. “We should have told you.”\nI felt a little out of place until Aunt Glenda reached across the island to place her hand on mine.\n“Where’s Linda?” Aunt Glenda asked me.\n“She was on the front porch a little while ago.” Without another word, she stormed through the kitchen door back toward the front of the house. I couldn’t even pretend not to follow her. I could referee in case things got out of hand. Joe Jr. and René headed toward the kitchen when they saw their mom exit, touching her hand in a silent show of support as they passed her.\n By the time we got outside Aunt Linda was in her ten-year-old sedan starting to back out of the driveway, windows down and a fresh cigarette in her hand.\n“Wait!” Aunt Glenda commanded. The car stopped moving. My mother rushed out of the front door. She must have seen Aunt Glenda moving with intention. She stopped next to me and watched her two older sisters. Aunt Glenda opened the passenger side door and slid into the front seat without waiting for permission.\n“Turn it off,” I heard her say.\n“You can’t tell me – “Aunt Linda began a retort.\n“Turn it off!” Aunt Linda turned the key and the rumbling of the engine ceased.\n“What do you want?” Aunt Glenda asked.\n“You’re in my car – “Aunt Linda began to protest.\n“Cut the shit. What is it you want? Why do you hate me so much?”\n“I don’t hate you,” Aunt Linda’s voice softened a bit.\n“Then why? Why do you show up only to wreak havoc? I don’t get it. What did I ever do to you?”\n“It’s all about you.”\n“What, what’s all about me? You just tried to destroy my damn family!”\n“You took him from me! Every time I see Veronica it’s a reminder that you stole the love of my life then threw him away like yesterday’s trash!” Aunt Linda wailed, pounding on the steering wheel.\n“The love of your life? Reggie was the love of your life?” You went to the movies and a damn soccer game with him.” Aunt Glenda shook her head incredulous.\n“It was more than that.”\n“What else? That’s all I know about.”\n“That’s all you wanted to know Glen.”\nAunt Glenda lifted her hands to her forehead. “What else Lin?”\n“I…I lost my virginity to him…He told me he loved me.” Tears rolled down her face, dripping down to deepen the burgundy of her blouse.\n“Lin,” Aunt Glenda turned to face her younger sister, “I never knew that. Why didn’t you tell me?” My mother left my side and climbed into the back seat.\n“You were busy with school and filling in for Daddy at the agency while he was sick. Next thing I knew Reggie had stopped calling me and was following you around.” Then it was Aunt Glenda’s turn to shed a tear. “Oh my God Lin, I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”\n“And you held onto that for all these years?” My mother interjected. “Why didn’t you say something?”\n“What was there to say? Everyone had just forgotten about me.” Aunt Linda hung her head.\n“Lin, you could have come to me. I was definitely out of sorts with everything going on, but I would have surely dropped him if I knew he meant something to you.”\nAunt Linda only nodded in response while wiping her tears.\n“Let’s not forget he was a total asshole though,” my mom chimed in from the backseat.\n“This is what I keep saying! He knew he was pitting the two of us against each other,” Aunt Glenda agreed.\n“I guess he was the only one who really knew,” Aunt Linda finally admitted.\n“I can’t believe we’ve wasted all this time,” Aunt Glenda replied shaking her head.\n“Group hug?” My mom proposed, leaning forward. A smile began to break through Aunt Linda’s tears.\n“Not without me!” I jumped in the back seat to join in.\n“Now can we please get back to the roasted chicken and candied yams?” my mom proposed, ever the little sister. “My stomach is doing back flips over here!”\nAunt Glenda laughed, “Yes we can,” she said and reached for Aunt Linda’s 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: Ramirez Took My Hand\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1093\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a mentor whose methods are controversial." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ramirez shows up three minutes early everyday. I am to be here ten minutes earlier. Somehow she knows if I’m not. The wall is blank. It was painted over in the night. A lost white. As if a blizzard had swept in to confiscate the previous day’s mural. I am allowed one brush and two colors. I may choose the colors the night before, but I must do so having no idea what Ramirez will ask me to paint. According to her, she doesn’t even know what she’s looking for until she walks into the studio.\nThe wall is three times as high as either of us. The teacher and the student. There is a ladder we use when we need to reach the higher portions. I am scared of heights, but I would never share that with her. I would never share any vulnerability with her. She told me that her last student had lost his mother at a very early age, and everyday after that she made him paint her from memory until he stopped showing up.\nThen she found me.\nI was working at the Battlefront Arts Collaborative on the East Side when she walked in and pointed at me. My boss, struck by the great Ramirez entering his humble storefront, ran up to her and began chattering about some other, more suitable, more experienced members of the collaborative that might be a better fit for her. Ramirez wouldn’t hear of it. She gave my boss an index card with a time and place on it, and he passed it on to me. She spoke no words to me that day. Even when I showed up at the address the next morning, she came in and said nothing. There was a wall of brushes on the other side of the room, and against the wall, there were hundreds of cups with paint in them. Every color of Creation.\nShe chose a brush, dipped it in a fuschia, and walked over to the wall. She began to paint. I stood there, not sure of what to do. Not sure of myself. I saw that a small brush had been set aside on the floor with my name on it. Next to it were two cups of color--both versions of gray. I bent down to pick up the brush. Following her lead, I dipped it in the lighter of the two grays, and made my way to the wall. Once there, I froze. What was I to do? What were we painting? Ramirez came over, took my hand, and moved it assertively across the wall placing a diagonal streak over what had been simply white.\nThat was the only cue I needed. I began to paint out from the streak. Ramirez worked on her side of the wall making her famous shapes--triangles, squares, etc. On my side, I found variations on the gray stroke. I found lines, dots, and curves. This was what interested me back then. I concentrated on beginnings and endings. Things that end before they begin. Things that never begin at all. When the day was done, Ramirez handed me an index card. Written on it was the directive “Choose two colors” and an email address where I could send my selections. It was not her email address. I would never be given a way to contact her directly. She exited the room. I looked at the wall. There was a conversation happening, but one side wasn’t listening. It wasn’t my side. My side was dying to be heard.\nSoon, speech was introduced into our sessions, but it was curt. Mostly “Yes” or “No.” More “No” than “Yes.” Every “No” directed at my courage. A risk was usually met with a “No.” A stroke resembling that original gray placement would begrudgingly receive a “Yes.” I learned how to paint like Ramirez. The closer I got to her identity, the faster the work went. When the wall was covered, we were done for the day. There were sessions that went on close to midnight. We never broke for food or bathroom necessities. Ramirez never left the room once she entered it until the task was done. The next day, it was all gone. I never asked questions. I never asked where we were going with all this. I would come home and beg my bed to welcome me quietly. I lost touch with friends. Most were jealous anyway. How dare I get to work with Ramirez. Who was I? Why was I so special?\nI had never felt less special in my entire life.\nThe last day of my tutelage, we had covered the wall in mostly reds. It was violent, but soothing. A violence you know is coming. An expression of a cut. A symbol for the cost of liberation. It could have been anything. I had nothing to dissect. My brain turned off now as soon as I picked up my brush for the day. It had been nearly a year since Ramirez plucked me out of the collaborative. I was there to follow; nothing else.\nThere was one white spot left on the wall. Ramirez looked at me. I picked up my brush. I wanted to jam it straight through the wall. I wanted to create my own violence. I wanted to say something that wasn’t a choice between two things that were both shades of something else. I stood there. Ramirez walked over to me and took my hand. She went to make a stroking motion, but I resisted. She gripped harder. I stiffened my form. We looked at each other. Taking advantage of her surprise, I made a perfect line across the white space. A red line that was as strong at the beginning as it was at the end.\nSomething made with assurance will always center itself no matter what you put around it. That line became an anchor in a stew of confusion. Ramirez enjoyed the confusion. She always had. I liked clarity enough to fight for it. I wanted to hear and speak and feel clearly. She walked over to the wall on the other side of the room, and put her brush away.\nWalking back over to me, the hard sound of her shoes against the floor seemed to be a death knell, but I couldn’t fear it. Death or anything. Violence or anything. Red or gray. It didn’t matter. I had made my line.\nShe stopped and posed the first very question she’d ever ask me.\n“What is your 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: Afterlife's Top Fixer\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1360\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a world where contacting the dead is as easy as making a phone call." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I hate it when people I know die.\n\nIt’s enough of an issue to deal with the unreasonable demands and whims of those deadweights I already have on my hands, but every new bastard that kicks the can and gets to enjoy their eternal vacation is just another chore for me. My mother was right when she used to say I was a wimp, needed to learn to say no, and stop letting people walk all over me. Well, she still says it. All the damn time, in fact, and entirely too much to tolerate. Good thing the old hag had a bad imagination and is terrible at haunting, so I don't have to talk to her too often.\n\nIt all started innocently enough, really. When my grandpa died from whatever it is old people die from, I started feeling pressure on my chest every night at 3 in the morning. See, I am a smart cookie, back then I was, at least, and I quickly put two and two together and contacted the old fella in the afterlife. Turns out, he wanted to know how Texas Rangers did that week, and he needed his nice grandson to let him know. No sports channels in the afterlife, apparently. Now, he was the first person I personally knew that passed, and he was a nice enough guy, if a bit, khm, “racey”, so I did not see a problem with spending 5 minutes every week giving him the play-by-play. In a big oversight I blame entirely on youthful innocence, however, I also informed my friends and family of this “little”, “sweet”, “adorable” favor a good grandson did for his grandpa. Big, big mistake.\n\nSoon enough it started getting out of hand. My classmate decided it was a good idea to throw a firecracker at a rottweiler, the idiot, and the chain holding said rottweiler couldn’t survive the onslaught of justifiable wrath. Needless to say, the funeral was a rather comedic affair and did not inspire much sympathy across the board. Imagine my surprise when my bathroom mirror started to fog up suspiciously often and even spelled “COLL MI'' once. Only one dead idiot I knew could make two mistakes in two words, so I called him to see what he wanted. To my dismay, he remembered the little arrangement I had with my grandpa and was hoping for a similar one. You see, he really wanted to finish high school and get his education. “It’s what my mother would have wanted”. Usually, it is the living who get inspired by the death of a loved one to better themselves, not the other way around. Compounding the problem was the fact that he had as much of a chance of graduating when he was alive as I had of telling him no, so I found myself doing homework every night with a bafflingly slow ghost. He was grateful, of course. Or he would have been, at least, if he could actually spell “grateful”.\n\nFrom there, it escalated. My uncle died in a freak jet-ski incident? There is simply no one else but me who could keep him up-to-date on his favorite soap opera. A girl I used to date in middle school missed the water jumping off a cliff? For the sake of our old love, I must transcribe her memoirs from the afterlife. My dad electrocuted himself trying to fix the wiring of our backyard shed? His work must be finished, and the backyard could use a swanking new patio as well, actually, maybe throw in an English lawn too, while you are at it, and I expect daily updates on the work, son!\n\nThese days, it is simply unbearable. I went from having five hours a week reserved for favors to the dead to five hours a day. It got to a point where I am bothered by ghosts I did not even know when they were alive! The other week, some ghost kept messing up my magnets on the fridge and spelling out his full government name, and when I finally lost patience and called him, he had the gall, the audacity to claim he was my former classmate! Guy sounded like he had been chain-smoking himself to death for five decades, and was hoping I can mend his relationship with his estranged daughter, for Christ’s sake! (I am supposed to meet her next week, but my chances are not good - her dad was a right old prick).\n\nInstead of enjoying my youth and meeting new people, I am stuck humoring ghosts from my past (no complaints here, though, for every new person I meet is a potential new ghost to bother me in the future). The few living people I am still in contact with keep urging me to just stop helping them, or at least not take on any new ones. Easy for them to say! It’s one thing when you have five dead relatives and maybe a couple of friends to worry about, but one hundred? More, even! And the worst part? The ghosts with more elaborate and time-consuming requests are usually the ones who had better imaginations and intelligence in their lives, and consequently are much better at haunting you until you fold and help them. Oh, my buddy Jimmy wants to know Nascar standings and his damned Corvette polished or his apparition will stand, menacingly, at the end of my hallway every other night? Boohoo, he can wait a couple of days if I am busy. Try every crevice of your apartment oozing blood non-stop until you help your dead University professor finish his life’s work on dead languages of South-Eastern Anatolia. I had to learn Turkish for that, for crying out loud!\n\nAnd, you know, hauling ass five hours a day for a bunch of ghosts is not exactly good for my bottom-line. I land part-time jobs from time to time, but with an army of impatient ghosts with no conception of tact or decency haunting you all the time, it gets pretty hard to keep a job. If you work at a Waffle House and every omelet you fry is somehow shaped like a coffin and smells like rotting eggs, you can see how that might make a manager unhappy. In their defense, though, sometimes they do help me out financially. Once, my cousin’s best friend who got trampled by a bull while trying to romantically propose to his girlfriend in Spain and wanted updates on whether she moved on and if it was with the damn mailman told me that he heard a guy tell a guy that a girl he knew was told by a guy that he buried a bunch of gold on a beach in Maine during the Golden Age of Piracy, and even described the exact spot. Those 500 or so solid gold coins got me all the way through college, actually, it was pretty sweet. \n\nSo, madam, I accept your apology, and no, I am not mad at you. It is a bit of a bummer to get plastered on a road by a school bus no matter how you chop up the lettuce, so to speak, but I am not that upset about it. I know bus drivers are underpaid and you did not mean to hit me, and I really do appreciate your gesture of contacting me in the afterlife. As you probably gathered, my life was not exactly a parade of meaning, and I am glad to be free of all the constant haunting and nagging. Now, I get to enjoy my eternal vacation from responsibility. Just one thing - if you could water my plants every now and then, I would really appreciate it, you can find the key to my apartment under the doormat. Just so you know, there are a bunch of pretty valuable models and figurines in the apartment, and I am not saying anything, but if those were to be mysteriously sold off somehow, I will have you know I am exceptionally good at haunting and will not hesitate to do so. Thanks a lot in advance." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dinner and No Movie\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1682\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with two characters sitting down for a meal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Damn, I really need to be studying.\nMy stomach already aches from the lack of food I've eaten but, seeing the D in my Psychology class just made me feel even worse. Like the true avoidant I am, I quickly close out the Blackboard app. \nAs if a coincidence, I get the warning text from T-mobile that my phone bill will be due soon. I had almost forgotten about that.\nShit, I got to make up something to tell my mama.\nMy stomach turns even more at the thought of how selfish I am. My mom had just lost her job right before I went off to New Orleans for college, and here I was spending the money she scraped up for my phone bill on some boy. \nI admit that I am a fool, but I couldn't help it. I loved him, and for once, I have someone consistent in my life that hadn't left my side. \nSeasonings blend in and marinate the air with the tangy aroma of chicken that intermingles with biscuits' buttery scent. I can smell the faintest hint of apple and cinnamon as the cooks got to rolling with the apple pies—my stomach grumbles. I couldn't afford an apple pie this week if I wanted to make sure I had enough bus fare to make it back to campus. \n\"Uh uh, Nah, baby! This ain't what I asked for. I asked for spicy, not mild.\"\n\"That's what the ticket said, ma'am.\"\nI am knocked back into reality by the uproar at the counter.\nI fan myself with my hand, surveying the scene around me.\nThe restaurant is animated, filled with various characters. A mother shushing her unruly child as she complains about her order, construction workers grabbing handfuls of ketchup packets discussing get rich quick schemes, older women with big church hats coming in for their after-church lunch. \nAnd there is Liam, my boyfriend, in line buying us lunch. \nLiam who always seemed to know what to say and how to say it. \nLiam, who kept me grounded for the last two years. \nLiam who is the only one that cares about me.\nLiam, who I loved with every fiber in my being.\nLiam, who I had forfeited my dreams for to come live in this city.\nI shifted on the hard seat in the booth. I wait patiently for Liam. Ugly thoughts began to cross my mind again.\nLiam who didn't have to make any sacrifices.\nLiam, who called me stupid in indirect ways at times.\nLiam, who gets angry when I didn't spend my money in \"correct\" ways.\nLiam, who refused to get any job since working fast food, was \"beneath\" him.\nLiam, who is buying us lunch with my money.\nMy eyes narrow at him at the register.\nWhat is this? The 6th time this weekend, I had to buy food for the both of us. \nHow many times this month? \nI take out my phone to look at my calendar. It was nearing the end of September. Three weekends, three meals each weekend, two days. \nMy God, I have bought this motherfucker food eighteen times! \nI was not even counting August, the snacks, and the gifts. \nI didn't calculate the bus rides we took and the fees of dates I paid for with money my family entrusted with me for school supplies and extra items. I didn't tell them where my money was going.\nMy mother would drag me by the hair back to Mississippi, especially since she was pinching pennies and sucking in her pride to ask my extended family for my school expenses. \nIn an instant, I feel a mixture of shame and anger. Am I really so desperate and stupid for someone to love me? I sacrifice bits and pieces of myself. I turn on my phone's front camera to catch a look at myself.\nThe dark bags and circles under my eyes are a constant now. My hair is dry and has minimum life to it since I cannot buy new hair products. A scarf is tied crookedly around my edges to make me feel somewhat pretty. It isn't working. My shoulders sag. \nI haven't felt pretty on my own in a while. I usually never feel pretty unless Liam tells me so. Lately, ever since I cannot afford things that make me feel pretty, his comments have become scarce and scarce. Often more, it's criticism.\nMy eyes fall on his back that is still away from facing me, while I sit at the booth waiting for him to return. \nHe smells. He smells of sweat and dirt. \nI know he does because I could see the woman behind him fan her nose in annoyance. I know it's him because I smelled him on our way here. I know it's him because my roommate complained when he got me from my dorm two days prior. Suddenly, I feel like he has no right to tell me that I'm pretty or not.\nHis hair is stringy; that cap is dirtier than my Auntie Mary's floor. And seriously, girl, has he even taken a bath this weekend? You haven't seen him get in the tub since you been crashing at his parent's house with him away from your dorm?\nMy eyes pan to the window next to me, and I look out at the gloomy scenery of Elysian Fields. The clouds hung low in threat as if it would rain. The sidewalks of his neighborhood are crumbled by construction work. The RTA bus zooms by, signifying that another wouldn't come for another 45 minutes to an hour and a half.\nIt looks like we're walking back to the Villas.\nI can already feel the humidity as I let out a sigh. The walk back would feel like an eternity, especially with my backpack and recent backpain.\nI'm sore already from walking here already. Of course, Liam told me I complained too much, and he walked ahead of me.\nFor a brief moment, I hate him. I want to leave. I want to call my mother right now and tell her what's been going on. \nHow I've been low in spirit, broke, and dejected since arriving at college in the city. \nFor a moment, I think of my dad and how he is probably turning over in his grave at the things I've settled for since he passed away. A lone tear slides down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away.\nWhat did I do ever to deserve this?\nI wonder if I could do this for the rest of my life or if this is a temporary situation. I've seen several couples struggle on Facebook and then come up together. I have been holding onto the slim hope that that would be us. \nBut can I wait forever? Or Should I even?\nI barely had any friends because he took up all of my free time, and the friends I did make he judged harshly. I wouldn't dare tell my friends back home of my struggle. I feared being judged and told to \"dump him\" for a better dude.\nBut I don't want to be lonely again. Loneliness is a death sentence to me. Ever since my dad died, I couldn't help but feel this way. In these past five years, I have felt unprotected without him. \nWas it so bad that I wanted to feel safe again and loved? My mother never seemed to want to talk about my dad anymore. She'd rather scream and constantly try to fill his place with failed relationships.\n I hate her for it, yet I wonder if we aren't so different after all.\n\"Hey, babe. Sorry it took me so long. Had to get some apple pies?\"\nStartled, I look from the window to focus back on him. He now had two boxes of tenders, drinks, and--\n\"Apple Pies?\" I ask, confused. He passes a quarter and nickel back to me. I'm supposed to have more change than this. \nAll the money I would have until Thursday. Today is Sunday.\n Thursdays were like Christmas. My grandparents would send me $30 via Western Union, and relief would settle in my heart. Fridays on the 15th of each month were like my birthday. My work-study would roll in, and I'd feel semi-rich. \nFor a little while, at least.\nLord God, why did you have to give me a broke white boy?\n\"I thought we were just getting chicken.\" A nervous tremor is in my voice. How in the hell would I be able to get back to my dorm without bus fare later? A one-way Bus pass was $1.25 back to my dorm. Even then, I would have to walk fifteen minutes in the dark down the street because I did not have $3 to get a one-way pass to switch to the other bus.\n\"Well, I decided to get apple pies for my parents. I hope that's cool. I'll ask if they can drive you home to your dorm.\" He quickly adds.\n I'm lucky. His parents rarely took me back to my dorm. Usually, Liam and I would have to take the bus back or prepare for a very long walk.\nLike I fool, I fell back in love.\nMy Liam always knew exactly what to say and how to say it.\n\"Sounds like a plan. Thank you, baby.\" I smile, kissing him on the lips when he sits beside me at the booth.\n\"Now, let's try to eat this fast so we won't get rained on.\"\nI loved him with every fiber in my being. \nSometimes loving someone that much will hurt with every fiber of your being. \nOne day, I would find that out the hard way. \nBut, not today.\nI was okay now and back in love with the one man who hadn't left me. Even if he isn't consistent in his passion, he's still here. \nI should be grateful because a girl like me doesn't have that many options.\n I open my box of chicken, smiling like a damned fool." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Laurel and Milton's Bucket List\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1033\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with two characters sitting down for a meal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It is Christmas Eve and Nichole is putting the finishing touches on the Christmas ham with her mother Rosa. \"It looks like Dad's family recipe has done it again. It looks beautiful. He would be so proud of us.\", Nichole says. \nRosa sighs and looks out the kitchen window, \"I know. It is still hard for me to believe your father has been gone for three years now. But the ham looks delicious, and I know he would not mind if I just cut the tiniest slice off the end here.\"\nNichole gives her mother a side eye. Rosa grabs a knife off the marble countertop and slices through the perfectly maple glazed crusted ham and winks. \"You know, just to make sure it's not poisoned.\" As Nichole begins to protest, Rosa reaches over and puts a thin slice into her daughter's mouth.\nNichole moans in ecstasy and licks her lips. \"Dad would be so proud of us. Mom, this tastes even better than last year’s ham. This little piggy is a true masterpiece.\"\nJust then Kelly, Nichole's wife, and Dayon, their 7-year-old son walk into the kitchen.\n“Hi grandma! It smells so good in here. It smells like Christmas.” Dayon says as he rushes over to Rosa.\n\"Let me guess. You two are testing the ham for poison.\" Kelly smirks.\nMama Rosa laughs, \"You know us all too well Kelly. As you should. You've been a part of our family for sixteen years.\" Reaching down to give her grandson a kiss she asks, \"How's my favorite grandson?\"\nDayon smiles, \"Grandma, I'm your only grandson. Can I have some ham? I think Grandpa Danny would want me to check for poison too.”\n“Do you see what you two have started?” Kelly asks.\n“Well, we’re always looking for new partners in crime. Isn’t that right Dayon?” Nichole retorts as Dayon nods in agreement and puts a bite size piece of ham in his mouth.\n\"Dayon let's go get dressed so we can join Milton and Laurel to see the luminarias in Carrollwood.\" Rosa smiles.\n\"I'm happy they invited us. I never would have thought that an elderly white couple would be so open minded and invite their non- traditional neighbors.\" Kelly says.\n\"Well, I've always told Nichole and her brother to never judge a book by its cover and that goes for Milton and Laurel. Now, let me help my only and favorite grandson get dressed so we can head next door. Laurel says Milton will drive us since he knows the streets with the best luminarias displays.\" Rosa grabs Dayon's hand and heads upstairs.\n\"Of course, the male breeder wants to drive. They always have to be in control.\" Kelly sneers and shoves a piece of ham into her mouth.\n\"Hey, be nice. You heard what my mom said. Never judge a book by its cover. Besides, they wouldn't have invited us if they had a problem with us.\" Putting her arm around Kelly, Nichole gives her a light kiss on the cheek.\n\"You're right of course. I don't want to prejudge people because that would make me a hypocrite.\" Kelly says. \"And I believe that would put me on Santa's naughty list.\" She smiles and relaxes into Nichole's arms.\n“Well, for the record, I don’t mind if you’re on Santa’s naughty list. I’ll still give you all your gifts under the tree.” Nichole grins.\nTwenty minutes later the motley crew is being driven around Carrollwood's streets and avenues with Milton and Laurel as their guide.\n\"The traditional luminaries consists of a small brown paper bag, a small candle and a small amount of sand to weigh down the bag in case of wind.\" As Milton navigates through the beautifully lit neighborhoods, they continue to 'ooh' and 'ah' at every turn. “Although the people in our neighborhood have come and gone and changed over the years, the tradition of the luminaries perseveres.”\nAn hour later, Milton pulls the van into the driveway. \"So, who wants hot chocolate and warm donuts?\"\n\"I do! I do!\", screams Dayon.\n\"For the past thirty years me and Milton always follow our luminaries ride with hot chocolate and warm donuts.\" Laurel smiles and reaches over to squeeze Milton's hand.\n\"That sounds lovely\", Mama Rosa replies.\nThat evening, Kelly and Nichole enjoy their traditional bourbon eggnog with steaming hot bowls of gumbo as they wrap last minute gifts for the tree, Kelly smiles, \"Tonight will go down as one of my favorite Christmas Eve's.\"\n\"Oh really?\" Nichole takes another sip of her eggnog and places another piece of tape on a gift with sparkly green wrapping paper. “You mean you enjoyed spending time with a white heterosexual elderly couple?”\n\"Yes\", Kelly replies. \"Milton and Laurel were wonderful tour guides and a sweet elderly couple. You and your mother were right. My early New Year’s Resolution is to not judge a book by its cover. I hope to one day be as loving and caring as they are.\"\n\"I'll drink to that.\" Nichole says as they both clink their glasses together.\nMeanwhile next-door Milton and Laurel are also sharing a Christmas Eve drink; a glass of Pinot Grigio along with small bowls of warm pasta carbonara.\n\"Do you have the book Laurel?\" Milton asks as he sips the last of his wine.\n\"You know I do sweetheart\", Laurel replies.\nLaurel places a black leather-bound book with gilded pages on the round dining room table. She gently pulls on the scarlet-colored ribbon revealing a page with the heading Bucket List followed by a numerical list of varying items written in a combination of black and blue ink. Some of the items are followed by a big red check mark indicating a successful completion of the task.\nMid-way down on the right-hand side of the journal, Milton's weathered index finger lingers over numbers 71 and 72.\n\"We definitely hit the jackpot with our new neighbors didn't we Laurel?\", Milton chuckles as Laurel hands him a red pen.\n\"We sure did sweetheart. Merry Christmas!\", and with two quick strokes of the pen Milton puts two red-inked check marks next to the phrases \"Have hot chocolate with colored people\" and \"Hang out with lesbians\"." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Guests\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1201\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from a ghost’s point of view." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I am woken up from a deep sleep by the sound of the front door downstairs unlocking and creaking open. Unfamiliar sounds waft into my home. I am groggier than I ever have been.\n“It’s huge!” I hear a woman’s voice say. I beam with pride. Her companion coughs.\n“And so dusty. And full of cobwebs. We’ll have to get the cleaning crew in here first thing.”\nI frown. I have always been proud of my family’s home, and to hear someone disparage it like this makes me defensive.\n“Well, that’s what happens when you let a place go to ruin for this long.”\nI’m trying to piece together what is going on, where I am, who I am.\nI am Laura. I am eighteen years old. I am in my bedroom, in my bed. I am safe. A splitting pain shoots through my head as I remember the last sensation I ever felt; the cleaving of my skull, the spray blood across the face of—that part is blank. But I know for certain that I am dead. Just like Mom and Dad and Andrew. We stayed in our home after the incident. We could guess why.\nWe tried to carry on as normally as we could, but over the years we got bored. You can only watch so many TikTok videos, play only so many games of Scrabble. Dust all the furniture so many times, and for who?\nAfter the search for our bodies was given up, the crime scene tape rolled up and put away, the news vans drove off to the next most interesting grisly murder scene. We became urban legend. I read about us on social media for years, but eventually that interest faded too. The sites that had seemed so ubiquitous in my life eventually crumbled as well. I don’t know what they were replaced with. No one bothers to tell us these things because no one visits. Not for us, anyway.\nOnce our phones and laptops stopped working, once there was no more WiFi for our router to connect to, it became impossible to keep track of time and the passing of the years. The punk kids who used to dare each other to throw rocks through our windows became punk teenagers who brought their dates in here with blankets and pillows and pilfered wine to have sex in our living room. Chasing them off was the only real fun we ever had as a family anymore, a replacement for game nights that we barely remembered.\nMaybe we got a little too enthusiastic about it because eventually even the punks stopped coming. Those teenagers grew up into ambitious adults who moved out and on to other cities and lives.\nEventually I assume they became grandparents and great-grandparents who got to die peaceful, natural deaths that allowed them an eternity of real rest.\nWe discovered pretty early on that we were unable to leave the premises of our homes, so it didn’t bother us when a chain linked fence was erected around it and then later replaced with a barbed wire fence. We didn’t need food or water. Couldn’t eat or drink anyway if we wanted to. But we could sleep indefinitely. We started taking long naps. Longer and longer.\nEventually I think I had stayed asleep for decades. Maybe centuries? Or only a few years, it was impossible to know.\nI imagined myself as a beautiful, enchanted princess waiting for a kiss. It was a much better story than being a boring old ghost.\nBut it was a breath of fresh air to hear real human voices enter our home. I had so many questions: Why were they here? What year was it? What was the world like out there? What plans did they have for this big, crumbling, tragic building?\nRemembering now with clarity everything about my purgatorial existence, I allowed myself to slip down through my bed, through my floor, through the ceiling downstairs as if through a deep swimming pool whose depths extended to the ground floor.\nI stared with wonder at the couple before me. They had to be in their 30’s. She had beautiful, shiny hair. Impossibly straight, smooth, and chopped close about her shoulders. Her clothes hugged her body with unnatural perfection, rippling in the sunlight to flatter her every move. She wore impossible high heels that shimmered and shifted as if the very molecules that made them up could anticipate the weight and cushion she needed as she moved her body and adapted to the demands of its motion.\nBriefly, I wondered if she was an alien. How long had I been asleep?\nHer eyes were the strangest of all. They were a deep blue, like the sparkling lake in a mountain forest with a bottom that no one had ever touched. I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and touched her hair. It was even softer than it looked. She jerked away from me and shivered.\n“This place is creepy,” she said to her companion. “And freezing.”\nHarsh but fair, I thought to myself bitterly.\nI turned to him. He had the same strange, rippling clothing. His skin was tan and perfect. Despite his age, there wasn’t a single flaw nor blemish. I suddenly realized how lonely I was and was shocked that I could still feel desire for this living body.\nI had been eighteen when I died, but years had passed since then. If we slept together, I mused, would he be the creep? Or would I?\n“Laura!” a sharp voice barked behind me.\nI turned with as much attitude as I could muster, irritated that I could never escape Mom’s bossiness and—unlike living teenagers—had no hope of ever doing so in the future.\n“What, mother?”\n“Get away from them,” she told me, and I watched the wind from her voice blow back the hair on the newcomers’ heads. The smaller hairs on the woman’s arms prickled.\n“Drafty in here,” she said as if to reassure herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms for emotional protection as much as a futile attempt to try and get warm.\nI smirked with knowing. I was close enough to sense her fear, and it made me feel powerful.\n“It’s daytime,” I told Mom. “They can’t see me.”\nBut I could see on the worried looks they cast one another that they could feel our voices as otherworldly breezes in the cold, dark, spooky house and that they were already questioning every decision that had led them up to this point. Tonight was going to be so fun. I hadn’t realized how bored I’d been. How much I had needed this. My soul stretched with delight like a kitten looking for attention.\n“Family meeting in the attic,” Mom told me firmly.\n“Fine,” I groaned, but before I floated over to follow her, I couldn’t help it. I slammed the front door shut behind them. I clocked the lock too, just for good measure.\nShe screamed.\nI could hear his heart pounding violently.\n“Laura!” Mom said again, a more forceful gust matching her more forceful tone.\n“Cominggggggg,” I whined, leaving our terrified new victims behind me. For now." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Family of Strangers\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1378\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a group of strangers — or people who know each other, but may as well be strangers — eating together." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I woke up staring at the trees gently blowing outside of my window, the sun was shining through the top window and made a direct line right to my bed. I could hear the birds chirping outside the window. It seems like it is a family of them outside. They are pretty loud this morning, I wonder if they are somehow thanking God for another day of not having to worry about what they eat or where they will sleep. But, that is just my thoughts early in the morning, because God is the only one that knows bird talk.\n\nThe sound of the phone startled me as I was in deep thought this morning. Oh hello, I said clearing my throat so I could be heard. The voice on the other end came in soft yet familiar. “Hey sis I was calling to see if you would come to a dinner I am planning with the sibs.” huh,? I replied, could you repeat that, you want to try and get us all together at the table for dinner again, do you remember what happened the last time? Before, you answer that and get all sentimental with me. Well, yes sis, my answer is yes I would love to come to dinner with everyone, it has been a long time.”Awesome, she replied I will call back with more information, see you soon bye”.Ok bye, I hung up the phone and immediately started to regret my yes that I had given so quickly.\n\nThe last dinner we had with us all together was a complete disaster. Everyone was still holding a grudge from years ago and no one knew why. There was a lot of storytelling at the dinner table, each person taking turns telling their side of the same story. It was brought up at the table about what happened on the night that our mother had passed away. We were all grown up now, and some of us were more grown than others but, the wounds of the past had followed us to our adult years. I am the youngest of five and so my understanding of what happened has to come from them but they were never able to all have the same story.\n\nThe story goes that mommy woke up one morning and she did not do the normal things. We heard the tv on that was the most normal thing. It was always set on the channel of Dr. Welby MD from the night before, so the news would be blasted through her closed door in the morning. Mommy had a cough that morning and she was coughing up blood with shortness of breath. She was taken to the hospital where she passed away with a pulmonary embolism. That is the short form of the story I was told, but either way, it has never been told the same to me in years.\n\nThe phone rang an hour later. “hello” said the deep voice on the other end, this time it was my brother Paul but we called him beno. Hello, I replied what’s going on? Did you get the call from sissy? Are you going to dinner? “Yes, I am,'' he replied. Things are happening too fast now and people are dying\". \"We have to stop this.” Yes, I agree, did she give you a day and time for the dinner? “Yes she did and it will be tomorrow night at 7PM at sissy’s house.” Cool, I replied I will be there so I will see you soon bye. “Bye,” he hung up so quickly the dial tone was ringing in my ear before I hung up. Finally, on the day of the dinner, pulling up to the house it looks like we all showed up. All the cars lined up the driveway, from what I could tell they were in baby-born order, funny how we always did that. Sissy had hired a chef for tonight and that is who opened the door when I rang the bell. From what I could see we all had the same idea and came with a business casual look.\n\nI loved the fact that we were all willing to be at one table again. The table was set beautifully, sissy had flowers at both ends of the table, there were candles everywhere and dinner was set up in the middle family style. Soft jazz music played in the background it sounded like Najee the saxophonist. Sissy had outdone herself today she had one of everyone’s favorite foods there. There was chicken, mashed potatoes, sauteed green beans, salmon, and salad with all the different dressings we all loved. She even had dessert there as well, just a small banana pudding and a homemade cake that was leaning just a little to the side, must be homemade I thought to myself with a smile.\n\nAfter we all sat down there was a clink with a fork on a very expensive looking glass at the far end of the table. Cole was there and he wanted to make a toast and also say the dinner prayer. “I would like to make a toast and then I will say the prayer.” “Let us pray,” he began. I knew that this was the cue to close my eyes but I just couldn’t do it, although I had my camera I didn’t want to make it obvious clicking and moving around the table with my phone, so I took them with my eyes. I was praying that my mental camera would keep these images for me because I didn’t know the next time this would happen for us. “Amen,'' he said finally and we all lifted our heads. Then everyone started grabbling for the different trays with the food on them and fixing their plates.\n\nThe atmosphere was thick enough that we could have used the knives we had there to cut it. We were all family on paper, but strangers in person. We had all taken the past weight and carried it here to this table during dinner. It’s funny how a piece of paper demands that you are connected even if you don’t feel that way. Finally, I stood up at the table, the youngest of five holding back tears. Mommy would not have wanted this. She would be so upset that we have let the past consume us to the point that my friends are closer to me than all of you are. Among us, there are so many hopes, dreams, and talents that we don't know about each other.\n\n“Where were you?” sissy cut in when you got old enough to be around us on your own”? “Do you know that since you were the youngest you were the first one picked by the aunts and uncles?” she put up air quotes. Since we were so much older than you everyone thought it was ok to let us fend for ourselves. They immediately put us in foster homes while you had the luxury of sleeping in a normal bed that you didn't have to fight for or share with anyone. Despite the stories that have been told about that night I do have a problem with that. “Yes!” they all chimed in “you have no idea what we all been through”\n\nStunned by this conversation and the way it quickly went left. I just stood there with my mouth wide open trying to figure out what to say. Finally, with tears running down my face soaking the bow on the shirt I wore specifically for this occasion. I calmly said to all of them with a tear-filled voice, I was two years old to your teenage years. What did you all expect me to do holding my hands out for effect? We are sisters and brothers on paper only, I pointed to each one of them, and strangers when I talk about you to other people. I sat down again abruptly, shaking the table putting small ripples in the water in each glass.\n\nThe room got eerily quiet. Everyone started eating again just the sound of the forks hitting the plate and my sniffles filled the room. Silence now told more than anyone else was willing to share." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Soul Food\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2057\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character preparing a meal for somebody else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Mama always hummed during the rush hours.\n\nAt lunch time, everything was busy, but we were happy for it. I even heard some people say she was the best cook in all of New Orleans.\n\nI sat on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, cross-legged and coloring.\n\n\"Yolanda! Yolanda, where you at, child?!\"\n\nI dropped my colors and jumped to my feet, my dress swishing around my knees. \"Over here, Mama! What do ya need me for?!\"\n\nMama turned the corner and found me. Her apron was dusted with flour.\n\nShe grinned. \"It's the biggest crowd I ever seen yet! You think you can help me?\"\n\nI returned her grin and nodded eagerly. \"Yes, ma’am!\" I drawled. \"Is it bigger than the best restaurant in the world?\"\n\n\"Well, Honey, not quite, but you help out a little and maybe it will be.\" Frowning, she grabbed the ends of the ribbon around my bun with her large hands. \"Oh, you look a sight, child. I can't send you out looking like a ragamuffin.\"\n\nI stood still and let her fix my hair, and then hurriedly ran to Amanda, one of our waitresses, and said mama wanted me to help.\n\nShe nodded. \"Alright, if she says so.\" She handed me a glass of sweet tea from her tray and pointed towards the first table. \"Deliver that and come right back.\" I nodded and started to leave, both hands firmly clasped around the glass, when she added, \"And mind your manners, girl!\"\n\nI nodded, eyes focused on the tea. It felt as if my very life hung in the balances of fate here. I wanted to be a waitress so bad, but mama always said I was too young. If I could pass this moment, she would see how big I was now!\n\nI placed one foot in front of the other, the warm lighting from the windows illuminating a pathway in the floor tiles for me.\n\nI made it! I made it to the table! I was so excited and my heart raced in my chest.\n\nI raised my ebony arms to the big man sitting in the chair. \"Here's your--\" I paused. What did Amanda say again? Oh! \"Your sweet tea, Sir!\" Just as I stepped forward to hand it to him, I tripped over my own foot.\n\nThe tea flew through the air, and I cried out as I watched the sunlight shine through the tea, and then it tumbled all over him and completely ruined his nice, white suit.\n\nMama never let me wear white to eat in. Who let him wear white?!\n\nHe jumped up angrily and threw the empty glass of tea on the floor. His dark face twisted in anger. \"Why, you little--I oughtta--Oh, you know what I'm gonna do?! I bet they did this on purpose--sending a little brat to--\" His words turned to angry mumblings as I stumbled backwards in fear.\n\n\"I'm awful sorry, Mister. Really I am!\"\n\nMama's voice sounded from behind me. \"Oh, Landa! What'd you do, Child?!\"\n\nI jumped and turned to face her.\n\nShe was holding a plate of fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes in one hand, and her other was in a fist against her hip.\n\n\"Mr. James, I am sincerely apologetic,\" she said firmly. \"It was my fault. I shouldn't have sent her as your waitress.\"\n\nI sniffed as a tear began to burn in my eye.\n\nAll I wanted to do was show mama I could work just as well as she could, and now look a the mess I’d made.\n\nMr. James threw the tea-soaked napkin at me and I grabbed it just before it hit my face.\n\n\"You're right. It is your fault.\" He squared his shoulders back. \"My newspaper will hear about every detail. You understand me?!\"\n\nMama stood taller at that and raised her black eyebrows. \"Alright then, let them! My customers are loyal, Mr. James. Always have been, always will be! I said I's sorry, and I meant it. But she's a child, and it was just an accident.\"\n\nHe tugged on his suit jacket and turned to leave. \"You better pray they are.\"\n---\nThe next day, the whole restaurant was still buzzing with life, but this time, there was something uneasy in the air.\n\nAmanda said I was as clueless as a kitten in a pastry shop, but even I felt the unease as I sat there on the floor, coloring.\n\nMama stormed into the kitchen and slapped a newspaper on the table.\n\n“Look at this!” she exclaimed angrily. “Oh, that man! He’s tryin’ to ruin my business!” She raked a hand through her brown bun and stopped when her fingers reached the bun. “What are we going to do?! This’ll ruin us!”\n\nI dropped my crayon and stood up.\n\nWhat did the paper say that was so bad?\n\nAmanda picked up the paper and read through it for a moment. Her eyes bugged. “Listen to this, everyone! It says, ‘3rd of April, 1953. Mama’s Fixin’s is the kind of place I wouldn’t bring my dog to. The prices are high, the tables are greasy, and the whole place is understaffed. I am horrified to report that I even saw them using small children to work in the kitchens, and I doubt they’re paid.’ Why, the nerve of him! Writin’ about us that way! Oh, Mrs. Rose, whatever are we gonna do?! He wrote even more—and it’s worse.”\n\nMama sighed heavily. “It’ll be alright. Enough people eat here that they’ll know he’s lying.”\n\nI swallowed, shame burning my cheeks. This was all my fault.\n\nThe kitchen staff returned to work, but I couldn’t force myself to return to my coloring book. Not after hearing all the awful things he’d said about us.\n\nHow could he be so mean?\n\nI glanced out the window and sighed, watching the birds flit from tree-to-tree.\n\nMama’s familiar hand rested on my shoulder. “I want you to know this wasn’t your fault, okay, Landa? Amanda should have known better than to let you take a glass of tea. I should have known better, too.”\n\nI started crying and buried my face in her dress, wrapping my arms around her. “I’m so sorry, Mama. I just wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted to work with you. I’m sorry.”\n\n“Oh, I know, baby. I know.”\n—-\nA crowd that was half the size of our usual crowd came to eat the next day, and the day after that, it cut in half again.\n\nBy the end of the week, no one was coming.\n\nMama sat at one of the tables, her face in her hand as she stared out the window.\n\nI slowly walked up to her, fidgeting with my hands. “Mama?” I asked hesitantly.\n\nShe glanced over at me, her cheek still in her hand. “Yeah, baby?”\n\nI swallowed. “Maybe if I went and apologized. . .”\n\nShe picked her head up. “Nuh uh. You ain’t apologizing for nothing. It’s all that nasty man’s fault, not yours. Some folks just never know how to take things proper.”\n\nI opened my mouth to argue, but closed it. Arguing wouldn’t get me anywhere. “Yes, ma’am.”\n\nI turned and went back to my coloring at the empty table across from her.\n\nNo, arguing wouldn’t help. If I was going to fix the lack of customers, there was just one thing I could do.\n—-\nLater that night, while mama was sleeping, I dug through our refrigerator and found a whole pecan pie from that afternoon, as well as some steak with mashed potatoes and gravy. I knew it was really yummy, because I had helped make the gravy myself.\n\nI wrapped all of this up in a wicker basket and hurried out the back door.\n\nThe sky was dark, but not dark enough for the stars to shine bright. The lights of the city rarely allowed that.\n\nI knew Mr. James’ newspaper print was just down the street, so it wouldn’t take me long. I waited for the cars to pass and then darted across the road, the basket in my hand.\n\nThe lights of his shop was still on. I knew they would be, but I was a tiny bit afraid they weren't.\n\nI swallowed and opened the door. The bell rang above my head, drawing the attention of the secretary.\n\nShe glanced up from a stack of papers. “Hello?” Her eyes were above my head, and when she didn’t see anyone, she looked down and noticed me. She laughed. “Oh! Who are you?”\n\nI stepped forward nervously. “I’m. . . a friend of Mr. . . uh, you see, a friend of Mr. James. . . and I brought him some food so he wouldn’t get hungry while working.”\n\nAlarm bells were going off in my head. I shouldn’t have come here. I should have stayed home! Why did I ever decide to do this?!\n\nShe smiled warmly. “I’m afraid he’s a little bit busy, but I’m sure he’ll have time to see a sweet thing like you! Follow me.”\n\nShe stood up and we walked down the wooden hallway, the light fixtures above us showing us the way.\n\nI could hear printing machines whirring in the background. I knew what they were because Mama had put an advertisement in the papers years ago for our restaurant.\n\nShe opened the door to an office, and I found Mr. James reading over one of his own papers.\n\nHe glanced up and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” he asked his secretary.\n\nShe nodded her head towards me. “I think you have a visitor, Sir.”\n\nHe stood, which made him seem so much bigger than me. \n\n“What do you want, girl?” he asked gruffly.\n\n“I brought you some food, Mister.” I held the basket up.\n\nHe looked down at it. “And why ain’t you in bed?!” He sounded angry, but he moved out from behind the desk and took the basket.\n\nHis eyes widened at the pie inside. “It’s probably poisoned,” he mumbled, but he took a bite, anyway. “Mmm. Hey, this is pretty good.” He took another bite. “You know, this is the best pie I ever ate?” He squinted at me. “What’s the secret?”\n\n“Dark corn syrup, Sir,” I said quietly, scratching my heel with my other shoe. “Thank you.”\n\nHe stopped eating. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” His eyes widened. “Wait, you’re the brat who threw tea all over me.” He chuckled. “Maybe that pie was poisoned after all.”\n\nI shook my head vigorously. “No, Sir. I would never!”\n\nHe chuckled again and finished the last bite of pie. “Alright then, if you didn’t come here to poison me, why are you here?”\n\nI swallowed. “To apologize, Sir. I didn’t mean to pour tea on you—I tripped!”\n\nHe considered it for a moment, and then after peering inside the basket I brought, he glanced down at me. “Alright, you’re forgiven!” He laughed. “If all your ma’s cooking is this good, I’ll even write a nice review for her myself!”\n\nI grinned. “Really?! Oh, thank you, Sir! Thank you ever so much!”\n\nHe waved a hand. “Alright, now go on and get. Little girls shouldn’t be out past their bedtime, anyway.”\n\nI nodded anxiously, and taking my basket, left.\n—-\nI was able to color again the next morning.\n\nThere still weren’t any customers yet, but by the next day, the place was overflowing with them! I’d never, ever seen so many at once in all my born days of living.\n\n“Amanda, look at this! It’s a miracle! I don’t know what happened, but God must’ve sent an angel in the middle of the night to knock some sense into that man!” Mama declared.\n\n“Yes, ma’am!” she replied, grinning as she read the newspaper. “Listen to this bit, y’all!” She deepened her naturally squeaky voice to sound like Mr. James, and then read, \"’Mama’s Fixin’s is the best restaurant in all of New Orleans. Why, I must admit, I’d grow more than a little lumpy around the edges if I was to be around her pecan pie for too long. If you’re looking for some good, southern, home-style soul food, I recommend Mama’s Fixin’s.’\"\n\nMama hummed again that day—in fact, I think we all did." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 puff of smoke and a trip to jail.\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1609\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a meal or dinner goes horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: abuse\nAs mum avoided our piercing stares as she dropped the dishes on the table to occupy herself, hoping that today’s dinner would not end in a fight. She sat down quietly and looked like she was suffering from a heat stroke. We knew that was not the case, she was just trying to find her voice.\n“Let’s say our prayers” She said a bit meekly as she bent her head down. I glanced at dad, who did not care much for the prayers or the food as he looked at mum with disdain in his eyes, he did not even bother to hide it from us, his three kids…or so we thought until a few days ago.\nAfter mum had said the prayers without much contribution from the rest of us, she looked at Elsa, my younger sister with pleading eyes. Elsa stood up and served the food quietly. I looked at mum and she nodded. I was to pour the water. Why couldn’t everyone just serve themselves? I thought to myself as stood up and picked up the jar of water. I had a bitter taste in my mouth as I went over to pour some for my dad. He still had the stench of cigarettes and alcohol on him. I did not have to think much before knowing that he had been to the club. He looked up at me with a glare that felt murderous, and the jar of water almost slipped off my hands. I quickly left him and went over to my mum. As she handed me her glass for me to pour the water in, I noticed the fresh red bruises on her clear dark skin. I was immediately filled with a dangerous rage, I clenched my jaws because I knew I had to control it, otherwise the whole situation will go way worse. I tasted a strong iron liquid in my mouth, it was blood. I had bitten myself when I clenched my jaws, I got a headache from the suppressed anger. I poured the water a bit clumsily with shaking hands, spilling some water on the table.\nI felt my dads angry gaze on me, and I looked at mum,\n“It’s ok Betty, I’ll clean it up.” She said with a smile as she picked up a tablecloth that was on her other sides and wiped the table gently. I sent her a smile of gratitude as I walked quickly back to my seat.\nI looked at Tom, my older who was sitting by me. He had clenched jaws and I could see his hands were in fists under the table. He was sweating and looked like someone who would commit murder. I put my hands under the table and maneuvered my hand onto his sweaty palm and have his hand a gentle squeeze. He looked at me and I smiled comfortingly and understandingly.\n“It’ll be okay” I mouthed to him. He raised his eyebrows up in disbelief to say that I was lying. He knew me well, or he knew there was no escape from here. I unclasped my hand from his and took a spoon of my soup, which had already gone cold. Tom started on his soup too. We both knew that if we did not, dad would get mad and blame it on mum. Elsa had started eating a while ago and was almost done with hers.\nI felt the soup in my mouth as I put my spoon in, the way it slid into my throat as I was secretly praying that time would fly quickly to escape this dreadful dinner. Halfway through the dinner, dad dropped his spoon with a loud clatter as the spoon hit the plate.\n“This is the worst thing that has ever entered my mouth Ava. If the soup turned out like this, you should have just served me cardboard, even that would have been better witch!” he bellowed angrily as he stared at mum who was looking at him nervously.\n“I’ll find you something else. I’m sorry” She replied getting up and going into the kitchen. I could see her tensed shoulders, which was once as flexible as a gymnast. Her wrinkled face, that could have once been passed for that of a model. Her bruised skin, that was once clear and soft and the envy of anyone who knew her. She was one of the best cooks I knew, and I knew dad was only looking for a fight.\nMum came back with a plate of noodles and as she was about to drop it, dad hit the plate out of her hands intentionally with a smirk as it landed on mum’s feet.\n“Aaah!” Mum shouted as she moved back instinctively. Elsa, Tom and I all stood up and rushed to help her. I could see the burn marks and glass shards on her feet. We helped mum to her seat gently and carefully. I knew dad was not done; he never was.\nI was about to leave mums side when she held my hand quickly and gave me a questioning look.\n“I have to” I said freeing myself from her grasp.\nI headed towards dad and stood in front of him, giving him no space to maneuver me. I summoned all the courage I had and with trembling hands and knees, I said in the loudest and most commanding voice I could summon,\n“Dad, you have to stop this nonsense” I could not believe what I had just said. I could feel Tom and Elsa’s shocked gaze on me. Dad himself looked shocked, bust as he got over the shock, his pale skin turned tomato red with anger.\n“You do not tell me what to do missy” He said and now, I felt I could say anything. It was like someone had drugged me with courage.\n“Someone has to tell you what to do. It seems you weren’t given enough training”. I said in response.\n“You are protecting a witch and talking back to your father, you have committed a big sin. God will never forgive you.” He said bringing out a cigar and a lighter. He lighted it swiftly and took in a big puff.\n“I am not the one who beats his wife, has a lover and bastard kids. If there is anyone in this house who is a witch, and who committed an unforgivable sin, then that would be you!” I shouted in a matter-of-fact way. I could see his wrinkles become more defined and saw his lips twitch as I finished my sentence. I felt proud but not for much longer.\nDad released a puff of smoke in my face and as I exhaled the smoke I started to cough uncontrollably. I staggered back as I felt my dad’s fist on my cheek. I felt the throbbing pain that felt like someone was injecting me on the cheek. I could not see clearly with my right eye and I felt the iron taste of blood in my mouth very strongly. Then I felt a hand firmly hold my throat and push me against the wall. Suddenly, I was face to face with my dad trying to choke me. I looked slowly to my right at my mum and siblings, and I could see the fear on their faces.\nElsa was slowly moving towards the telephone while dad was busy with me and I could the anger brewing in Tom.\nI knew I had to buy Elsa more time, so I spat on dad with disgust on my face and then I felt another stinging slap on my face.\n“Who is the witch and sinner now dad?” I croaked out as he was still trying to choke me. I felt his grip tighten around my throat and I started to hit him and kick but that did not help, he was like a statue. I felt helpless and in pain. I felt my body go limp and weak and I started having black spots and could not see clearly with my good eye anymore. Just as I thought I was going to die; I felt my dad’s grip disappear as he grunted and a I heard a thud on the floor. I gradually started to see more clearly and the first thing I saw was my dad, on the ground, unconscious and my brother standing over him with clenched fists. Just as I was about to comfort my brother, I felt the world around me go dark as I collapsed on the floor.\n“She is going to be okay. They both are” I heard an unfamiliar voice say calmly as I opened my eyes to find myself in a white tin can smelling of bleach that just so happened to be a medical van. I tried to sit up, but I still felt weird and then I got a sensory overload from the lights and then the sound of siren. I tried getting up again and this time I was able to. I stood up slowly and I felt my hip throb in pain, I guess that was where I had landed on.\nWhen I got out, I saw Tom, Elsa and mum talking to police officers and that is when I saw dad’s angry face through the window of a police car. When Mum saw me, she rushed towards me with a hug as she said, “You were so brave, we’ll be ok now. Peter’s going to go to jail.”\nI smiled in relief as I breathed in the scent of her jasmine perfume as my head lay on her soft bosom." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Double Dutch: The Sanctuary of My Yesterday\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2999\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about somebody reminiscing on an event that happened many summers ago." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Double Dutch is a game requiring two long jump ropes turned in opposite directions by two individuals while one or more players are jumping simultaneously. Oftentimes there is a sing-song chant that the players repeat to keep track of the jumping duration before a jumper stops jumping.\nOne up, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…\nSummertime was spent around the corner at Aunt Trina and Uncle Troy’s house, my cousin Zanna’s parents. We stayed outside all day. The hot sun stung our bare arms and legs as we played, ran around and rode our bikes up and down the hill. I’d ride around the block cause I hated riding up the hill. We weren’t allowed to go beyond the corners so we rode like speed demons three quarters around the block then backtracked to the starting corner and headed back up our street. Movement was key so as not to feel the constant rays from the penetrating sun. When the heat became unbearable, sweat dripped down our faces, droplets landing on the corner of our lips easing it’s way into our mouths. The salty taste mixed with residual grit from the dirt that clung to our skin.\nRed light, green light, one, two, three. I turned around and opened my eyes to see Tamika stop short. “You’re out”, I bellowed. “I saw you..” Just then Aunt Trina called us in for lunch. I mean mugged Tamika as I walked towards the house. I knew she was about to challenge my call. Most of us couldn’t stand her. She walked around trying to boss people. One time she made Zanna cry. Zanna didn’t like to fight. She could, but she didn’t like conflict. Plus Aunt Trina was on the prissy side and frowned on “young ladies acting like hooligans.” Me, on the other hand, was always ready to go at it. I never started, but I was quite proficient at finishing. When I saw her all up in Zanna’s face, Zanna tried to walk away and Tamika kept cutting her off to keep her cornered. She was so busy jumping bad that I ran up on her and mushed her so hard she tipped to the side and almost fell. She turned around and realized that it was me and straightened up. To save face, she yelled “forget ya’ll” and walked toward her stoop. We went inside. Aunt Trina’s cheese sandwich and red kool-aid was the fuel I needed to play hard for the 2nd half of the afternoon until the hamburger truck rolled around. \nThe double dutch block tournament was approaching and Tamika wanted Zanna or me to team with her. That’s how I knew she was stupid. Mean. Messy and stupid. She knew we were tight and actually thought we were going to flat leave the others to join her non double dutch jumping two-faced behind. She started a rumor about Denise and Bruce messing around in the hallway of Bruce’s house while his parents were at work. I suspect it was true because Denise was a fast ass (that’s what some of the mom’s in the neighborhood called her) and unlike me and Zanna, Denise loved to fight. She was the reason why we couldn’t go around the corner. Drama followed her. I liked her and always had her back. The last time we were around the corner she got into a fight with Melanie, a girl from school and when I was trying to break it up Melanie’s friend thought I was trying to jump in and started fighting me. There we were scrapping in the street like “hooligans' '. If the story Tamika started about Denise was untrue, Denise woulda kicked her butt. That’s why I think the rumor was true. Anyway, Denise left the team and the others followed suit.\nZanna and I begged my father to take us to Starrett City and Prospect Park a few times during the weekdays and on the weekends to practice. We came in first place for the past two years. Last year we discovered that Tamika had been spying on us and went back and taught her teammates most of our moves. This was not known until they were doing our routine during the tournament. Luckily, Zanna and I were so in sync we were able to piece something together and the Dynamic Rhythm Jumpers took the first place trophy home once again. We weren’t taking any chances this year and planned to alternate practice between the two parks.\nLast night I dreamt about Tamika and her mom. They were sitting on their stoop and Tamika’s mom was doing her hair. Her mom was bougie as all get out and would never do her hair outside like that. During the dream I remember wondering why I was dreaming about them. I shrugged it off thinking that Tamika was on my mind lately with trying to keep her from seeing our moves. We were three weeks away from the tournament. We practiced so much we had to purchase new electric wire for rope. Our routine was getting better with each practice. \nStarrett City was our practice spot today. My heart and body were not present. I wasn’t tired. I just didn’t want to be here. We left earlier than usual. On the way home Zanna asked me what was wrong when she saw me staring out the window crying. I couldn’t tell her. “I didn’t know what I was crying about.”\nWhen we returned home I spotted Tracy, Zanna’s older sister, sitting with Tamika on her front steps. Tracy was nine years older than us. This visual did not sit well with me. While Daddy was parking I was able to get a closer view of the two of them. Tamika was crying and Tracy had her arm around her shoulder. Daddy got out of the car and opened the door on my side. I didn’t want to get out. Daddy sensing my distress gently led me out of the car. You okay, Babygirl? The tears running down my face was my response. I turned around towards Zanna’s house and saw our Mom’s coming out of the front door. They stood by the gate waiting for us to come closer. Aunt Trina was focused on Tracy and Tamika. Puzzled and looking at me while talking to my father, my mother asked why we were back so early. Babygirl’s not feeling well. My mom lifted my chin up with her hand. Searching my face, she asked, “what's wrong? I just leaned into her for a hug. She led me inside and dad followed. Once inside she sat me down at the kitchen table and knelt in front of her. Again, she lifted my chin so that our eyes would meet. '' Cree”, she started, then paused, looked down, took a deep breath and looked back up making eye contact, “Cree, I have some sad news.” She searched my eyes for understanding, I started crying again, she continued, “Tamika’s mother died this morning.” I sat for a moment, then I stood up and headed outside, across the street. I stood in front of Tamika and Tracy. Tracy was slowly rocking Tamika from side to side. This was a part of Tracy that I didn’t see too often. At 20 she thought she was full grown and her shit didn’t stink. My brother, Isaac, who was 16, was way nicer. Which was weird cause on TV brothers are usually jerks. Tamika looked up; with puffy and blotchy eyes. She had a snot bubble that sucked in and blew out each time she inhaled and exhaled. She was doing that double clutch crying that kids do after a whooping and they’re trying to stop. I didn’t know what to say so I just sat next to her, real close, like when there is a small space between you and the next person on the train and some wide-hipped woman is determined to create a seat for herself. Tamika looked over at me and leaned her head on my shoulder. I reached and placed my hand on hers.\n Two up, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...\nTyson, my boyfriend, and I were attending his family reunion in Albany, NY. I still needed to pack my bag. I was quickly regretting that I agreed to attend with him. We met in my junior year in college and were a few months past our 2 year mark. Our relationship was heading into rocky terrain and I wasn’t feeling the process. I heard the phone ring as I opened the bathroom door. I left it open to release the steam and allow the mirrors to defog. Mom called me to the phone. Zanna was on the other line. She was reaching out to see if I wanted to come by for the block party. Block parties were the highlight of summers. Food, music, family and friends. It was like a huge family reunion that lasted until the wee hours of the morning. It has been some time since I’ve been to one. She, now, had 2 handsome boys and I hadn’t seen her in awhile. Yeah, I’ll stop by. I won’t be able to stay long, but I will definitely come through. \nSpontaneous plans are the best. Hanging out with Zanna was always a blast. We’ve been inseparable since we were toddlers until around 8th or 9th grade. We didn’t hang out as often but we picked up where we left off as if time never passed. Loud guffawing was always on the agenda, no matter the environment. On more than one occasion reports of us cutting up made it back home to our parents before we did. “How many times do I have to tell you two to stop being so common in public? \nZanna was trying to talk me into hanging out with her and Tamika. They were going into the city on one of those party boat rides. She had been arguing with her boyfriend and was looking to release the negative energy she was feeling. I declined, reluctantly. I explained my prior commitment with Tyson but vowed to come by more often.\nLast night I had been crying so hard in my sleep that I woke up in a sweat. I dreamt of a coffin floating in front of me. I looked over at Tyson, thinking I had woken him. He was soundly asleep. Undisturbed. My dream had thoroughly unhinged me. I closed my eyes and moved closer to Tyson.\nThe next morning I phoned home. No one answered, which further freaked me out. It was my Mom who answered when I finally got through to someone around 5pm.\n“Hello.” I was so relieved to hear my mom’s sweet voice. \n“Hey mommy. Where were you?” I questioned, attempting to hide the apprehension in my voice. \n“Your dad and I were at Aunt Trina’s house.” \n“Oh,” I was listening for clues. Was everything and everyone okay? As we talked I began to sense something off in her tone. “Where’s Daddy?” It was common knowledge that my father was the weak link. He couldn’t keep a secret. We often teased, telling him “he couldn’t hold water.” My mom was keeping something from me. If I spoke to my dad I’d be able to hear in his voice if something was going on. \n“He’s in the shower”. \n“Mmm, Okay.”\n“What time do you get home tomorrow?”\n“I should be in around 6. Love you.” \n“Love you too.” \"We'll see you tomorrow.\"\nTyson dropped me off at the train station. I wasn’t feeling him or this union. I didn’t want to do us anymore. I needed to think before I made any hasty decisions. The train pulled up. I didn’t return the goodbye kiss he gave me. I found a forward seat on the train and didn’t look back. With tears rolling down my cheeks I began to cry. I was at peace with the decision to break up with him. For the first time since my dream I actually felt at peace.\nWhen I got off the #2 train and walked the two flights up into daylight my anxiety started to rise. This commute was so much a part of my system that I didn’t even remember walking through the metro north terminal and getting on the subway train. I walked the half block to our house. As I got closer to the house I spied Isaac’s car. I was excited for the visit, until I walked in the house. There was a heavy stillness in the air. I looked at everyone, Mom, Dad, Isaac. “What’s wrong?” That feeling returned. Mom reached out for me.\nDeja Vu. My legs were threatening to turn to jelly at the memory of the day Tamika’s mother died. Once again, I was eleven years old.\nI took her hand and followed her to the couch. I have some bad news. This time it was me searching her eyes for an indication to what she had to tell me.\n“Zanna passed away.” she stated. I stared in disbelief. Was I hearing her correctly? “What, when, how did she die?” A barrage of questions spilled out as I attempted to process her words. My thoughts immediately went to the possibility of her dying at the hands of her boyfriend. I had never met him but I didn’t get good vibes about him based on the stories I’ve heard. \n“What happened?“ I asked again.\n“Friday night. She was hit by a car.” Isaac answered.\nI stood up. Anxiety and the pain in my heart were tying my stomach in knots. I needed to sit down and scream my pain out of existence. The weight building up at the center of my core like a porterhouse steak eaten too quickly, sitting there waiting, wanting to be released. I felt like I was going to... The contents of my IHOP breakfast splayed out like water gushing from an open hydrant. My father caught the brunt of it. All over his bare legs and new Reeboks. “Aww, Shit baby girl.” For a split second I saw my father’s twisted face. Realizing his reaction, his expression was overtaken by sadness. He pulled me into a protective embrace, holding me as I released loud gut wrenching cries. My mother returned with a cold washcloth for my face and a pile of old towels to clean up my disgorgement. She handed the washcloth to my dad and knelt down to proceed cleaning up. My father pulled away from me just enough to wipe my face and kiss my forehead. “Let it out baby girl. We got you. \nAs if I wasn’t already in a bad place seeing Zanna’s young boys threw me over the edge. The oldest, Davis, now 8 and Travis, 4 were decked out in their slightly oversized suits looking more like midgets than little boys. It was painful to witness their solemn demeanor. I was confident that Davis understood all that was transpiring. Travis on the other hand was mimicking what he was seeing and hearing.\n“Our mommy died. She’s in heaven.” Travis revealed.\nI sent up a mental prayer asking God to help me maintain the little bit of composure I was trying to exhibit. \n“She knows,” Davis spoke. “You don’t have to keep telling everybody.”\nIsaac walked up and put his hand on Travis’ head who was about to cry. “Hey, little man. Let’s go get something to eat. He led him away to the kitchen.\n“How are you feeling, Davis? I put my arm around his shoulder. I wanted to offer him comfort before I fell apart at the seams. \n“I’m okay.” I sensed that he thought that’s what he was supposed to say. I didn’t know what to say so I simply took his hand and gave him a kiss. \nFor a long time I was plagued by what if’s. What if I cancelled my plans and hung out with her longer? What if I had done a better job at keeping in touch? Tamika revealed that she believed Zanna ran out in front of the car on purpose. Was it because of her relationship with her boyfriend or did her unhappiness run deeper? I’d start crying at the most awkward moments. The worst being when my once favorite song, O-o-h Child by the Five Stairsteps came on. With no warning I would just start crying and more often than not the rest of my day was shot. I dreamt about Zanna a few times. Each dream felt like a reprieve. I only remember details of the last dream. I “woke” up with Zanna standing by my bed. She was with a man and smiling. She told me she was happy and wouldn’t be visiting me anymore. She came because she didn’t want me to continue to grieve.\nThree up, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...\nGetting over Zanna’s death was not going to be as easy as her just not wanting me to grieve anymore. Knowing that she was happy, at peace, did allow me to stop second guessing my decision not to stay and hang out with them that night. I channeled my energy into the memories we created growing up. When I think of her I will think of the third and final double dutch tournament we won together. The jolly ranchers, red hots, lemon heads, Bon-ton barbeque chips and all the other junk food we shared. How we planned our purchases to make sure our choices weren’t duplicated so we could maximize our snack food smorgasbord. \nWe didn’t travel to exotic places or spend our summers at a camp. We spent them together on Riverdale Ave., that one block, our personal playground. Thinking of those times produced a smile. When I felt that smile make its way to my heart I knew it would get easier. It was already looking brighter." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Providence\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1312\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with somebody watching the sunrise, or sunset." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s hard to find peace at the end of the day, staring down a sunset that, unlike most days, was a bright pink rather than a pale, waning yellow. But today, as I watched the sun drop below the horizon, I knew that nothing was going to be the same.\nThe day started off the same as most do, before sunrise, arising to an aching back, sore arms and scabbing wounds on my hands. I tended my very small plot of plants that gave the rumble in my stomach some ease, some water for my parched mouth, some water on this summer day for my parched crops. I grabbed my sack and walked to the fields with the others- a family connected by fate, by plight, but frail and easily torn apart. The lack of stability kept us from tying ourselves to anyone with strong bonds.\nOnce down in the field, I could tell that this day was not going to be the same as a normal day. The air felt different, wrong. And the overseers, who were gruff and unforgiving on a good day seemed positively angry this morning. I knew to keep my head down on a day like today. There was nothing but trouble ahead and it was painful to stand out on a day like today. The only outcome could be a touch of the end of a whip, or worse. I had seen more than one of my kind brought down quickly for nothing more than taking a rest on a day like today.\nAs we walked in, I saw a slave, Jacob, stumble and accidentally bump into Smith, one of the most violent and hated and hateful of the overseers. There was an audible gasp from us slaves as the pair went down in a heap, Jacob trying to get up, then Smith also attempting to get up, both falling over each other once again. \nIn mere seconds, the look on Smith’s face went from passive distaste to blood lust as I heard words exchanged. He pulled out his rifle. He swung at the slave with all of his force, repeatedly landing blows and Jacob slumped into a heap at the overseer’s feet. Smith arose, a beast of fat and muscle, fear and fury, face contorted, cocked his loaded gun, and fired. Slave twitched in the throes of death.\nWith a shot fired, we knew what was coming- whites with guns and other weapons, ready to put down a rebellion. It was the fear of the tasked that brought them. We had heard rumors of our kind in other parts of the state- counties away, who had overthrown their owners and taken control of the plantation, leaving the fields fallow and the work untended. They had won their freedom with hard-fought battle and got their reward.\nOne by one, we quickly went back to our work and picked and stuffed, silently praying for nothing else to happen, for peace to once again befall our small portion of this red earth.\nBut life is unpredictable and our luck was not going to hold. I don’t even know how it happened, but across the field, we heard screaming and upon looking up, saw a scuffle ensuing. The crack of whipping stung the air and I could tell that things were getting worse and not likely to get better. Another shot rang out and my heart jumped. Twice in one day was bad, very bad. Another shot, then more screaming. I finally looked up.\nWhat I saw was not at all expected. A small mob of black had congregated and I could see whites running toward the melee. I looked around and saw that the people around me had a variety of looks on their faces. Horror, shock, delight, fear, nothing. I knew that this was it. There were three responses that I could take to this turn of events. Join in and get the revenge that I felt was deserved, then, when the whites settled us down, get hanged or shot. Keep my head down and work, attempting to avoid any sort of connection to the incident. Or run.\nNo matter what, I was a dead man. Working, I would toil myself away until I died. There wasn’t much hope for this life. If I joined in, my death would be swift. If not today, then tomorrow. I didn’t, couldn’t believe the stories of rebellion and uprising resulting in freedom. I had seen too many times death for death’s sake at the hands of the white. If I ran, perhaps I could make it to safety. I had heard of those that helped escaped slaves reach the north, although I knew that was another risk. \nI turned and ran. What else could I do? When a man has a taste of possible freedom, of course he must try. I know there are places on this earth that see a black man not under the thumb of a white man. I know that if he can, he must find that place. \nMy legs burned from running. I knew that I only had minutes before they would realize I was gone and come to find me. So I ran, my feet both light and heavy, my breath, thunderclaps in my ears. I knew I was making a great amount of noise, but I had no choice. I had to keep ahead of the dogs, get myself into water to help hide my scent. Had to try to keep going.\n****\nMiles had passed behind me. I knew that I had summoned all of my strength. I had crossed streams and hid in the trees and avoided people all of the afternoon, knowing that with one mishap, I would be sent back to pay for my attempt. But I could not let that happen. I ran for my life. I ran for freedom, for the chance of something better than what I had grown with. It was God’s providence that afforded me the opportunity and I would meet him as a free man, or fall down dead trying.\nIn the late afternoon, I came upon a creek that was wide and slow. I waded in to clear my tired, sweltering mind and sate my thirst. I drank deeply, rested in the water for a minute, then waded upstream for a few hundred paces, finding a sheltered spot with a steep embankment on one side. I climbed up it and laid down, closing my eyes for a minute, listening to the chirp of birds and the rustling of the creek as it flowed past me. Peace, for a minute, was mine to be cherished.\nBut I could not rest as long as my body needed. I heard dogs and that was enough to get me back to my feet and off on the far side of the river. I needed to keep distance between us, as much as I could. My pace quickened, for I knew that they would not relent. I was valuable property, not to be lost, and there had been enough property lost that day. \n*****\nI don’t know how far I had run by the time the sun sank to the horizon line, but from my perch at the top of a small hill, I knew that whatever had happened that day was providence and that I was to move forward, away from my past and into my future. I was not going back to that plantation. I was done with that life. And even if I got caught, my life would be different, I would be different. I watched the pink sky fade to violet, to a deep blue, to black, and started off down the other side of the hill to meet my fate under the blanket of stars that the good lord had provided 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: Road to the night show\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2991\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about characters going on a summer road trip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s well into the morning now, I don’t know what time it is exactly, I don’t really care, summer vacation just started yesterday after all, so it feels like I have forever to do what I want. I live in Culver City, Los Angeles, I lay on my bed playing my guitar as I say this, my name’s Neo by the way. My mom’s a doctor and Dad’s an architect, the guy loves Floyd Wright so much he designed our house to fit a contemporary household theme which “Channels his creativity”. I like our house though; the color schemes and palettes go well with my golden-brown acoustic. I’ve been playing guitar for so long, I can’t even remember a time I wasn’t, it’s as if I went from crawling to playing guitar and then walking, it’s just fun, time always passes me by when I play and as I glide my fingers against the strings to have melodies float out of the instrument, my phone rings. I stop what I am doing to check it out and answer the phone call. “Hey, Mark.” I greeted annoyingly. “I’m outside”, Mark replies whilst hooting his van. “Oh, it's 11:00 already?”, I question curiously and am shocked how time flew by since I woke up. “Yes, Did you get everything”, Mark asks. “Yea, yea, I’m coming.”, I reply as I pack my guitar away in its case and grab the rest of my bags as I step out of my room. On my way to the front door, I drop the call and as I pass the living room to find my Dad watching another design documentary, I briefly shout out “I’m out!” He replies with a thumbs up he throws up in the air, just then I realize mom beat me to the front door as she shouts outs “Neo, Marks here!” I guess she’s where I get shouting out from as I reply “Yeah, okay!” with the same volume. As I get to the front door with Mom and Mark, ready to go, mom asks “You sure you don’t want us or just me to go with you?”, anxiously. “Mom you don’t even like A$AP Rocky”, I reply bluntly. “Yes I do, I can try, I even know the other guy he's always with, Tyler…Perry?” she states defensively “Tyler, the creator, mom” I reply, annoyingly. “It’s just that four days on the road trip with your friends is a long time” She comments worryingly. “Summer just started mom, it's four days out of three months and besides I’m 17 now, got to grow up eventually.”, I reply. Mark begins to grab my bags except for my guitar case and takes them in the van as Mom states “It’s just that…” “Don’t worry, dear, the boy worked hard this semester, I think he deserves a little break”, Dad interrupts. “Thank you, Dad”, I reply in relief as a give him a fist bump. Mark then hurries me on as he says “We have to go now” whilst tapping on his wrist to give the impression of him having a watch. As I am about to start towards the van, mom pulls me in for one last hug, Dad joins in making it one last group hug. “Dude, I was still saying bye to my folks”, I reply to Mark as I step into the van. “My bad, I’m sorry…” Mark replies as he stares at me with anticipating eyes. “Yes?” I awkwardly reply. “So, did you bring it?” Mark asks anxiously. “Bring what?” I ask playing dumb. “Don’t do this to me Neo, where is it?” Mark asks seriously. “Where is what?” I jokingly reply. “The weed Neo, God, the weed, I just checked all your bags and…” Mark states annoyingly. “Wow, first off, rude, and it’s in my guitar, you addict” I reply as I tap my guitar case. “So, I take it your parents don’t know your secret to the success you had this semester?” Mark asks. “Hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them plus, some of us need to get into Berkley without losing our sanity trying, we can’t all be legacy kids.”, I reply. “Whatever, we still need to pick up Lucas, he with Daniel at that Starbucks about 5 miles from here.”, Mark states. “Cool, let’s get some music going, where’s tape one?”, I reply. “Tape one?”, Mark asked confused. “Tape one of four for the road trip.” I state bluntly. “Oh, I told you to call it ‘The road to the night show’, I’m saving it for when we pick up Lucas and Daniel. Just play some of your music off your phone until then”, Mark replies. “Cool, just pass the aux cord”, I reply and as I reach forward to grab the aux cord, my phone screen goes on to show the picture of my ex-girlfriend as the lock screen. It was only for a brief moment, but I could tell Mark notice as he quickly turned away when I looked at him. “So, you and Vanessa are talking again?” Mark asks. “No, I-I need to take that away, I just miss her…sometimes.” I reply sadly. “You want to stop by her place really quick?” Mark asks gently. “No, hell no, girls are overrated anyway, you tell a girl you love her, and she runs for the hills, treat her like poo and she’s all over you, I just don’t get how she could go for a dude like him, to love him over me…anyways, let’s just go get Lucas and Daniel and get this road trip started, right?”, I replied irritably.\nOn our way to Starbucks, to get Lucas and Daniel, I felt like I needed a pick me up after talking about Vanessa, so I played some music to help out. The music blast in Mark’s stereo system. Mark then looks at me and scoffs “What?” I asked defensively “Don’t be kicking off this road trip all sad boy style, I offered to take you to your girl’s house, you refused and so you don’t have a right to be emo now.” Mark frankly replies. “I just…no, you’re right, you’re right, it’s our time, guy time, let me play something else,” I reply and play something to get me going. “Oh damn, how’d you know?”, Mark asks as the next song I choose plays. “Know what?”, I reply. “That this song is one of the first songs in tape three?”, Mark asks surprised. “I don’t know, I just took a wild guess by playing a song that gets me pumped but I take it that if this song is in a tape, then these tapes might just be the highlight of this trip.”, I remark. “Thank you, I hope so.”, Mark replies.\nAs we arrive at Starbucks, Mark stops the van in the parking lot and we step inside, a few seconds after, I hear someone calling out my name ”Neo!”, I look to my right to find Lucas waving over from the table booth both he and Daniel are seated at. I poke Mark’s shoulder to prompt him to follow me to Lucas and Daniel. As we sit down, Daniel gets off his phone as I greet everyone “Hi guys, ready to go?” I state enthusiastically to get this trip going. “Yes” Daniel replies “Yea, we just ordered some drinks quick for the road, they’ll be here any second.” Lucas comments “What kind of drinks?” I ask. “Smoothies”, Lucas replies. “Please tell me you got guava flavor?”, I ask pleadingly. “Yes”, Lucas remarks while rolling his eyes. “Neo, I still don’t get how that’s your favorite flavor.” Daniel states. “Vanessa had me try it out once and I’ve loved it since.” I state reminiscently. Mark replies by scoffing and rolling his eyes. “Sorry, there I go talking about her again…” I reply. “Breakups can be hard dude, allowing yourself to feel whatever you’re feeling can make it easier though.” Daniel replies. “What?” Mark comments confused “Just, don’t ever apologize for loving someone Neo, it’s okay, love can sometimes be a game of roulette, just keeping shooting your shot.” Daniel remarks. Just then a waitress stops by to lay a tray of smoothies at the table, her name tag read “Jennifer” Mark looks to Daniel and then me “Look Neo, if you want to be a girl all over you, this is how.”, he comments before turning to the waitress. “Jennifer, huh, thanks for the smoothies, you know if you want to sit and join us there’s an extra seat on my lap, you can even share my straw.”, Mark remarks as he whistles and blows her a kiss. Jennifer scoffs down at Mike as she walks away, “Dude, rude.” Daniel comments as Mark replies “Whatever” and Lucas and I can’t help but laugh at Mark’s sorry excuse for flirting. ”Anyways”, I reply as I reach for my guava smoothie “let’s get these smoothies and go… wait why are there five and not four smoothies?” I ask confused. “Oh yeah, about that…” Lucas replies as a boy around our age with a skinny physique, brown hair, green eyes, and denim Golf le fleur clothing steps out the restroom and sits next to Lucas. Mark and I are a bit caught off guard, but Daniel seems unfazed. “Hey, babe”, Lucas says as he kisses the boy’s cheek and continues “These are my friends, Neo and Mark, Neo and Mark this is Dylan, my new boyfriend.” Lucas says as Dylan reaches out his hand to greet us “Neo huh, nice to meet you.”, Dylan speaks. “Likewise, dude and Daniel, why didn’t you say anything?”, I reply as I shake Dylan’s hand. “Lucas wanted to surprise you guys and, I figured it would be cute to watch, Mark, you’re quiet.” Daniel commented. “I thought we said no dates or plus-ones?”, Mark replies. “Yea, about that, Dylan’s a senior and leaving for an internship at Google in a week for most of the summer so we figured we could use the road trip for some bonding time before he goes, so amendment?”, Lucas pleads. “Cool”, Daniel replies. “I don’t see why not, more the merrier right, Mark...Mark?”, I reply. “Just make sure your new, new boyfriend doesn’t try to hump my leg or something okay, Lucas?” Mark rudely replies. “Wow, okay, first off, rude and second, Jared didn’t even like your single, non-romantic ass.” Lucas says defensively as he holds Dylan’s hand which lies on the wooden table of the booth we’re seated in. “Whatever, I’m waiting in the van.” Mark replies as he gets up from the booth and exits the door. Daniel and I are already drinking our smoothies as Mark and Lucas argue. “Neo, Daniel, all good?”, Lucas irritably says, both Daniel and I nod in reply. “Yea, and don’t worry about Mark, Dylan, he’s only a part-time asshole”, I then say. “It’s okay, there’s always that special one in the group.”, Dylan replies. “Yea, ‘special’ one”, Daniel replies jokingly. “Alright then, ready to go?”, Lucas asks. “Yes, let’s go, operation: Road to the night show is a go, five people, four tapes, one trip of a lifetime coming right up!” I reply. “Layout the game plan for me again?” Daniel asks “For the four days we will be out on the road, for each day, there’s a tape which curates a plethora yet a carefully curated collection of music we have picked up since starting high school, from past to present, freshmen to junior year, all leading to the fourth and final tape when we will arrive at Camp Flog Gnaw. The tapes aren’t just music, Mark came up with the idea to have us do those voice-over recording sessions in the music room at school to create a skit story that progress within the tapes, remember when he gave us that script and everything?” Lucas replies to Daniel while Dylan’s arm is wrapped around his shoulder. “Oh yea…cool, now I’m excited to hear these tapes.” Daniel replies as he remembers. We then all get up from the booth we were seated at and as Lucas, Daniel, and Dylan grab their bags, I leave out the door early to get to the van to check on Mark and see how he’s doing. As I exit from the door, I find the van parked several feet away from it, that, and a grumpy Mark lying back on the seat with his eyes closed clearly in a hurry to get the trip started whilst listening to music on his Air Pods. Quietly, I approach the van to the window from where he is seated. “HEY MARK”, I yell out whilst banging on the window to scare him, it worked. He jolts off his seat before composing himself and grumpily replies “Hey”. I can tell from Mark’s eyes that for some reason he was crying, I don’t pay much attention to it though. “Dude, I know, you’re still pissed at whatever happened between you and Jared but…”I say and yet don’t get any response from Mark. “Mark…are you okay?” I ask. “I’m fine” Mark replies while looking away from me and placing his head down. “Mark, if something is wrong, you can tell me, okay?” I state gently. “He…” Mark replies. ”He who, Jared?” I ask worryingly “HE KISSED ME, NEO”, Mark outburst suddenly. A dead silence fell over before Mark continued “and… I liked it, why did I like it?!”, Mark continues before crying in frustration. “Mark, it's okay”, I replied, feeling like it was the only thing I could say as I place my hand on his shoulder. “M-my Dad, if he found out he would…”, Mark shutters out in terror. “What Mark is everything okay?”, I reply in a concerned tone. Just then Lucas, Dylan, and Daniel step out the door, as they approach the van, Mark wipes his tears and calms himself down. “Sorry we’re late, Daniel bumped into that waitress Mark was hitting on, Jennifer, and spilled an order she was carrying all over himself and her, they went to go clean up, and before I know it, they start talking and now he has her number.” Lucas says excitedly. “Crazy”, I say, pretending to care whilst preoccupied with Mark. “I know right…” Daniel replies in a dreamy ecstatic state. “In all honesty, it was kind of cute to watch, in any case…wow Mark, are you okay?” Dylan comments as he sees the red in Mark’s eyes and can tell from it that he was crying. Before Mark has a chance to say anything, another van driving on the road with blaring pop music and girls singing the words and squealing to the music, pull over near us after a few seconds of seeing us, I know why I know this van and the girls in it, it belongs to one of Vanessa’s friends. Moments later the roof of the van opens out and Vanessa along with another friend pops out. “Hey, Neo”, Vanessa says in a friendly giddy tone. “H-hey Vanessa”, I reply more enthusiastically than I would have liked to. I guess all it takes is a sweet and friendly hello from her angelic voice for me to be her Igor all over again. “Hey, Danny-boy.”, the other girl on the rooftop with Vanessa says to Daniel. “Hey, Sapphire.” Daniel bluntly replies. “How are you, do you want a ride? You can come to sit next to me.”, she says in a seductive tone whilst throwing a wink at him. “I’m good, where you guys off too anyway?”, Daniel replies. “Isn’t it obvious, we’re on our way to camp flog gnaw.” Vanessa replies as she flashes her Golf le fleur shirt. “Uh, no you’re not, because we are on our way there and don’t need no power puff pose ruining it or disturbing us.”, Mark replies, appearing to be back to normal. “Oh, don’t worry Mark, no girl would even want to be near you, so we could never distract you plus, we could never ruin it, we have backstage passes after all. “What, how?!”, I replied curiously. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”, Sapphire replies. “Danny-boy…last chance, you want to come with us.”, she says to Daniel again seductively. “No, thank you.” a polite and yet another blunt reply from Daniel. “He’s taken, Sapphire, get over it.” Lucas jokingly remarks. Another girl then pops out of the rooftop now next to Vanessa and Sapphire. “Vanessa, Sapphire, What’s taking you so long.”, the third girl asks. “We’re on our way, Lucy.” Vanessa replies. “And who’s the cutie? Over there” Lucy asks as she turns her attention to Dylan. “Taken, Lucy.”, Lucas replies flatly while placing his arm in front of Dylan as if to protect him from a predator. “Hmm, what a shame, girls, we got to go.”, Lucy states as she ducks down from the roof and back into the van. “Bye, Neo.” Vanessa says as she waves to everyone and blows me a kiss before she and Sapphire follow suit with Lucy, the pop song which was playing then resumes as they drive off. “Do you guys know them?” Dylan asks, “We just go to the same school together and it ends there, if anything, those girls, are trouble.” Lucas replies. “Facts, all girls are nothing but trouble, and Neo what’s up with you, one minute you’re over Vanessa and then you’re all whipped all over again” Mark comments. “I know, I feel silly, I’m sorry, I still miss her, did you see her blow that kiss at me, maybe she does love me, maybe she wants to work things out?”, I reply gleefully. “What happened?”, Dylan asks. “Neo’s hopelessly romantic excuse of a love life can wait we have a show to catch.” Daniel replies. “Yes, let’s get going”, Lucas comments. “Finally!” Mark states as he starts the van. “Yea, coming…”, I reply as everyone gets 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: Tattoo\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2996\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who is haunted. Whether by a ghost or something else is up to you." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW-mental health, substance abuse, cursing, etc\n\n“A fucking rose, Michelle? Like in that stupid, fucking movie you’re always making me watch?” his eyes narrowed at me until tiny, paper thin slits remained.\n\nI swallowed hard and nodded back at him saying, “Whatever, it’s not my body.” Henry’s eyes widened and he returned to Antoinette’s Look Book filled with various designs and images of beautiful tattoos she’d already created and inked into the flesh of the many clients before us. I pulled my elastic mouth into a smile that reached the corners of my mouth, but not my eyes. My heart pounded in my chest and I wiped sweaty palms on my black skinny jeans—the ones he picked out at the mall for me to wedge my thick thighs into.\n\nAntoinette turned her tablet to face me: a neat, little rose the width of two of my fingers floated beneath a dome. She asked, “What do you think?” Her big, icy blue eyes were full of depth despite clearly being colored contacts. A moment later, she laid the stencil on my right wrist. It felt a bit cool, but her warm, gloved fingers ran over the design, pressing it into my skin. She peeled back the paper and had me examine it. \n\n“Remember, I’ll be coloring a lot of the rose itself and adding some shadow to help make the dome clear to the eye,” her nail traced along the design as she explained her thought process. “Let me give you some time to think about it, ‘kay?” she said and spun in her backless black chair to face Henry. I heard them coo over her designs as I inspected mine—the gentle curves of the petals, the accent that the thorns provide, and the delicate-almost imperceptible-shadow of the dome. It made me smile.\n\nUpon seeing this, Antoinette returned to my side. “Ready?” she asked, tattoo gun poised. I nodded and set my arm on the side rest provided. The blue medical paper beneath it crinkled each time I moved. I reached across the chair and grabbed Henry’s hand. \n\n\nSix months passed slowly and painfully like waiting for your next vaccine at the doctor’s office when you’re a kid. All you feel is fear. All you’re promised is more pain.\n\nI wish I could say exactly how we fell apart…and when…and where…but I can’t.\n\nInstead, I spent my days at work biting the heads off innocent customers and my nights crying myself to sleep—which came for approximately two hours before I woke up again with more tears in my eyes and the memory of Henry’s kiss on my lips. \n\nI found myself staring at that tattoo all day every day. I noticed it when I took a shower. I noticed it when I washed my hands after going to the bathroom. I noticed it when it flashed past my field of vision as I added concealer attempting to make me seem half as exhausted as I really was. \n\nI remembered, just so I could really feel the pain, when he sat at the edge of the bed-his long, black nail polished fingers as they played with the edge of my pretty pink bedspread which made him smile. I remembered, just so I could really feel the pain, the feeling of his hands on my hips as he pulled me onto his lap; and of course, his kiss which was deep and full of passion like in the movies. I remembered, just so I could really feel the pain, the way he made Mom laugh at all his jokes or the way he offered to do all the dishes. A small burst of pained laughter exited me at the thought of him blowing bubbles into my face. I wished I could watch it all over again, like a movie. Instead, my exhausted eyes fluttered closed so I could spend the night desperately chasing his ghost.\n\nAntoinette had said we could come back and get our art retouched six to eight weeks after our first session, but that was about when things had started to fall apart. That week was the week Henry didn’t come to my high school graduation because he had gotten too drunk to function the night before. So I clutched my cell phone and stared at a blank screen through the whole ceremony. Mom was kind enough to not ask where he was. She just took me home and we ordered Chinese. She let me have a single, small, glass of wine. It burned and numbed the pain of Henry’s betrayal. I finally understood why he loved the stuff so much more than me. \n\nThe next morning, I stared at the tattoo, noticing one of the petals was barely clinging to the stem. I blinked rapidly a few times because I was semi certain it was because my eyes had blurred over with tears. I took a big, deep breath and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I noticed the petals did seem precarious. I thought that wasn’t how Antoinette and I originally designed it. \n\nOnce I got to work, Liza greeted me with a hug, the long kind that only she can give. Her dangly earrings, cool and metallic, brushed against my neck. “He’s not on shift today, I made sure,” she said, her voice was smooth and low like honey. It was the sexy voice that men melt for. I nodded and she kissed my forehead like a mother. Out of habit, I looked for remnants of Henry in the candy aisle, or the floral department, or The Deli. Did he stock those chocolate bars? Did he blow up those balloons or arrange that bouquet? Did he sit at “our table” during lunch? Liza interrupted my thoughts, bringing with her more greeting cards to be stocked. “He isn’t doing well, either, Meems,” she said and I could see her frown even though it’s pointed towards the box. “What happened?” she asked and she took my shaking hand. \n\n“He just didn’t want what I wanted,” I said. My voice didn't sound like my own. I was on autopilot. I wrenched my hand from hers to start grabbing more cards. I pretended to be looking for the card I needed to restock.\n\n“We all know it was more than that,” she said. “We’re not idiots,” her voice turned a bit venomous. When I didn’t say anything back, she heaved a big sigh, used the box to stand up, and walked away. \n\nBoth of my hands and all my strength was needed to push the big metal door open by the time clock and I smelled the familiar perfume of Liza’s cigarettes first. She was leaning against the wall puffing like a chimney. I joined her, leaned my foot against the wall, and stared at the sun. “Meems, he’s late every shift and that’s if he bothers to show at all. When he is here, the work isn’t getting done. He even,” Liza took a puff, “He even smells a bit.” My brows furrowed. Her brows furrowed. She took another puff.\n\n“I can't be responsible for his happiness,” I said.\n\n“Not saying you are,” she shook her head.\n\n“Then what are you saying?” my words were biting and I was glad to not be looking at her green eyes right now.\n\n“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking what the hell happened?” she angrily stamped out her cigarette. The silence I held with her was deafening.\n\n“What does he say?” I demand after a minute. “I mean, have you asked him?”\n\n“He says you broke up with him,” she turned on her heel and the door slammed shut. I felt more tears. The back of my eyelids played the scene of me standing in that little red dress in the middle of his living room. My hair was in beach waves. I was wearing my very best perfume and I had reapplied my red lipstick three different times. He had promised me a nice date to make up for graduation. And there was Henry. Passed out on the couch. The stench of booze and weed swirling in the air. I grabbed a napkin and wrote WE’RE OVER. I guess he found it in the morning. \n\nI headed back to work, dragging myself through four more hours before making the long drive home. When I stopped at the light to turn home, I saw another scene play out. His hands were on my hips as he lifted me over a big puddle. His lips were on mine for the very first time. The memory made me smile as a car honked at me. The light turned green. \n\nThe next day, I spent the two hours before work started in my PJs blaring heartbreak songs alone in my living room. The tattoo blossomed in my mind’s eye. I raised my arm up…there was a petal that had fallen from the rose. I sat straight up. I knew we didn’t design the thing to actually look like it was dying. It was just meant to allude to the film, not be an exact copy! I blinked quickly and rubbed my wrist on the white carpet of the living room. I rubbed and rubbed, ‘til the skin felt hot and a bit raw. When I looked at it again, I noticed a second petal had fallen. My ears filled with pounding blood and my heart felt like it was cracking as I desperately replayed memories with Antoinette. But the thoughts weren’t stringing together. It felt like when I was a kid and I broke my necklace from my grandmother and the pearls crashed to the kitchen floor. Even though I spent hours combing the floor, I knew I was missing one.\n\nWhen I got to work, I made a beeline for the floral department where Liza stood with a customer. I loomed over them, impatiently waiting. Liza’s green eyes kept flicking up at me. She finally convinced the customer to go with a dozen roses and hissed at me, “What?” \n\n“My tattoo has changed,” I told her while shoving my wrist in her face. \n\n“What?” She starts marching to the back. \n\n“Look!” I pulled on her arm like a child until she faced me. I showed her the photo on my phone from social media that I had discovered on the car ride over and my wrist. \n\n“What…the…” she studied both intensely. Her hands held me in a death grip. “Are you sure this wasn’t the photo you took during the tattoo process?”\n\n“Yes! It was from inside Henry’s apartment. See?” I grabbed at the phone and zoomed out so she could see Henry’s front end table. \n\n“That’s trippy,” was all she could manage. We were interrupted by another customer and I was called to assist the cashiers up front. I received a text promising a follow up conversation during lunch. \n\nI rushed to the front end where I spent the next hour and a half staring at the rose while pretending to check expiration dates on candy bars. \n\n“Pssssttt,” hissed Liza. She jabbed a finger at the backroom door and I followed her through. We clocked out, grabbed our lunches from the fridge, and walked briskly to the one table outside. It was empty. Relief filled both of us and she said, “Fate is on our side. Now, let me see that damn flower.” Her cold, bony fingers wrapped around my wrist. She held it to the light, cupped her other hand around the image in case it changed in the shadow. Before she could ask, I slid my phone with the photo of the flower from the first day across the table toward her. She held it and my wrist up to the sun. She cupped a hand around my wrist, then around the photo.\n\nFinally she concluded, “Well, fuck me, it’s definitely different.” I frowned and furrowed my brow as she spun around the bench of the table so her feet could lay flat and her knees could be pulled up. She set her cheek down on her left knee like a fairy in a forest. \n\n“Fuck me,” I echoed while staring down at the flower. My vision seemed to blur at the edges. I furiously blinked. I closed my eyes tight. The image of Henry laughing at one of my cheesy jokes played in my mind. My cheeks remembered the way his hands felt so warm and firm when they brought my lips to him for a long, slow kiss. The kind girls dream about. I opened my eyes slowly. A third petal had fallen. I wasn’t hungry so I stood, shoved my wrist in Liza’s face, and marched away. \n\nI vaguely heard her say, “Fuck me.” My phone didn’t stop buzzing for the rest of my shift. All notifications because of texts from Liza. She wanted to know if the tattoo had changed. She thought we needed to take more pictures and I complied begrudgingly. Then, it went dead silent as we both went home for the day. Liza’s last text of the night came in just as I drifted off to sleep: What if it’s about him? I mean, he misses you. \n\nMy dreams were plagued by memories of Henry. But he was mad now. Mad like he used to get at the end of two weeks, right before we got paid, because the cash is gone which meant so was the high. In the dream memory I was telling him I don’t have anything left to spare. And he was screaming that I must be lying. And I was swearing that I’m not. He seemed to grow to the height of a skyscraper as he stomped across the kitchen. I woke up in a cold sweat.\n\nI didn’t have work, but lied to myself saying I should pick up some milk and eggs. My blood pressure rose with each mile I drove to the store. Hot, sticky sweat covered my palms at every red light and saliva flooded my mouth at the sight of Henry’s beat up truck sitting in the lot. I could have turned around. The car was still running and I had pulled into a spot far away from his truck and the entrance. \n\nThe AC whooshed around me and I made a beeline to the dairy section, avoiding the floral section. I snagged the gallon of whole milk with its red lid out of the fridge. I slammed that door shut, too. Self check out seemed like a good bet and I was furiously trying to open my bank app to see if I had enough funds when I crashed into a human.\n\nThe first thing I smelled was his cologne. Then, I studied his beat up tennis shoes and recognized long legs in black skinny jeans. Huh, he was still wearing the belt I got him for his birthday. He cleared his throat and went left. I scooted right. So he dove right. As I danced left. We were trapped in the worst waltz imaginable. My eyes were glued to the white tile of the store because I just knew his eyes would hypnotize me into forgetting the whole thing. Into taking him back. \n\n“Mimi,” he said. The world faded to black, just like in the movies. I looked up, my shoulder aching from the way the weight of the milk pulled my whole arm down. His eyes were red rimmed. They carried luggage you wouldn’t be allowed to categorize as carry on with any airline in the world. \n\n“Henry,” I said. I took a shuddering breath, feeling all of the fear of the day dissipate. He smiled. It was a long, crooked grin full of not so straight white teeth. \n\n“I’m so glad you’re here,” he chose his words carefully. “I have something for you,” he continued. I couldn’t breathe. The milk pulled me down to earth with wrath. The words to tell him about the tattoo and the petals were stuck in my throat. Henry’s eyes didn’t leave mine as one hand reached into his back pocket. He used his right hand to pull the one not holding milk towards him. His grin remained eerily in place. He uncurled my fingers. I hadn’t realized they were in a fist. He pressed a white envelope into my palm and leaned down. A soft kiss was placed on my wrist, right on the tattoo. \n\nJust as quickly as he came, he departed. Henry seemed to disappear as the elevator music of the store returned. I found myself in a haze as I made my way to an open register, rang up my milk, and paid for it. When I returned to my car, I didn't open the envelope. I stuck it in my glovebox and drove home. For the first time in months, I did so in silence. \n\nWhen I got home, I ran a nail beneath the seal of the letter. It seemed intolerably loud to do so. A lone sheet of lined notebook paper was enclosed. I recognized Henry’s crooked handwriting: Been thinking we’re no good without each other. Wanna get back together? Check Yes or No. Return to Liza. \n\nThe letter fell on my desk. The words seem to swirl around me. Suddenly nauseous, I made a beeline to the bathroom. Gripping both sides of my porcelain throne, I vomited the contents of my stomach, which wasn’t much.\n\nAt the sink, I splashed cold water on my face and noticed the girl in the mirror. Her hair was a greasy rat’s nest tamed into a lame messy bun. Her skin was pasty. Her lips were cracked and bloody. A permanent red hue filled her nose and cheeks. As I looked her over, I noticed her tattoo in the reflection of the mirror. As I pulled it close for investigation, a realization slapped me across the face.\n\nThe flower wasn’t Henry. Henry wasn't dying. I was." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Dusk to Dawn Encounter\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 3008\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with somebody stepping out into the sunshine." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Dusk to Dawn Encounter\nHaniya and I had not been in touch since our Mount Holyoke College days in the late 1990s. But true to the sisterhood bond, when I reached out fifteen years later to let her know that I would be in Cairo on assignment, she graciously agreed to give me after hours access to the Zamelek Library so I could photograph the renovations. \nAs I walked up the concrete stairs to the turn of the century yellow mansion that doubled as a library, the sun was slowly setting as the last ribbons of light rippled across the Nile River. Haniya had assured me that her structural engineer, Jamaal, who she said was ‘family,’ would meet me at the entrance. I peeked through the frosted glass and saw a ghostlike image floating toward the door. As the image came into focus, I could see that it was a man, dressed in a flowing white outfit. Fumbling nervously with the keys, he found the one that opened the door. \n“Ashira?” he said breathlessly.\n“Yes.”\n “I’m Jamaal. Haniya told me that you were coming. Apologies for the delay. The guard was called away.” He opened the door widely. “You are most welcomed. Please come in.” \nAs I walked past him, I noticed that his perfectly shaped goatee and his after five shadow were walnut colored. He towered over me by more than a foot, and I recognized that Bulgari Aqua scent immediately. Only men in the Middle East can wear a gallabiyah and look like they should be on the cover of GQ. Jamaal was no exception.\nJamaal interrupted my thoughts, “Haniya tells me that you are into antiquities.” He began walking down a narrow hallway. \nHis southern drawl confused me. “Into? I have an appreciation for antiquities and for preserving and retelling history – if that’s what you mean.” I replied coyly. “Also, thanks so much for agreeing to let me explore at this late hour. Haniya told me that you guys have been working like crazy on this renovation project.” \n“Crazy ain’t the word I’d use.” There that southern lilt was again. I hadn’t misheard it. \nA uniformed male walked by, and Jamaal spoke to him in a rapid Arabic. Though my auditory skills failed me, my nose was faithful. The guard smelled of syrupy sandalwood, and the aroma transported me to the souks of Marrakech and Istanbul. \n“How’s your Arabic?” Jamaal asked, without looking directly at me. \n“You mean my Arabic beyond “alsalamalekum,” “inshallah, “ “mashallah, and “sukran”? It’s non-existent!” I chuckled. He began walking again, and I followed him though he didn’t offer any information about where we were heading. His white gallabiyah and ghutra flowed as he gracefully walked across the alabaster hexagonal shapes that gave the marble floors their dizzying playfulness. The woodiness of Jamaal’s fragrance mixed with the guard’s earthy aroma intoxicated me.\n“Well, your accent isn’t half bad! The emphasis is in the right place. I’ll be happy to be your tutor.” I wondered if that offer might extend beyond language sessions. \nBefore I could respond, Jamaal began giving what I think were instructions about leaving the lights on in this side of the library to a salt and pepper haired man who wore a dark navy uniform. \n“Let’s go check this out.” Jamaal instructed. \n“Wait! Let’s go check this out?” I said, with my hand on my hips. “Where did you live in the States?” \n“South Carolina and DC,” he answered. \n“Is that where you picked up your accent?” \nHe chuckled and said, “Man, this accent is forever getting me in trouble.” He stopped in front of a glossy mahogany bench. Above the bench was an enormous painting of an espresso-colored man sitting on a golden chaise-longue. In front of him stood a woman whose sheer white garb contrasted boldly against her carob skin. Her hand was positioned slightly on the man’s shoulder. An elongated head piece with a large garnet stone sat atop her wooly hair. I stared at the piece. \n“Shall we?” Jamaal extended his hand offering me a seat. I had been walking the streets of Cairo since noon, so my feet were killing me. I plopped down unceremoniously. I leaned back and closed my eyes, then I remembered that Jamaal and I were talking about his accent. \n“So, tell how that accent of yours has gotten you in trouble.” I asked while raising my head from the back of the bench. I fluffed the back of my afro to release the indentation that had been left by the bench. \n“How many Arab brothuz you know talk like I do?” he asked sincerely. It was then that I noticed the fatigue and the boyishness in his face. \n“Well, I must admit – you’re the first.” I said removing my camera from my backpack. I took a few photos of the elaborate ceiling. The marble columns supported arches that were encrusted with golden squares. \n“So, imagine you’re this brown, moozlim, cuz that’s what they would say, right? With a British accent? When I moved to the States at 18, I quickly realized that y’all are hard on a brotha with that kinda accent. So over time, I guess I changed how I talked. What you’re hearing now is the end result.” he confessed. \nI stood up to get a closer look at the details of the columns. With my camera in my hands, I adjusted my zoom lens, then said, “I don’t even know how to categorize your accent. Kinda southern, kinda country, kinda hip, yet wannabe British.” I burst into laughter. \n“Now that’s cold.” He joined my laughter. \nI sat back down, this time further away from him. I turned facing him putting my elbow on the bench. “I’m really curious about your experience in the South.” My level of comfort with this stranger did not surprise me as he really did remind me of home and the ease with which I would talk to any man in my neighborhood. \n He tilted his head backwards and rubbed his goatee smoothing his stubble. “I loved living in the South. I didn’t have any racial problems. I was part of a bowling league, and...” \n I raised my hand and interrupted him, “What?” \nHe turned and looked at me and said, “What? You don’t think an Arab boy could bowl? Bowling is a real man’s sport; I’ll have you know.” \nI wagged my index finger and corrected, “My issue is not with your being Arab. It’s the bowling part that concerns me.” I shook my head in disbelief. “You embraced the southern American culture too readily.” \nHe seemed to be lost in his reverie but managed to say, “Man, I had some good times. It wasn’t even a problem when I dated an African-American woman.”\nI snapped my fingers twice and turned up my lips, “There it is! That’s where all this swagger is coming from. I got it now, Jamaal.” \nHe shook his head rapidly and added, “It wasn’t even like that. We had a great time.” \nI raised my right brow and inquired, “Yeah, but did you tell her what you intended, if you ever wanted to get serious? Was marriage ever even an option?”\nHe leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, “Oh I was clear with her from jump. I don’t think she thought it would get too serious.” He added, “But I tell you what was funny…she brought me home to meet her people.”\n “What? How did that go?”\n “Well after the family got finished asking me if I was the kind of moozlim who followed Farrakhan and after her daddy finished calling me “boy,” I managed.”\nMy howl echoed down the hall. He shared heart-warming and hysterical details of meeting this southern African-American family. He mentioned that he was introduced to Juneteenth, Kwanzaa, and macaroni and cheese thanks to this woman. \n “Haniya will have my neck if I don’t take you to the third floor to see the art collection. The late Princess Samiha left this place with some unbelievable stuff.” He stood up. Hovering over me, he offered his hand. “Shall we take a look?” \n I hastily put my camera in my backpack, closed it, and placed my hand in his. When I stood up, he gently released my hand. \n “The stairs are just around the corner.” Jamaal led the way. Then he added, “A sista from Texas, living in Ghana, on assignment in Egypt? I’m sure there’s a long story behind that one.” \n Not sure if that was an invitation to expound, I simply replied, “Probably as long as yours.” \nWe walked a short distance to an alcove. His hands trailed the smooth, cool marble wall, and I heard a click. “Let there be light.” He joked. I noticed that the stairwell was quite narrow. He rapidly climbed the stairs. “So is your family in Ghana?” His voice reverberated down the narrow stairwell. \n “If you mean a spouse and children, no. I’m not married, and I don’t have children. If you mean parents and siblings, everyone is still in the States.” \n Looking down from the top of the stairs, he said, “I see.” When I reached the top of the stairs, I peeped in and saw dusty paintings, cobweb covered sculptures, string instruments missing at least one string, and aisles of books. It was the books that caught my eye, because their green covering and gold letters reminded of the bouquainistes on the quay overlooking the Seine in Paris. Someone had allowed the literary brilliance of Hugo, Flaubert, Camus, and even Voltaire to attract dust instead of seducing longing Egyptian minds. I fumbled for my camera so I could lock in the image. \n Snapping photos I asked, “How about you?” \nHe looked confused, “How about me what?” \nI snickered, “I mean what about your family?” \n“Oh. I’m married – recently married with no children. Five brothers and one sister.” He paused. “Everyone is in Dubai.” \n I did not want to handle him like he was a rare, endangered pangolin – poke at him, watch him coil in a ball, and hide behind armored scales, but Jamaal was an enigma. I stared at him and knew that there was a complexity, a depth, and a resolve that was familiar to me. I trusted my instincts and asked him about relationships and being a worldly chameleon. \n As the minutes hastily turned into hours, our conversation became more intimate – more classified. I was so engrossed in our banter I neglected to swoon at the 19th century English roll top desk on which I had propped my backpack and elbows hours prior. Jamaal was lounging across the bureau’s contemporary – a 19th century mahogany framed chaise lounge. Under any other circumstances, I would have been captivated by the history of these pieces. I concluded rightly that Jamaal’s contemporary history was much more adrenalizing. \nJamaal’s torso was strewn across the red, embossed upholstered padding. His unshaven, chiseled jawbone rested on his palm, and he confided, “Ashira, I knew I had to marry a woman from Dubai. Despite everything I’ve seen and where I’ve been, I married a woman my mother liked – not someone I loved.” \n I looked at him and at that moment, I saw him, and despite us being of different genders, he forced me to contemplate my own kismet. \n “So has your wife been to the US? I mean have you shared your experiences with her? Does she speak English?” I peppered my inquiries rhythmically. \n “Never, no and yeah, but it ain’t the same.” He responded. “Her English is fine, but she can’t understand the experiences I’ve had – and I’m ok with that.” \n “Yeah, but is she? I mean isn’t she being robbed of knowing a part of who you are and what makes you, you?” I felt my womanist ire rising.\nHe chuckled, “For a modern woman, you seem to have some old ass ideas about marriage and romance. She doesn’t have to know everything about me. She’s a student, which is good for me, because she has her own life, and she isn’t sitting around thinking that I gotta fill her every need.” \n I looked at him and shook my head. \n He shrugged his shoulders and in a high pitch asked, “What? You pissed?” \nI stopped shaking my head and said, “No. Not pissed. I’m just thinking that I’m glad your wife is still in school. She knows that she needs to be able to handle her own business – and not depend on your whims. Not to offend or generalize, but y’all will act crazy.” \n He rubbed his goatee. “Well now. I can’t argue with you there cuz we are strange.”\n I glanced at my watch and realized that it was 4:00am, but I didn’t dare stop the conversation. “You get a gold star for honesty. I appreciate that.” \n He snickered, “Men run shit over here. I ain’t saying it’s right, but it’s how it is. For instance, I’m in Cairo taking care of business, making plenty of money. I can decide if I’m going to accept a contract anywhere in the world. Can my wife do the same thing? Absolutely not. Now in America, I must admit that I always admired how African-American women had this independence that I haven’t seen among too many other women in the world.” \n I quipped, “We don’t have much choice.” \n He retorted, “Yeah, you got choices. You can find some man to take care of things, go to the beauty shop, get your hair done and get you some fake nails.”\nI screamed with laughter! Had all the objects in this storeroom not been valuables, I would have thrown the heaviest thing I could at his aquiline nose. \nAfter I caught my breath, I said, “I don’t know what sisters you encountered, but not all of us wear fake nails.” I raised my hands to dawn my unmanicured claws. “On a serious note, most African-American women I know were taught that education is key. It’s a means to independence, freedom and choices. Now I know that’s not the notion of Black women that’s portrayed, but it’s the reality I know. I am enraged by the images of my people, my community that are exported around the globe. It’s an unbalanced story that seems to sell. It’s the modern way that Blacks are sold.” \n“I was joking about the fake nails…well, half joking.” He cleared his throat. “But I am with you about images. What’s the Arab image that sells? Terrorist, extremist, polygamist, misogynist, right? I’m totally with you on the unitary representation of brown and black peoples.” He said authoritatively. \n “Is it ok if I ask what happened with the sister?” \nHe took a deep breath. “You can ask me anything. I’ve removed my shoes and ghutrah.” He pointed to his loafers on the floor and the white shear cloth laying prostrate across the couch. “We’re family now.” \n“All right then, family. What happened? Racial or religious differences?” I assumed. \n“Nah. Nothing like that. It just ran its course. I do remember once we were all out bowling with some other guys from school. Someone said, “Yeah, Jamal, once you go black, you never go back.” I didn’t respond to the comment and neither did she. We get back to her place, and she cusses me out. I had never heard some of the things coming out of her mouth. Talk about an advanced English lesson in obscenities! I’m still not sure what she expected me to do.” \n“Well, there is no guide to romance with a black woman, but maybe she hoped you would speak up? ” I paused. “I guess that was a Black person who said that?”\n“Yeah, a mutual friend. I just felt like…I don’t know.” He was at a loss for words. \n“It was a Black thing, and she should’ve handled it?” I quipped. \n“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.” \nHe was not going to offer more details, so I pushed, “But that’s what you thought. Because the guy was Black, she should’ve gotten her brother straight?”\n “I guess. Furthermore, it didn’t make sense for me to get my ass whipped by him.”\nMy guffaw ricocheted off the eggshell walls. \nWe both heard the melodious call to morning prayers “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” \n“Morning prayers.” Jamaal said softly.\nI saw thin, streaks of morning light through the wooden shutters. \n“Wow! I am meeting Haniya in a couple of hours. I should get back to my hotel.” I wasn’t somnolent; in fact, I was revitalized. Talking, no connecting with Jamaal, had renewed me. \nHe quickly put on his shoes. “Please let me walk you to your hotel.” \n“Thanks for the offer. The hotel is next door, and the streets are empty at this hour. I’ll be fine.” \nHe grabbed the abandoned white cloth, “I have to walk you out anyway. All the doors are locked.” \nWe retraced our steps back the entrance. I smelled the sandalwood fragrance once again, and the tired guard smiled as he opened the main door. As we walked down the cement stairs, I appealed, “Jamaal, you can leave me here.” \n“I’ll walk you to the gate and watch just to make sure you get there safely.” \nWhen we arrived at the iron gate, I turned to him. I was about to speak, but he interrupted, “Meeting you has been the best part of my time in Cairo. Thanks for reminding me of the wonderful experiences I had in the States. This has been good.” \n“You have no idea how great it’s been being able to speak English quickly and not having to change my vocabulary.” We both laughed. I added, “I felt understood.” \n I waved goodbye, and he lifted his hand. The morning sun beams bounced playfully off the Nile River, and I walked into the morning light, allowing the rays to warm my face. I smiled knowing that all was well and exactly as it should be." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Dreamy Departure\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1026\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with somebody stepping out into the sunshine." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Staring intensely at her laptop screen, Maya fingers were tapping continuously at her laptop screen as her back was hunched on her seat, with both her legs crossed. The view outside her window was dark, with only the new moon in the sky. \nBut she doesn't mind the darkness, for she finds it serene and quiet for her to focus on her current task. Typing her report that was due the next day, Maya felt her eyelids heavy as she began to yawn, but resisted her thoughts to lay down on her bed. \nWhen she took a sip of her black coffee from her black mug, she heard a faint footstep coming from outside. Maya took a quick glimpse outside her window, sighing. It better be the mailman, she groaned, feeling too lazy to get up from her comfortable position. Otherwise, I would have to ask for a refund.\nBut there was no knock on her door, not even the sound of her doorbell ringing from outside. Not wanting to waste her time, she put on her headphones and shifted her focus towards her work report, which was an urgent matter for Maya.\n For a few minutes, she managed to get through half of her work without even stopping, occasionally gulping down her coffee to keep her awake. She felt at peace as she listened to white noises from her laptop that cleared her cluttering thoughts, but only for a brief moment. \nMaya then heard leaves crunching from her backyard, stopping her from typing on her keyboard. I don't remember the mailman entering my house using the backdoor, she silently panicked, feeling her palms clammy. \nPutting her legs down, she quickly grabbed her phone and got up from her chair, locking both her bedroom door and her window. Drawing the curtains, she switched off her laptop and hid underneath her bed, praying that no one would come for her.\nShe took a deep breath as she felt her heart pounding like a drum, hoping to calm herself down. Please don't kill me, Maya held back her tears of fright as she curled up in a foetal position, hugging both her knees. \nUnfortunately, she realized that she had forgotten to lock her back door when she heard it creak open from her room, causing her to slap her forehead in disbelief. Why do I always forget to check the back door? she cursed to herself. Goodness, I'm so stupid.\nHeavy footsteps echoed throughout the living room as Maya heard one of her flower vases crash on the ground, prompting her to crawl out of her bed and unlock the window. Glancing at the muddy ground, she took a deep breath and slid her way down from one storey, safely landing on her two feet.\nWithout further delay, she sprinted away from her yard as fast as she could, without bothering to look back. With no streetlights on the dirt road, Maya had no other choice but to head to the lake, where she would be much safer there. \nWhile she was running for her dear life, she heard the familiar footsteps tailing her from behind, making her huff and puff. She fastened up her speed as she saw a sign that led her to her destination, pushing her to focus on her pathway. \nJust as Maya had her eyes on the road, she tripped onto a rock, causing her to fall from the high ground. Tumbling down on the hill like a haystack, she felt her cheeks and arms grazed by the thorns and leaves, before landing underwater.\nI'm okay, she said to herself, as she held her breath and closed her eyes. I'm safe now. No one will come and kill me in a cold-blooded manner.\nMaya remained underwater, surrounded by an ethereal soft lullaby from the stars. For the first time, she felt at peace with herself, without anyone interfering with her slow rhythm of thought. The past few weeks have brought nothing but stress, from moving into a secluded area to experiencing an attempted murder towards her.\nShe was floating in space, with her body feeling weightless and her visions gazing at the soft, purple cloud. Uncurling her body, she glided through the stars with ease and laughed as she was chasing after the bluish comets that passed by. It's so beautiful here, Maya sighed in relief, resting her head on the puffy clouds. It looks a lot like my dreams from when I was younger.\nI never got a chance to experience something like this. Mom was always discouraging me from dreaming and forced me to step back into reality. My boss brought nothing but stress at work. I mean, must I really have to do the report? I always did my best, but somehow, he never really noticed me. And as for my friends, well, they only see what they want to see. Whenever I try to express my feelings, they always brush it off. I just wish this moment would last forever. \nAs she finally opened her eyes, her lips curled into a smile as fragments of sunlight penetrated through the fresh water, prompting her to swim towards the surface. Her feet touched the ground with ease and her eyes gazed at the bright sunlight above the blue sky, with familiar clouds hovering along with it. \nSomehow, Maya didn't feel cold, despite being underwater for the whole night. Instead, she felt more energetic than her usual self as she paced through the reddish-orange forest, which were filled with fallen leaves from the sky and polka-dotted mushrooms that sprouted along the pathways. \nShe climbed towards the hills that she tumbled and headed home, where she saw policemen searching through with their dogs. But Maya didn't bother, as she walked through one of the officers unnoticed and laid on her bed, staring at her ceiling.\nThe frizzy-haired woman with dark skin didn't need to worry about her life anymore. She didn't have to worry about her half-done work report, nor her ‘so-called’ friends. Instead, Maya will do whatever she desires without anyone telling her what to do. After all, she was already dead." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: \"And They Call Her Eva\"\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1210\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who’s desperately trying to change their luck." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It's somewhere around the year of 1957. Eva lived in the beautiful city of Slone Valley, North Carolina . She always wanted to travel and do what she wanted to do. But because she lived with her grandmother, and other siblings, that was out of the question. Eva was smart, beautiful, and always thinking \"there's got to be another way!\" She always did what she was told, but there was something very special about Eva. She had a way of seeing things, hearing things, and not revealing them to anyone. Her grandmother sent her to the grocery store with a list and told her to come straight back as soon as she finished shopping. Being Eva, that went in one ear and out the other. She went merrily on her way, humming and singing. She seemed to have an old soul according to her grandmother's friends. They assumed that because the songs Eva would be humming and singing were the songs that they heard at Revival. As she entered the store, she got a basket and started getting her grandmother's list. She was almost finished when she heard a loud noise at the back of the store. Someone had passed out, and the lady in the store was yelling for help. She asked Eva to put that basket down, and go get some help. She did just that. When Eva and a few others returned, they found the lady still laying on the floor and not moving. Someone had called for the doctor to come to the store because someone was sick. Dr. Hayes came in and asked that everyone clear the store. He didn't know who the lady was but he knew that something was wrong.\nEva knew that her grandmother was probably wondering where she was and what she was up to. She knew that there was something wrong with this lady, but exactly what she didn't know. The doctor asked the store owner if he could move her off the floor and put her in one of the rooms in the back. Mrs. Tingle said, no problem do what you have to do. Dr. Hayes got some help, and some of the men in the store helped him get the lady to the room with the bed in the back. As he continued to examine her, Mrs. Tingle asked everyone to go on with their shopping and the doctor would take care of the lady. Something just didn't sit right with Eva. Why did the lady pass out to begin with, and who was she. Mrs. Tingle told Eva to finish her order and go home because her grandmother would be looking for her. So, that's what Eva did, but when she got home grandmother was not happy. Eva was trying to tell her what happen but grandmama wasn't hearing it. She told Eva to go to her room, and not to come out until supper time.\nEva was mad because she hadn't done anything, and was being punished for nothing. She kept saying, when I get old enough, I'm leaving this place and never coming back. Grandmama called her for supper, and Eva had nothing to say to anyone. She finished her supper, did her chores and went to her room. That night, Eva could not sleep. She kept thinking about the lady in the back of Mrs. Tingle's store. Eva felt that there was more to her story, then her just passing out in the store. Eva finally drifted off, but not until she started dreaming about the lady in the back of the store. Eva sat straight up in the bed, and decided she needed to tell the doctor who this woman was.\nWhen morning came, Eva got up, did her chores and headed straight to the store where the lady was still at. Mrs. Tingle asked if she was there to get some more things for her grandmother, and Eva said no, I need to see Dr. Hayes. When doctor Hayes came into the store, Mrs. Tingle jokingly said, our helper has some news for you Dr. Hayes about your patient. As he headed to the room in the back he asked Eva to come with him. What can I do for you this morning lil lady? Eva said, it's about that lady back here. I know what's wrong with her. Dr. Hayes sternly said, how can that be when I don't know what's wrong with her. Trust me Dr. Hayes, I do know what's wrong with her. He never would let her say what was on her mind. Someone knocked on the door, and it was Eva's grandmother. When she walked in the first thing she said was, \"why are you bothering Dr. Hayes?\" Eva said, I'm not grandmama, I'm helping him by telling him what's wrong with her. Child if you don't get out of here, and get out right now!!! Eva said, Dr. Hayes, please........Dr. Hayes said, okay Eva what's wrong. She's not sick - sick Dr. Hayes. This lady came to find her children. Her heart is broken, and she came to find her children. What are you talking about Eva, and how do you know? This lady has come and long ways and is very tired, but she came to find her children. She has three children - 2 boys and a girl. They're in this town, she just doesn't know where.\nEva stop telling these tales, and stop it now. But, I'm not grandmama. I saw them last night. Now that's enough Eva! I'll take the switch to you for that lying! Suddenly there was movement on the bed. It was the lady. The doctor went to her and gave her a sip of water and asked her if she knew where she was. The lady said yes, but how did I get here. Grandmama took Eva by the hand and said let's go missy, I'll take care of you when we get home. The lady said, no I know that lil girl. Grandmama said, how do you know my Eva. I saw her in my dream. Eva's grandmother began to ask questions and told Eva to stop telling stories about this lady. The lady kept saying she's not telling stories. She knows things about me. Grandmama said Eva is known for lying and telling a lot of untruths. The lady kept saying she's not telling untruths, please believe her.\nDr. Hayes got some information from the lady while Mrs. Tingle got her some warm broth and coffee. While the lady was trying to explain why she was there, the doctor had some of the town's men do some investigating for him. Three days later, Dr. Hayes found out that the lady did have children here, and on her way here the lady was robbed, was travelling alone, and was just exhausted. They located her children, and brought them to their mother. Eva was so excited because she finally was able to prove that she wasn't lying or as her grandmother always said \"telling untruth.\" Her luck had finally changed. She knew that the only reason it changed is because God's Grace with upon her. Thank GOD for HIS MERCY & GRACE!\nSubmitted By,\nMinister Evelyn Williams" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Rude Awakenings\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1581\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with a protagonist taking shelter under a bridge during a thunderstorm. An animal scurries past which shouldn’t exist. Against their better judgment, they decide to follow it out." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Fuck! I can't believe this junk! \" Sam's old Tesla kept breaking down for no reason and the weather wasn't helping. Even a blind man could have seen this storm coming, bringing with it strong wind and aggressive thunder. \n\"Hello Triple A?\" \n\"Hello this is Triple A. How can we be of service?\"\n \"Thank God!\" said Sam as his uncontrolled thoughts of dim scenarios quickly came to a halt. \n\"My car broke down. I'm about 200 meters away from Newport. Between old Billy's gas station and Peter's Pinecone forest. I'm stuck in the middle of the road and there's a heavy thunderstorm over here and... hello?\" \n The phone line was disabled probably due to the lashing winds of the storm. \n\"Fuck!\" screamed Sam defenseless. He wasn't going anywhere and after using all his energy up screaming and shouting of sheer frustration inside his car, his body's natural reaction led Sam to take a much needed nap. There was something mystical about sleeping in the rain. The monotonous sound of the infinite raindrops splashing everything equally.\nRemembering in his sleep his complicated situation, Sam frantically woke up. He instinctively grabbed his cellphone to realize, not only that the signal was back but the storm had calmed down also. He took a deep breath before making his next phone call. \n “Dad! Listen, I'm stuck near Peter’s Pinecone, can you come pick me up. I need a ride to work. This piece of shit car keeps breaking down.\" \n\"It'll take a couple of hours son, I still have to feed them hogs and your aunt Lesdy might need some help with her new window set...\"\nHis dad's voice faded into the distance.\nHis help was no longer Sam's main interest. On the other hand, the diminutive creature that came out behind old Billy's gas station walking toward his car stole it completely. Sam initially thought it could have been one of old Billy's grandchildren. His strong genes are known all through town. However this thing, which appeared seemingly out of nowhere, had a face resembling a grown man, green and rusty skin and was carrying what seemed like a briefcase. Sam got out of his car, considering the easing of the weather and followed this curious thing into Peter's Pinecone forrest. Although diminutive in size, the creature displayed great stamina and lured Sam deeper into the forest. \n “Where did it go?\" said Sam catching his breath. \nHe derailed himself from the main track and found himself on top of a hill linked to another similar hill by a small bridge. Pinecones, almost like an army of clones, populated every possible square inch of forest.\n \"There you are!\" shouted Sam as he pinpointed the weird creature running downhill. As he accelerated, so did the weather and as quick as Sam made it to the middle bridge, thunder, heavy rain and aggressive wind struck Peter's Pinecone.\n\"Fuck! Not again!\" screamed Sam as he creatively utilized the bridge as shelter from the insidious weather.\nHe couldn't understand how in the world he got himself in this stupid situation. \n\"Awful weather, huh?\" Sam jumped shocked as he took a good look at that which had stolen his attention. \n\"Excuse me?\" stuttered Sam. \n\"I said. The weather is awful.\" \n\" Wha-What are you?\" \n\" Ah, it's the same every time\"\n \"What?\"\n \" Everytime humans come in contact with goblins, they can't seem to grasp the fact that goblins exist and equate experiences of meeting one to being drugged up or alien abduction\"\n \"I mean, no harm. It's just, I've been in my car for so long and the sight of you startled me.\"\n \"Startled?\"\n \"Yes. It's not everyday you see a goblin.\"\n \"Well, we do try to stay away from humans.\" said the creature and he fixed his petit tie.\n \"You-you've got a briefcase.\" \n\" Yes. I do. Haven't you seen a briefcase before?\" \n\" Yes I have. Why would a goblin have one?\" \n\"Because this goblin is a very important goblin in the goblin world.\" \n\"Goblin world?\" \n “As humans have their human world, we have our own goblin world. Hidden. In forests such as this one. All over the planet. My position within this goblin ministry world is to regulate \"false flag information.\"\n Sam looked at the creature with total bewilderment. \n\"Unlike humans, we goblins are extremely meticulous beings. We calculate every possible scenario and detail that might affect any of our decisions. Unfortunately, this type behavior has led to goblins making up false stories. You know, what you humans called “fake news.” In a purely logical scenario, adapting a fake news strategy to inflict control is highly beneficial. It allows you to manipulate and deceive whoever you want. As this phenomenon grew, goblins started inflicting self wounds and blaming other goblins for it. Sometimes it's real, sometimes it's to be seen as a victim to return the strike with unproportional measures. My job is to mitigate these actions within the goblin community.”\n Sam's eyes and ears were exploited by what he had just heard. As he stood there compartmentalizing his surroundings, he realized that the scenery was grandiose and beautiful. The rain and thunder matched perfectly with the heights of the pinecones and the darkness they created. Sam and the goblin, although completely different, stood still. Under this particular bridge mesmerized the natural aesthetic of the environment. \"Will you ever solve it?\" asked Sam to the goblin. \n\"Solve what?\" intrigued asked the goblin. \n\"Misinformation. Self inflicting wounds that justify atrocities?\"\n \"Although it is my job to stop it, I don't think I will. It will be deeply embedded within the foundation of the goblins for years to come.\" \nSam's sadness quickly changed to a more positive attitude as the storm was slowly relaxing. A small opening let the sunlight into Peter's Pinecone forrest. Sam's lifted his chin towards the sun enjoying the gentle warmth he was experiencing. Coming up with another question for the creature, Sam asked,\n\"So, what should we do?” \n“Well, I am not sure if this strategy will work in the human world but, when we goblins are trying to “unplug” someone from the evil energy wave power seekers blindingly walk themselves into, we usually call them or meet with them, depending on the gravity of their fake news, and we proceed to shout, from the top of our lungs all the reasons why their fake news story is fake. This is like killing 2 raccoons with one spear!” The goblin could see Sam's confusion. \n“We goblins like to eat raccoons, anyways. The yelling process awakens them from their own mind prison and two, well, liars ought to be screamed at.” \nSam’s eyes were blinded from the sun. He held his palm up to protect his eyes but the goblin was already gone. \nOnce Sam returned to the main road uphill, ambulances and police cars were searching everywhere for him.\n \"Son! There you are! We couldn't find you and we were starting to get worried.\" \n\"I'm ok. I just went for a little walk, that's all.\"\n Both Sam's father and paramedics find it hard to believe Sam was having a stroll under the terrible weather but as long as he wasn't injured, all parties agree it was a simple misunderstanding and poor communication. As Sam finally entered his office, Janice, his secretary said. \n“Mr. Coleman, we tried calling your cell phone but the signal was low…”\n “ I know Janice, the weather is terrible. I got stuck, long story. Tell me, what we have for today.”\n“Well,” said Janice. “Mr. Elon Musk keeps trying to contact you about that Mars story. He says you can exaggerate it as much as you want as long as it paints traveling to Mars as something “positive.” Also, the Chinese Government wants you to write a negative story about Taiwan. They specifically said “make it seem like they need us.” Also, the security minister of Mexico wants you to report a fake kidnapping, they need public support and rescuing a little girl can potentially elevate them in the polls. Lastly, Facebook needs 20 immigrant stories with a good outcome. Apparently the French president has personally asked his communication minister to uplift public opinion on immigration.” \nSam didn't move a muscle. He would usually frantically try to satisfy his clients orders but this time, he reminisced about his real or unreal experience in Peter’s Pinecone forest. He took a deep breath and very calmly asked Janice to call Mr. Musk's personal phone. Janice obliged. \n“ Sam! Thanks for reaching out, man. I need that story for this new magazine I'm working with and…” \n “Listen here you little fuck. Mars is not cool. Traveling to Mars is expensive and once you're there, there isn't anything to actually do. Oh! And did I mention there is no oxygen Elon. No oxygen! It means that if you don't have money to buy a six million dollar space suit, you can't go! Instead of going to Mars, why dont you fix your cars! “Self driving” is a long shot, not to mention they break down every 2 days because of maintenance!”\n“Woah calm down Sam! You sound tempered.”\n“I'm sorry man. I met this goblin under a bridge at Peter’s Pinecone and he said \"I need to yell at people that lie.”\n“ I would say you have either been drugged up or abducted by aliens! Stay focused and get me that story. I'll send you a new model soon.” \nSam Coleman obliged." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Origin Debaters\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1321\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a family with a long-standing tradition, whose members all have conflicting origin stories for it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jennifer was rolling her eyes again at her family arguing once again at Thanksgiving.\n\nIt was the same old story.\nHer mother and grandmother were technically the culprits at hand here.\nIt started on the magical date of January 17, 1984, exactly two years before Jennifer was born. Scratch that. That was her birthday. It was actually two years, three days, and seven hours before the only child had been born. So technically speaking, the date was January 14, 1982 at the time of 10:32 pm.\n\nJanuary 14, 1982 was the infamous date that allowed her loved ones to start fighting with each other about where one of the ancestors really came from.. Jennifer’s mother, Cecil S. Farrington, was upset that her own mother, Sharleen Robyn Winnipeg, was not letting go of her stance that their ancestor, Gwen Winnipeg-Farrington, had entered the state Louisiana instead of the state Colorado.\n\nAnd Gwen was persistent every single year that she was right about Gwen coming from the state of Colorado.\n“It doesn’t make any sense to me whatsoever how she could even come from Louisiana. They’re nothing but a bunch of bottom-feeders wanting pity and attention for their own foolish financial mistakes.”\n\nBoth Jennifer and Cecil grimaced whenever their loved one implied that people from the South were poor. For the record, rich people did exist in Louisiana. That didn’t help the fact that Jennifer could stomach Sharleen the Mean Queen, which is what she called her in her diary, to say every time she didn’t speak up to her grandmother about her mean-spirited attitude.\n\n“I’m sure that those mistakes weren’t made unintentionally, Mother.” As always, Cecil would be agreeable to avoid further conflict.\nOf course she will take her side. She never has a backbone. Maybe that’s why I’m not strong like them. Jennifer thought to herself.\n\nMeanwhile, her father, George, was out on the front porch putting together a swing set for Tonya’s new baby to arrive.\n\n“You know, I don’t know, ladies. Gwen did live in Colorado until she died in the year of 1979. That’s what the archives said. Tonya told me her husband Larry was able to find out thanks to knowing the University Librarian of the UCLA Library.”\n\n Tonya was Jennifer’s sister; she was three years older than her and already in her fourth year of college. Being able to attend UCLA, balance a job as a businesswoman, and a full-time mother lead her to being the apple of the eye for the whole family to fawn over.\n\nWhile Jennifer wasn’t a Brainiac, she was still able to get decent grades and get to a decent school. Sure, Harley Edison University wasn’t a top five school like UCLA, Harvard, Yale, or any of the other pretentious schools her parents tried to push her to attend, but in a way, she felt that this was the place that fully understood her soul. She didn’t need to put up the Farrington front when she could just hide her nose in a book. It was better than to make an embarrassing fool of herself.\n\nYet, why did she feel curiosity about who Gwen Winnipeg-Farrington was? Was she introverted like Jennifer? How did she handle her infamous family squabbles when she was the only sane one? What about her hobbies? Did she like to read poetry? If Jennifer stopped being afraid of writing stories, and just took that damn leap of faith, she could base Gwen off as a fictional character.\nHistory may have been lost to the unpredictable chamber of time, but writing was that predictable necessity she needed to never let her characters be forgotten.\n\n“Besides, if she had been to Colorado, she would have never gone down to that god-awful state to begin with.”\n\nJennifer started to see red. Her mother had warned her to give her grandmother a break, but she didn’t care anymore. She was smirking like a holier-than-thou person, making sure that everyone knew that she was above it all because her husband, Tory Errington IV, had founded one of the best black cuisine restaurants in 1959. Or was it 1938?\n\nIt didn’t matter. She was going to give Sharleen the Mean Queen a piece of her mind.\n\n“How dare you say that about our own family member?! Don’t you have any shame inside of yourself?”\nEverybody around her was so shocked.\n“Jennifer, don’t be rude to your grandmother.”\n\nBy that point, George had stopped working on that crazy contraption and was already inside of the house.\n“Are you serious, Dad? Don’t be rude to her? This is the same woman who said to you that being around people in Idaho would make you the next backwards cowboy?”\n\nShe proceeded to continue sticking up for herself. Her mother tried to hold her back by taking her right arm, but she fiercely pulled away from her. Sharleen was about to get a rude awakening.\n“You know what your problem is, Grandma? You just hate the idea that someone else besides you could have a great life. What happened to you that was so awful that you had to be mean towards others? Did you not get enough hugs as a child? Was your precious Daddy not able to play with you and your collection of horse figurines when you were a little girl?”\n\nSharleen’s eyes were getting teary. Jennifer’s lip trembled as well.\nShe knew that it wasn’t right to hurt someone’s feelings.\n\nAt that moment, Sharleen and Jennifer knew that apologies had to be given out right now. There was no way that Thanksgiving was going to be ruined. Again.\n\nWiping her tears with her manicured pink nails, the demure but firm matriarch stood up and walked towards her grandchild.\n“Baby, it’s not that I think I’m better than anyone else. I never want you to believe that for one second. I love this family and I would be all alone in the world without it.”\n\n“I understand that, Grandma, but why are you obsessed about Gwen so much?”\n\nGrandma breathed deeply.\n\n“Because I have proof she was a Colorado citizen. When I was still married to my sweet Tory….may his soul rest in peace...”\n\n“Amen…” A murmur of Amens was spread across the living room. All of the food was probably cold, but that wasn’t the biggest issue right now.\n\n“He told me that his brother-in-law, Howard Harry Hill, a really corny alliterative name, had discovered that she attended a high school in Colorado. It turns out that before he had married my husband’s sister, Judith, Howard himself had dated Gwen. They used to be high school sweethearts; they were practically the talk of the town. But then, Gwen decided to move to Louisiana…”\n\n“HA!” Jennifer slammed her hands on the dining room table. Everyone looked up at her stunned. They never saw this side to her personality before. She started to point her finger towards her frightened grandmother, feeling as badass as ever. “So you admit it! She lived in Louisiana and Colorado!”\n\nBut then Jennifer arched her eyebrows. “But that means Gwen lived in two states in her lifetime. Why didn’t we ever think that?”\n\n“Because she wanted another life, Jennifer,” said Sharleen. “She didn’t think that her relationship was good enough because she thought she wasn’t good enough for him to date her.”\n\nJennifer immediately sat back down. Her jaw almost hit the floor.\n\n“That’s awful…but the story has a happy ending doesn’t it?”\n\nSharleen shook her head, eyes closed, afraid to reveal the truth.\n\n“No, honey, it doesn’t. Gwen moved on to marry Titus Winnipeg. That’s why we’re called the Winnipeg-Farringtons.”\n“So if Gwen had married Harold, then I would have been Jennifer Hill-Farrington? Wow, what a roller coaster.”\n\nEveryone started to laugh. What would they do without Jennifer?\n“Let’s eat,” Jennifer laughed along with them.\n\nThus, the classic battle of the Winnipeg-Farringtons had come to a close.\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: Guilt\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1903\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character walking through a desert landscape, when they stumble across something unexpected. “That shouldn’t be there,” they muse." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I left the diner. The sand of the surrounding desert spilled over the street. In the distance, saw a checkpoint. No fencing. Just an arm bar and guard box. “That shouldn’t be there,” I mused.\nGood enough place to start, though.\n“Hello.” The guard said to me.\nI didn’t know what to say. Sure the obvious is, “Hello.” But it didn’t occur to me.\n“Hello.” Well, then it did.\n“Where’re you going?” I pointed to the other side of the arm bar and the vast desert beyond. The guard twisted on his heels and surveyed the bleak terrain. Then twisted back.\n“There. There’s nothing there. What’re you hoping to find?”\n“Nothing.”\n“Plenty of that.”\n“Seems so.”\nHe studied me some more.\n“Can I go?” I asked. He looked again at the desert then back at me.\n“Of course.” With that, he raised the arm and I walked through.\nI am going to make a monster pay for his sins. And that monster is me.\nThis might take a little explaining. I was a serial killer. More than you can ever hope to imagine. And if you did hope for such, you’d have some serious issues.\nSickening would be a start for what I’ve done. Fucked the dead? Yes. I’ve done that. Many times. Bathed in blood. Eaten organs. It was all such a wonder and joy to me.\n112. That’s how many people I’ve murdered. Know all their names. My record keeping was impeccable. Would have done more, if I could. All day long.\nMostly women, some men. Probably ‘cause I was hetrosexual. And women are just easier to manage.\nIt was a huge high. The control. The power. Everything they say. Such was having a delicate lump of meat between my ears that was so very inferior.\nAnd there’s the element of the word “was.” No longer that way. Was I cured? They found out what was wrong with my sick brain and fixed it? In a way.\nI was killed.\nSergeant Miles Brown of the Los Angeles Police Department killed me. Well, technically murdered me as he had me dead to rights (no pun intended). Had tossed my knife away. Dropped a gun on me after I was dead to make it look legit. And a helluva thing to have that moment where six bullets go into your body. Burns. Shocking. Sergeant Brown was a very good shot.\nBut that’s fine. NOW seems reasonable. I was a piece of shit. An abomination to good folk. To even bad folk. Granted, I paid my taxes on time and honestly, although not much of a consolation to the families.\nAfter I was dispatched, the next thing I knew, I was in Heaven.\nBut at a cluttered desk in a run-down office. Orientation. And you’re going to be a bit disappointed with the afterlife.\nIn the living, I was a sick fuck. Never thought so, but I was. Then the horrible guilt set in. Didn’t have a broken brain in Heaven. Was healthy. And knew the horrors I caused.\nOnly thing is, Heaven didn’t care. They didn’t mind much what happened in the living, on Earth. Was silly to them.\nBut I had that weight. They were now the crazy ones for not holding me accountable. Never read the Bible but wasn’t there a place for garbage like me?\nThere wasn’t. For them, I was good to go and was assigned a condo. Yes, a condo. No vast beauty, splendor or wonder. More like a middle-class section of Phoenix. A place arrogant 20-something professionals would rent out as they climbed the ladder of success.\nAnd everyone there was welcoming. Didn’t mind my time in the living. Meh. Life was a silly thing. Even one of my victims was there, without a care in the world. She laughed about it. I’d put my cock in her mouth after I decapitated her.\nBut the other ones noticed. The ones that were monsters in life, just like me.\nPhil caught me on the elevator. Thought I was like him. Someone with a ton of guilt. His was about child rape. When he was alive, it was blissful for him to have sex with a child. Then he was killed by a parent. The only gratitude he had was that parent ended his reign of terror. But his horrors had only just begun.\nHe knew a little bit more, though\nLike Phil and me, you’re thinking what the fuck happened to Hell? As far as Heaven thought, there was no need for it. Why bother? Pishaw!\nPhil heard of a place, though. He knew a few more like us. Apparently there was a place. Where people would be punished, long ago. You take the monorail to the end and then a three-day walk through the desert. Maybe some tried to find it but they didn’t know there names. And if they did, they never came back.\nA legend. An urban legend.\nBut I had to try. I needed to take revenge on that horror show I once was.\nI left the next day.\nYou may have noticed that I’ve not mentioned anything about a God. Did ask about that at the pool party in my condo. They didn’t know and didn’t care. No need for leaders, even. Everyone was happy.\nThe monorail trip was long and the views were...not remarkable. You’d think words could not describe it but they did, with some room left over. Nice and all. Like taking the train through the midwest, I would assume. Never been there.\nFinally stopped at a small town. End of the line. Like everything else, can’t really describe with much fanfare this town. Desert surrounded it. I’d eaten at the pool party I mentioned. Hot dogs. There was plenty of food in the ‘fridge in my condo. I’d not been hungry on the train but was then. A diner was half-a-block down. I went there.\nLike a Denny’s. Sat down and the waitress came over. Then realized something.\n“Uhm, I’m new,” I said. “Am I suppose to pay for food?”\nThe waitress giggled. “No, you’re fine hon. Order what you’d like.”\nYou’d think they’d clarify that in the welcome packet I got. But no. So ate and was very good. Thought about the human meat I’d eaten in life and that kind of ruined it for me.”\n“What brings you here, hon?” I’d not seen the waitress walk up. I hesitated. Too long. She took a long moment to eye me.\n“Oh, you’re a murderer,” but just like you’d say ‘You’re a dentist.’\nI felt myself shrug. “It shows?”\n“Don’t worry. We don’t mind. Didn’t they tell you that?” With that, she stepped off.\nI left the diner. In the distance, saw a checkpoint. No fencing. Just an arm bar and guard box. Good enough place to start.\nI left the diner. But this is where we started.\nI walked. And walked. And walked some more. Turned for a moment to see the speck of the town and the guard box. Should I just go back, forget about this? Live---live-ish---with what I did?\nWasn’t tired. Wasn’t thirsty.\nSo I walked on. Up the hill. If “nothing” was in this desert, like the guy said, why was it paved? ‘That shouldn’t be there,” I mused again.\nHow was I going to find a place in this, much less it even existed. Maybe I’d have some trials. What’d Jesus do in the desert?\nI was wrapped up in all that when I ran right into the wall. It hurt. How the fuck does it hurt in Heaven. That should not have been there, either. Just like me.\nA brick wall. Huh? I realized it was warehouse-like buildings. How’d I miss this? How’d everyone miss this? “Nothing”? This wasn’t nothing.\nI rounded the corner. A big bay door. An abandoned building. As I turned the corner to the entrance, I saw them. Three men.\n“Hello,” I said. They were surprised. The inside was more of the same. Abandoned. All three were standing near a switch. Like a big main switch that you’d assume was to turn on the power for the whole building.\n“Oh. Another one,” The first said.\n“What’s going on?” I asked. I came up to them.\n“We think that’s how you turn it on,” another suggested.\n“Hell.” The third chimed in. “Just for clarity.”\n“How long have y’all been here?” I asked.\n“Forty-two years.”\n“Sixteen.”\n“A hundred and eight.”\nWell shit. I thought I was adapting well. But that’s a long fucking time. “And the problem is?”\n“We’re afraid what will happen.” The other two nod.\n“The whole Devil thing,” another said. “It came from somewhere.”\n“He’d hurt a lot of people and shit. In the Bible. Don’t want any more blood on my hands.”\nWell shit. That made sense.\n“You know, I was a serial killer when I was alive. Killed a hundred and twelve. And to do that, you have to one really selfish prick.” And then I pushed the switch up. All three of them were sure on their toes.\nBut nothing. Nothing happened. For seconds that seemed much longer. A rumble. Grew louder. The ground shook. Then more violently.\nThe ground cracked open, fissures belching out a putrid stench of death. And I know the smell of death. Flames boiled out. Burned the hairs in my nose.\nCreatures of a mangled sort appeared like spiders and took in their surroundings. A demented heavy metal concert, to say the least.\nThen Him. More humanoid than the creatures. Tall. Muscular. Are those---horns? Yes. What you’d think. The cliche of horns on the Devil. And he spotted me. Shit. Maybe it was a bad idea.\nTowered over me. In a very dramatic, booming voice, he said, “Was it you who opened the gates of Hell?”\n“Uhm. Yeah?”\nThen a quizzical look. Confusion from the Devil. “Did you know what you were doing?”\nI let that sink in. “Actually yeah. I guess I did. But it’s all very impressive.”\n“You are evil. You did much evil in the living.”\n“I did, yes.”\nA throne fit for the Devil rises and the Devil sat, slouched.\n“Why did you do that?”\n“I want punishment for what I did.”\nCautious, the other three men came into view.\n“Well, I can’t help you,” the Devil answered. “When I was in business, I was sent evil men and women to torture for all eternity for their sins. I never had volunteers. I can’t work that way.”\nWell, fuck. I wasn’t expecting that.\n“Those assholes in Heaven found a way to relieve them of their evil in the afterlife. After that, I was out of a job.”\n“I can assure you,” I said, “they didn’t relieve me of the guilt. I want to be punished for what I did.”\nThe Devil shrugged. “Meh. I can’t take volunteers.”\nWe both fell silent for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers.\n“Unless you want to the job.”\nMy eyes widened.\n“You have the qualifications, the expertise. Yes, an eternity of punishment can rid all those evil people of their guilt. Their burden. You can bring relief to countless tortured souls.”\nI let that sink in. And that’s how I became the Prince of Darkness. Simple as that.\nWord got out. And they came. All those who had done evil in the living world, to finally find 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: The Shimmering Light\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1324\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character walking through a desert landscape, when they stumble across something unexpected. “That shouldn’t be there,” they muse." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "he shimmering grew in intensity as he alked across the desert and and came from a strange red and green coloured conical object. “ That shouldn’t be there,” he mused. “ It’s not a mirage. What the fuck is it?”The shimmering light seemed to beckon him on and he glided slowly towards it. His plane haf touched down nose first. While the plane’s nose was damaged, Jack was not hurt except for a cut on his forehead. He felt more shaken up than any other sensation. \n\nThe light plane’s nose had dropped and the craft fell towards the Mojave desert, as Jack struggled with the stick. The plane levelled out several hundred feet lower than his flight plan. The instrument panel flashed red error messages at him. One was the fuel gauge for the right engine “Empty? But I filled up before taking off, didn’t I?”\n\nJack was flying from his sprawling home in Las Vegas, heading for San Francisco and a conference to discuss investing in a start up pharma company with his buddy from Berkeley. After Berkeley he married his High School sweetheart, Betty. But no children came along and ten years after they married Betty had found the lump. Her treatment had continued for five years. Betty endured many rounds of chemo, but the cancer spread to her brain and soon she was gone.\n\nBrad had developed a new cancer drug and it was something in which Jack would consider investing his money . Betty had a rough time and any drug that did not give those dreadful side effects was something Jack considered a worthy cause. A statistician by training with an astute mind for investment, Jack had made his pile on the back of a video game. It was a roaring success, selling across the world and raking in millions.\n\nAt forty-five, Jack, a widowed, grizzled bear of a man, decided to retire. He took a trip to Las Vegas to celebrate and that’s where he met Juanita. She was a singer in a night club on the strip. With her long dark shining hair, big boobs and tight ass, Jack was mesmerised. Drawn by her sultry voice Jack fell in love. Within weeks he had sold up his home in Palo Alto and moved to a spread on the edge of Vegas. Jack and Juanita married in the wedding chapel when she announced she was pregnant. Jack was overjoyed and he was happier now than at any time in his life.\n\n “Shit. The left engine should get me there if I keep the air speed lower. ” He radioed ahead with a new arrival time and continued to fly over the flat, dusty, desert. He gazed at the unchanging scene below him and knew he must soon fly around Area 51. He checked his co-ordinates and he was on the correct course. Then ahead he saw a shimmering light. “Could be a mirage in these hot conditions or maybe lights from Area 51.” He chuckled. “ Nobody knows what goes on in that place.”Pilots are instructed to stay away from the area. Flying closer than half a mile is prohibited.\" The instructions were in his flight plan Though the plan was now in jeopardy Jack flew on watching the shadow of his Cessna dancing over the ground and rising over the occasional rock.\n\nBang! The plane dropped another hunbdred feet -too low. \"Oh fuck the left engine’s gone too.” Jack looked at his instrument panel now showing no fuel for the left engine. “You must have forgotten to fill up, idiot,That’s what early morning sex does to you, makes you forgetful. ” Jack’s brain seemed fried and he could not think clearly. “I shall have to ditch her in a glide otherwise I shall add to the dust on the desert floor.” Tears filled his eyes “ I will never see my son if I do. I must try to save my life.”\nHe climbed out of the cockpit discarding his flight jacket in the 120 degree desert heat. He removed his aviator sunglasses from the pocket and put them on. Then watching the shimmering light he removed his 9 mm beretta from under his arm and walked towards it across the dusty desert. “Could be dangerous out here.”\n\n The conical object’s door seemed to open. It was not like any door Jack had seen before. It opened yet melded into the walls of the object and then vanished. An ear-splitting screech emanated from the object and Jack stopped dead in his tracks along with the wind that had been ruffling his hair and kicking up dust.Nothing moved. No ‘thing’ came out of the conical object, either. Jack was struck dumb All the desert had fallen silent, not a sound to be heard except Jack’s heart beating in his chest and resounding in his ears. \n\nJack spotted a convenient rock, dropped behind and tried his cell “No signal, just static. Fuck I cannot tell anyone where I am.” In fact, he was not sure where he was. He had forgotten the last set of co-ordinates from his map and without geolocation on his cell he was stuck in this desert oven. His head hurt but he did not know why. Then a voice whispered in his ears. “Come, come, Betty is waiting for you.”\n\n“Betty? But she passed three years ago.” Jack’s brain seemed more scrambled than Julie’s breakfast eggs. The voice mesmerised him and drew Jack onward, a mysterious hand taking his arm. As he walked, the gun still in his hand, the light shimmered, brighter and brighter, dazzling Jack who lost all sense of space and time. “Where am I?” Jack felt like he was in some kind of weird experiment. Like the one in which he and his High School buddies had tried to make crystal meth until it blew up. They had been thrown out of chemistry and that’s when Jack had turned to statistics. “Can’t blow them up even if they are Disraeli’s damn lies,” he said at the time. It had proved a wise decision. Jack awoke briefly awoke from this strange state of consciousness but the light still beckoned. Then everything turned dark.\n From along way off Jack heard not Betty’s but Julie’s voice. “Open you eyes Jack. You are safe.”\n He struggled to open them. “ Safe? The light, where has it gone? ” Jack opened his eyes and Julie bent to kiss his lips.\n “ You were lucky to be found in that desert.” She kissed his lips again and feeling returned to Jack’s body. “ You must have been there a couple of days. You were dehydrated and had a nasty cut on your forehead.”\nJack could remember nothing but the light. “ Where am I?” He croaked like a tree frog his eyes wild.\n “ You are in San Louis Obispo’s hospital. A desert ranger found your plane and you behind a rock. You had passed out. The Doc is not sure whether you got the cut on your head in the crash or on the rock. But you have concussion.”\n “The light?” Whispered Jack. “What happened to the light?”\n “You were there two days it would have gotten dark.”\n Jack knew that wasn’t the explanation. \"What had he seen? Heaven?\" Betty was waiting but as he stretched out his hand everything went dark “ It’s not your time,” whispered Betty’s voice and here he was in a hospital with Julie.\n “You can go home in a couple of days now you have regained consciousness,” said a booming voice. Jack turned his head as a muscled male nurse took his pulse. “You are doing well.”\n Jack‘s mind was confused. He had no recollection of why he was flying his plane. Just the desert, the ethereal light and the conical object. He closed his eyes and slept, his dreams populated by shimmering lights that reminded him of California." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Last sad song\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1092\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story involving a character who cannot return home." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Last Sad song (a tale for children of a certain disposition)-\nThis is a story about horrible things happening to children. This tale is likely true for countless children throughout the universe, but we will focus on one particular child, on one particular planet, in one particular galaxy. This tale is about Penelope.\nPenelope lived on a planet very much like our own except for the fact that it wasn’t. It had a name which is of no significant importance to our tale but which for the sake of useful uselessness is called Clifford.\nCliffordian children did not enjoy parties, or birthdays, Halloween or Christmases. The very thought of children laughing in enjoyment could have caused blue apoplexy, which is the very worst kind of apoplexy. Happy music was deemed unnecessary and to ensure it stayed that way, blues music was piped loudly through large loudspeakers placed on each street corner with a dose of Swedelfish dirges each second Sunday.\nIt wasn’’t always so. There was a time when Cliffordians had been happy. Howlingers, Tinglers and Wormers who made up most of the population, lived in harmony; that is until the day some children accidentally broke the Light that lit the world. From that day children were banned from growing up and punished daily for their sins. Penelope for posterity is nine years old. She’s been nine for a long time.\nAs is the custom, the ban was given a name. It is called The Walter Principle.\nIt came about when the Howlinger kids were told to come in for tea but they’’d disobeyed and continued to play and Walter Howlinger the Third had thrown a high pass; a very high pass. \nThe ball flew upwards and onwards until it broke the Light that lit the world and Clifford was plunged into everlasting darkness.\nFrom that day, children were punished for mass disobedience. The Grand Precedent, who in reality was the Grand President but because the darkening darkness meant the typographer had misspelt his name on the Declaration of Office, had declared children had to submit to daily doses of asafoetida and have their earwax removed painfully to make candles, for that was now the only source of light in the twilight world of Clifford.\nPenelope was a Wormer. Wormers were different to Howlingers in the fact that they had one blue eye and one brown eye whereas the Howlingers had one brown eye and one blue eye. The Tinglers had one brown eye, one blue eye and a mole on their left cheek to distinguish themselves from Howlingers but since it was so dark, identity had become a lost cause.\nPenelope Wormer lived with parents who treated her with unkindly abuse. Occasionally she asked “Why?” and her parents would stare in disbelief and administer an extra dose of asafoetida for talking out of turn and life would continue.\nOn the first day of Wintertide things began to change. Penelope and Joshua Howlinger, the neighbour’s kid, were walking to school. It was a long walk as both families had obeyed the Grand Precedent’s Fifth Edict which was to live as far away from schools as was possible. The small ear wax candle they’’d been given at the start of the journey seemed wholly inadequate.\n“”Do you feel like dying?”” Joshua said.\n“”I guess”,” she answered and thought about it a little more. “”If we did, all of us I mean, they’’d have no one to blame.””\n“”They’’d blame Howlingers’.” replied Joshua, “It was my great, great uncle that broke the Light and folks see us differently. We don’t have a Tingler mole and our eyes are brown and blue, not blue and brown. We’’d be blamed, then when all the Howlingers are killed off the Wormers would declare war on the Tinglers for having that darned mole and soon there’’d be no-one left at all.””\nPenelope opened her bag and pulled out a mirror. She held it up and in the dying flame of the ear wax candle held it close to their faces.\n““Look.”” She pointed to their reflection. ““Now I’’m a Howlinger and you’’re a Wormer.””\nJoshua smiled. He felt an inexplicable sensation. Had he known what a sensation was he may have been able to explain what happened next? He kissed Penelope Wormer. It was just a quick peck, on the cheek, short but decidedly sweet.\nIt changed everything.\nThe dark became a little less black and the blues had a little more swing. At bedtime although it was difficult, they communicated by throwing paper planes over the garden fence inscribed with words written in cold cabbage ink and sealed with a kiss And with each kiss life became less burdensome. Joshua never really understood what was happening but he liked it all the same.\nOn the last evening of Wintertide with the temperature gauge on Grandpa Wormers’ barometer showing “Bone Snapping” , Penelope Wormer climbed out of her bedroom window, ran across the yard and out towards the Leafless Forest where she and Joshua had agreed that afternoon to meet before running away. However, an unfortunate misunderstanding at the Howlingers’ household where both Ma and Pa Howlinger had unknowingly and separately doled out a measure of asafoetida to a protesting Joshua had resulted in the poor boy being tied to a toilet seat for the whole evening and therefore unable to escape.\nPenelope waited under the branches of a Whenworther tree and listened to the refrain of Billie Whatsaholiday, singing something sad but nice; real nice. She closed her eyes and never once felt cold. She would never go home.\nNext day, Cliffordians woke up to a day; a real day with morning and birdsong and light. They swarmed out of their houses, looked around and saw each other as they really were. They hugged their children and went out and bought each and every one a cherry topped sundae. The Grand Precedent announced Christmas would last three weeks then set all precedents aside including himself and ordered as his final edict that the world should listen only to Fifties’ rock’ n roll.\nJoshua Howlinger ran as fast as he could to the place where he should have been and found nothing. He called out but she never replied. He fell onto his knees and cried; then slowly, lifted up his eyes towards the sky, where from the centre of a bright ball of light he saw the face of Penelope Wormer smiling down at him and he understood everything.\nThere would be no more sad songs." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Self-proclaimed Hero\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1650\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story involving a character who cannot return home." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Killing is justifiable, wouldn't you agree?\n\nThose were the first words I had heard from my older brother and also the last as he was being led to his death chambers the night before his execution. I had only been three at the time but I could still clearly remember the determination burning in his auburn eyes. My parents sat at my two sides sobbing as he was led away but I simply held his stare. I would never forget that little discreet smirk he flashed me as the door banged shut behind him. The next day, my parents went back to retrieve his body and I wasn't allowed to tag along nor go to the funeral.\n\nThat was almost eleven years ago now. My parents were dead and I was the only living family I knew off so far. I lived among the other orphans in my community in a dilapidated house at the end of the street in our neighborhood. The place was appalling and irritating. The pungent stench of excretes and vomit in the air were almost overwhelming for my nose so I had grown accustomed to wearing a face mask at all times, even while I slept.\n\nIt was around the early twentieth century and so far, the African Americans were slowly regaining their human rights. We weren't quite there yet but it was a good start so far. The blacks had settled down in their own homes and still lived in terrible conditions but it was better than being slaves to wealthy white men. At the very least, we didn't have to fear being beaten every single day.\n\n\"The community I lived among was one of the many black communities that had come around as blacks were allowed to go off to live independently. It was a single street but better than nothing. Every building had, at the very least, five families living in it sharing resources and space. It wasn't unusual because of this living arrangement for fights to take place every single day over the smallest things. It was pure chaos but I loved it. It was home.\n\nSufiyan?\"\n\nI slowly looked over my shoulder away from the book in my hands. One of the orphans I lived with, Muna if I'm not mistaken-I was really bad with names-stood behind me holding a small tattered book in her hands rocking her body from side to side almost like she was about to collapse.\n\n\"Can you-?\"\n\nWith a fond smile, I waved her over to my side. She accepted the invitation with a gleeful smile throwing herself unto the ground beside me.\n\nFor the next couple of hours, we read the book she had brought stopping at certain points when she got confused by the phrasing of the sentences or the pronunciation of words. I tried to be incredibly patient with her. Muna was a bright and sweet girl who had only come to start living with us a month ago after here entire family died from a strange illness. I had discovered her love for books after I caught her in my room slipping through one of them.\n\n\"Sufiyan?\" I looked up at her in acknowledgment as a sign to go on. \"What do you think makes a hero?\"\n\nHer question caught me off guard for a second but I tried to answer her question with my little knowledge of the subject. \"A hero would be someone that helps people if I'm not mistaken. They risk their lives to protect others.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Sometimes, just because they want to do so or maybe they have a reason.\"\n\nShe looked down at the book with a calculating gaze before looking back up facing the busy street filled with laughing children. \"What if it means doing bad things? What if you have to hurt a lot of people to be a hero?\"\n\nI watched her eyes go back to the book in her hands. \"My dad killed my baby brother.\" Muna threw her head back looking up at the sky. \"We were going to travel through a white man's land and he kept crying and my mum couldn't stop him. My dad took him from her and went into the bushes. When he came back out, my mum burst into tears.\"\n\nI watched her carefully as her eyes continued to stare at the sky. I watched her eyes fall back on me and a strange glint that I had never seen before was laced in her dull brown eyes. \"He's a hero, right?\"\n\nI thought about my brother who had gone on a killing spree all those years ago in a gang who called themselves the 'Enchiladas'. He had a kill count of fifty people-the highest in his gang. They caught him in the homes of his last victims sitting in an armchair twirling his weapon around in his hands. He had let them arrest him with no struggles and admitted to his crime with no remorse. When all his victims turned out to be white men and their families, it was clear why he had killed them. To the public that is. When I studied each of the families separately, I found out the real reason he had gone for them.\n\n\"Yeah,\" I looked at her with a fond smile, \"he is.\"\n\n***\n\nIt was so unexpected and unforeseen. One minute, we were all fast asleep in our beds. The next, everyone was fleeing for safety while bombs were dropped down on us killing the vast majority of us. I had woken up to the younger ones screaming. I ran out of my room and began to herd the orphans out of the house. Our care keeper was no where to be seen and I simply assumed she had abandoned us and run off when it all started.\n\n\"Is that everyone?\" I asked chasing away the last of them with the other who had already sprinted out.\n\"I haven't seen Muna!\"\n\nMy heart fell. I dashed back into the house running straight for Muna's room which was in the basement. A bomb had fallen close by destroying a part of the house. Jumping over fallen bricks and debris was not easy. I finally got to the door to the basement and attempted to pry it open but it wouldn't budge.\n\n\"Muna! Muna!\"\n\n\"It's no use! Part of the ground above fell in front of it!\"\n\n\"What about the window?!\"\n\n\"Blocked! Just go before another bomb hits us!\"\n\n\"I can't just leave you to die!\"\n\n\"If you stay here, you're going to die and you're the only fully capable one who can take care of the rest! Staying here wouldn't be very heroic you know.\"\n\nI froze at her words feeling myself begin to choke on the tears threatening to fall. \"Muna...\"\n\n\"I'm going to die here, Sufiyan. If I don't, I promise I'll find you guys. You have to go.\"\n\nI knew she was right but I just couldn't acknowledge the fact that there was nothing I could do to help her. I just had to do something...\n\n\"There is something you can do for me though. It's a bit selfish but...it's something I've been thinking of lately.\"\n\nI pressed my ear against the door urging her to speak.\n\n\"I want you to-\"\n\n***\n\nI bundled up the last kid in some blankets I had managed to snatch helping them settle down into a deep slumber. It's been a month since our home was destroyed and today was the first night we had been able to find a place where we had no chances of being found. We had managed to gather supplies as we moved around. We had lost a few of us in the past one month during our journey. We still had no idea why those bombs were launched but one could take a good guess.\n\nOnce I was sure everyone was asleep, I faced the other older ones who were all huddled up around a fire pit. I took a seat with them staring straight at the kindling fire. There were only seven of us from the ages of fifteen up to eighteen. You would wonder why I was the most capable among us being the youngest. I just had more knowledge and experience than the others.\n\nMuna's death had taken a huge toll on me. Her last words rang endlessly in my ears every single day almost pushing me to the brink of insanity. I had relayed her words to the other six who had only listened without giving any replies or comments. I couldn't really blame them seeing as it was one hell of a wish from a girl so young.\n\n\"Are you really going to do it, Sufiyan?\"\n\nI forced my eyes to look away from the kindling fire looking at the faces of the other six all looking at me waiting for my reply. I sighed sitting up straight cracking my knuckles to ease the tension in them. I know that whatever I said at that moment would be the decision they would all decide to abide by. It was a bit overwhelming for my words to hold such power over them but at the same time kind of exciting. I leaned forward towards the fire and held my hands over it. The flames barely kissed my palm warming it up. Still maintaining the same position, I looked up through my eye lashes which had grown out in the past month throwing at them a cunning smirk.\n\n\"We've lost our families, our friends, our home. We have no where to go. There's no where we'll be certainly safe at. They want us dead. An object for them to use is what they see us as. If we're still going to die anyway, what do we have to lose?\"\n\nHumanity be damned, I'm going to be a hero." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Optimistic One\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2660\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story within a window of opportunity, when a character finally has the chance to do something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The heel of my boot tapped rhythmically under the coffee table as my knees bounced up and down. The shot of espresso seemed to be working its magic through my limbs. I eagerly watched the people passing by the window with the collar of their coats turned up. Not too strange for early November. I had to have watched about 25 people walk by. None were him. I checked my phone once again. He was ten minutes late. I sighed. Hopefully, he wouldn’t stand me up like he did last night.\n I spent three hours getting ready for dinner last night. The blush-colored lace dress with long sleeves fit perfectly over my wide hips. The leggings complimented my honey brown skin and were accentuated nicely with my nude over-the-knee boots. Soft curls framed my round face. The spirals bounced whenever I moved my head. My face was covered in soft blush, eye shadow, lipstick, and mascara. This wasn’t out of the norm for me. However, I did spend extra time highlighting and contouring, which emphasized my high cheekbones. I wanted to look perfect. I'd even worn the heart-shaped necklace and gold stud earrings he'd bought for me. I hadn't been clear with him before; this time, I would make sure I was crystal.\n He’d made his feelings for me apparent. That was the kind of guy he was. We’d known each other since we were kids. Over time, our rapport transformed from friendship to that of the romantic persuasion. From our first kiss, he touched me in a way that no other man had. I loved that I could be myself with him, and had fought my feelings for him every step of the way. \n It should have been easy. To love someone who loved you. It’s what normal people do. However, I don’t see myself as normal. I’m complicated; complex in every sense of the word. Yet, he would tell me how much he loved me all of the time. He knew that I wasn’t ready. Past hurt, betrayal, and abandonment had become my friends. Loyalty and dependability were strangers to me. Yet, his love for me never swayed. Maybe one day I’ll get there. He told me he wasn’t going anywhere. I should have known it was a lie.\n His job as a Global Media Strategist took him to England for 18 months. I’ll never forget how my heart raced as he looked into my eyes awaiting my answer. My mouth hung open. I couldn’t comprehend how I could leave everything and everyone I knew for over a year. For a man? He was always so optimistic. Even when I turned him down, he was confident we could make it work. He said what we had was as beautiful as a clear blue sky, overlooking lush green meadows. From my perspective, it was more like a huge snow-covered mountain, with falling rocks, and harsh winds. I didn’t want him to leave, but I couldn’t ask him to stay. I had to let him go; and so, he went.\n It would only be temporary. Even though I let him go, we still spoke often. The longer the time went, the wider of space between the time we spoke. I convinced myself to move on but found myself comparing every guy to him. It wasn’t just his 6’2 athletic frame and rich cocoa skin. It wasn’t just his round dark brown eyes and the dimple in his cheek when he smiled. It was the way he talked, the way he held me close, the way I felt safe whenever I was with him. I no longer had that security and without it, nothing felt the same for me anymore. Something was missing. After a year, I realized what it was.\nTwo days ago, he reached out and told me he was back. He sounded excited to see me. The feeling was mutual. Just hearing his voice made my heart melt. Never before had I regretted something so much. I thought about blurting everything out over the phone, then thought better of it. This time I was ready. Wherever he went, I wanted to be there too.\nI made the mistake of telling my mother that he was back. She reminded me, as she always did, of how wrong I was to let him go.\n“What if he meets someone else?” she’d ask.\nI admit, the thought crossed my mind. I’d push it away just as quickly. The thought of him with someone else was something I couldn’t fathom. He loved me too much. This was only temporary. Once I was back in his arms, everything would be okay. \n Another first for me was arriving at the restaurant before him. It wasn’t until I was seated that I received his text. He wasn’t going to make it and asked if we could meet for coffee the next day. One part of me was utterly disappointed. The other part of me was simply happy to see him, even if I had to wait another 18 hours. Now, who's the optimistic one?\n I take a second shot of espresso. Of his own accord, the barista knowingly brings me a glass of water. The chime rings from the bell over the door. When I look up, his eyes meet mine, and a smile touches his face. I stand up to greet him. I’m not in the blush dress, but he always said red brought out my features, and so I’d worn it today in the form of a long-sleeved V-neck tee, along with denim jeans that displayed my curvaceous figure. The necklace and earrings from last night, however, remain. We embrace and I hold on, not wanting to let go. Finally, I do. He kisses my cheek. That’s weird, but I let it go. I’m just so happy to see him. We sit, and for a moment, stare at each other in silence. He’s the brave one who breaks the ice.\n “It’s good to see you.”\n I smile. “It’s good to see you too.”\n “Gosh. It’s…there’s so much I have to tell you.”\n “There’s so much I have to tell you too.” I grab his hands. “I owe you an apology.”\n His face scrunches up. “For what?”\n I swallow. I’m beginning to feel warm, and my mouth goes dry. Silently thanking the barista, I drop his hand and take a sip of water. \n “I should have told you…”\n He looks at me expectedly.\n “Bryant, I love you, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before. I’m such a cliché,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “It took you being gone to make me realize how much I love you, and how much I need you in my life. I can’t imagine my life without you, and I don’t want to.”\n I expect him to grab me and kiss me; telling me how much he loves me too. Neither of those things happens.\n“Jocelyn…you know I’ll always be there for you. You are a very important person in my life.”\nI expect more, but there is none. A beat passes before I speak.\n“Um…did you hear me just say that I love you?”\n“I did,” he pauses, “and there’s a part of me that will always love you too.”\nWhat?\nMy curls bounce as I shake my head. “I’m sorry. A part of you…will always love me?”\nHe nods; as if everything is cleared up.\n“Bryant, what’s going on?”\nA look I was unfamiliar with crosses his face. His gaze shifts, and he crosses his arms on the table. It takes a moment before his eyes meet mines again.\n “Jocelyn…a lot has changed…you know, since I’ve been gone.”\n A sick feeling settles in my stomach. \n “Like your feelings for me.”\n He sighs. “I…”\n This time I look at him expectedly. Whatever he is about to say won’t be good, and it will probably break my heart.\n “Jocelyn, I’m engaged…”\n Just when I thought the knife in my heart couldn’t go any deeper, he continues.\n “…and I’m moving to England permanently.”\n For just a moment, time stops. \n “You’re…what?”\n “I’m engaged and I’m moving to…”\n “No…no. I heard you, I just…um…I just don’t understand.”\n His eyes are filled with sympathy. Still, I press.\n “You…how can you be engaged?”\n He shrugs. “I met someone else.”\n “Yea, no shit, Sherlock.” I spat.\n He shifts again. While it was obvious he was uncomfortable, I had no sympathy.\n “So…you were lying?”\n He seems offended. “What?”\n “You were lying before. When you said you weren’t going anywhere?”\n He sighs again. “Jocelyn, it’s not like that.”\n “Really?” I shout.\n“Will you calm down?” He asks irritated. A couple at a nearby table turns toward us. I don’t care. I’m mad as hell now. I cross my arms over my chest and sit back in the chair.\n“I should have known all along it was a lie.”\n“Jocelyn, I wasn’t lying to you. At the time, I meant it when I said I loved you. I…I’m still your friend.”\n“My fr…” I can’t even say the word. Tears are on the brink of my lids. I keep them at bay, refusing to let them fall. Instead, I close my eyes and take a breath. When I look at him, the fury rises again.\n\"Bryant, I don't want to be your friend,\" I say through clenched teeth. \"I want to be your woman; the love of your life.”\nThere’s that sympathetic look in his eyes again. Anger wasn’t working, so I tried another approach.\n“What about when you said our relationship would last? ‘A clear blue sky and green meadows’ is what you called it.”\n“Jocelyn…it’s complicated…”\n“What’s so complicated? Either you love me or you lied!”\n“You didn't love me!\" He shouts back. The couple now gets up and leaves. The barista gives us a disapproving look but finishes a customer's order.\nHis words shock me. “Bryant, how could you say I didn’t love you?”\n“I got one better for you, Joce, how and when was I supposed to know you did?”\nI open my mouth, but no words come out. I want to deny what he said, but my brain freezes. Finally, I find words.\n“Bryant I was with you…”\nHe interrupts me, “That’s not the same as loving someone. Some people are with people, not because they love them, but simply because they’re lonely.”\nMy eyes narrow. “Are you saying I’m lonely?”\n“Are you?”\nAgain, no words.\n“Jocelyn, do you have any idea how it feels to be with someone for an entire year and never hear them say they love you? Not even once?”\nI shrink in my seat. His words punch me right in the gut; especially so, since I couldn’t confidently respond to his question. My eyes fall.\n“Exactly. You didn’t love me, Jocelyn. I’ve met someone who does.”\nI was convinced that a slap in the face would have hurt less. Tears are back on the brink. I’m not sure I can hold them in much longer.\n“But Bryant, I do love you.”\n“When?”\nI frown. “All of the time.”\n“No. When did you realize you loved me?”\n“When you left.”\nHis eyes are still locked with mine as he leans forward, peering into my soul.\n“So it took you over a year after I had left for you to realize you love me?”\nThe words sting. What stings, even more, is the fact that I can’t deny it.\n\"Bryant, what does that have to do with anything. Okay. It took me a while.\"\n“You let me go, remember? So I began seeing someone else. Regina is…”\nI cut him off, “Oh? It has a name?”\nHe rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. He’s irritated with me, but I don’t care. The feeling is mutual.\n“Jocelyn, I didn’t come here to fight with you.”\n“Then why did you come here? You’ve already moved on.”\nHe winces at my words but doesn’t deny them.\n“I came to tell you that even though our relationship didn’t work, I want us to remain friends.”\nHis words slice through me once again. \n“And to give you this.”\nHe hands me an envelope with my name written in pretty cursive writing. Inside is a card. While there are many words, the ones that stand out are February second, Bryant Xavier Millstone, and Regina Marion Hill. My eyes meet his. Once again, I’m speechless.\n“I’d like you to be there.”\n“People in hell want ice water.”\nHe sighs. His expression covered with defeat.\nI look back down at the invitation and stuff it back into the envelope. I quickly rise.\n “Where are you going?” He asks.\n “I have to go home and feed my cat.”\n He frowns. “Since when did you get a cat?”\n I ignore him and wrap my scarf around my neck. He grabs my hand. \n “Joce, don’t do this.” He pleads.\n Tears at bay I reply, “It’s already done.”\n As I walk out of the coffee shop and into the sharpness of the wind, I give myself credit for holding out as long as I did. Not a single tear fell for one whole block. Who was I kidding? If a break didn’t work for Ross and Rachel, why in the hell did I think it would work for me?\n Two months later…\n I look at myself in the full-length mirror. The plum wrap dress made me look quite regal. I guess it would have been inappropriate to wear white. I started to wear black, but my mom said that would have been petty. Black pumps adorn my feet, and I have on new jewelry. Today is the big day.\n I look gorgeous on the outside. My insides however, resemble a knotted shoelace as my heart slowly crumbles. I hadn’t spoken with Bryant since the day I stormed out of the coffeehouse. I had resolved that there was no way in hell I would attend his big day. Pride forced me to change my tune.\n I replayed that conversation many times. In my dreams, however, it went differently. There was no her, and without her, there would be no today. I realized he was right. I should have told him how I felt. I shouldn't have allowed fear to keep me trapped. If I hadn't, maybe today would have been our day.\n I had just finished placing my lip gloss on when the doorbell rang. That was my date, Erik. Erik Jones could have been an average-height basketball player with rich golden-brown skin. He wore long dreads that made him look ultra-sexy. Even though most women would have found him quite handsome, he wasn’t my type, but he was attractive in a classic sort of way, and he could afford to rent a tux. No way was I going to this shindig solo. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I take a breath and make my way downstairs.\n I open the door, and there he is standing in a black three-piece suit with a white vest. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, but his jacket is open fully. The black and silver striped tie looks as if he threw it around his neck in a hurry, but never tied it. My eyes drink in the sight of him. Even disheveled, he looks absolutely gorgeous. His toned frame fills out the suit perfectly. His chiseled jaw is set with a serious expression. His gaze is intense, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. I want to feel nothing for this incredibly handsome man. My body, however, reacts in protest, and my emotions begin to betray me as well. This is the last thing I had expected.\n “Bryant, what are you doing here?”\n He steps closer to the threshold. His eyes now filled with fervor.\n “We need to talk.” \n Perplexed, with a sprinkle of optimism, I nod and allow him to step inside." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: FUNNY GUY\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2671\n\nPrompt:\n\nYou arrive at a destination you promised an old friend you’d visit after they passed, only to find them there too." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "FUNNY GUY\n\nWhen I was a boy, I didn’t have any friends. It never really concerned me because I was quite content with my own company. Also, the fact that I was a sickly boy probably had a lot to do with it; no, definitely, had a great deal to do with it.\n\nWe lived at the top of a three family house; an Irish three family house on 5th and San Pedro. Times were hard, not that I really knew what that meant but I heard my parents saying it all the time, so I figured they had to know what they were talking about. We were considered fortunate by the other two families that occupied the house: the Delaneys in the middle and the Murphys in the basement, on account of the fact that we had an indoor flush toilet; one with a cistern high on the wall, with a chain you had to pull to activate. They had to share a toilet outside in the backyard. I guess toilet paper existed back then but we wiped our butts with old newspaper.\n\nWe tended to keep ourselves to ourselves, or tried to, even though everybody knew everybody’s business as there was no door, at the top of our stairs, to divide us from the Delaneys on the floor below and the same applied to the Delaneys and the Murphys below them.\n\nThe whole house had only cold water; bathrooms, back then, were definitely only for those with money. If we wanted to wash, we’d have to boil some water first. On hooks, in the backyard, were three tin tubs, one belonging to each of the families. On a Saturday evening, my mother would put several saucepans on the stove to boil and she would haul our tub up two flights of stairs so that she could bathe my two older sisters and I, one after the after. As the youngest, I was always last and that water was none too clean, and none too warm, by the time I got my turn. Yet, in this way, I, at least, always considered myself to be cleaner than the Delaney kids whose mother hauled their tub only on special occasions such as Easter or Christmas. The Murphys, in the basement, remained something of a mystery to us.\n\nDespite my perceived, superior hygiene, I was unfortunate to be that child that most families tended to have; the sickly one. If there was something going around, I was sure to catch it and I spent more time at home than I did at school. When I was sixteen years old, I contracted a disease that almost killed me when I fell in the street and cut my knee, an infection entering my blood system and, untreated, somehow, getting into my bone. I was hospitalised for eight weeks, given the last sacrament by our parish priest, so sure were they that I was going to die, and, after a short remission, became re-infected and spent a further eight weeks in hospital.\n\nIt was after that second attack that, as I lay in bed one day upon my release from hospital, weak as a kitten, the doctors having said that several more months of home convalescing would be needed, I heard a knock on the door of the bedroom that I shared with my mother and father. That, in itself, surprised me as nobody in my family ever knocked. I was too stunned to answer and, for a moment, thought I had imagined it but, slowly, the door opened and a bespectacled face appeared, followed by the rake thin body of Johnny Murphy, the boy from the bowels of the basement. As I stared at him in bewilderment, for I knew him by sight, of course, but we had never spoken, he said:\n\n‘Knock, knock’.\n\nReceiving no answer, just a bemused stare, he repeated: ‘Knock, knock’.\n\nOnce again, slightly annoyed that he was interrupting my precious re-reading of Superman’s latest adventures, I stared at him, unsure of what I was supposed to respond. Coming closer, he admonished:\n\n‘You’re supposed to say: “Who’s there?”\n\nFinding my voice, finally, I said: ‘But I know it’s you, now. Nobody knocks in my family’.\n\nExasperated, he sank himself down on the end of my bed and it was then that I noticed the package in his hands, wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper though it was now July. A present, perhaps? Seeing my gaze, he proffered the gift.\n\n‘From the Murphy family, wishing you a speedy recovery’, he repeated the words he had been told to say by his mother; word perfect.\n\nI tore open the packaging, hoping, praying, to discover some wonderful treat such as chocolate or the like but I could tell from the feel of it, as my fingers delved deeper, that I was going to be disappointed. It was a book! A book of jokes. To be more precise: a book of knock, knock jokes. Opening it and reading the very first of them, I realised, immediately, what Johnny had meant by his opening, twice stated, gambit.\n\n“Who’s there?’ I belatedly asked.\n\nBrightening, he answered: ‘Jesus’.\n\n‘Jesus who?’\n\n‘Jesus, they said you were better but you look like death’.\n\nFor a second or two, I hesitated, caught between an intuitive realisation that this was a joke that I would not find in any book; one that Johnny, himself, had invented, and the profane use of Jesus’s name for laughs for, in our family, Jesus’s name was sacrosanct, being solely responsible, according to my mother, for the saving of my life.\n\nThen, unable to stop myself, I burst out laughing and, from that awkward moment, Johnny and I became the best of pals. Each evening, upon his return from school, up he would come to keep me company. He loved my parent’s bedroom with it’s double windows that spread such light, unlike the dim room that he and his sister shared with his parents down below. For the first time in my life, I felt a sense of pride. When he realised that we also had a toilet on the landing, he was almost star-struck.\n\n‘I wondered why you never used the one in the backyard. I thought, maybe, you all shit in a bag or something’.\n\nHis profanity, aka street talk, was new and exciting to me though I dared not speak like that in front of my mother. Johnny fascinated me with his tales of school life and the games that he and others would play on the street. How I longed to be able to join in. Together, we worked our way through that joke book until we knew every single pun-inside and out. It got so that we each began to invent our own versions to surprise each other with and, in doing so, made a great discovery.\n\n‘You’re funny’, said Johnny to me, one evening.\n\n‘So are you’, I replied.\n\n‘No. I’m lame. Some of my jokes are pathetic, though I spend all night and day trying to come up with something that will make you laugh. But you...you’re really funny. I bet you only think of something when you hear me coming up the stairs’.\n\nMy face betrayed the fact that it was true. As soon as I heard his familiar footsteps on the stairs, my brain would spin into action.\n\n‘I knew it! Goddamn, Patrick. Go on, hit me with some’.\n\nWithout thinking, I let rip, one after the other:\n\n‘Knock, knock’.\n\n‘Who’s there?’\n\n‘Boo”.\n\n“Boo who?’\n\n‘Hey, no need to cry’.\n\n\n‘Knock, knock’.\n\n‘Who’s there?’\n\n‘Cash’.\n\n‘Cash who?’\n\n‘No thanks, I’ll stick with peanuts’.\n\n\nOn and on I went, I was like a comedic fountain with this stuff pouring out from inside of me. Johnny stared at me in wonder.\n\n'You’re a natural born comedian, man. I want to be your manager’.\n\nAnd, as unlikely as it sounds, that is how our business partnership began. At the beginning, we thought to compile a hundred original jokes that Johnny would try and get somebody to publish but, with the advent of comedy on radio, he changed tack quickly. The only family in our building that owned a radio was the Delaneys and Johnny would often sit on the staircase and listen to programs and it was with immense excitement that he reported to me his introduction to one, Jack Benny.\n\n‘He’s got his own show, Patrick. His own show! Canada Dry. But his jokes, they’re not snappy one-liners, they’re more like he’s talking, you know? With a funny ending...’\n\n‘A punchline, you mean’.\n\n‘Yeah, a punchline. This guy is so funny, man. He’s hilarious’.\n\n‘Boy, I’d give anything to hear him, Johnny’.\n\nThat very night, though my mother would not, yet, allow me to venture out onto the street, she permitted me to join Johnny on the staircase and we listened in awe, outside the Delaney door, as the great comedian, still in his infancy, wowed his listening audience and forced us to stifle our laughter for fear of alerting the Delaneys to our illicit eavesdropping.\n\nI was inspired. I dashed off monologues, one liners, punchlines that could be used in many different situations. Johnny, for his part, found out that Jack Benny was playing a stand up spot at the Orpheum in downtown LA and he set off to try and sell one of my jokes.\n\n\n‘Five bucks?’\n\n‘Per joke, Patrick’.\n\nIt was unbelievable. Jack Benny had loved my stuff and wanted to tie me to him exclusively but this was where Johnny had showed his genius. The success of Benny’s radio show was sure to lead to a prime spot on the new marvel of the age: television. And, Johnny figured, there would be many more comedians looking to follow in Jack Benny’s wake. Johnny hatched a plan to have me write for all of them -and at a much better rate than five bucks per joke.\n\nAt the age of just seventeen, thanks to Johnny Murphy, I began to write for the likes of Moms Mabley, Bob Hope, George Burns, Fred Allen, Milton Berle and, of course, Jack Benny. It was the golden age of comedy, never to be repeated. These days, most stand up guys depend on the addition of profanity to a punchline in order to get a laugh but, back then, a punchline had to be funny. TV and radio shows were sponsored by big corporations. Any suggestion of impropriety reflected badly on a company’s sales and would not be tolerated so clean, funny was paramount.\n\nBy the time I was twenty years old, it’s fair to say that I was the most sought after free-lancer around. Johnny handled all of my contracts and never tied me to anybody exclusively. My rates just kept climbing and both Johnny and I moved our parents into better neighbourhoods and had more money than anybody could ever need. We spent virtually every waking hour in each other’s company and no two guys could have been closer. I might have had the gift of being funny but, without Johnny’s chutzpah, I would have become just another writing hack spewing out wisecracks at five bucks a time, spending my working day locked in a smoke filled writing room with a dozen or more others. I knew it only too well and I had so much to be grateful to my pal for.\n\nInstead, I could work from home gazing out on the ocean while, in an adjoining sea facing office, Johnny would handle all the business side of things. One day, in a TV studio, we both got talking to the pretty Anderson sisters, a singing duet, and one thing led to another. I married Abigail and Johnny married Jolene in a joint marriage ceremony attended by the comedic greats. The wedding was perfect. Life was perfect. Johnny and I had come a long way from Skid Row.\n\nOne day, I was acting out my latest skit, one of many that I wrote for Rodney Dangerfield. My sole audience was Johnny. The sketch involved a Martian who crash lands on Earth and finds himself wandering down a high street when he sees a laundromat, mistakes a washing machine for a spaceship and ends up spinning round and round. You had to see it to really get it. Johnny was rolling around on the floor, dying from laughing so much that our wives came running in alarm, only to end up joining Johnny in their laughter. A week later, when Dangerfield performed the same piece on the Merv Griffin show, we and our wives tuned in to watch expectantly...and it wasn’t as funny.\n\n‘It’s you, Patty. It’s you. You’re funnier than all these guys’.\n\nAnd that’s how my stand up career started; telling my own jokes. Within months, I was on national TV with regular spots on Merv Griffin, Joey Bishop, Mort Sahl, you name it. Then came my own show, a weekly, thirty minute show loosely based on our own family lives with the two girls. My piece, famously, or infamously, copied later by Lucille Ball, when the two girls, through a misunderstanding, end up in a large vat, treading grapes, won the Primetime Emmy for Best Comedy.\n\nThen, disaster struck and Johnny became ill. At first, it seemed to be nothing major but, as more tests were done, the worst was confirmed; it was the Big C. As brave as ever, he took the news on the chin but I was devastated. I could not imagine my life without my best friend. Now it was my turn to visit my pal in his bedroom.\n\n‘You know, Patty, the one place I’d like to see once more before I go?’\n\n‘No. Tell me’.\n\n‘The old place on 5th and San Pedro. For old times sake. And you know what I’d like to see, right up there, where your old bedroom used to be? You remember that room, Patty? I always loved that room; so bright compared to mine in the basement’.\n\n‘Sure I remember, Johnny. What would you like to see, pal?’\n\n‘A plaque that says: The greatest living comedian, Patrick O’Donnell lived here. A real funny guy’.\n\n‘Well I don’t know about that last bit but, if you want to see the old place, Johnny, then I’ll arrange it. Leave it to me’.\n\n\nJohnny died that same night so I never did have a chance to take him home. A huge chunk of me died with him. Life continued for a few years but I never, ever performed, or wrote, again. I was offered great chunks of money but, without Johnny, comedy just wasn’t funny, somehow.\n\n\nI climbed the rickety staircase of the old place, now vacant. It was Johnny’s birthday. And he’d have been fifty years old. Everything seemed, somehow, so much smaller. I marvelled at the indoor toilet, just as it had been all those years ago. How, I wondered, had my dear mother ever managed to raise a family, cook and wash with such a lack of privacy?\n\nI climbed the last small flight and, tentatively, pushed open the door to the bedroom that I had shared with my parents, the sunlight, as ever, streaming in through the double windows but the wallpaper now faded and peeling. How Johnny had loved spending time up here, I recalled. I regretted so much that I had never managed to bring him back for one last look. There would also never be a plaque on the facade as he had wished for the building was due to be demolished any day and, after so long out of the limelight, my name was long forgotten.\n\nThe tears flowed freely as I remembered my best, my only, pal. How far we had come together. I’m here today for you, Johnny, I thought.\n\nThose footsteps, that tread, so familiar.\n\n‘Knock, knock’. His voice.\n\nI turned joyfully as the door slowly pushed open. This time, I knew how to answer.\n\n‘Who’s there?’" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Day Dad Died\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1074\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character having a premonition, but no one believes them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Dad, please!\" I whispered through my tears. I knew he didn't want me to make a scene on the bus. But why wouldn't he listen?\n\"A man is going to come on the bus, he's bringing a bomb, you're going to die! We have to leave right now, or it'll be too late!\" I pleaded with him.\nHe looked at me with concern in his eyes. Then he sighed, and seemed to think for a moment.\n\"How about this, if anyone gets on the bus who looks even a little bit suspicious, I'll get everyone off, okay?\" He put his hand on my shoulder.\nI nodded my head reluctantly. He was never going to listen.\n\"Now,\" He wiped the tears off of my face, \"I have to drive to the next stop, so go sit down.\"\nI didn't want to move, I wanted to make him get off of the bus, but he gave me a little push back in the direction of my seat.\nI sat right behind him instead, determined to save him if the time came.\nMaybe I'm wrong, I attempted to convince myself. But I knew I wasn't.\nI sniffled and tried to stop crying. But my stomach was filled with knots, and I felt like I was going to be sick.\nWe got to the next bus stop, and a bunch of people got on. I searched every single person with my eyes, but I got interrupted when someone tapped my shoulder.\n\"Hey there, how was school today?\" Ms. Sherry, a regular who always got on the bus at this stop asked.\nI didn't answer and whirled back around just to see the doors close and a man with a very loose jacket on standing right in front of my dad.\nThe bomb, it had to be under that jacket!\nI tapped dad on the shoulder and leaned in close, so only he could hear, \"That's him.\"\nBut the man payed his money and stood a few rows behind me.\nI watched his every move confusedly.\nDad put his hand behind his seat and patted me on the knee.\nI looked at the back of dad's head. So I was wrong. Good. I sighed, realizing I hadn't been breathing. I thought I was about to lose dad. After everything he'd done.\nHe'd been raising me on his own since I was five, and for the last nine years since then, he made me his priority. He works two jobs, and barely eats these days to pay the bills and give me everything I need.\nWe were supposed to get a slice of birthday cake after he was done with his shift on the bus. But when I got on I knew what was going to happen.\nI leaned back in my seat, looking out of the window as we were about to take off.\n\"Wait!\" A voice from behind me called. It was the man with the loose jacket.\nHe walked to the front of the bus, and turned around, facing all of the passengers.\nThen he unzipped his jacket and I couldn't breathe again. A bunch of people gasped towards the back.\n\"I have a bomb. I'm going to blow this whole bus up unless you-\"\n\"Get out of here as soon as you can.\" Ms. Sherry whispered in my ear, cutting off the rest of what he was saying.\nI reached out to put my hand on my dad, but he stood up before I got the chance.\n\"Come on, now. Let's calm down.\" He said.\nHe gave me a reassuring smile before he reached behind him and pressed a button, opening all of the exits on the bus.\nEveryone immediately started running out of doors, jumping out of windows, escaping in any way they could.\nMs. Sherry grabbed my arm and yanked me up, dragging me to the nearest door and out onto the sidewalk.\n\"No! No, he's going to kill him!\" I yelled as I struggled to get out of her arms. I could feel the tears coming back.\n\"There's nothing you can do, now come with me.\" She held her grip on my arm as she started running away from the bus.\nI kept watching the bus as she pulled me with her, and I could see my dad holding up his hands in front of him and the man yelling.\nI turned my head towards Ms. Sherry, and heard a loud boom coming from behind us.\n\"Daddy!\" I screamed, ripping away from her and looking back at the bus.\nA huge, growing bubble of fire encircled it as pieces of debris flew in different directions.\nMs. Sherry pushed me onto the ground and put her body on top of mine.\nI felt something heavy land on her and covered my ears, tears streaming down my face.\n\"Dad, why didn't you listen? Daddy, daddy, come on,\" I kept saying.\nHow about this, if anyone get's on who looks even a little suspicious, I'll get everyone off, okay?\nI kept hearing him say it over and over.\nHe knew I was right. He meant that he would get everyone off but himself. He saved me, leaving me with the stereotype of being another black child without a father.\nI felt someone push Ms. Sherry's body off of mine and shake me gently.\nI couldn't move. How was I supposed to? I had just lost everything.\n\"Hey, are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?\" I heard someone say.\nI forced myself to sit up.\nThe voice came from a man with piercing blue eyes, maybe in his twenties, who looked at me worriedly with his hand still on my shoulder.\nI looked over at Ms. Sherry. She was just lying there, not moving. It felt like someone had just poured ice onto my head, and it made it all the way down my body. I had to fight not to throw up.\n\"Don't look at her.\" The man blocked my view of her with his body.\n\"Are you okay?\" He asked again.\nI realized I had stopped crying. I wiped my face with my sleeve and paused for a moment. Then I pushed through the dizziness onto my feet.\nI took another long look at Ms. Sherry and started walking in the other direction, the blue eyed man calling after me. I had nowhere to go, but I knew eventually I would end up somewhere.\nEventually." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Take Me Out to the Ballgame\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2686\n\nPrompt:\n\nYou arrive at a destination you promised an old friend you’d visit after they passed, only to find them there too." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jess Granger passed away from his third heart attack as he watched Wheel of Fortune in his apartment. An hour later I got the call from his sister Beth. Through her tears she told me the details and said she had made all the final arrangements. His funeral would be on Saturday. We had been friends for a long time, drawn together by our love of baseball. Raised in Boston,Massachusetts, on the south side of the Charles River, Jess was a diehard Red Sox fan while I had other loyalties that he would say changed with the direction of every wind that blew across the harbor. \nWhile the preacher read from the Bible about passing through the valley of death, all I could imagine was all the ballgames we had attended sitting on the wooden planks in the left field bleachers of Fenway. There were more than a few times I could swear I heard a disembodied voice whisper, “If you build it he will come.” \nHe always wore his Red Sox jacket since it could get chilly in those bleachers, but he wore it no matter the weather since that jacket was his pride and joy. He would always tell me, “I don’t want there to be any doubt about which team I am rooting for.” Frankly, I was surprised Beth told me that he was not going to be buried with it. \n“He never took care of himself.” Beth confided in me before the service. It was true, he was fond of cheap beer, fruity wine and fatty gourmet foods. The doctor would always tell him that he needed to watch his diet a bit more diligently, but I knew that would never happen. \nHe would always wolf down a few hot dogs dripping with chili as he cheered for his team.\n“I wanted to play for the Soxs.” He would say with regret. “We played stickball in the Southie streets. Someone would always be on the lookout for cars that drove through our baseball field.”\n“I played little league. Wasn’t much of a hitter.” I would add.\n“So Ralphie, did you ever play in the street?” His sad brown eyes would look up at me like a sad puppy dog. \n“I grew up in the suburbs. They had all kinds of ballfields.” I shrugged as he flipped through the channels looking for a ballgame.\n“Of course.” He waved me off, “It didn’t mean nothing unless you played on the pavement.” \nHis remarks sometimes had a barb in them that were meant to sting. He grew up in a neighborhood that was primarily Irish Catholic with memories of a more austere bare-bones childhood. \nHe claimed that I had lived the soft, pampered life in upstate New York. I wished I could have disagreed, but the fact is I did live a pampered life where he had been raised with a strap and harsh words about how hard the cruel world out there was. Somehow he had gotten himself an MBA at Columbia University. We met at Searson’s Investment Firm in New York City. While the other junior partners cheered for the Bronx Bombers, he made it quite clear that he thoroughly hated the Yankees with every fiber of his being.\n“Bums I tell ya, nothing but bums.” He would utter.\nWhen the Red Soxs came to play the Yankees in a heated rivalry that had gone on since the Red Soxs traded Babe Ruth, he asked me to go to the evening game. With a non-existent social life, I decided to take him up on his offer. He showed up at my efficiency apartment wearing his Boston Red Sox jacket and ballcap. \n“Ready?” He asked at the door.\n“You’re gonna go like that?” I asked somewhat astonished by his bold attire.\n“Sure, why not?” He held out his hands.\n“You might get murdered wearing that.” I pointed at his jacket.\n“Ain’t no New York punk gonna get the better of me.” He laughed defiantly. \n“Alright, but if it goes down, I do not know you.” I grabbed my keys and walked out into the hall.\n“I can take care of myself. Punks have never gotten the best of a Southy.” He nodded.\nTwo guys wearing the full regatta of Yankee gear including the number 44 on their backs with the name R. Jackson above the number blocked our way to the ticket booth. \n“Fellas, we ain’t lookin’ for no trouble.” I held my hands out as a gesture of peace.\n“Ain’t gonna let this puke into our stadium.” One of them with a seven o’clock shadow put his arm across the gate so we could not get through.\nBefore I could blink, Jess had the brute’s arm pinned up behind him so his thumb rested on the “J” of the name on his jersey.\n“I could break this off and beat you over your thick skull.” He pressed his arm higher.\n“Alright, alright.” He groaned.\n“Shall we get our tickets Ralphie?” He shoved the brute and walked up the incline to the ticket booth. \n“One day, punk, you will feel the wrath of the mighty Bombers.” The other brute growled from the shadows as he helped his partner to his feet. \n“I highly doubt that.” He laughed as he paid for our admission. \n“The curse of Ruth. Curse of Ruth.” He pointed his finger at us as if it were a gun.\nAs it turned out the Curse of Ruth was a stumbling block for Jess he could never quite get over. Every year the team seemed to have a team that was a strong contender for a pennant, but somehow they always came up short. Playing against the New York Mets in the 1985 World Series, Bill Bucker, a reliable fielder at first base, watched in horror as a ball hit by Mookie Wilson went dribbling between his legs. Wilson would eventually come around to score the winning run and Buckner would forever be tagged as the scapegoat who lost the 1985 World Series for the Boston Red Soxs. \nSo deflated by this, Jess decided to take a position in a Boston investment firm.\n“I can’t bear this slum of a city.” He downed a glass of wine without hesitation. \n“I’ll be sorry to see you go.” I admitted.\n“Come to Boston. I’ll take care of you.” He poured himself another glass of Chardonnay. \n“I’m a New York boy.” I shook my head.\n“Don’t worry. With a little therapy, I can cure that.” His smile reminded me of a deranged leprechaun. \nI went to Boston, but never quite felt at home as the old colonial strata turned out to be a shock to my system. Even a nice stroll along the Charles River seemed to be an exercise in social class. Jess told me that Southies were the lowest rung of the social ladder and he proved that many times when we went out. In one fancy eatery, the waiter treated us like bums and after being confronted by Jess, refused any further service. \n“Hey, this is the way it is.” He told me as we sat on a bench facing the river.\n“I don’t like it.” I shook my head.\n“It’s the same anywhere you go, ya know.” He stretched his neck a bit.\n“No it’s not.” I retorted. \n“Yeah it is, it’s just here it’s noticeable. It’s in your face.” He leaned forward putting his arms on his knees. “Back in New York, they’re better at hiding the truth.”\n“Whadda mean?” I jerked my head in his direction.\n“Maybe you don’t see it cause you’re from there, but I did.” He stuck out his chin, “They see my reddish hair and I can see what’s going through their minds. Just another Irish thug. After a while I just want to say two things to them that ain’t happy birthday.” \n“How come I’ve never seen it?” I asked with a deep sigh.\n“Cause you’re used to it. Like Bob Dylan sang, ‘You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns.’ I seen it, because I was a jugular and a clown. So are y9ou still going back to the Big Crabapple?” \n“Yeah, I’m gonna get on a train.” I felt a small tear in my heart as I spoke.\n“I can’t go back.” \n“I know. I don’t blame you.” I patted him on the shoulder.\n“My sister thinks you’re hot, ya know.” He tapped me on the arm.\n“Does not.” I laughed.\n“She thinks you’re alright for a city punk.” He laughed too. \nThe train ride proved to be one of the longest, most excruciating trips I ever took in my life.\nWe kept contact by phone. I would always ask him how the Red Soxs were doing during the baseball season and he’d lie about how they were going to do in the Yanks. I was never a Yankee fan, but after I returned to New York, he was convinced I did it because I was a closet Derek Jeter fan.\nHe had his first heart attack when he was at Stella’s, one of his favorite grease pits in Southey. The doctor told him he needed to cut out the fatty food before his arteries rebelled. He was told to eat green stuff to which he turned up his nose saying, “He would only eat things that had a face.” \nI came out to see him in 2004 and we followed our habit of going to watch the Red Soxs play at Fenway.\n“Big Papi is having quite a year.” He paid for a warm beer.\n“Yeah, he’s doing quite well.” I shook my head.\n“What if they go all the way?” He winked as he downed half his beer.\n“Easy there-”\n“What are you, my doctor?” He turned his head toward me. “So how’s things goin’ in the Big Crabapple?” \n“Good, we have a couple of big accounts ready to jump on our ship.” I smiled.\n“What is the name of this ship? HMS Titanic?” He laughed, finishing off his beer and letting the plastic cup hit the cement. \n“Very funny.” I squinted one eye at him.\n“Pedro is pitching. This will be a good game.” He raised his hand to signal to the vendor he wanted another beer.\n“So how is your cholesterol?” I asked.\n“None of your damn business.” He said as he took the beer from the vendor while sloshing some of it on me. \nBy some miracle, Boston made it into the World Series that year and Jess got a ticket to one of the home games against the Cardinals.\n“Why doncha take some time off and come see what a world champion looks like?” I could hear him flick his ticket with her finger.\n“Can’t.” I shook my head, “But I’ll be one of the few guys in New York pulling for the Soxs.” \n“Don’t bother. You’re only gonna jinx ‘em.” He sipped something from a glass.\n“Whacha drinkin?’” I inquired.\n“Never you mind.” He snapped.\n“I thought you were taking it easy, Jess.” \n“I am. I am sipping not gulping.” He chuckled.\n“How ‘bout water?” \n“You sound like my sister.” He took another gulp, “Ya know she’s still got the hots for you.” \n“Not interested.” I shook my head.\n“Are you gay or what?” \nThe question caught me by surprise. The pause became longer.\n“Are you gay?” He asked.\nAgain I did not respond.\n“You are gay, Ralpie B. Hammonds.” He chortled. \n“I thought you knew.” I rolled my eyes.\n“Ya never told me.” His voice sounded like a low growl. \n“Sorry…” \n“Nothing to be sorry about.” His voice returned to normal. “Beht is gonna be so disappointed though.” \n“Why didn’t you get married?” I asked, biting my lip.\n“No woman in her right mind would have me. Strike one, I am Southey. Strike two, I never stop drinking and strike three, I am a diehard Red Sox fan. She would always come second or even third. I couldn’t do that to anyone.” He gulped the rest of whatever he was drinking, “So, if you see me on the Jumbo-tron, cheer for me.” \nHe would never make it to the Jumbo-tron because he began having chest pains in the cab so instead of getting to Fenway, he wound up at the emergency room. Beth called me an hour later to let me know what happened. I hopped on a commuter flight from LaGuardia to Logan less than an hour later. Beth met me at Logan.\n“He’s had a really bad one, Ralph.” She said with tears in her eyes. After a half hour cab ride we arrived at Boston Medical Center. \n“No visitors.” The nurse stopped us at the entrance.\n“How is he?” Beth asked, wringing her hands in front of her.\n“He’s resting.” The nurse nodded. “In a few hours, he will be able to have visitors.” \n“We’ll wait.” Beth nodded.\nI fell asleep in the uncomfortable chairs when a nurse came out for us.\n“He’s awake.” She informed us.\n“Is he alright?” Beth asked.\n“He has had a very serious myocardial infarction.” She said, unfolding the chart she was carrying. \n“A what?” Beth asked.\n“Heart attack.” I answered.\n“Oh my.” Beth put her hands to her cheeks. \n“They put a stint in.” The nurse reported.\n“Will he be alright?” Beth asked in a little girl’s voice.\n“There was some damage, but he will pull through.” She nodded. \nI took a hold of Beth’s hand as we walked into his ICU room. \n“Damn Soxs lost. They got their backs to the wall.” Jess’ voice was barely a whisper.\n“How do you feel?” Beth took her brother’s hand. \n“I’m fine except I am pissed my Soxs are in a hole again.” He smiled but his skin was the color of paste. “I want to pray for them, but it may be too late.” \nAs it turned out, it wasn’t too late. The Boston Red Soxs came back to win the next four. They were the World Champs nearly a hundred years after their last championship when Babe Ruth was their ace pitcher. \nA year after that Jess passed away. I was happy he lived long enough to see his beloved team on top before he went. \n“One please.” I put my card on the counter of the ticket booth. Dutifully the clerk ran my debit card and handed me a ticket to see the Boston Red Soxs at Fenway. I was in town on a business trip after becoming a senior partner on my sixtieth birthday. \nI stopped by a concession stand and got a Boston Red Sox pennant so I could wave it during the game. No one would have a clue I was really from the Big Apple. \n“Ralph, over here.” Beth waved to me from Section F on the first base side.\n“Beth.” I embraced her, kissing her on her cheek. “How are you?” \n“Old and cranky.” She laughed.\n“You look great.” I held her at arms’ length.\n“You gays guys are always quick with the flattery.” She blushed. \nI had come as a promise I had made to Jess in a silent prayer at his funeral. Although it had taken me several years to fulfill the promise, I had finally made it to Fenway. As I sat there I felt sad that Jess would not be in the crowd, but there was nothing I could do about that.\nThat’s when I saw him. He was seated two sections down from us. His head was turned, but there was no mistaking the odd shape of the side of his head, the red hair. I sat next to Beth, but I could not take my eyes off him. It had to be Jess Granger. He was even wearing his old Boston Red Sox jacket and shouting out profanities to the visiting team. If Beth had seen him, she did not say a single word to me. I have no idea what the final score was either. It amazes me how old memories can sometimes raise the dead." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: THROUGH FREDERICK’S WINDOW\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2270\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a magic window — or a window like no other." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "THROUGH FREDERICK’S WINDOW\n\nFrederick woke up and crawled off the pallet in his room. His room was attached to the large chicken coop next to the big red barn that Massa Captain Anthony built not long ago. \nIt was a huge beautiful red barn filled with many animals and feed of all types that Frederick loved to play in when he had free time.\n\nOnce his feet hit the wooden plank floor he walked over to the window and looked for the sunrise, which was just beginning to peek out above the treeline behind the large field in front of the barn. There was only one window in his little room and he often watched the sunrise from that window. It was one of his favorite things to do. He never got to see the sunset because he always had to work past dark.\nJust being alone in solitude sometimes gave him peace of mind. He would watch and think about his world and wonder about many things. \nHe would think about the things he had seen through that window looking out of the small shack. The thing that was mostly on his mind today was what happened two nights ago. \nAt the front of the barn, when the big doors were open there was a red gate that stretched across the front entrance of the barn to keep the animals in. On that gate, he could still see stains and dark patches. \nWhat he saw the other night caused those stains. \nAs he thought about it, it all began to creep back into his mind. \nThe day had been extra hot. When he finished his work he was extra tired and sleepy after eating his supper. \nWhen he laid down, he began to drift off into sleep. Suddenly a commotion in front of the barn made him jump up from his pallet. \n\nHe knew better, but he crept to the window and peeked out into the barnyard. He heard loud screams, horses neighing, and snorting, men yelling, and one in particular above the rest, Massa. He saw torches, smoke, and dust, all around the big gate at the front of the barn. What he saw he could never get out of his mind.\n\nBehind one horse, through all the dust and smoke, the torchlight flickered on something, no, someone, being dragged by rope towards the barn. The figure rolled, and lurched, and dragged itself to its feet and he could see now who it was. It was his Aunt Hester. Two of the men, who were on foot, ran to her and grabbed her by the arm, one for each man.\n\nAs they snatched her struggling body, he could see her better. Her face was scraped and bloody on one side, her bare shoulder and arm were caked with dirt and blood on the same side. Her dress was torn and shredded up top, barely clinging to her body. She attempted to get one foot up to walk but could not, fell again with her legs dragging in the dusty clay behind her, bare feet kicking in vain. \n\nThe thick rope was still around her waist, held by the man on the horse, and the two men that grabbed her, drug her to the gate of the barn and began to tie her to it, just as Jesus was strung up on the cross, arms, and legs spread, with her bare back facing them all. \nPlease, Massa, she begged, please, believe me, I’m not lying she screamed, gurgling blood. \n\nFrederick knew what was to come next. He had seen it all before. But this was his Auntie. He wanted to turn away but could not. Suddenly he felt faint, a hot rush of dread moved over his body from his head to toe. He struggled to turn away but could not. \n\nShut your goddamn mouth whore. I know what you did and now you will pay, Massa screamed, looking like a man possessed, as he drew the whip to strike her. The first lick hit her at the base of her neck and the split skin opened down the top of her back, blood gushing out immediately like a fountain. Priscilla screamed so loud Frederick felt it all the way to his bones. She fell limp on the gate. \n\nWhen Frederick saw her fall over, his feelings of dread intensified. He closed his eyes and the room started to spin. A darkness came over him for a time, he wasn't sure how long. He caught himself and straightened up. As he was coming back to his senses he realized it wasn’t dark outside anymore. The sunlight filtered through the window in a magnificent glow of orange, yellow, and white. \n\nAs he looked out he noticed someone was standing on the other side. He blinked a few times and saw that it was his grandmother Betsy who he thought had been sold a few years ago down to Georgia on the Jones plantation. \n\nHello Frederick, she said, as she reached out her hand. Frederick was a little scared now, not because he didn't expect to see his Grandma, but because her hand was coming through the window as if the window was not there. What, how are you doing that? Grandma? The window began to twist, and distort. It began to swirl. He saw Grandma Betsy smile warmly as he began to feel light, like a feather, he reached for her, and he started to lift off the floor, his head going first as she guided him through the window. \n\nHe didn't understand but he floated completely through the window, like a cloud, and once outside, he was back on the ground. Outside, however, it never looked like this before. The barn sparkled in red brilliance, and the grass was greener than ever before, with flowers blooming all around the yard as if old MO the gardener had done his best work ever. \n\nGrandma Betsy looked down at him with so much love, her eyes and mouth smiling so beautifully, he forgot everything else. She began to speak to him in a warm grandma way that sent chills of love through his body and he could focus on nothing else. \n\nI love you Grandson, and I came here today to bring you a special message from God.\nThey were still holding hands and as she began to walk toward the field, and he walked with her. He felt proud and happy that his grandmammy was here. Nothing else mattered.\n\nFrederick, you are a very special little boy. One day you will do many great things and you will guide people black and white, to a better place in this world. I’m here today to show you how that is going to happen, so I want you to listen carefully and never forget what I’m going to say and show you today. \n\nOK grandma, he said. They got closer to the field, which was thick with corn, towering high over their heads, and as they walked hand in hand, they began to go faster and faster, until the cornrows were a blur, passing by so fast Frederick could not make out a single stalk. \nHe was not afraid though.\n\nAs they slowed it appeared they were in a room, he saw a woman, and a boy, a few years older than him, sitting on a couch in a parlor, with fine decorations, and beautiful furniture all around the room. Such a fine room. \nAs he looked at the boy he realized it was himself. Grandma, is that me? Yes, she said, just listen for now. The lady on the couch began to speak. \nNow, Frederick, I am going to teach you to read and write because I want you to grow to be smart and strong. Even a slave should know how to read and write and I want to help you. Let’s start with the alphabet. A.B.C. Now you repeat. ABC he repeated after her. Those are the first three letters of the alphabet. There are 26 in all and you will need to know them all to read and write. \n\nShe handed him a piece of paper and a big fat piece of wood with a black tip on the end. \nThis is a pencil. You can use this to write with. All you have to do is press it on the paper and make the letters. I will show you. \nShe took his hand, placed the pencil in it so that the blacktip was on the paper, and began to move it. \n\nFrederick was amazed. He had seen people write before, but he never thought he would be doing it. White people did not like to teach slaves to read and write and even though he was a little scared he knew this is what he wanted more than anything. He always wanted to learn how to read and write. \n\nGrandma said. I am going to show you your life so you will be prepared. Don’t be afraid, you are a strong boy and will grow to be a strong man. Always remember to keep your faith in God, not man, and he will protect you.\n\nFrederick began to understand. Even though he was just seven he was wise beyond his years. Some said he had been here before. The old mothers always said he was aligned with the stars in the heavens the day he was born.\nHer grip tightened on his little hand and they began to glide again at the fast pace like before. This time the scene opened on a city street. The street was so long it seemed to never end. Tall stone buildings lined both sides of the street. Tall poles with lights on top lit the street for as far as he could see.\nHe could see a young man dressed in some type of uniform. The young man was talking to himself and Frederick could somehow understand everything he was saying. New York. I am finally free. I am in New York, a free man. Thank you, Jesus. The North Star is true. Now I will just rest a bit and then I will find someone to help me. The underground railroad I heard about should be here. \nLittle Frederick not only could hear him he could hear his thoughts. Then he realized it was him, just an older him. And now he knew. One day I will be FREE!\n\nGrandma’s grip tightened again and they sped along and ended up in a large open hall. It was the biggest room Frederick had ever seen with huge windows lining each side of the room going all the way from the floor to the ceiling.\nThere appeared to be hundreds of people, black and white, mingling together like it was normal. A white lady stood in the gigantic speaker's box that loomed over and behind a long table. There appeared to be many distinguished people sitting at the table. The lady began to speak. \n\nWelcome everyone, to Corinthian Hall, Rochester NY. Today it is my great honor to introduce to you the greatest abolitionist alive. Frederick Douglass. He is, without a doubt, the greatest inspiration in my life today. This is a man who we at the Rochester Ladies Anti Slavery Society are proud to support and we urge each and every one of you to do the same. And now without further adieu, Please welcome Frederick Douglass!\n\nDuring the roaring applause, the tall brown skin man behind her stood up from his chair and approached the white lady, shook her hands, and hugged her sincerely before approaching the podium on the large stage. He was an older man but stood firm, shoulders erect and head held high. A straight nose and jaw with a grey beard protruding from his face. His flowing gray hair shot out of his head and swept back like it was blown back by the wind. \n\nHe began to speak and the crowd went silent. \n\nWHAT TO THE SLAVE IS THE FOURTH OF JULY? He started.\n\nAs grandma gripped his hand and they began to move, he knew he would never forget those words. \nOnce again little Frederick understood, that man was me, this is what I am to become. He was amazed and in awe. \n\nGrandma looked down at him and said, this is why I am here. I wanted you to know how brave and important you will be in the face of evil. To show you that no matter what happens you can be someone important. \nAs she spoke those last words, darkness came over him and he woke up on his pallet in the little shack, staring into the darkness in the little room. There was only quiet at this point and the commotion had died down outside. \nHe laid there and thought long and hard about his life and what was to come, and before he drifted off to sleep, he said to himself. \nI WILL DO IT I PROMISE GRANDMA. \n\nWhen the morning finally came, he went to work in the kitchen of the big house as usual. After a while, old Moe the gardener came into the kitchen. \nFrederick, I have some news. I just got word that your Grandma Betsy passed away last week down at the Jones plantation in Georgia.\nShe was an old woman and God has seen fit to take her to heaven, bless her soul. \n\nFrederick looked at him knowingly and smiled sadly. He said softly, I know Moe, I know...\n\n06/09/21 JE Allison" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 View\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1021\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character looking out of a window in the middle of the night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The young woman peered out of the third story window down to the dazzling city below. The lights from the buildings twinkled like dozens of golden stars in the night, and the most brilliant of them all was the Eiffel Tower, the crowning jewel of France, standing undaunted and proud on the horizon. She smiled; France was one of the last countries in Europe that still held its freedom against Nazi Germany. The iconic monument served as a symbol of France's independence and strength. There was still hope that the Allied forces would win the war, and that all of Europe would be free once again; she just hoped that she would still be in Paris to see it.\nThe African American secretary had come with the founder and chair of the company, Mr. Vincent Barkley, to Paris to help close a business deal with one of the Barkley Industries's partners, Sir Reginald Livingston. Sir Reginald Livingston was a wealthy British investor and one of Mr. Barkley's oldest friends; in celebration of them going into a business venture together, the aristocrat had thrown a lavish party at his estate in Paris, which was just one of the many he owned. Tara had seen many fancy homes back home in New York City, but never one like that of Sir Reginald's. It was practically a palace! Golden chandeliers hung from the ceilings, a grand staircase lined each side of the ballroom, even the guests themselves resembled that of royalty. It had been like watching a scene from a fairy tale.\nAll of a sudden, the door behind her was thrown open, banging loudly against the wall and jolting the woman from her thoughts. There stood, formidably, a tall, well dressed man at the entrance of the room, his brows creased with annoyance.\n\"What are you doing in here?! This room is strictly off limits to--\"\nThe words vanished in his throat as he stood, staring at the woman, who had now stood up and turned toward him, her brown eyes staring back in surprise and slight embarrassment. Whoever this trespasser was, she was absolutely gorgeous, with brown skin and dark hair that curled around lovely face. Her dress was a dark blue chiffon, with matching laced sleeves that were embroidered with glittery navy blue thread that glittered in the moon's light.\n\"Visitors,\" he finished, gently.\n\"I'm sorry,\" the lovely stranger began, sheepishly, not meeting his gaze, \"I didn't mean to trespass. I was just coming back from the ladies' room and got lost, but I saw the light on and I saw the window, and it is such a lovely view--\"\n\"No, no, please,\" the dark blonde haired man interjected, \"I am the one that should be sorry; I shouldn't have frightened you like that. I was just a bit surprised. No one hardly uses the family library anymore, other than me that is.\"\nThe pretty American's eyes widened. \"You must be related to Sir Reginald.\"\n\"Yes! He's my uncle. I'm Thomas, but everyone just calls me Tom,\" the handsome stranger smiled, \"and you must be one of those pesky Americans I've heard so much about.\"\n\"I'm afraid so. I'm Tara Felding, Mr. Barkley's secretary and bookkeeper for Barkley Industries,\" she declared, shyly. It was at that moment Tara realized she was still holding the book she had picked up from one of the shelves. Sheepishly, she held it out to him, her face growing warm. \"I believe this is yours.\"\nThomas studied the book, reading the title out loud. \"The Jungle Book,\" the handsome Brit chuckled, \"Now why would a lady want to spend time around a bunch of dusty old books, when she could be downstairs with her friends at a glamorous high society party?\"\n\"Friends? I hardly even know those people!\" Turning back toward the view of the night sky, the brunette sighed, \"I've never really been much for parties, anyway. I only came here tonight because Mr. Barkley insists that I get out more. I would much rather have stayed in the hotel curled up with a good book.\"\nThomas chuckled lightheartedly, sitting down next to her on the window seat. \"I know just what you mean. Sometimes its nice to just get away from it all. Is this your first time being in France?\"\nTara nodded. \"My father used to talk about it all the time. During his time in the army, he was stationed in Paris for a while,\" she explained, with a smile, \"he always used to tell me about how much he loved Europe. It would break his heart to see it now.\" For a moment the two were silent, gazing out unto the enchanting scene.\n\"How would you like to see the City of Lights up close?\" came the sudden mysterious offer.\n\"I would love to, but won't your uncle get upset if you decide to up and disappear from his party?\"\n\"Nah! I disappear all the time,\" Tom declared, with a playful wink, \"only now I have someone worthwhile to disappear with.\" The lovely young woman's face grew warmer as she took his hand, the two sneaking away downstairs. Tom hastily grabbed their coats from closet, as Tara held the door open. Together, they crept away out into the cool night air and unto the romantic streets. As her new acquaintance flagged down a cab on the busy streets, the shy young secretary began to feel a bit apprehensive. What was she doing, going along on some random excursion with a man she just met in a place she knew nothing of? Tara had never done anything so spontaneous, so thoughtless in all her life. Yet, this was the same sort of thing that her mother herself had done, nearly 22 years before when she had met her father. Everyone had always told her how she needed to live life more freely, more bravely, and here, sitting in a cab with a dashing blue-eyed gentleman, was just how she was going to start living it. There was no excuse for letting let such a magical opportunity for adventure slip from her grasp!" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Equality\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1010\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story within a window of opportunity, when a character finally has the chance to do something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dear Diary\nJune 1867\nIt was five years ago today when Lauren brought me to be her housemaid, to look after her, her husband, and three riotous kids. Taking care of white children, that's what I do all day, making sure Aliza has her matching top ready with her fancy pants, Martin has his favorite banana shake ready after his basketball practice along with cleaning and cooking for the house. \n My dad died in the American civil war. My mom was left with me, An 11-year-old, Strolling here and there on the streets of Kansas City to find work and shelter. It was when Lauren Scarlett spotted us and made a deal to my mother at $150. How could she have resisted that kind of money?\n At an age when white children were sent off to school and play. I was meant to clean their shoes and water their lavish garden without a penny getting in my pocket.\n There were times when I would go buying vegetables, I would purposefully take the route from where the central library passed by and would gaze at such a humongous library imagining the number of books to be kept here. Probably 50,000? Maybe more than that, but the sign on the door would remind me to continue walking ahead. ‘Only for whites’.\n My desire to read and the study didn’t stop. Once everybody was asleep, I would walk into Lauren's study room and look through some books, leafing pages even though I could read much. But one day I was caught by her husband with the Holy Bible in my hand. He took me to my room and chained me by the wall and lashed me with his belt and refused to give me food for the next two days. He said it was the book of the god and only meant to be for them and not people like us. Since then I'd never dared to go inside that room back again.\n A month later, I had a life-changing moment. It was late at night when my Gaze wandered towards the swath of the window along the back of Mrs. Rose Murray’s house. She was a high school teacher at a public school nearby who had just shifted to the neighborhood recently. Her room was just across the window from my shack.\nShe was sitting next to her window with her little daughter on the study table reading a fairy tale book. I could easily see through the plenty of racks and columns filled with books behind their desk covering their wall. \n Well. I couldn’t stop staring at them. \n I glanced back quickly. Mrs. Rose was standing in front of the glass door now. She instantly waved off the curtains and it was all dark again.\n The next Day, Mrs. Rose came on a visit to the house. She spent hours chatting with Lauren and the kids, playing puzzles, cards, and something with dice which I never understood.\n “Would you like some tea, Rose?” Lauren said\n “Sure Lauren”\n “What about you kids? What shall I get for you?\n “Chocolates” Shouted Aliza\n “All right, I will be back in some time”\nRose’s gaze crossed towards me “Come here child” she called out to me.\n I obeyed her “yes?”\n “So, you were the one last night staring me across the window”\n “Yes, I am sorry for that, I was just looking at your books and magazines in your room. I find racks and shelves filled with books very fascinating. I am sorry once again”\n “Have you ever read a book in your life?'' I was shocked by her politeness and affability far more than Lauren. \n “No! Not really, to be honest, My mom did use to read some stories from the newspaper before going to bed when I was young”\n She tucked out a medium-sized paperback from her tote bag and handed it over to me “You could read this if you want, it's basic English”\n “But my madam won’t allow me”\n “You could hide in your room”\n “All right Mrs. Murray, I will keep it” I took the book from her and tucked it in my t-shirt, and went back to my shack. I held the book in my hands and ran my fingers over the Purple colored front cover, It smelled like heaven. \n I tried reading the first page ‘I- Am-a-girl’ It felt like an achievement to read those words ‘Tiger-lives-in-the-jungle’ ‘Dogs-are-very-loyal. ’ The first chapter was mostly very small declarative sentences. I spent an hour reading the book after finishing my chores for the night. \n It was 10 in the night and Mrs. Athena was once again sitting near the window with her daughter Stacey helping her read a book. Her book was green in color with funny animations on the front.\n She spotted me again and passed a subtle smile towards me. I smiled back at her. She instantly picked up a marker and a notebook beside her. She scribbled on it for a sec then held the notebook up so I could read it:\n Did you read the book?\n “I found It difficult to understand as the words were quite small but I anticipated it must be about the book”\nI raised my right thumb to indicate a yes I did read. She smiled back.\n In the next two days, I was done with the book. I began to easily read and write words in English, pronouncing to the best I could. The next day when I saw Mrs. Murray by the window I grabbed a piece of cardboard and I wrote:\n I finished the book\nShe shook her head and smiled back\n That’s good! I will get you another one tomorrow.\nKeep reading till then\nI couldn’t have thanked her enough for what she was doing for me. It takes courage and bravery to show compassion for people like us in these times. Since then she kept a new book next to her door for which I picked up while running errands and read and read and read." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Pegasus Sky\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2755\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is shackled by fears of failure, until they break free." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Pegasus sky is the color of Tim Burton dreams, the texture of crunchy nightmares. This makes me happy. A trio of dragons fly by, and I stare at the girl astride the smallest of the three. She doesn’t acknowledge me. This also makes me happy. The two angels that accompany me are snorting cocaine and imploring me to “do my duty.” This makes me unhappy.\nI stare at the computer screen, unsure of where to go next. I have a main theme: redemption. Which may or may not be the right theme. The angels symbolize something or other. Maybe I need some sort of motif. I hear they’re all the rage right now. The sky could be a metaphor for something important, like desires or regrets or some shit like that. Metaphors are important. Ask any English teacher.\nLydia doesn’t understand the title. Good. That’s the point (I tell myself). I want the reader to see what they want to see (I continue to tell myself). I sure as hell don’t have any idea what it means. I just like the title. I have no idea where to go from here, but I’m in love with the opening paragraph. The possibilities are endless. I’m giving myself several built-in Dei ex machina to work with. A cheap trick, I know, but needs must.\nI write, but I’m not a real writer any longer.\nLydia disagrees, but she’s my wife and she loves me, so she feels justified in lying to me to make me feel better. I don’t mind that – most of the time. I mean, it’s evidence of love. Isn’t it? Has to be. She also lets me drink whiskey on the front porch while I write, not caring what the neighbors think. More evidence of love. Spare my feelings but not my liver.\nMy daughter calls it enabling. Semantics. We don’t agree to disagree. We just disagree.\nI start again, despite my love for the title and the first paragraph. I’m thinking a love story might be a good second novel. Everyone likes romances, right?\n **************\nI fell in love with “The Pegasus Sky,” and, by proxy, with its author. When I finally met her, I was taken aback. The novel, irreverent and funny, contrasted starkly with the author. She wore a severe countenance, and she was all sharp angles and hardness. I imagined that having sex with her would be like fucking a folding lawn chair.\nShe drank champagne demurely, as if she wanted the world to know that she wasn’t an alcoholic like her father. She dressed demurely as well, just to let everyone know that she wasn’t a slut like her mother. Everything about her screamed irreproachable and unapproachable, an unassailable vessel that would never set sail beyond the pages of her writings.\nAnd then she smiled at me.\nA decade of living dangerously began with a flash of white teeth and curved lips.\nWell…no. Not happening. I’m barely able to understand why my wife stays with me, let alone creating a love story – however tenuous – between fictional characters. I’m thinking of that original first paragraph, the one that was over a decade in the making. The fantasy genre seems doable (I like dragons), but I can’t see my way through it. Like this pitiful love tale, there just doesn’t seem to be any real fodder. I blame my knowledge of literature and my job (which I don’t consider to be a career) for this because it’s easier than blaming myself.\nTeaching at a private university deep in the heart of Texas has taken away much of my writing time. I know it’s a bullshit excuse but I use it anyway. The fact is, I’m blocked.\nI know all the terms. Deus ex machina. Roman á clef. Synecdoche. Dénouement. Can’t say that it helps me much, except when marking papers. I throw out a few of these terms and the students think I’m a genius. They never argue over a grade. I was the same way when I was a student.\nThe thing is, I start obsessing over everything. The terms – and there seems to be a billion of them – are always nagging at me. Am I using allegory? Do I have a proper inciting incident? What about dissonance, consonance, assonance. All of the ances. And I used the word fuck in the previous paragraph, and that’s a no-no, unless you’re J.D. Salinger or Chuck Palahniuk. Real writers.\nI lean back and sigh. I light a cigarette. T.S. Elliot and Hunter S. Thompson smoked when they wrote. So did William S. Burroughs, but he usually smoked weed laced with opium. Why am I thinking of authors that use their middle initials, and why is that initial S? My middle initial is R. Lydia’s middle initial is S. Maybe she should be writing my second book.\nI watch the neighbors go by, walking their dogs – or the dogs walking the neighbors, I’m not sure which – chatting amicably and parting as if they are lifelong friends. Hell, maybe they are. The neighborhood is devoid of kids right now because of school, but full of babies and their mothers, still pudgy from the pregnancy. Lydia knows which ones will never get their girlish figures back and which ones will hit the gym and deprive themselves of carbs so they can fit into their high school jeans again. She’s never wrong about these types of things.\nI tell myself I’m not procrastinating, but I know I am. A real writer would just get down to it. I bet Stephen King doesn’t sit on his front porch and hypothesize about his neighbors’ fat asses and irritating pets.\nOk. WWJDD. What would Joan Didion do? Play it as it Lays? Slouch towards Bethlehem? LOLOL Good one, right?\nI put out my cigarette and get back to it. Horror sounds good. The title is terrific, one of my best, so I’m not giving up on that. Yeah, horror would fit the title.\n **************\nI smell his fetid breath, feel his sweaty hands running over my body. The room is dark, but not so dark that I can’t make out the silhouette of the man who had chained me to a cold steel table. He whispers something about a Pegasus sky. It makes no sense, and I’m too terrified to care. I scream and scream, but my kidnaper just laughs. That’s when I spot the chainsaw. I’m fucked.\nFirst-person POV. That works, but she’s gotta live, right? If I go third-person omniscient, she can die horribly and then…then I have to find a different hero. What kind of hero? A gritty, street-wise woman? Tough cop? Nerdy psychological man (or woman. Shit. Another decision to make.) who sees deeply into the manifold evils of the human heart? It’s all very trite. Maybe I can get that author woman from the previous paragraph and somehow use her. I like her!\nMy mind wanders again. Maybe I can incorporate dragons, the author woman, and a psychology nerd into one tale. Sure. And maybe Lydia will suddenly learn to cook some decent shrimp and grits.\nI shouldn’t complain. She’s from Minnesota, so shrimp and grits aren’t treated with the proper respect in that part of the country. She’s a hell of a graphic designer, though. She did the design for my book; that’s how I met her. She was so cute and so enamored of my novel. Said it was the best book she had ever read this side of Bleak House. She’s got a thing for plain-looking, underdog heroines. Dickens does underdogs well. The brilliant fucker.\nThere I go again. The no-no word. Maybe if I stop thinking it, I’ll stop writing it. The thing is, I used it 231 times in The First American Angel. My editor/agent counted. Actually, I think he used a word processing feature to find out how many times I used the no-no word. That gave him plenty of time to harangue me about writing another book. He’s retired now, but the fucker would be happy to know that I’m working on it.\nShit! Will no one rid me of this turbulent word?\nA real horror story should contain some sort of supernatural element. A killer that won’t die. A ritual that imbues otherworldly powers upon the evildoer. I mean, it may be trite and all, but people buy that shit, right? Why, I have no idea. It isn’t real literature.\nProust and his recollection of madeleines is real writing, but no one reads him any longer. Everyone wants to read about hipster vampires and pretty-boy werewolves. Ughh! Or wizards at school. Or some woman solving murders in her spare time, between baking whatever bakers bake.\nThe First American Angel made me rich. Well, rich-ish. Lydia and I got married, bought a house in a decent area of San Antonio, and immediately produced a child. Lydia was certain that it happened in the kitchen. I believe her because I made shrimp and grits for us that particular night. There’s real magic in shellfish and dried dent corn.\nLydia wanted to name our daughter Desdemona. I plumped for Madison. We compromised and named her Desdemona. Everyone calls her Des.\nDes left for college last month. She told Lydia to “kick dad in the nuts every day until he gets another book published.” I think my daughter loves me, but she’s starting to sound like my new agent.\nDon’t get me wrong. I write stuff. Articles for literary magazines. I do book reviews for several newspapers. Reader’s Digest publishes me twice a year. But that isn’t genuine writing. The First American Angel was real writing, and I was a real writer. Full stop.\nI have Gabriel García Márquez to thank for my inspiration. Magical realism and all that. The Buendía family. Allegorical tale of man’s origin. I mean, 100 Years of Solitude had it all. But where do you go after writing your magnum opus?\nMaybe I need to go Southern Gothic. Flannery O’Connor and Carson McCullers made it respectable, all that post-Civil War depression and violence. Wise Blood never got the credit it deserved. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter has been forgotten. Maybe it’s time to revive this genre, shake it up, give it a nip and a tuck, get it a little black dress and take it out for a night on the town. Uglier girls have made it to the ball, right?\n **************\nJenny hauled the last bucket of water for the day back to the house. She needed it for her baby and her dead mother. She would finish digging the grave tomorrow, before it got too hot and before mamma started to stink. Pegasus Sky gurgled happily, not caring that she lay next to a dead woman. Jenny fed her baby and cleaned her mother before laying down to sleep next to them. She wouldn’t be hearing her mother snore any longer, or hear her cry out for her husband. The war hadn’t taken him, but the pneumonia had. Jenny had dug that grave as well. As long as she didn’t have to dig a hole for Pegasus, she’d be fine.\nI need some grotesque to come along and insert himself into Jenny’s life. Evil grotesque or Godly grotesque? I need some Catholic undertones. That should be easy. I teach at a fucking Catholic university, right? You should see the campus. Mother Mary all over the place, smiling beatifically at you as you pass. I wonder what the good mother thought of Flannery and Carson.\nI don’t think I can do southern gothic. I’ve written one paragraph and I already want to slit my wrists. That’s sacrilegious. The Brothers on campus would be shocked if they heard me voice that particular thought.\nI like the Brothers. They day drink, and all four of them have a two-pack-a-day habit. All of them offer solid, practical advice about teaching, though they hadn’t taught in decades. Best of all, they’re liberal with sharing their whiskey with me. It’s expensive stuff, too.\nI’m thinking maybe I’m like the Brothers. I did my thing with that one novel. Maybe I should just drink good whiskey, smoke two packs a day, and sit around doing a whole lot of nothing. They seem pretty happy.\nHowever.\nHowever, I’m not. Happy, that is. I’m anxious and skittish and unsettled. I’ve been this way for twenty years. Now I’m desperate. I owe it to Lydia and Des to write another book. I just don’t know how.\nI make a deal with the devil. Ok, that’s a little too dramatic.\nI make a deal with Des.\n **************\nI left the mountain after grandpa died, taking little with me, for there was little to take. I would go on to kill seventy-three men, all bad. I would return to the mountain in due time, the prodigal son who wasn’t a son at all but a daughter. This is how it all happened.\nI look at Des and shake my head.\n“How the hell am I supposed to work with that?”\nShe gives me that look. The one her mother gives me when she’s exasperated with me but doesn’t want to unleash a verbal assault on my ass.\n“You just do it. We made a deal.”\nI scratch my beard. Lydia doesn’t like my beard, but Des thinks it makes me look professorial.\n“And stop drinking my whiskey. You’re not even twenty-one yet.”\nDes defies me. She pours out two fingers and mixes it with carbonated water. Lightweight.\n“Get to it, old man.”\nSo I do.\nI left during a Pegasus sky. That’s a term only us mountain people know. When eagles are flying closer to the ground than normal, it means they spotted a small rabbit or a rattlesnake. Since it was midday, it had to be a rattlesnake. Step careful and step quiet, grandpa used to say.\nI shove the computer back to Des. She reads it and nods.\n“You’ve been obsessing over this stupid phrase for years and now, suddenly, you explain it. What gives?”\nI don’t know what to say to her, so I shrug. Ok, I do know how to explain it, but I won’t. Denial of one’s faults is part of the human condition. I could tell her that but she’d eye-roll me, just like her mother does.\n“Oh! I get it! There’s always a way to spot evil if you know the signs. Since this bad-ass chick is gonna kill all these men, she must know what to look for. That’s kind of brilliant.”\n“Yep.”\nNo need to brag. I can do that later.\nI have these rules that grandpa taught me. Rule #11 says that when you kill, you kill quick and you kill sure. Now, I only killed rabbit and deer and squirrel and rattlesnake before I went down the mountain, but that son-of-a-bitch Russel treated me real bad so he had to be killed.\n“Where the hell are you going with this?”\nI had to ask, right?\n“You write your paragraphs and I’ll write mine.”\nShe takes another sip of whiskey, just to piss me off. She succeeded.\n“What did he do that was so bad?”\n“Maybe he raped her.”\nDes says this matter of factly, which saddens me. It’s a reality in her world, this sort of shit. I wish I could protect her, but I can’t. Not from everything.\nWe trade more paragraphs, arguing about each other’s work along the way. Thrust and parry. Remark and retort. Lydia watches us and smiles. Why is she so happy about Des and me arguing? The woman is clearly insane. It had to happen eventually, living with me.\nIt took me a few months to get it, but I got it. Keeping it to myself, though.\n **************\nPegasus Sky became a runaway best seller. Des used the pen name Olivia du Mugne because she admired the works of Daphne du Maurier. I argued for Lillith Longtree. Something reminiscent of the old west, and very American. We compromised and used the name Olivia du Mugne.\nThe novel made her rich. Not just rich-ish, but fuck-you rich.\nIronically, we never used the word fuck in Pegasus Sky.\nWe now write novels together, using that stupid pen name and churning out books that people snap up by the millions. We argue about every paragraph. She usually wins. I’m not a real writer, after all, and she’s my daughter.\nSo it goes." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Moon and star—two halves of one whole\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1553\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a window is broken or found broken." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Shattered glass litters the floor like light on a dance floor; weeds burst through the concrete of my skin to soak up the light from the gaping holes in my walls. The metal beams of the ceiling are bent and crooked and paint from hundreds of different cans and artists coat every inch of the place, laid on in thick layers overlapping in different pigments and shades and designs. \nI have stood in this lot for a long time. Watched as humanity flowed by like salmon swimming upstream in their little dirty jungle of a city, the slums like a mudslide from the top of the mountain; I can see the nicer neighborhoods from my spot on the end of the block, but they are out of reach for me and everyone who resides in this part of town. I watch people walk by wearing rags, taking shelter in my concrete castle, shivering as the wind blows through the holes in my foundation. Thousands have made fire pits out of weeds and scraps of cardboard; the tin of my ceiling is stained ebony from soot and ash. My memory is seared with cold nights and colder hearts. \nMostly, the faces that linger in my shelter are blank, doomed to fade from my memory. They are dirtied and hopeless in the way everyone around here is, with mouths that incline downwards and ribs that poke out, pressing against their thin clothes like fingers pressing outward. But there is one. \nShe sticks in my memory because she comes back every day; she is young, younger than most that pass through here unaccompanied, and on her small body is a backpack that once was light color but is now muddled the same color of her dark skin littered with dirt. Her hair is clumped and tangled but it looks like a crown of thorns upon her smeared face. \nShe paints meteors on my walls, taking herself out of this slum and into the stars, dragging me along with her. To the black void of space, left of Saturn. She soon consumes my walls with her dripping paint and when there is no concrete left she paints the dandelions, filling the cracks with blue and black and orange; fiery stars and disconnected constellations. I cannot help but to learn things outside of my knowledge as I stare over her knobby shoulder into a textbook with no cover, words smeared and discolored telling us about a being beyond this rock we lie on; and for once I think I might understand the scope of the human agony, why sometimes people will sacrifice their fragile bodies to the cold to look into the night sky at the few glittering stars, the ones that would not be snuffed out by light pollution. \nI watch her grow into her thin frame, standing taller and stronger like the buildings littered with the scaffolding of in the distance; in no time at all—for I am old and time is measured not in the fall of the sun but the people that flow through my shelter— her pants grow short and her shoes pinch at her feet but she keeps coming back. \nI decide to name the girl—something I had never done before. Humans are so impermanent and ever more fragile, but this human has a foundation built on glass shards floating in the void of space, hard and cold and strong. \nI decide on Moon. \nMoon never stays longer than it takes for the sun to split the sky in a poppy fire, yellow and orange. She always brings her supplies with her, and when the walls are drenched in universes vast and unceasing, she punches words with her nozzles instead. Letters my old eyes need to relearn, but when I am fluent again I read them over and over again. I find myself wishing Moon would speak to me, tell me what the slums are offering her—even though I know it is nothing good. I want to hear the honesty in her voice, the same honesty that drips in the triumph in her poetry. \nThe first time I hear that voice, it is littered with anger and curled up in defense; some other humans interrupted her painting, looking for a place to stay. She does not back down, snarling and spitting fire like a meteorite. \nThe humans kick her, ripping up her paint-splatter pants. They tear at her beautiful, knotted crown of hair, fingers easily catching on the coils. They punch and rips and hit, until she is crumpled over the black dandelions, coughing and spitting. \nThe first time I hear that voice is also the first time I see her blood. It reminds me of her humanity, stark against the painted sky; a neon red like the glow of shattered headlights rolling down the block. \nIt is not the last time, either. \nMy windows shatter and my concrete heaves with battles one-sided, and I watch as my Moon is thrown, tossed easily to the side. I grieve, feeling every bruise and every bite, but all I can do is shield her from the sun when it is over, give her a place to wipe her blood and stand again. Despite how it hurts, I wish she would just leave me, leave these painted walls to the wills of the rest of humanity, desperate to crumble the rest of the world. \nBut Moon never does. She scratches and screams, and when she’s not groaning and pressing sharp fingers against violet bruises she’s smearing white and yellow and red with her hands, poems flowing out of her in a steady pulse like blood. I gasp in the words as much as I can, and wish I would see them the way she does, with her little brown eyes so wide with the world's wonders; so bright, brighter than the cardinal that pecks at the thin worms in the grass outside, brighter than the sun gleaming off shards of my shattered windows. \nMoon stays until I am as much her as she is me. We are two halves of one body, and she always returns. \nOne night, a group of humans smelling of liquor and booze stumble into my body. I watch with muted horror as they laugh at the smears of color on the walls. Watch as they dump whatever scrap they can salvage and throw it in the heart of my being. I watch as they shatter any windows that are unbroken and bring a gas can. It glows red, a corpse among a forest of infrastructure, bleeding a copper liquid over the scrap. \nAnd I watch as they light me aflame. \nBy morning, when Moon returns, there is nothing but ashes left. I watch as she kneels over in my soot and sobs, the cries and screams ripping apart her body until she lies limp on the ground, whimpering; she has lost half of her body. All that’s left are the bones, marrow of steel misshapen and distorted; concrete painting a permanent black. It is worse watching her grieve on the remains, so much worse than watching the physical decay of her body as punches land and kicks fly. \nThis is the only time she stays dark, not moving an inch as she lies there. \nWhen she leaves, I do not see her again for a long time. My Moon has left my orbit, stripping me of half of our remains. I no longer look at the dirt-strew faces of humans seeking shelter. All I do is stare into the sky, the half-moon curved and sharp like a fist curled in on itself. \nWhen Moon returns, she is taller; her clothes are no longer rumpled but flat and perfect, and her hair is tied up and pristine. She carries a crowd behind her, along with loud metal machines that gleam orange in the afternoon sun. \nMoon speaks to this crowd, and despite not understanding her words I know her tone; nostalgic. She speaks and her words flow over me the same way her paint clung to my old body. It calms me, settles me even as the big machines close in, ripping apart what’s left of me and carrying it off. \nWhen I am nothing but dirt, Moon walks over. She carries a seedling in her tight-fisted grasp, knuckles scarred from altercations— from defending us. She crouches and digs into the thin soil with her hands; they smear with dirt once more as she works a home for the seedling into my corpse. When she finishes I soak up into the roots and take note of the city smog brushing against my leaves for the first time. We both flutter in the wind, fly-aways of her dark hair melding with the shy green of my new limbs. \nA new body is built for me; one that is open, with the bones bared and concrete exposed. Metal frameworks litter the open space along with benches and more foliage. When it’s all said and done, a sign pops up, and I feel full again when I read it; Star Park. \nNew children come and go, dancing and laughing, climbing on my new body with a type of joy I’ve never seen from humans before. \nBut, the only way I ever named was Moon." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: SPACE ADVENTURE\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1744\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a magic window — or a window like no other." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was 7:24 pm when Charles Sonaby, a 32 year old African-American man, who lived in Seattle, Washington was getting ready for his solo flight to the moon, he had inspected the spaceship and all of its controls to make sure that nothing could go wrong during the flight. As he strapped himself into his seat, the base commander told him that there might be extraterrestrial life up there and if he found it he needed to be careful and to report it back to them as soon as possible. When Charles heard this he had a strange mix of fear and excitement, he could hear and feel his heart beating more vigorously now, there was so much going on in his head that he forgot that he had a mission to complete. Once Charles remembered, he had completed all the pre-flight preparations, and took off. In just a few seconds he would be going so fast that he would break the speed of sound and he would be long past the Earth's atmosphere.\nCharles was soaring high above the Earth, it had such a beautiful view, he could see all of the stars, and not to mention the small shining little lights on Earth right behind him. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even realize that the base commander was talking to him. “Charles, Charles, do you copy? this is base commander Greg Grey”, declared greg through the intercom. “I hear you loud and clear,'' replied Charles from his helmet microphone. “I want to know everything that you encounter as soon as you land on the moon base platform, everything that moves and everything that looks important \" , “will do sir” replied Charles. \nWhen Charles landed he got out of the ship and scouted the area with a rather large tranquilizer sniper that Greg gave to him when they were talking before liftoff. He was told to use it if he ever saw the alien and if he ever shot the alien he would take it to base lock it up and then he would study it, and if it turned out to be harmless he would release it and possibly bring it back to earth, but on the other hand it it was dangerous he would tranq it again and then bring it to earth in a cage that would zap it with electricity if it tried to escape. As Charles was heading to the base he saw something flash by so fast that he could barely process it. He felt that he should follow it, so he did, he moved slowly and quietly which was really easy because there is no sound in outer space.\n As he was moving he saw the strange flash again he lifted the sniper scope to his eye and bounced up high to that he had a better range of vision, as he was in the air he saw the strange blur moving around were he would land in circles so fast that he could see more dust than the actual blur itself. Charles shot a spot in the outer line of the strange dust circle and the thing creating this circle stopped moving. Once he returned to the ground he went closer and closer to the strange thing. When he got close enough he saw that it was not an alien but it was the shedded skin of one. While Charles stood staring at the skin, dazed, and confused, he saw the same strange blur in the corner of his eye. He turned around so fast that he fell slowly but surely, as he was falling he saw that there was not only one alien but 10.\n They had stopped to look at him and stare in amazement. After a couple of seconds the aliens split into two groups to allow two elderly aliens to walk through the middle towards Charles. As the two elderly aliens were passing through Charles tried to Pick up his tranquilizer to try and take them out but there were three problems, the sniper was two far away for him to pick up, he was almost out of ammo, and even if he did have ammo the gun was not an automatic one so he could only take out one or two before they attacked him, and not to mention all the aliens had spears and looked like they were highly trained warriors, ready to protect their elders at any moment. \nHe had nowhere to go, if he tried to run away he’d be caught quickly, and he would probably be attacked. So instead of attacking or running away, he just backed away slowly. The aliens started talking. They talked in slow english to try and make sure that Charles understood. They asked what planet he was from, how he got here and why. He was so confused that he forgot how to talk for awhile. But he then started talking to them at a normal speed and tone. He told them that he was from planet earth and he traveled by spaceship. He tried to answer why but it couldn't occur to him. He thought that it could have been to find the extraterrestrial life on the moon but if he said that the aliens might have thought that Charles was trying to was trying to kidnap them and then bring them back to earth, wich, he kind of was, and if they knew that they might try to kill him so he didn’t go to tell anybody else, so he said that he was sent here to learn about the moon which was not all false but at the same time it was not completely true.\n The aliens seemed to believe it. After they interrogated him some more they blindfolded him with a weird substance that wouldn't let him see anything. He tried to remove it with his hands but every time that he touched it, it just got tighter and tighter, so after a while he just decided to leave it alone, as they were walking he asked where they were going and one of the elders said that they were walking to beckhest: temple of the three fates, they said that they would decide weather to kill him or not. As soon as that was said Charles felt a trickle of wet substance go down his leg.\n For a while Charles was excited for this mission but now it felt like a total nightmare, he felt like he was tossed to the moon as a peace offering for the aliens so that none of the earth would be destroyed by them. Once they reached the temple, Charles felt a cold shiver go down his neck, he was used to having this happen to him, but this one frightened him, his muscles were numb and his legs felt like a bowl of jelly. After a while of whispering and murmuring, Charles was sat down on a cold piece of moon rock, when he sat down he started to think that he was in an underground cave because him and his colleagues have been studying the moon for years before this mission, they made sure that there was nothing that could interfere with the mission, so this had to have been below the moon's surface, or the aliens could have been using some of their technology to keep it hidden from the humans.\n Charles looked around the dark space until one of the aliens started to chant then all the rest started to chant as well but Charles couldn't understand it, it sounded like gibberish on a whole different level, it was like one blob of goo was talking at the same time as a big bowl of mashed potatoes. As Charles was trying to figure out what was happening the chanting came to a sharp stop and the two elders that he saw earlier walked up to him and said “stand up” so he did. The elders told Charles to take a walk with them. So instead of arguing he took a casual walk down the moon with them. As the three were walking Charles asked how they were able to survive out on the moon without anything to eat or drink. And the aliens laughed and told him that they weren’t humans and they should survive for years without anything to eat or drink, the only reason they have been alive all this time is because of a secret river in the center of the moon.\n Charles was astonished that the aliens were not only able to keep themselves hidden from NASA, but they also found a way to keep a whole river hidden. Charles was seriously starting to doubt that the human species were as smart as they thought they were. As Charles was walking with the newly discovered alien elders they told him to close his eyes and put his hands behind his back. When he heard this his heart almost jumped out of his chest and into his throat. He thought that he was safe, but he thought wrong, he knew his life was about to end if he did what they told him or if he didn’t, so he did it, he took his last final breaths and then…….\n“Wait, wait”, yelled what sounded like a younger alien girl. “Princess matilda” the two elders replied, and then got onto their knee and put their heads down. \"Leave this man, he will help us.\" When she said this the two elder's scurried off with haste. When the elders were out of sight the princess told Charles to follow her to her house so she did. When they got there the princess told Charles that she could see the future and asked if he wanted to know how so charles said yes for three reasons: because he was afraid to say now, he didn't want to come off rude because after all she just saved his life, and because he was curious to know. she told Charles to follow her to the room, and when they got there charles saw a window that was staring into another dark room and when he looked into it, it gave off a pure white light that stung his eyes and he couldn't see so he stumbled around the room until crash he tumbled right into the window falling into the void of nothingness......." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Stranger Changes\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1087\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a magic window — or a window like no other." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It all started back then….\nTo be honest I don't actually remember back then. I only remember the day that it started and what I decided to do with what happened on that fateful day that was like no other.\n It was a typical Thursday night. I had just come home from the rec center and finished teaching a bunch of three year olds how to do a somersault. I was exhausted and was anticipating the feel of my aft and inviting bed.\n I walked down the hall of my small apartment and I could hear the wood floor boards unremarkable me crea and groan. I can't wait to get out of the little shack. I thought. There was one good thing about this little place though. The window. It was magnificent. It had a small border of purple and red stain glass roses around the actual window, and the clear part of the window was huge and took up 6 feet of my wall. Although my apartment was in the heart of the city it was als the top floor and so the window overlooked the bustling and disgusting city and on the distant mountains. It was breathtaking and no matter how many times I look through the large window it never ceases to amaze me. But that’s no surprise because I’m sure you have heard people say how the sun setting and rising always amazes them or the aurora borealis no matter how many times they see it. \n Today as I walked by the beautiful piece of glass separating me from the polluted air I felt something strange. I’m not quite sure what I felt but I had the urge to stand in front of the window longer than usual. So I did. And as I looked through it I could see my reflection through it. It was light and I could still see the mountains through it. I thought about it and I suppose my reflection has always been there because that’s just the way glass works, but there was something funny about it. Then I realized it wasn’t my reflection in the glass.\n It was very obvious that this window was not built into the apartment originally because with all it’s magnificence it definitely stood out from the rest of the dark and dirty 500 sq foot apartment. So I suppose that whoever lived here before Imoved in put it in. Did they do something to mess with the glass of it?\n I looked through the glass and there was nobody on the other side and the ref;action of someone who was most definitely not me was doing everything I did. My breathing got heavy and I could feel my heart beat faster in my chest. \nI ran away from the glass and into the small bathroom. I looked into the mirror and I could feel my heart drop into my feet. The person who had been staring at me from the mirror was now looking back at me through this very ordinary mirror. \nI have short curly black hair that puffs up and is typically kept in neat braids or a bun on the top of my head. I have darker skin and chocolate colored eyes. I have thick eyebrows and diamond stud in my nose. But I am 100% sure that the person staring back at me was not me. This person was a woman in her thirties, I am in my twenties. This woman looking at me also had bright red lips that stood out against her ghost pale face. She has dark brown hair and bangs. She has shocking blue eyes and probably like 50 layers of makeup on. \nI ran away from the mirror and back to the window. But the person staring at me was not the pale faced woman in the mirror. All the color drained from my face and I looked down at my hands. These were not my small brown hands. These were much larger paler hands with bright red nail polish on. I felt for my familiar dark curls and I felt long straight hair. I pulled it into my face and it was the color of sand. \nI looked back at the mirror and the blonde person that was there moments ago was now replaced by a teenage girl with orange hair and a face full of freckles. What in the world is going on? Am I hallucinating? So I ran to my small cramps bedroom and pulled the covers over my apparently younger face and bright orange hair. \nI thought long and hard for ages about the causes of this crazy thing that was appending. The answer that esteemed most likely and yet so crazy was the window was magic or bewitched. After ordering for five hours and it was now about three in the morning I gathered enough courage to get out of my bed and look through the glass. Since it was three in the morning the sky was dark and no light was cast into the room but once I made my way over to the window I closed my eyes and braced myself for what was about to happen. I looked into the window and I saw another person staring back at me, this time a tall slender woman with the facial features of possibly an angel, and eyes that pierced into my souls it seemed. I looked down and sure enough I was 5 inches taller than I had been and I could feel long waves of thick chocolate hair fall at my bare shoulders. \nThe question still came flooding into my head but still had no answers. So I decided to go make a batch of cookies. It was four in the morning once I had finished my batch of cookies.\nI went down the old creaky hall again and yawned. I stopped hesitantly at the window and when I looked in I was not the beautiful supermodel I was a very average looking girl in my twenties with long braided hair extensions and beautiful dark skin and almost black eyes. She was still quite tall but not quite as tall as the person I had been four seconds before.\nI went off to my room trying to accept the magical window and whatever person I was right now. Then an idea came with the wind. My small normal window was open and a breeze filled the room and with it an idea rushed 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: It Looks Back\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1615\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character looking out of a window in the middle of the night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Dark\nWhen we look into the darkness, our deepest selves understand that something looks back. Anthony looked out the window as midnight struck.... looked into a dark so crushing, that it felt tangible, encompassing..... stifling.... toxic. The thing looking back at him, its grotesque, teeth filled mouth, scowled more than smiled. Soon, it’s hunger would end. Anthony smiled back and thought “we’ll see whose hunger will be sated this night”. The thing of the darkness, whose very existence had struck a fear so primal into the hearts of such varied creatures, that it itself, knew not the feeling, recoiled unexpectedly, not understanding what had caused this reaction. Unknowingly, it now knew fear’s strangling grasp. \nBefore.........\nAnthony was anything, but typical. He always thought himself unique, set apart, viciously intelligent, decidedly smart, a man among men. He thought the world unappreciative of what he contributed to it. The world, and fairly so, thought him average. Anthony therefore thought the measuring stick was broken. His thoughts on the matter were reinforced by the rejection letters he’d recently gotten from all the big and small publishing houses, for his novels. Anthony knew his works were without equal, speaking to realities and fantasies, through a written medium so good that people should count themselves fortunate to live at the same time as an author so rarely gifted. \nLetter after letter came back however, and Anthony became increasingly paranoid that some where, some floundering author would find his stories discarded by these blind editors and use his words to break out into the writing world. He started to research the copy right laws to ensure he could fight these battles, that he was sure would come. From his small town, he wondered how he’d even find out that his stories were out there? Can a writer become famous, recognized and paid with his stories, without him knowing? Yes, he answered himself.\nAnthony however, could not hide the deep shame he felt having been rejected though. \nThe ever lessening ashamed yet sensible part of him told him that he just was not that good, and should just accept that and carry on being a good average guy, with an average job, average girl, average family.....average life, and die being not remembered as nothing but average. As he was rejected, Anthony rejected this. He was more, and more for this world, and he’d make the world know it, until it felt it in the very deepest parts of its deepest oceans, till it resounded from the highest parts of the tallest mountains. Anthony would be remembered when he was no more, and lauded when he was here. He’d just have to give them all a little nudge in the right direction. It should not take much he thought, his work was really good. \nBeing a small town boy, Anthony was always confused as to why the folks around were so cliquish. It was not like they had all these options. Being however, a boy in a town he moved too as a young teen, in the middle of middle America, being the only black family for as far as the eye could see.... and the only Trinidadians for as far as bird could fly.... well.... that made it a tad more difficult. Anthony’s parents were determined however to have a different American story. His dad, as the town doctor was liked well enough, and his mom as the town dentist brought smiles, not just owing to her trade. \nAnthony was accepted well enough, but the divisions between the other young adults and himself was more owing to him than them. Anthony lived mostly in his mind, in his books, in his sci fi movies. He was an expert introvert. He really then, never fit in. Anthony however desperately wanted to not just fit in, but to be recognized as the most important element in any grouping. And Anthony felt that this was not asking too much. The world however did not seem to agree \nAnthony had been back to Trinidad with his parents a number of times, back to his rural village to the south of the island and like them was glad to get back home to their nice house in their nice town. On one visit however, unknown to his parents, Anthony had met up with the village witch doctor. Anthony never knew that the obeya man had sought him out..... the rich little village boy who lived away, was reserved and noted to be into stories of fantasy and fiction. \nThe witch doctor understood that here lay fertile ground for his demons to plant their seeds, migrate and multiply in a whole new country. The obeya man had met up with Anthony and seemingly granted a small favor..... the next day Anthony got a call from a big magazine that he’d won a short story competition. All it had cost Anthony was $1,000.00 US, negligible, as the prize money was $5,000.00 and Anthony would be interviewed and featured in the magazine. Anthony thought himself on his way to recognition. The witch doctor knew Anthony’s soul was on its way to hell. \nThe witch doctor was aware that he no more controlled the demons than the olden people who danced around their fires controlled the rain. He was a channel though which the demons came and he was granted longevity and through his consultations, prosperity. All it had cost him was his soul. When the demons came, they needed fertile ground in which to grow, to rest, to wait.....their growing field was the unsuspecting soul of a victim. \nYes, the demons granted favors....little things.... that led to little bigger things... but never enough to make their consorts not ask for more.The demons had a practiced trade. They gave just enough to make people need them desperately..... hungrily, greedily..... until giving to the demon was like breathing. All the while, the person would think that it was the witch doctor who granted them the favors, not knowing that the deal was now between them and the devil. Until there was nothing of them left, nothing left to give. Then a master demon, a demon prince would come from hell and would take over and walk this world in the shell of the former person. It was a formula that had worked forever. \nHis parents were shocked when Anthony told them that he’d like to go to Trinidad on his own, to visit family and friends. His parents had always thought him too reserved, too shut in, for a young man, so were glad when he offered the suggestion. And the recent events in town had everyone on edge. The disappearances were more than concerning..... kids Anthony’s age. One or two that he knew. Maybe the time away was ideal. \nWhen Anthony arrived to his native village he followed the expected routine. Met all he was supposed to, made the usual rounds, laughed at the oft told jokes about when he was young, about his parents, before they made the bold move to migrate. He followed the usual patterns until he could get away on his own. This time however, he sought out the witch doctor..... or so he thought. The doctor was waiting for him. \nAnthony’s request was small. He just wanted to be the most famous writer ever. The witch doctor, what ever little piece of humanity was left in him shuddered. The obeya man had been born with the sight.... the ability to see demons, and see them attached to people. The more the people fed the demon, the more the demon grew....resilient in their evil. He saw the demon that wrapped around Anthony now, whispering in his ear. And even the witch doctor wanted to scream and run away. He’d never seen a demon so strong. What he did not know was that Anthony had asked ever growing little favors. And Anthony kept giving of his soul.... and then when that was not enough, Anthony had...... decided that other souls should pay his price.\nThe witch doctor knew the look of a demon fed by murder. And this demon looked more fed than any he’d ever seen. His last human shred, wanted to turn the boy away..... but the witch doctor knew\nit was too late for him to take such a righteous stance. He was as lost as Anthony, and never able to see the demon that whispered in his witch doctor’s ear. \nThe boy had come to ask why his favors were no longer being granted. He had.....done......what was asked of him. The witch doctor told the boy that sacrificing strangers fed little favors.... sacrificing a loved one would satisfy the greatest need. Anthony new then that this was his role to play.... the “tragic orphan” would make for a better biography at the back of his novels in any even.....Anthony made up his mind, paid the witch doctor for his consultation..... only $10,000.00 US and left. The two whispering demons smiled. \nNow...... \nSo yes, Anthony looked out the window and what he really saw was not the grotesque creature of the dark.....but the reflection of the demon wrapped around him, mouth close to his ear. Behind him lay the decapitated, dismembered and decomposing bodies of his parents......through the mail chute was acceptance letter after acceptance letter from every major publishing house, anxious to give this hot new author his taste of fame.....but they all remained unopened...... Anthony was no longer home to open them..... a prince had taken up residence in Anthony’s shell..... and even Anthony’s whispering demon was afraid. The demon prince looked out at the new world and smiled. Tonight we begin." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Simon’s Gospel\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2993\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “I think someone’s listening/watching.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "To Cassie Finch\n\nCAUTION; Language, possible religious triggers, discussion of women’s reproductive rights.\n\nThe table felt funny.\n\nThat generally went without saying. Simon knew by rote the number of steps from his apartment house to Warshinski’s on Division, how many lights he must chance on the morning pilgrimage (two), and how many coat hooks he must count from the entry step-down to rear booth (Warshinski’s was OG Chicago). He could smell 30 feet before Mrs. Warshinski slid his standing order onto the formica with a mute pat on the shoulder. Simon suspected Mrs. Warshinski’s fragrance of choice, which overpowered the kraut that accompanied his Polish/two eggs, had been a gift from when actual Fieldses ran Marshall Field’s.\n\nSimon suspected the Washinskis had either a running war or a wink/nod relationship with the Cook County Health Department. One of the blessings of his “condition”: Simon usually could rely on senses 2 through 5 for a 4-star breakfast experience.\n\nBut this morning, the table felt funny. Simon felt about for his fork, and noticed it. Tacky AND wet — these were the tactile norm. But never before had the table spoken to Simon.\n\nSIMON, he “read.”\n\n**\n\nIt could well have been a joke — the Washinskis protected “the boy’s booth” like their cabbage roll recipe. This was not accommodation for Simon’s disability but reverence for the theology student whose presumedly sacred mission they fueled with sausage and fried potatoes.\n\nHowever, even had stolid old Washinski or his bride been struck by whimsy this chill Chitown day, he doubted they’d picked up braille in the Old or New Worlds.\n\nSIMON GOOD. \n\nSo now, we were in Charlotte’s Web territory. “SOME PIG. TERRIFIC. RADIANT. HUMBLE” — Wilbur got better reviews. A saintly swine, at least in certain faiths…\n\nSimon tried to be a good neighbor here in the Windy — being unable to read facial cues probably helped him maintain a congenial attitude, though the occasional verbal cue tested his mettle. SIMON GOOD until time not to be good — Roadhouse rules.\n\nSIMON CHOSEN. Simon’s Yelp score was rising.\n\n“Mrs. Washinski?” Simon called. Heavy footfalls, a slight rattling of the presumably grubby coffee mug with the weight of a calloused, meaty paw against the wall-mounted table. \n\n“Yeah?” Old Washinski himself. “Eggs good? You good?”\n\nApparently. “Both great, thanks. Lemme ask you — what do you see on the table?”\n\nSimon sensed confusion in the momentary silence, and the wall brackets creaked as Washinski leaned in and down. Onions and tobacco to the missus’ floral napalm. \n\n“Goodness!” Washinski grunted. “So sorry.”\n\nThe footfalls retreated. “No, it’s…”\n\nThe old man was back within seconds, and Simon pulled back with the slap of a damp towel. Washinski finished before Simon could think to protest, and the onions and nicotine gave way to overripe roses and lavender and a compensatory sausage plopping onto Simon’s plate.\n\nThe message was gone now, and Simon dove into Pim Valkenberg’s World Religions in Dialogue, braille edition. After finishing his apology sausage sturdy coffee, Simon tossed an extra bill on the table and collected text and cane. \n\nSimon detected a scuttling whisper as he shoved the thick volume into his backpack. Simon ventured back out into the bracing Lake “breeze.”\n\n**\n\nA cousin had recommended the Chicago Theological Seminary or University of Chicago Divinity School, but Simon would have felt a fraud. Most back home would consider studying religion for religion’s sake a noble undertaking, but few grasped that Simon sought not a calling but a few overdue answers.\n\nNot so much for the obvious. Simon’s sightlessness was the early childhood result of retinopathy of prematurity, so he’d seldom if ever railed against the Heavens. Getting pissed at a supposedly omniscient, omnipotent deity for glibly blinding premies was simply piling irrationalism on top of some fairly fanciful assumptions. Kinda narcissistic, too.\n\nRadiant, humble. Good piggy. \n\nThe guy who’d “surreptitiously” grabbed the last seat as Simon entered the El car exploded in an unprotected super-sneeze.\n\n“Bless you,” offered Simon the Good, hugging the pole.\n\n“Fuck off,” Sneezy said.\n\n**\n\n“I think someone’s watching.”\n\n“That goes without saying.” \n\nThe eyeroll was an alien concept to Simon. But Terence’ pious spin on the most innocuous observation could be a real test of Christian tolerance.\n\n“In a more secular sense. Jeez, at least I assume.” Terence’ thin lips pursed at the misdemeanor blasphemy, but Simon’s study buddy listened attentively to his greasy spoon parable.\n\n“I mean, you’re a good enough person, if a bit weak on liturgy,” Terence murmured. He was on a clerical track, and viewed Simon as a spiritual tourist. But it was Terence who’d stepped up early in the semester. In Simon’s world, it was easy enough to step quickly on past, and he accepted the backhanded commendation. “Perhaps one of the regular diners was taken by the shabbily dressed blind boy cloistered in a back booth with his religious teachings. It’s very monastic.”\n\n“It was in braille, so I doubt pity or the Myth of the Magical Blind Man had anything to do with it,” Simon noted. “Maybe empathy — somebody with a blind father or son or sister. But it wasn’t carved into the table, and Mr. Washinski was able to wipe it away with a wet rag. In fact, he seemed embarrassed, though now I think about it, why, when he couldn’t even read the message?”\n\nTerence considered. “Well, you could simply accept the kindness without question.” He laid out legal pads and pens. “Or watch your back. Sorry; listen for trouble. You may have a psycho stalker. So, you want to start with Bonhoeffer or Niehbuhr?”\n\n**\n\nSIMON CHOSEN. SIMON GOOD. TELL YOURS. \n\nThe Washinskis had been engaged in trilingual battle with a misguided, famished, misguided German kid probably from the hostel down the block. Simon had moved stealthily past the skirmish (which seemed to involve the establishment’s lack of vegan bialys) and unloaded the device with his Valkenberg. \n\nSimon moved quickly before he heard the clomp of Mr. Washinki’s boots on the brittle linoleum. The scent of bleach and citrus and onion and tobacco, the slight squeak of applied elbow grease. \n\nGreat, Simon groaned — I’m that guy.\n\n**\n\n“Jesus. JESUS.”\n\nSimon perked to the abrupt anguish of the woman seated at his right elbow.\n\n“What. WHAT?” Her seatmate. Simon detected a pair of mingling fragrances no doubt far pricier than Mrs. W’s by-the-gallon essence. A series of nail-clicks on screen, then silence. “Oh, FUCK. Hey, hey, Erin…”\n\n“Is everything OK?” Simon asked.\n\n“You know what? We got this — we don’t need your fucking help!” \n\nSimon retreated to the other side of the pole. \n\n“Fucking cisgender asshole!”\n\nThe car filled with hushed curses, tears, a silence heavy with grief and consolation. Two stops later, Simon debarked quickly.\n\n**\n\n“Maybe you got yourself a secret admirer down to the diner, bro,” Manny suggested. “Braille like one of those love languages?”\n\n“I’m thinking no.” Simon rummaged his Minivision2+ from the pack, delivered a couple of voice commands, and placed the phone before his buddy. Manny slurped a tapioca pearl from his boba and grunted. \n\n“Why am I looking at roach shit?” Simon’s friend asked.\n\n“At what?”\n\n“Dude, you forget my dad’s helped rehab a lot of these lofts over near McCormick. How I spent my summers in high school — breathing in roach dirt. Your secret admirer did this, I’d find a new breakfast joint. Or buy a .38.”\n\nFrom the criminal sciences major. “Hey, I was so preoccupied I forgot to check. Something big happen today?”\n\n“Got to be specific, Bro. My guess is Roe v. Wade. Supreme Court Handmaid’s Tale: The Prequel.”\n\n“Jesus.”\n\n“Know, you say that a whole lot for a religious dude. Hey, got class in five. See you. Unless you see me first.”\n\n**\n\nIt hit Simon in the face before the door chime’s echo faded, before the sausage and eggs and onion and kraut reached his olfactory sensors. He strode swiftly toward the back booth, nearly colliding with the rear wall.\n\nThe scent most of the Washinskis’ patrons might welcome settled in Simon’s gut like a lead-filled pierogi. Simon placed his palms on the tabletop. Damp. Blank.\n\n“We have complaints.” Mrs. Washinski murmured, sliding his polish and eggs into place. She must have spotted Simon’s fallen face. “The, ah, the yuppies, they see, they call the city. Health inspector comes tomorrow. Not you. Enjoy, mój dobry chłopak. Study hard. Niech cię Bóg błogosławi.”\n\nBishop Kazimierz Tomczak had come up in a “Faith in the Face of Fascism” seminar last fall, and Simon smiled appreciatively, swallowing his chagrin with the first forkful of kielbasa.\n\n**\n\n“One more thing,” Terence sighed.\n\nSimon’s chair scraped, and it reverberated through the small library. “One more thing? I mean, I kinda get why that woman on the El was so pissed yesterday.” Terence’s eyes darted. “These clowns just told her and her buddy and her sister and, er, heck, every woman in this country, they no longer have final say over their body. Is this what we do, man? Tell some 12-year-old rape victim or pregnant woman going into sepsis that she’s, what, just the incubator for a sacred soul? This is what we do?”\n\n“Look,” Terence interrupted, crossly sympathetic. “As long as Roe v. Wade was in force, the job was easy. Preach the company line, follow the script, and they’re free to do whatever they want. Well, what their individual conscience permits. Now, we’re going to be the enforcers, the deniers, the religious patriarchy with the force of law behind us. Not an easy time to be the clergy, and yeah, I heard how that sounds.”\n\n“You got another option, you know,” Simon suggested. “Two, really, I guess.”\n\nTerence looked to the ceiling with a Job-like grimace. “God help me. I know, I know — God help us, every one.”\n\n**\n\nSimon finally landed some prime CTA real estate, and he propped his cane beside the bench like a scepter.\n\nManny had “texted”, and he plugged in his buds. “Dude,” his boba bud breathed. “I got the rest of your dungmail translated, I think. Used a braille scanning app. This some crazy-ass shit. \n\n“SIMON CHOSEN. SIMON GOOD. TELL YOURS. GENESIS. DO GOOD. That clears things the fuck up, right?”\n\nSimon nearly dropped his Minivision as a pole-hanger belly-walloped him. The passenger urped once as fingers squeaked and slid for purchase, and Simon popped up.\n\n“Here, take mine. Please.”\n\nA second of silence. “Thought about asking, but I felt like it was kind of a toss-up,” the pregnant woman mused. “And I could tell this one wasn’t giving it up.”\n\n“Fuck both of you,” a young male voice muttered from the “handicapped” bench across the aisle. Simon and the prospective mom erupted into laughter. He wished he could see the asshole’s face.\n\n“Thanks, seriously,” she said, as man and woman and belly and cane negotiated the unyielding El crowd. “It’s been a week, you know?”\n\n“Yeah,” Simon said. “I underst —. Yeah.”\n\n**\n\nThe other major event of the week went unnoticed for nearly a week more.\n\nThe first was Mr. Washinski’s demeanor. He had one.\n\n“Bialys,” he fairly sang, pushing a fragrant second plate toward Simon. “That niedogodność, that foreign kid make good point. What is Polish diner with bialy? You are first to try — Zofia makes, onions, poppy seed, only thing I ever like about her mother.”\n\nThe aroma — yeast, caramelized onions, a trace of pepper — reached Simon’s nose before the pastry fulfilled its savory potential. \n\n“Health inspector, he finds nothing. Clean as whistle — well, enough to get passing grade. Inspector say everybody in neighborhood do better – no cockroaches anywhere. Only spray a little Raid in the corners. Oh, well, maybe the global warming – maybe they go north for winter. Okay, then. Zofia makes you up bialy dog bag. We watch – you study hard, you need the nutrition, yes?”\n\n“Niech cię Bóg błogosławi,” Simon smiled.\n\nThere was a silent moment. “Yes, well.” \n\nAnd Simon wondered if Washinski or some parent or sibling might have had something in common with Bishop Tomczac. Then again, Tomczac had sat out the Nazis in a monastery, had never seen the inside of a cattle car.\n\n**\n\n“Thish is the shit,” Manny proclaimed though a mouthful of bialy.\n\n“Yeah, right? Except don’t eat all the evidence.”\n\n“Evidensh?”\n\nSimon tapped the now-empty bag onto the stone bench between them. It was toward late afternoon, and somewhere above, the Dearborn Street Bridge was alive with pilgrims seeking steak or carnitas or crab or blues or hipster bargains or an affordable Loop-adjacent couch after a day hustling plates or blouses. Simon liked this green patch on the banks of the Chicago, removed from the order and chaos battling above, a sensory buffer on occasion.\n\n“Dude, these are poppy seeds,” Manny said, flatly. “You don’t think I know shit about shit? Your guardian angel or demonic stalker or sinister Mom and Pop diner owners work exclusively in roach dung. Though they may have to find a new medium.”\n\nAnd Manny explained. It was a global phenomenon, apparently – a curiosity piece fueled by entomologists and exterminators, rapidly becoming good news/apocalyptic news top of the news. Already, the eulogy had begun, like a toast to a despised uncle who’d been secretly building Habitat homes and counseling troubled youth.\n\n“They turn almost anything into nutrients for the soil and shit,” Manny related. “They have these crazy super-antibiotics, and in China, the docs use roach syrup for gut problems and powdered roaches for burn treatments. There are dudes raising roaches to sell to the Phama people. I kinda feel like shit now, like a mass murderer. Wonder how we’re gonna manage, without them cleaning up our shit. You know, I had us in the big Sixth Extinction Lotto, but I guess 300 million years is a pretty good run. \n\n“Little less creepy, though, they’d found some trace. I mean, like one day, they just fucking disappear. No corpses, no suicide note. You ever hear of anything like that?”\n\nSimon had little context for dusk, but a chill was setting in.\n\n“Theoretically,” Simon said.\n\n**\n\nVolume 1 was beside the bed, like something some diehard Gideon left at the Motel Six. The rest of the set was still in a U-Haul box on the closet floor. The braille edition had cost upward of $700, a gift from a grandmother happy Sightless Simon had found a purpose she could get behind. New King James on audio would have cost a fraction and weighed a shit-ton less – shit, there were apps for this -- but Simon likely would haul them around for the rest of his life like a Dickensian chain forged in the guilt of misleading most of the folks back home. They had no idea Simon was seeing other religions, and that it was all pretty much a metaphysical fling.\n\nThe answers sought had nothing to do with the eternal darkness of being Simon. Truth be told, Simon’s folks had been saints in the non-canonical sense; his classmates and teachers had been pretty cool about everything.\n\nNo, Simon sought the Big Answers – the top-of-the-news stuff. Blind was fine in small town Illinois, but questioning, critical, challenging didn’t get you a date to the prom. Simon lingered for a second on the pebbled cover, wondering what his Watchers would have done had Grandma popped for the Audible edition read by Jon Hamm. He quickly located the “prologue,” and his fingers went to work.\n\n“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.\n\n“Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night…”\n\nIt went on like that for seven days. But Simon was more interested in what lay between the lines, and his heat leapt as his suspicion was confirmed. The second set of “braille” was more pronounced, a bit more haphazard. It was a simple code: A small “dot” positioned above selected words. Simon now realized he’d had a huge community of watchers, and that he would probably have to haul out the U-Haul box.\n\n**\n\nAnd on the fourth day, Simon completed Volume 31, fingers aching, head throbbing. On the fifth day, Simon rested. On the sixth day, Simon emerged from his two-room cave, and went forth.\n\n“We wonder what has happened to you,” Mrs. Washinski murmured as she deposited the Simon Slam.\n\n“I was feeling a little off, stayed in and read.”\n\n“But now, you are good?”\n\n“Actually, awesomely good,” Simon smiled. \n\n“You don’t bring books. You don’t quit school?”\n\nSimon’d considered it. The manifesto, gospel, whatever he’d been entrusted with, now made it all seem irrelevant. Surprisingly, that had been something of a relief.\n\nRoach Rapture — say that one 10 times fast. Not that he’d ever tell anyone that the curtain had closed on the whole damned show a week ago, that it wasn’t ever as “promised” all about us.\n\n“TERRIFIC, RADIANT, HUMBLE.” That radiance could penetrate the darkness, that the humble indeed had inherited, was comforting well beyond his watchers’ devastating revelations. The truth would destroy much of humanity, but Simon could now “see” how he might DO GOOD without all that other shit.\n\n“Heavens no,” Simon told the old woman.\n\n**\n\nAnd there was only darkness, rich with the fragrance of decay. An eternity of scavenging without fear, without the savagery of those who made only waste, who murdered their own and everything beyond, who eventually would perish under the weight of the billions they forced into the world, into misery and hunger. \n\nAnd it was 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: The Ruse\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1873\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story within a window of opportunity, when a character finally has the chance to do something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: abuse, slavery\nJuliana was only four when Mama sat her down and had the talk. To a four-year-old mind, the things Mama described sounded like a fairy tale, a terrifying one. Yet, the things Mama told her about obedience to masters, never speaking back, and deference to white people began to explain things she couldn’t help observing on Belle Grove Plantation. Years later, she still remembered every single word Mama had said, and it was those words that kept her alive.\n Belle Grove’s farm manager, Cyrus, was meaner than a cornered alligator. Juliana had decided long ago that thinking of him as a crazed animal helped her cope. Mama would tell her, “You are strong and unmovable, like a tree planted by a river. Nothing can harm you if you stay strong.”\n Juliana and Mama looked so alike that members of the white family they served often confused them, calling Mama Juliana and Juliana Mary. Mama’s job was as seamstress and chambermaid to Anna, the master’s daughter. When Juliana was eleven, Mama began to teach her how to sew, build a fire, do laundry, and arrange hair. At first, Juliana loved learning new things, but mostly, she loved having one-on-one time with Mama, her kind and patient teaching reinforcing how much Mama loved her. Slowly, she began to suspect that Mama was preparing her to serve Anna in her stead, and every day Juliana silently wondered why. Would Mama run away? If so, why wouldn’t she take Juliana with her? Would she kill herself? Suicides were not uncommon among slaves. Juliana never asked because she didn’t want to hear what was likely a terrible truth.\n Juliana was now fifteen, and it was her birthday. Other slaves had gone without to give Mama extra food to cook a good meal for Juliana’s special day, tomatoes, collards, and cornmeal for cornbread, a rare treat.\n Later that night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, Mama woke her daughter and whispered, “Sweet girl, I need to talk with you. Come with me.” They sat by the fire, and Mama began slowly, “Now, I don’t know what will happen, but you have to be strong, and you have to be ready if something happens to me. You hear me, little one? I’ve taught you all I know, and if something happens to me, you take my place and take care of Miss Anna. She’s a kind woman. She won’t hurt you. You safe so long as you be Miss Anna’s maid and stay here. Listen to me, sweetie. This is your only window, your chance to live a safer life, out of the fields and safe with Miss Anna, you hear?”\n “But, where you goin’ Mama?” Juliana’s eyes filled with tears.\n“Shhh, stop your cryin’ baby. You have to be ready if something happens to me, ya hear? Remember, you’s like that tree standing strong by the river, right?”\nJuliana nodded, still afraid of what Mama would say next.\n“There’s one thing that Miss Anna will recognize. There’s one way she’ll know you’s not me.” Mama looked earnestly into Juliana’s eyes, took her hand, and held it firmly. Tears began streaming down Mama’s face, and she could hardly say the words she’d rehearsed for this moment. “One day, you’ll understand, my sweet one, that I did this to save you. Please, I beg you, don’t hate me for it.”\n Juliana screamed when she saw Mama pick up the hot poker from the fire. She tried to pull her hand away, but Mama was strong and held it tightly. She let the poker touch her daughter’s hand for only a moment. Nothing could bring her to scar her daughter as she had been. Mama cried as she remembered being burned when she was only twelve. Cyrus was angry over the time it took her to iron his shirt, so he punished her by burning her hand with the edge of the hot iron. The burn left a large scar on the top of her beautiful hand.\n A month after Juliana’s birthday, Cyrus stumbled drunk into their sod shack and yelled for Mama. She sat up in bed, terrified. He ordered her to get dressed and to follow him. Juliana learned later that night from a fellow slave whose shack was by the big oak, called The Meeting Place, that Mama broke down and wailed an unearthly sound when she heard the neighbor’s words.\n “Guess you’d better polish up on your poker skills there, Cyrus! Though I’m happy to beat you again if you’re gonna wager your darkies!” Cyrus never told Anna that he’d gambled away her maid.\n When Juliana heard what happened, the agony was so great that she screamed for hours. Others tried to quiet her, but she could not cross the chasm in her heart to hear their comfort. The following day, Juliana barely could open her swollen eyes from so much crying. She steeled herself, put on one of Mama’s three dresses, and went to the big house fully expecting to be caught and whipped. When she saw Anna, she curtsied and said, “Miss Anna. How may I help today?”\n “Mary! You look awful. What happened to you?”\nJuliana didn’t know what to say but replied, “I got some bad news last night.”\n“I’m sorry, sweetie. Come on up to my room. I have some chocolates that’ll make you feel better.” Juliana had no idea what chocolates were, but she would come to realize over time just how kind Anna was.\n Several weeks later, Mama still had not returned. Juliana resolved not to grieve because to do so, she thought, would acknowledge that Mama might never come back. She was terrified that Cyrus would realize that she’d begun to work in the big house for Anna, and that he would beat her for such a presumption. A tiny part of her was pleasantly surprised that Mama’s trick had worked, so far. Even the other slaves praised her, and were secretly glad that Juliana could work inside, out of the Georgia heat.\n Each morning, Juliana tidied up Anna’s rooms, including the parlor, bedroom, dressing room, and music room. As she dusted in the dressing room, she noticed a book with a scene of a black woman and children outside a shack. Miss Anna was sitting at her dressing table and saw Juliana behind her in the mirror. She rushed over to her.\n “Oh Mary!” she whispered. “I’ve been reading this book called, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Please don’t tell Cyrus! I’m all tied in knots! Do you hate us for having you work for us? You have to tell me, do they treat slaves this bad?”\n Juliana was off her guard. She quickly tried to remember Mama’s warnings to be silent unless it was necessary to speak, but how could she answer honestly and not upset Anna?\n As Anna looked at her with pleading eyes, suddenly her eyes grew wide. “Oh my! You aren’t my Mary! Who, who are you?” Her look was one of more surprise than anger, and Juliana knew that she had to risk everything to avoid being found out by Cyrus.\n “Miss Anna,” she began to tremble as she spoke. “I am Mary’s daughter, Juliana. Please don’t be angry. They took my mama away. She trained me to do everything you need in case anything happened to her. I didn’t know what else to do!” Juliana’s effort to be steady like a tree was failing. She fell at Anna’s feet, and a dam burst in her heart. All the grief she’d bottled up came gushing out, and Anna sat down on the floor and held her. “They took her, they took her, they took her,” was all she could say.\n Anna gave Juliana her handkerchief, and after what seemed like an eternity she said, “Sweet little one, your mama was the best person I’ve ever known. An angel she was. Now, we won’t tell anyone about this. If Cyrus asks why you are helping me, I’ll tell him I chose you because you have the skills I need, which is certainly the truth. I would choose you a hundred times over.” She lowered her voice to barely a whisper, “I’ve been reading about how slaves are escaping through the Underground Railroad, a kind of passage to freedom. Folks work together to help you go north where white people don’t believe anyone has the right to own another person.”\n Juliana’s eyes widened, and she pulled quickly away. “I’ve heard what happens to them’s who is runaways, Ma’am!” she whispered.\n Just then, Anna noticed the scar on Juliana’s hand. It still hadn’t fully healed. “Oh, my darling! I know why you did this.” She touched Juliana’s hand as tears coursed down her cheeks. She whispered as though to herself while holding Juliana’s hand, “It’s not right. It’s just not right!”\n Few people experience an epiphany that utterly changes them as Miss Anna had. Through the years that passed, Anna not only helped Cyrus’ slaves escape, but she hid slaves from neighboring plantations who were making their way north. No one could say whether her charity or her cunning was the greater blessing, but Cyrus never once suspected her. It had been thirty long years since that day on the floor of Anna’s dressing room until, on a bright morning in late May, Juliana and her husband, John, met Anna at a café in New York. Anna’s dark brown hair was now white, and she walked with a cane. She made many trips to speak at abolitionist meetings, and when Juliana and John learned she would be speaking locally, they invited her to meet them for tea. It was a merry gathering as they reminisced and talked of their grown children. Anna was a widow now but had led a busy but happy life with three children and a kind husband who shared her views on abolishing slavery. Just before it was time to leave, John asked a question he’d wanted to ask for a very long time.\n “Ma’am,” he began.\n“Please, call me Anna.”\n“Anna, what I want to know is, how many others besides Juliana did you help to freedom?”\nAnna smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes becoming more visible. “Oh John, all I know is that it was never enough. The truth is, I have to keep fighting. I can’t stop until my body gives out.”\n“Why? Why do you do it?” asked John.\n“You know, all these years and no one has ever asked me that.” She thought for less than three seconds and replied, “Oh well, there’s an easy answer to that. It was Juliana’s mother Mary. When I think of what she did to help her daughter survive, of the sacrifices she made, I realize I can’t stop until slavery is gone forever. What I want most in life is to find her and tell her I am sorry. If I’d realized the wrong of it all sooner, I could have started with her. I could have gotten her to freedom before, well, before she was gone. Yes, I need to tell her I’m sorry. The whole of the country needs to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ for all of 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: Tent City\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2368\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who has to rely on the hospitality of strangers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Imani watched the screen of her mobile phone black out as the battery died, leaving only the dull reflection of her face in the screen to keep her company. It wouldn’t matter if she could find somewhere to charge it; she had no one to call. She stuffed the phone in her purse, hoping it would still be worth something later on. If anything, she could sell it back to the store.\nShe slouched into the rigid park bench, threw her head back, and allowed the heavy winter rain to ruin her makeup. Less than three weeks ago, Imani was (rapidly) climbing the ladder at one of the biggest venture capital firms in the city. Hell, less than a month ago, she was looking up penthouses on her computer, and they weren’t just a dream anymore. She had the money and the network and the Rolls Royce all at her fingertips!\nIt took all of one email to send her to the streets, though. Some new hire, one who was more righteous than most, accused Imani’s boss’ boss of fraudulent activity. After a few days of investigation, the evidence was damning, and the company vanished overnight.\nImani surveyed the empty park as it flooded with rainwater, contemplating all that could have been. She knew damn well what her bosses were doing; evasion was half her job. But how could she care when she was on top of the world?\nFreezing water filled her stilettos and made her thin, shiny pantsuit stick to her skin. Her eyes grew red, and her lips pursed, but Imani would never cry. It wasn’t in the nature of a professional like herself. As the evening grew colder and darker, and the street lamps flickered on all around her, she wondered if she might freeze to death that very night.\nHer house was gone. Her belongings went with it. Her cards were frozen. Her stomach growled. Her bones were racked with soreness and chills.\nThere was terribly little standing between Imani and death tonight.\nSo, she clutched her pursed to her chest, curled her legs up onto the bench, and tucked her head between her knees. She wanted to take her chances at the women’s shelter but had no clue where it was. If I can get through tonight, Imani resolved, I’ll try the unemployment office in the morning. She’d find a new role in no time at all. It was simple really. Just one bad night.\n“Ma’am?”\nImani bolted upright, causing the metal armrest of the bench to jab at her side. Before her stood a little girl, not older than ten, wrapped in a puffy, green coat. The girl’s big, curly hair matted under the rain, and her nose was red with cold. She hugged two gallon jugs of water in her tiny arms, struggling to keep them from slipping away.\n“Are you lost?” said Imani. “Do you need help?”\n“You think I can put these in your purse?” The girl produced two packs of Lucky Strikes from an inner jacket pocket. She ran up and stuffed them into Imani’s purse, zipping it up before she could answer. “I don’t want ‘em to get wet is all.”\n“You shouldn’t have these.”\n“They’re not for me, ma’am.”\nThe girl’s face screwed up, and her brows furrowed in concentration as she shuffled the water jugs in her arms. One slipped through her grasp, but Imani jumped forward and caught it. She offered to carry the second one, and the little girl obliged with a sigh of relief.\n“Thank you, ma’am. What’s your name?”\n“Imani. What’s yours?”\n“Jada.”\n“That’s a pretty name, Jada.”\nThe two had little else to say. She simply stared at Jada in the amber glow of the street lamp, wondering how a girl her size was so unfazed by the freezing rain. Meanwhile, Imani broke into shivers. Unable to bear the stand-still cold any longer (it was well below freezing by now), she stood up from the bench and shuffled in place to gain some semblance of heat.\n“It’s dark out,” said Imani. “You need someone to walk you home?”\n“If you’ll carry the water.” Jada laughed and walked away without looking back.\nImani hurried to catch up, clumsily holding on to both waters and her purse. She half-jogged despite her heels sinking into the murky, wet grass with every step. Before long, the mud claimed one of her shoes entirely, and she eventually ditched the other one.\n“Say, you need a place to stay tonight?” Jada asked over her shoulder.\n“Oh no. I’m fine, thank you.”\nThe girl laughed again. “You’re a bad liar. That’s alright; Ma likes bad liars.”\n“Ma? You’re mother sent you out for cigarettes?”\nJada didn’t offer any answer. Barefoot and beaten, Imani followed the girl’s footsteps, hoping to god she actually knew the way to her mother’s house. They strayed further from the ambience of the streetlamps, and the darkness encroached upon Imani’s nerves. What was she thinking? Following this little kid through the dank, old park? But the offer of a bed for the night, and maybe even something dry to wear, was all too appealing to worry about good sense. Thus, she wrapped her arms tighter around the gallons and shuffled along.\nImani tried to see the hands on her watch but could no longer make them out. She doubted it was even still ticking in this weather. The darkness of the hour suggested about 10pm; in light of this, Jada’s presence in the city park made a lot less sense to Imani. She felt a bit wary of ‘Ma.’ Who sent a kid out this late anyway?\nFinally, her feet hit some pavement, and she was relieved to see another line of street lamps in the distance. Jada skipped ahead, moving faster than Imani could manage.\n“Wait up!”\nThe growling of engines rushed by, and she feared that Jada was going to run out into a busy street. She hurried to catch up, but found that the light they followed was not a line of yellow streetlamps, but high and bright highway bulbs. Above their heads buzzed the freeway, all dazzled in white light and cars pushing twenty over the speed limit, and Imani wondered how she hadn’t recognized it earlier. It used to be her daily commute, after all.\nHer heart dropped to her stomach when she saw Jada make a mad dash across the feeder road, but the girl safely arrived beneath the overpass on the other side. With her blood still pulsing in panic, Imani reluctantly followed, quickly crossing the road once she was certain there were no headlights approaching.\n“You alright?” asked Jada.\nImani tried to respond and found herself completely out of breath. “You scared me.”\n“My bad. I’ll take those then.” Jada gestured vaguely toward the water jugs and the purse. They were safe and covered under the road now.\nImani transferred the goods to Jada, who immediately ran off with them. The relentless energy of kids never ceased to amaze her. She stood with her hands on her knees, catching her breath, wondering exasperatedly how far this house could be.\nBut they traveled no further.\nWhen Imani looked up, she immediately confronted a large, gray tent, set up with camping poles and weighted down with a couple of cinder blocks. It wasn’t alone either. She stood up straight and faced an incredible crowd of tents and blankets and fold-out chairs and sleeping people. So many people.\nA radio played from somewhere, probably within one of the tents. For a brief moment, the voice of that artist formerly known as Prince echoed with an entourage of heavy static then clicked off. All that remained was the thunder of the cars above their heads and the patter of the rain.\n“C’mon, miss Imani.” When Jada returned, she was empty-handed.\nShe grabbed Imani by the wrist and led her away, weaving through and around the tents. They tip-toed over shopping bags and backpacks and snoring bodies. Imani’s heavy footfalls caused a woman to stir amidst her pile of blankets. The woman propped herself up on her elbow, hurriedly soothing a baby that tossed and turned in her arms.\n“Sorry,” whispered Imani.\nThe woman stared a moment with squinted eyes, then turned her back, curled her knees toward her chest, and returned to sleep with the baby.\nKnock-kneed and weary, Imani gathered her posture and continued.\n“Hiya,” beckoned one old man.\nHe shifted in his chair with a grunt and tipped a worn VFW cap toward Imani. She nodded to him, pursing her lips in what she hoped was a polite smile. The man mirrored Imani, smiling and nodding. The crow’s feet around the corners of his eyes deepened inexorably.\n“Hurry on,” Jada beckoned loudly. “Don’t mind Mr. Jay.”\nImani winced at the wave of disturbance that her volume caused amongst the few nearby.\nThe two halted outside a small, dark blue tent, which was set up against the looming, concrete base of the overpass. An air ripe with smoke and gasoline settled over Imani; she crinkled her nose at the unfamiliarity of it.\n“Fix your face,” commanded a grizzled voice out of the darkness.\nImani dropped her grimace immediately, even though she wasn’t sure if the chastisement was meant for her. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows, and she found the voice to be a lady, about eighty or so in age, with a long face and thinning, white hair. The lady’s eyes shook with some astigmatism as she looked Imani up and down. Her jaw shifted side to side, and her gangly fingers worked their way around a dying cigarette butt.\n“Don’t be ugly, Ma,” said Jada. “This is Imani. Met her at the park.”\n“Mm-hm,” answered Ma with a rasp in her throat. Her eyes paused on Imani’s bare, mud-caked feet, and she raised an eyebrow dubiously. “You need somethin’ to eat, Imani?”\n“No, I’m fine.”\nMa chuckled hoarsely, patting the metal arm of her wheelchair as she did. “You’re a bad liar, little girl. I like bad liars.”\nImani laughed along, but kept her head down and her hands clasped in front of her. Ma waved to Jada, muttering something unintelligible. In response, the girl ducked into the little, blue tent and reappeared with a granola bar, a bottled water, and big towel.\n***\nBefore long, Imani was sitting in a dry t-shirt and jeans, under a blanket, cross-legged in a black, canvas chair across from Ma. Half a granola bar remained in her fist, and the water bottle sat in her lap. Jada sat on the ground, leaned up against Ma’s legs, half-asleep.\n“Is Jada your daughter?” Imani spoke through a mouthful of granola, only catching in hindsight the err in her question. “Or granddaughter rather?”\n“Might as well be.”\n“But she calls you Ma.”\n“Everybody does.”\n“Should I?”\n“If it suits you.”\nMa pulled out one of her new packs of Lucky Strikes and lit a fresh cigarette. She took a quick drag, then turned her head to the side to blow smoke into the wind. “You alright?”\n“Yes ma’am,” Imani answered.\nMa tucked her chin and chuckled, shaking her head all the while. She gestured her cigarette toward the little, blue tent. “You can sleep there tonight.”\n“Oh, I couldn’t—”\n“You will.” Ma spoke gentle but stern, and Imani breathed a little easier.\n“Thank you,” she said, punctuating her thanks with a swig from the water bottle.\nThe chill on the wind bit at Imani’s face and heels, and she grew all the more thankful for the sheets she wrapped herself in. Ma offered her a cigarette. She took it. She swore she quit years and years ago, but the sickening freeze of nighttime warranted a cheat.\n***\nThe night wore on in troubled silence, turning the rain to sleet and puddles to ice. And Imani smoked with Ma while the city fell asleep. When she closed her eyes, Imani could pretend she sat at a desk chair, in an air-conditioned office. She existed at the center, the hearthstone, of the city. Her throne was a corner office, which towered high into the clouds. Her floor-to-ceiling window offered a personal amusement from a circus of people, the size of ants, bustling about the streets below her feet. It was all too laughable. Watching them scurry.\n“Don’t sleep now.”\nImani’s eyes flicked open to find Ma still surveying her. “What?”\n“You better put that out first, you know.”\nShe gestured to the half-length cigarette that was, in fact, already slipping through Imani’s fingers. Imani nodded drowsily, tossing the thing on the ground and smashing it out with her heel.\n“This city kills ya, huh?” said Ma.\n“What?”\nMa sighed and stamped out her own cigarette. “Can’t you speak more than two words at a time?”\n“I guess.”\n“Just get on to bed, honey. You’re looking as tired as me.”\nImani didn’t move. She looked around for that little girl, Jada, who must have retired to the tent already. The chill of night snuck past the blankets, and she shivered again. A striking blueness in her fingertips made her certain she would have died alone in that park had she stayed there.\nShe licked her lips and found them cracked and sticky. “Do you think I’ll be out of place for long?”\nImani knew the question had no sense. She acted as though the woman in the wheelchair were an oracle of sorts.\n“No,” said Ma. “You’ll be alright, little girl. Worry in the morning.”\n“I think I’ll try the unemployment office in the morning.”\n“That’ll be good. That’s real nice.”\nThe space between the two women grew dark and damp. Ma leaned forward in her chair and made a beckoning gesture with her hand. Imani followed, settling onto the ground by the wheelchair and eventually resting her heavy head on its arm. Without pretense, Ma laid a bony hand on her shoulder.\nImani cried quietly. Her face grew red and contorted, but she didn’t hide it.\n“That’s alright,” said Ma, giving Imani an assuring squeeze on the shoulder. “You’re alright here.”\n“Thank you.” Imani’s voice was stifled in a sob.\n“Ain’t a thing.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Period at the End of A Sentence\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1506\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a type of prison cell." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Tyler Stevens was a man condemned to die. He had been convicted by a jury of his peers and sentenced by a judge who prayed for God’s mercy on his soul. As is the case with all death row inmates in Texas, Tyler became a permanent resident at the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville. Bitter and unrepentant, he spent most of his days starting fights, ignoring orders, and proclaiming his innocence to anyone who would listen. \n\nAt night, however, Tyler would sleep. He would often tell fellow inmates and guards alike that he “wasn’t good at many things but sleeping was one of them.” In fact, there were very few things in prison Tyler enjoyed more as it was often the only respite from the terminally mundane. Each night when the lights would flicker off, Tyler would lie in bed, pull up the covers, and fall fast asleep. Until tonight. Tonight sleep was his enemy, and he was going to fight his foe with all his strength.\n\nTyler had been on death row for just over 227 months. He found it funny how the inmates counted in months, like a mother telling someone that her child was twenty months instead of almost two. On this day, however, Tyler stopped counting up and started counting down. His last appeal exhausted and his request for clemency denied, he knew the moment the lights went out that he had five-hundred forty minutes to live. He wasn’t going to waste a single one sleeping.\n\nWhen the lights were on, Tyler would find himself in a cell which was little more than a medium-sized bathroom with a bed. The walls and the floors, like the atmosphere, were ice cold. It was why, up until that night, Tyler craved the dark. Throughout his incarceration, its blackness had been a blanket that swaddled him. It gave him solace and undeserved peace. Tyler also discovered early on that there was no time in the dark. Each moment felt like the one before, indistinguishable from the one to follow. He rarely encountered this phenomenon as he was usually sound asleep within minutes.\n\nBut on this night, he lay awake as if time stood still. When the light went off all he could feel was the void left by it’s absence, and the silence that used to sing him to sleep was loud.\n\nThe little light that did find its way through the small window on his cell door wasn’t enough to provide any comfort. Instead it played tricks on his mind, filling it with thoughts of the past and regrets heretofore buried deep in his subconscious.\n\nAs his eyes adjusted to the dark, he was startled by a shadow he was certain he’d never seen there before. It stood as silent and motionless as the dead but Tyler knew it had a human form and even in the low light Tyler could tell the shadow was staring directly at him. \n\nAt first, he thought his eerie cellmate might be the spirit of his mother, but he quickly dismissed that idea. Tricia Stevens was a cold, unfeeling woman. She sat idly by when Tyler’s father, drunk or high, beat her son mercilessly. She hadn’t come to a single one of his hearings or visiting days. He knew she didn’t have the time or desire to haunt him. In truth, he had no idea who his mind had conjured up as a companion for his last night on this earth. He only knew that the shadow did nothing but watch in silence, until Tyler turned towards the wall. Then the shadow spoke to him in a thick Boston accent.\n\n“Well Tylah, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”\n\nThe voice was terrifying yet familiar. In his heart of hearts Tyler knew he was alone but it still took superhuman courage to turn back in the voice’s direction. To Tyler’s dismay, the faceless shadow, still encroached his space. \n\nHe knew the voice instantly. \n\nMrs. Murphy had been a staunch Irish Catholic English teacher from Tyler's first high school. In Tyler’s whole life, she had been the one person who believed in him. \n\n“This isn’t like skipping my class or cheating on a test,” the shadow continued. “What did you do to get yourself locked up here?”\n\nTyler knew in the depths of his soul, in the place where truth goes to die, that the shadow wasn’t real, and Mrs. Murphy wasn’t in his cell talking to him. Though in the dark and facing the end, he felt something completely unexpected—gratitude. He was glad for the companionship. \n\n“I did something awful, Mrs. Murphy.” Tyler responded, now looking directly at the shadow. “It turns out everyone was right—I was a bad seed from the start.”\n\n“You stop that right now, Tylah Stevens. You are not a bad person.”\n\n“But Mrs. Murphy, you don't understand.”\n\n“I understand more than you know, Tylah. You were always one of my favorite students.”\n\n“How can you say that? I skipped more days than I was present and…”\n\n“And when you were there, no one wrote with more depth and insight. You, my friend, were wicked smaht.”\n\n“No, Mrs. Murphy, I was just wicked.”\n\n“Wicked? Hahdly, Do you remember the necklace?”\n\n“I don’t,” Tyler answered, lying to himself and the shadow.\n\n“Yes, you do.” The shadow responded as if Tyler was back in school and had gotten a question wrong. “When I had cancer, you came to see me in the hospital and brought me a necklace.”\n\n“A cross.” \n\n“Yes, a cross, Tylah. You were the only student who visited with me. You sat with me and read to me and comforted me when I was in pain. You gave me that necklace.”\n\n“My grandmother’s necklace.”\n\n“That’s right. Those weren’t the actions of a wicked boy.”\n\n“But you don’t know what I did!”\n\n“Okay, tell me, what exactly did you do?”\n\n“I killed a man, Mrs. Murphy. I shot him and I left him to die.”\n\nFor a moment the shadow sat silent, long enough for Tyler to contemplate what he had just said. It had been more than 18 years since he had been arrested. 18 years of trials and appeals, and this was the first time he ever admitted to himself what he had done.\n\n“Are you sorry, Tylah?” the shadow asked, breaking the silence.\n\nThe question hung in the air somewhere between light and dark.\n\nTyler had never allowed himself to consider if he was sorry, but he was. For the first time since his arrest, he felt true remorse.\n\n“I am Mrs. Murphy,” Tyler said, breaking into tears, “From the bottom of my heart—I am so sorry.”\n\n“Why?” The shadow asked. “Why are you sorry?”\n\n“Because he didn’t deserve to die. He was just a clerk at the gas station. I knew him. We would talk when I stopped in for cigarettes, and I killed him. I killed him for fifty-eight dollars.”\n\n“So you’re not just sorry you got caught?”\n\n“No, Mrs. Murphy, not at all. I deserve to die.”\n\n“Maybe so, but you’re not dead yet. So what are you going to do now?”\n\n“What do you mean? What can I do now?”\n\n“You can choose how you die.”\n\n“But I don’t understand—what does it matter how I die?”\n\n“When dying is all that is left, it matters a great deal.”\n\n”I don’t understand. How? I don’t control anything.”\n\n”Yes you do, Tylah. You can die with dignity. Accept your fate—repent. It will make all the difference” \n\nBefore Tyler could respond, the light coming through his window flickered. The shadow disappeared.\n\nAt dawn, breakfast was brought to Tyler who had accomplished his initial goal, he had not slept. His last meal was nothing fancy, just bacon and eggs, a favorite from his grandmother’s house when he was a boy. Tyler ate in silence with a peace that seemed unattainable only a few hours earlier. \n\nThen, with breakfast finished, there was just one thing left to do. Tyler accepted his restraints willingly, walking without complaint to the room where he would receive a lethal injection. When he was secured to the table and had his IV needle inserted, the curtains allowing people to view the execution opened up.\n\nThere were only three people in the room. Tyler recognized two right away—the mother and father of the young man he had killed. Tyler’s eyes welled up with tears, but he made sure his words were clear and heartfelt.\n\n“I am so sorry for what I’ve done to your son—your family. I hope you find peace.”\n\nWhen he finished, he looked at the third person in the room. She was much older than he remembered, but the cross that hung on the chain around her neck gave away her identity. He had no words for Mrs. Murphy, just a head nod to thank her for being there.\n\nWith nothing left to do but die, he smiled as the first drug entered his veins. Then, he was finally free to fall asleep." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Red and yellow. Black and white.\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2997\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the arrival of a strange visitor in a small town." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She stood in front of the open door while the teacher and the school secretary spoke in the corridor. \n \"I got the last new student; this is an imposition!\"\n \"It's only for two weeks.\"\n She shifted her book bag from one side to the other. Her eyes never left the floor. The leather on the top of her shoes had a crack. The stitching was coming apart at the toe, but they shined with fresh polish. Backstitch embroidery accented with an occasional flower covered the line from the let-down hem. \n \"I don't have a desk for her.\"\n \"The custodian is looking one. This time of the year, we are short on desks.\"\n The girl, eyes down, heard every word as a knot formed in Esther's stomach. It was the queasy tightness she felt when Daddy came home late from the Dew Drop Inn on payday. \n Esther's classmates nudged each other as the girl, the first Black person they had ever seen, continued to stare at the floor. Esther watched a single tear fall onto the front of her dress. Jeff, the meanest boy in the class, found an ink pen, wrote something on his hand, and passed it down the row. The pen went around the room until it came to Esther. She put it down. She would be the only one in the class without CP on her hand. Last year, she had been the target of a Cootie Protection campaign. Esther remembered the cruelty of those two letters deeply.\n \" I will take this up with Principal Kerns after school.\"\n \"This was his decision.\"\n Mrs. Brown closed the door with unnecessary force as Esther raised her hand. \"What could you possibly want?\"\n \"I'll share with her. At the back table?\"\n Mrs. Brown gave a backhand wave, almost as if shooing a fly, to show\n her acceptance. The girl made her way to the back table. \"Pick up your feet, child, and the rest of you be quiet!\" Mrs. Brown shouted. And that's when I noticed her shoes were two sizes too big. \n Jeff turned to Esther. \"Kissing up to Mrs. Brown. Not cool Sweat Hog.\"\n Last Sunday he stood beside her singing red and yellow, black and white. They are precious in His sight. Didn't he remember?\n The girl joined Esther at the back table and looked for a place to put her bag as Esther realized Mrs. Brown hadn't bothered to assign her a coat hook. I'll remind her, Esther thought, or she can share mine. \n The secretary's knock had interrupted geography class. It was Esther's favorite textbook, full of stories about children who lived in different places. They read about two children whose parents ran the Wagon Wheel Motel in Arizona, kids living on a Christmas tree farm in Maine, and now a family who grew oranges in California. \n \"I've been there,\" she whispered.\n \"California?\" \n \"Last winter. I'll be there next winter too. I'm Barbara.\"\n \"Esther.\" \n Mrs. Brown handed them two mimeographed worksheets with questions about the chapter.\n \"Just because I allowed the two of you to share a book doesn't mean you can share answers. Do your own work!\" \n As Mrs. Brown carried her considerable girth back to her desk, Barbara whispered, \"I read this chapter at my last school. I don’t need the book.\n Esther looked for a pencil, and finding none, rose to get one from her desk. \"Come back here!\" Barbara hissed. She opened her bag and produced a dozen perfectly sharpened pencils with pristine erasers. Esther thought back to the times she scrounged in the junk drawer for the tiny stubs from her father's golf rounds that summer. When Barbara handed Esther a new pencil, it felt like a gift. The luxury of its newness felt delicious in her hand. She smiled her thanks and looked at Barbara. Her skin, the color of the terracotta pot filled with geraniums on Esther's front porch, was luminous. Esther had read that word in a library book last week but didn't grasp its meaning until now. Esther's eyes swept the girl's high cheekbones until they rested on her almond-shaped eyed, dark rich brown, and crowned with long, curled eyelashes. Esther had watched Mom crimp her lashes with a menacing-looking tool, then coating them with mascara until they looked like angry spiders, attempting to create what Barbara grew without intervention. \n Esther read as Barbara printed her answers in handwriting that looked like it came from a machine. Mrs. Brown was walking up and down the aisles, glancing here and there at the student's work. \"Nice work, Jeffrey! Check your answer to number three.\" She always praised the students whose fathers were doctors or lawyers. \"Barbie!\" she suddenly screeched. No one answered so she pointed at the back table. \"Barbie! I'm talking to you!\" \n Suddenly Barbara realized Mrs. Brown meant her. \"Yes, ma'am?\"\n \"In this school, we use cursive. Do you know how?\"\n \"Yes, ma'am.\"\n \"Then do it over correctly! There are extra sheets on my desk, and pick up your feet this time.!\"\n The class snickered as Barbara made her way to the front of the room. \"Silence!\" Mrs. Brown commanded. Esther couldn't help but notice the teacher's self-satisfied smile as she watched the humiliation that she had visited upon Barbara. The knot in Esther's stomach tightened.\n At lunchtime, some students went to the cafeteria to buy lunch. Those with a packed lunch ate at their desks. Esther went to the cloakroom to get her metal Campus Queen box with a game board on the back and two magnetic game pieces stored on the inside lid. She had begged her mother to buy it last year when she saw it at Woolworth's. \"Your lunch box is just fine.\" Her mother told her. Esther fantasized all summer about playing the game on the back with a friend. When a neighbor noticed she wasn't going to the movies on Saturday with the other girls, Esther shyly told the woman about saving her allowance for the lunch box. The woman hired her as a mother's helper several mornings a week. On Esther's last day of work, the woman handed her a wrapped package. Esther cried when she opened the gift, hoping that having a cool lunch box would win over the girls. So far, no one had played with her.\n The two girls pulled out wax paper bundles from their lunches. \n \"Where did you live before?\" \n \"Last week, we were in New Jersey.\"\n \"Why do you move around so much?\"\n \"My parents. Work.\"\n \"Where do you live now?\"\n \"On the island. Near the river.\"\n Esther's eyes widened. \"In the chicken coops?\"\n Barbara shrugged. Esther dropped the conversation, hoping she hadn't hurt her feelings. As they finished their lunch, Esther crumpled up her various wax paper bags and put them in the trash can. Barbara carefully folded up hers and put them back in the wrinkled brown paper bag. \n \"Recess is next. Come with me to the cloakroom. I'll show you where my hook is. We can share.\"\n The class filed out to the playground. Boys joined the kickball games, and some girls headed for the hopscotch boards or jump ropes. Esther usually joined a group of girls, who spent the time walking around the building. They had discovered earlier in the year that you didn't need to stay in the teachers' line of vision in third grade. The girls relished the freedom of feeling unsupervised as they held hands. Esther was always on the end of the flank of giggling girls. No one ever extended her hand to Esther, forcing her always to grab the hand on the end. Today was different. Someone grabbed her hand quickly, surprising Esther until she realized they weren't choosing her. They were avoiding Barbara. They are precious in His sight, thought Esther as she dropped the girl's hand and connected herself to the end of the row, taking Barbara's hand in her own. \n Esther wrapped her chubby, sweaty fingers around Barbara's smooth, perfectly dry hand. \"Tomorrow, we're going to eat lunch faster, so we have time to play that lunch box game,\" Barbara whispered in Esther's ear. Esther's heart swelled. For a moment, she wasn't the fat girl with the drunken daddy. She was just a girl with a friend. \n That night, Esther tried to tell her family about her new friend. \"She's pretty. You should see her eyelashes, Mom. Her handwriting is beautiful, and she's so smart! I don't know why Mrs. Brown is so mean to her. She won't even call her by her real name! Can I invite her home? Can she stay for dinner or maybe spend the night?\n Esther's mother sighed wearily. \"We'll have to see.\" \n We'll have to see meant no, but Esther persisted. \"She called Mrs. Brown ma'am. She's probably got good table manners too.\"\n \"Where does she live?\"\n \"On the island.\" \n Esther's parents shared a glance before her father spoke. \"I think you should just see her at school. Don't be too friendly with this girl.\" Esther, crestfallen, kept quiet. Daddy was already on this third beer, making further discussion dangerous.\n While Daddy snored in front of the TV, Esther tried again to talk about Barbara, but her mother was firm. \"I know you want a friend,\" she told Esther. \"But I also know what this girl is. If you continue down this path, no one will ever want to be your friend.\"\n \"I don't understand what you're talking about; she's so nice!\"\n \"Does she look like the other girls?\" her mother asked gently.\n \"No, she's way prettier than anyone.\"\n \"But she's colored, isn't she?\"\n \"Yes, so?\n \"It's nice of you to be kind to this girl, but mixing with their kind will only lead to trouble. Before you go to sleep tonight, get on your knees and thank the good Lord above that you were born a white girl.\"\n \"Mom! That's mean!\"\n \"No, it’s truth. That girl will not come to this house. Don't upset Dad.\"\n That night before bed, Esther got on her knees and prayed, not in gratitude for her pale complexion but for the blessing of a potential friend. Red and yellow, black and white, Esther thought. God and I know the real truth. \n The next day, as the two girls were still sharing the back table, Esther boldly suggested playing at Barbara's house after school. \"Your bus stop is right before mine,\" Esther explained. \"I could get off with you and then walk home later.\"\n \"Nope.\"\n \"Why not?\"\n \"Because after school, I need to pick.\"\n \"Pick what? You don't live on a farm.\"\n \"Esther, don't you know?\"\n \"Know what?\"\n Barbara sighed deeply.. \"My parents are MFW's.\"\n \"What's a MFW?\"\n \"Migrant Farm Workers. Right now, we're picking strawberries. In two weeks, we'll head south to pick the tomatoes.\"\n \"So every few weeks, you go to a new school?\"\n \"Yup, and every few weeks, I pick something new.\"\n \"That sounds horrible! Why doesn't your dad get a real job?\"\n Barbara smiled sadly. \"White folks go to high school and college. They get real jobs. Colored folks do the rest.\" \n Silence hung in the air between them. Barbara flashed Esther a look of quiet dignity while Esther felt shame wash over her. \n\"Flip over that lunchbox. Let's play Campus Queen,\" Barbara said, clearing the air. At recess, Barbara produced a set of jacks and taught Esther how to play, avoiding the other girls and their mean hand-holding game.\n That afternoon, Esther hatched her plan. She convinced her older brother to give their mom her carefully worded note, and when Barbara's bus stop arrived, Esther rose with her. \"Where are you going?\" Barbara asked.\n \"With you. I want to help pick.\"\n Barbara looked at Esther as if she had grown a third eye. \"Why in the world would you want to do that? It's hot and buggy and those lily-white fingers of yours will get all stained.\" Undeterred, Esther followed her friend.\n \"Here's home,\" Barbara announced as she opened the door to a dark room. Two sets of bunk beds lined the walls. A rickety table and several battered chairs were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. \"We were lucky; the last people cleaned up real good. Saved us a lot of time since we didn't have to scrub the place down.\" \n Esther looked around, seeing only one empty outlet. \"What do you do for light?\"\n \"We work hard. When dark comes, we go to bed. \"Mama has a hotplate, so it's nice to have a plug so we can have hot meals. This place is nicer than some. Having the creek so close makes hauling water easier.\" Barbara handed Esther a pair of ratty gym shorts and a faded tee-shirt. \"I think these will fit you. You're probably already in enough trouble without getting strawberry stains on your school clothes. The necessary is out back if you need to go.\"\n \"There's an outhouse?\"\n \"Two of them! In New Jersey, there was only one for all eighty of us.\"\n The two girls, now in work clothes, joined the workers in the field. Although Barbara's parents seemed nervous about Esther's arrival, they greeted her as if she were somebody special. The workers teased her about how easily she eyed ripe berries from the ones that weren't ready. Esther impressed the group by working as hard as anyone and earned herself an invitation to supper.\n Barbara's family sat Esther in the best of the three chairs like she was visiting royalty. \"I hope you like fish,\" Barbara's mother said. \"We caught a mess of them in the river this morning.\" As if on cue, Barbara's father set a platter of trout that he had grilled over the fire outside. Her mother sliced bread baked in a coffee can over that same fire. After a blessing, the family began filling their plates. Esther watched uncomfortably as Barbara and her siblings ate, standing up while she sat in the best chair. \n \"Don't get your drawers in a knot,\" Barbara told her. \"It was my turn to sit. It's cool.\"\n Esther allowed herself to relax and take in the frivolity surrounding her. Unlike meals at her house, there was no tension. Everyone laughed and interrupted each other with good-natured ribbing. After the meal, the family stood up and sang 'His Eye is on the Sparrow', a hymn unfamiliar to Esther. Tears collect in the corner of her eyes as they harmonized. Barbara saw her reaction and explained. \"In this family, when we work, we work hard. When we get to school, we take in every bit of learning we can. And when we sing, we make a joyful noise.\" Esther never wanted her visit to end. This, she thought to herself, is a family. Daddy hurled insults at her mother at her house, her brother pilfered cigarettes from Daddy's pack, and in the mornings, her mother cried when Daddy drank the grocery money.\n If these were the advantages of being born a white girl, she would gladly give up her chalky skin and straight hair to feel the way she had felt right now. \n She walked home by herself, knowing it was best to arrive alone. As she got to the edge of the yard, Daddy, with one can left in his six-pack, grabbed her by the hair. He swore at Esther as he dragged her into his basement workshop. \"Ordinarily, I'd let you pick the weapon,\" he told her, \"but I'm really pissed me off tonight.\" With a mean glint in his eye, he asked, \"How old are you now?\" \n \"Eight.\"\n \"Nine it is,\" said Daddy, not bothering to mask his pleasure. \"One!\" he yelled as the wide leather belt hit her legs just under her bottom. \"Don't worry; I'm aiming high. The marks won't show. Two!\" The belt fell again. \"We stick with our own. Three!\" Esther swallowed a gasp as the blow irritated her already smarting skin. \"Four! Do you like eating with a coon? Five! Are you an ape? Six!\" The rest of Daddy's words escaped Esther. She reached her pain limits and fainted.\n Mom carried her to bed, cleaned her wounds, rubbed them with salve, and wrapped her legs in gauze. \"Maybe you should stay home tomorrow.\"\n Esther hesitated, not wanting to miss playing Campus Queen with Barbara. \"I'll be ok, Mom. Thanks for taking care of me.\"\n \"I warned you about this, Esther.\" \n Esther nodded as she sunk into the pillow. They are precious in His sight, she whispered.\n Esther spent the next days feeling happy. Jeff still passed around his ink pen every morning to protect his friends from imagined cooties. Mrs. Brown never spoke to Barbara unless it was to call Barbie out for some imaginary infraction. Barbara kept a close eye on Esther. When they were writing their spelling words, she whispered Nickel, not nickle. Think alphabetical order.\" As a math whiz, she spotted Ester's mistakes and tapped them with her pencil. At night, Esther dreamed that she and Barbara ran away to a place where they could be best friends forever.\n And then the dreaded morning came when Esther sat at the back table, all alone. When Mrs. Brown called the roll, no one answered when she shouted Barbie in her annoyed voice. \"Move back to your desk, Esther.\" the teacher-directed. \"Fortunately, she's gone.\"\n Esther never forgot her two-week friend. She graduated from teacher's college and kept the promise she had made to herself at that table in her third-grade classroom. Whenever a new student came to her class, Esther greeted them as though she had been waiting all year for them to arrive. \n Years later, Esther turned on the evening news as a breathtakingly beautiful Black woman, a civil rights lawyer, was being interviewed about a case she was trying. There was no mistaking those high cheekbones and lush eyelashes. Red and yellow. Black and white. They are precious in His sight, Esther thought to herself.\n \"Well done, Barbara,\" she whispered." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Shattered Etiquette\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1048\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who breaks an unwritten social rule and the consequences they face as a result." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time, in the quaint town of Harmonyville, there lived a man named Theodore Raines. Theodore was an unassuming character, known for his impeccable manners and unwavering adherence to the unwritten social rules that governed the tight-knit community. Harmonyville was a place where tradition and decorum were valued above all else, and its residents prided themselves on maintaining a delicate balance of social harmony.\nOne sunny morning, Theodore received an invitation to the annual Garden Gala, the most prestigious event in Harmonyville. The Gala was a spectacle of refined elegance, where the town's elite gathered to celebrate the beauty of their meticulously maintained gardens and showcase the splendor of their homes. Theodore was no stranger to these gatherings, having attended every year without a single misstep.\nHowever, this year was different. A mysterious energy had taken hold of Theodore, a rebellion against the constraints of conformity that had bound him for so long. As he perused the invitation, he felt an inexplicable desire to break free from the shackles of unwritten rules and expectations. An idea began to bloom in his mind, like a wildflower amidst a manicured garden.\nTheodore's deviation from the norm was simple yet profound. Instead of wearing the customary black-tie attire, he decided to don a vibrant crimson suit with a polka-dotted bowtie that clashed outrageously with the town's subdued palette. The decision sent ripples of shock and discomfort through Harmonyville. The mere act of deviating from the established dress code was an affront to the unspoken agreement that everyone would conform to a specific aesthetic.\nThe night of the Garden Gala arrived, and as Theodore stepped into the venue, gasps and whispers followed him like a mischievous shadow. The sea of black-tie attire parted as he made his way through the garden, the vibrant red of his suit standing out like a wild rose in a field of daisies. The air was thick with disapproval, and the tension among the attendees was palpable.\nTheodore's audacious choice of attire, however, was just the beginning. As the night unfolded, he danced with abandon, twirling partners with a joyous disregard for the choreographed precision that typically characterized the Gala. He laughed louder than was deemed acceptable and engaged in conversations that delved into controversial topics, shattering the polite veneer that usually adorned Harmonyville's social interactions.\nAs news of Theodore's transgressions spread, the town's residents found themselves torn between disapproval and a clandestine admiration for his audacity. The younger generation, in particular, secretly reveled in his rebellion, while the older, more conservative members of the community were scandalized.\nThe consequences of Theodore's actions became apparent in the days that followed. The tightly-knit social fabric of Harmonyville began to unravel, and Theodore found himself at the center of a storm of whispers and pointed fingers. Invitations to social events dwindled, and once-friendly faces turned away in disapproval. The once-celebrated man of impeccable manners was now a pariah, an outcast in a town that valued conformity above all else.\nAs Theodore faced the consequences of his rebellion, he found solace in unexpected places. A group of like-minded individuals, inspired by his courage, began to emerge. They were tired of the suffocating norms that governed their lives and sought liberation from the chains of tradition. Together, they formed a clandestine society that embraced individuality and celebrated the beauty of breaking free from the constraints of societal expectations.\nTheodore's act of defiance had inadvertently sparked a revolution in Harmonyville. The younger generation, inspired by his courage, began to question the stifling traditions that had defined their lives. The town, once bound by unwritten rules, now faced a choice: cling desperately to the past or embrace the winds of change that Theodore had unleashed.\nDespite the support he found within his newfound community, Theodore couldn't escape the loneliness that came with being an outcast in the town he once called home. The bridges he had burned were not easily rebuilt, and the disapproving glances that followed him wherever he went served as a constant reminder of the price he had paid for his rebellion.\nAs the seasons changed, so did the dynamics of Harmonyville. The traditionalists fought to maintain the status quo, while the rebels, inspired by Theodore's bold actions, pushed for a more inclusive and open-minded society. The town became a battleground of ideologies, with debates echoing through its cobblestone streets and the once-harmonious community now divided into factions.\nOne fateful day, Harmonyville faced a crisis that required unity and cooperation. A devastating storm threatened to destroy the carefully tended gardens and homes that were the pride of the town. In the face of this impending disaster, the residents were forced to put aside their differences and work together to protect the essence of Harmonyville.\nTheodore, despite his status as an outcast, was not excluded from the communal effort. As the storm clouds gathered and rain began to fall, he stood side by side with those who had once shunned him. In the midst of the chaos, the divisions that had plagued Harmonyville began to crumble. The realization dawned that, beneath the surface, they were all bound by a shared love for their town.\nAs the storm raged on, the people of Harmonyville worked together to fortify their homes and salvage their gardens. In those moments of crisis, the arbitrary distinctions that had divided them lost their significance. Theodore's bold act of rebellion, once a source of division, became a catalyst for change, paving the way for a more inclusive and compassionate community.\nIn the aftermath of the storm, as the sun broke through the clouds, Harmonyville emerged transformed. The rebellion sparked by Theodore's actions had left an indelible mark, reshaping the town's social landscape. Unwritten rules and stifling traditions gave way to a more dynamic and accepting community.\nTheodore, once an outcast, found redemption in the most unexpected place—within the hearts of those he had challenged and inspired. The Garden Gala, now a symbol of both tradition and change, became an annual celebration of diversity and resilience. The town that had been on the brink of division had learned that true harmony arises not from rigid adherence to unwritten rules, but from the acceptance of individuality and the strength that comes from unity in the face of adversity." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Josie & Jack\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1948\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about strangers becoming friends, or friends becoming strangers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The street lights were still on at precisely four o’clock when Josephine Beaulieu opened the shiny chrome doors of her diner with a whoosh, switched on one row of schoolhouse lights, then another, and placed a clean glass carafe on the coffee maker. High heels clicking, she moved to the kitchen, flipped a row of switches on the fryers, setting their red lights aglow, then disappeared into the refrigerator. She returned to the lunch counter balancing three golden pies. She settled them gently inside their glass case as the coffee machine burbled cheerfully in the background. With a clean, white cloth in hand, Josephine moved briskly along the row of shiny stools lined up in front of the counter, stopping to straighten the last one, perpetually askew. A quick loop around the dining room booths with the cloth, and each individual jukebox on each red formica table was gleaming in the early morning light.\n\nAs the sun began to kiss the Hollywood Hills outside the tall plate-glass windows, Josephine’s staff began to trickle in. Cooks first and busboys, then wait staff, bursting through the doors, shrugging off hoodies slouched over white button-down shirts and poodle skirts, bow ties and spit-shined loafers. They tucked their cell phones away, shaking off the 21st century, before they fanned out across the black and white checkered floor, firing up the big chrome range, placing glass jam pots on tables next to the salt and pepper. They were all actors, young and bubbling over with ambition. They willingly took extra shifts and worked holidays because working at Josie’s was just like stepping into another time. Plus, it was fun. Josephine watched over them all, pushing them to do better, encouraging them when they were down; a petite mother hen in jewel-toned sheath dresses and matching pumps.\n\nEvery morning, when the neon-rimmed clock above the doors struck exactly six o’clock, Josephine pressed a button on the perfectly restored Wurlitzer in the front lobby. As the first notes of “Blue Suede Shoes” wafted through the room, she took a deep, satisfying breath, glanced around the world she had created, and flipped the sign hanging on the door from Closed to Open, Please Come In. \n\nOnce the restaurant was humming with customers, Josephine moved to the phone at the hostess stand, fielding calls from studio assistants placing lunch orders. They would pour in at noon from the shiny high rises and yawning stages that gave way to a jumble of vintage storefronts and fast-casual restaurants surrounding the diner. They leaned against the wall as they waited, enjoying the break, talking about their endless lists of errands, props, coffee, costumes. “The director wants everything super authentic,” they would say, “Josie, didn’t you say there was a great second-hand store in the valley?”\n\n“Why yes,” she would smile, her accent hinting at her childhood in the suburbs of Paris, “Right there, on Caheunga, of course. It’s the best.”\n\nAfter the lunch rush, Josephine often took few minutes to catch her breath in the bar. While the front half of the diner was Happy Days, bubble gum and bobby sox, the bar in the back was classic LA Noir; cool, dark, mysterious. She had worked hard to restore the lounge from a worn 1970’s dive bar to its original polished-wood glory. It still smelled faintly of cigarettes. Together, the two spaces reflected everything Josephine loved about the 1950’s, the light along with the dark.\n\nJosephine slid onto a red Naugahyde stool. The bartender gave her a friendly nod. Rudy had gotten the showbiz bug working on a movie in Baton Rouge. “It was a lucky break,” he liked to say with an easy grin. “Now here I am.” The customers told him all of their secrets. \n\nAt this time of day, the bar was usually empty, save for an early bird here and there, nursing a beer, fighting writer’s block or licking the wounds of a bad audition. Today there was a new customer, a man, neatly dressed in a suit and tie. His hat rested on the bar next to him, his shoulders shrugged, hands cradled around a thick-bottomed tumbler of whiskey, half empty. Josephine glanced his way. An actor, probably. Rudy slid a cup and saucer in front of her, two tea bags, a slice of lemon. The man looked up, then dropped his eyes back down to his drink.\n\nJosephine rarely ate her lunch at this time because, inevitably, a busboy or a waiter would poke their head through the door with a question or a crisis. Today was no different. By the time she returned to her stool that evening, the man was gone. Rudy had a glass of red wine ready for her.\n\n“The customer earlier?” he said, “Tried to stiff me.”\n\n“The man with the hat?” Josie took a sip from her glass.\n\n“His name is Jack, he’s a studio man,” Rudy grinned. “His words.” Jack had left one crisp dollar bill for his drink. Rudy ran after him to set him straight. “I mean, we’re authentic, but not that authentic. You should have seen his face. He was good for it, though. Nice guy, just a little confused.” \n\nJack returned to his spot at the bar the next day and the day after that. Always dressed impeccably in his suit and tie, hat on the bar. Always nursing a whiskey. Josephine sat down next to him. \n\n“I’m afraid you are in danger of becoming a regular here. So let me introduce myself. I’m Josephine, but everyone here calls me Josie.” He looked at her hard for a beat, then he smiled.\n\n“Your accent. It’s French.”\n\n“Yes, I lived there as a child.”\n\n“I was there in the War.” Jack slowly swirled his glass, turning the amber liquid from one side to the other. \n\nIraq? Gulf war, maybe. He didn’t look like the other veterans she’d met. “So what brought you here?” \n\n“What brings us all here? Showbiz,” his voice edged with irony. “I’m on a picture. It’s called Rebel Without A Cause.”\n\nJosephine raised her eyebrows slightly, her mind turning. “Hmm. James Dean. It’s one of my favorites,” she said slowly.\n\nA cloud of confusion crossed Jack's face. \"You seem to have seen it.\"\n\n\"I have seen it\" Josephine smiled gently, holding Jack's gaze. \"Many times.\"\n\n“You know,\" he said finally, \"Yre not like the others. They look right through me. All these people walking around with wires coming out of their ears, staring at their hands all day. Can I be honest with you?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"I...\" Jack paused, then sighed. \"Everything is upside down. Nothing is the same.\"\n\n“The same as what?”\n\nJack sipped his whiskey, staring straight ahead. “1954”\n\n“1954. The year?”\n\n“You think I'm crazy.” Jack slid a card across the bar, his driver’s license. Josephine looked at it carefully. If it was vintage, it was in perfect condition. \n\n“Well, this town is built on imagination and a little bit of magic, and I believe in magic,” she said. “So, I’m still deciding. Tell me, what happened to you?”\n\n“There was an accident.” Jack patted the back of his head instinctively. \"On the set.\"\n\nJack had showed up for work at the studio a week ago, early as usual. He had decided to get a cup of coffee before starting work, so he had crossed the street sideways to get to the commissary. At that exact moment, a slow moving truck had turned the corner out of the blue. The last thing he remembered was being taken to the infirmary.\n\nThe next morning, Jack found himself in a busy production office. People everywhere, tapping on strange silver books, talking into wires. Stacks of papers, odd graphs, photographs in color, swatches of fabric all over the walls. The smell of coffee in the air. At barely seven o’clock in the morning, the place was buzzing like it was noon. Jack felt a lump on his head. A lovely young lady had mistaken him for an actor and hustled him out the door. \n\n“Hi there,” she’d said briskly, pausing to speak into a wire coming out of her ear, “You must be lost. This is Some Hearts,” she slid a small silver and glass square out of her pocket. “You’re looking for The Bandit. That’s on...let’s see…stage 16. Ok, head that way, two rights and a left. You can’t miss it.”\n\nJack had spent the rest of the day wandering the studio lot. He wasn’t sure what had happened, just that he’d landed somewhere else.\n\nJack looked at Josephine, swirling his glass again, slowly. “Everything has changed. The auto wash, the Safari Motel, the coffee shop on the corner with the car show on Fridays. They’re all still here, but so different. And everything else...,” Jack’s words trailed off. “This is the only place that really feels like home. It’s yours?”\n\n“It is.” Josephine paused. “I didn’t get to live in the 1950’s, so I recreated everything about it right here.”\n\n“But you’re…?”\n\n“A woman?” Josephine smiled.\n\n“And you’re colored.”\n\n“Black. Yes.” Josephine held Jack’s gaze. “It is the twenty-first century now. And you’re right, a lot of things have changed.”\n\n“The twenty-first century. Oh boy.” Jack whistled. He dropped his eyes into his drink, lost in thought.\n\nThe bar began to fill up with customers. Glasses clinked, music drifted in from the dining room.\n\n“But why would you want to recreate the 1950’s?” he swept the room with his hand. “People like you don’t get to run their own restaurants.”\n\n“It’s different in France, where I come from. To be a woman. To be black. My family emigrated there from Louisiana, after the Civil War so I always knew I had some roots here. My mother was a jazz singer. I grew up with stories of the American GI’s who came her club during the War, their music, their style, it always interested me. Some of them became friends, kept in touch.” Josephine nodded hello-goodbye as the bartenders traded shifts. “I wanted to know about life in America. For me, that was slumber parties and sock hops. In time, I realized that there was so much more to the 1950’s. Noir, rock n’ roll, rebellion. I wanted to experience all of it.”\n\nJack’s eyes were locked on Josephine, a flicker of understanding touching his face.\n\n“In Paris, in the 1980’s, there were rockabilly groups. These were my friends. We dressed up in scarves and saddle shoes and we danced on Fridays on the Grands Boulevards. All together, Black, blanc, beur. All colors, all cultures.” Josephine smiled at the memory. “If you wanted to dance, you were welcome. If you wanted to hate us, you were not. It was rebellious. I wanted to bring that spirit here, to the US, and so I did, in my own way. I can’t change history, but right here, in this place, I can recreate it. I can give these kids, the waiters and the waitresses, the cooks and the bartenders that work here; I can give them a shot at living their dreams.”\n\n“I like the sound of that, Josephine,” Jack paused. “The 1980’s. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. You think I’ll be alive then?”\n\n“You’re here now,” said Josephine. \"So. You'll need a place to live. And a job. How are you at doing dishes?\"\n\nJack nodded slightly, then smiled. \"I've done my share,\" he said.\n\n\"Well then,\" Josephine said briskly, standing. \"Come with me, Jack. Let's get you started.\"\n\nThe hum of conversation floated around them, dishes clinking, bursts of laughter, music. The front doors whooshed open and closed, and the sun dipped down behind the Hollywood Hills." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Think Pink\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1216\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story in an empty guest room." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I dragged my feet across the thin carpet placed unevenly above the slab of cement. Each step felt heavier as I followed my mother to the empty room, my prison.\n\"See, I told you that Mexican wasn't good for you. You should have listened to me when I said that man doesn't give a damn about you\" her voice increased with more malice as she continued on.\nHonestly, this is the most she has spoken to me if ever. She always runs her mouth when it's to ridicule my choices in life which made me feel like a burden in my relationship with him and an embarrassment to myself with how my life is now. It took me 6 months to get a job and I only worked two. The first job in retail and now my current one in a coffee shop. I channeled my mom's demons out of mind and sight as I dropped my belongings outside the empty guest room. I opened the door to find it dusty, dark, and cold like my mother. Holding back my tears, I told my mom that I want to be alone, and with a quick eye roll, she reluctantly left. I was left alone with my thoughts, telling me it was my fault that my life went south after graduation, it repeated what my mother told me in the past and my favorite, \"to end it all\".\nI opened my bags to start making myself home in this personal hell, my tower. Except, I had no long hair to throw out the window or a prince coming to my rescue. I knew deep down it wasn't my fantasy to become my reality. I could only help and save myself, but only if I had the money to do so. I hang my clothes away in the closet which weren't many since I gave most of them away to my boyfriend's siblings. I wanted them to know that I cared for them. Even though I didn't want to part with my attire and I had no money to spare. I thought if I let them go, I could move on with my life and hope, they would have better memories elsewhere. I was wrong. The only thing I had left when I stared into my 1/4 filled closet is my black to white shirts. If only I could see the grey in my life.\nMy feet lost their warmth by the time I unpacked everything. I was simply sitting in the corner of my blow-up mattress. Staring at the empty walls and empty floor with my teary-eyed vision. It pretty much reflected my mindset, but it's up to me if I want to continue spiraling downward in this shell or to attempt to break free in this empty guest room.\nMy body went limp as I got in a fetal position in my bed. My eyes danced around the room, I wondered how I could decorate this room. If I should go with blue since it is my favorite color? Which would be blue bed sheets since my mother thought it was all pointless to doll up a room, but I thought otherwise. I never wanted anything because I was tired of receiving broken promises and I was told that I was spoiled and selfish. I never understood that when I never got anything I wanted, but I accepted it. I figured out at a very young age that the life of a single mom is difficult. My relatives told me she's doing the best she can. Did they know she traps me in the guest room as she spends money on fast food on herself, to go out on vacations with her friends, and bought things she never even used. She didn't have to buy me toys, but she could have at least kept her promise to spend time with me. I cared about that more until I noticed it wasn't all that fun to spend time with your mom. Especially, when you can't relate with the children at your school. I couldn't connect with anyone.\nI reached out to the air in front of me then swiped the air to the left, imaging my little cage in pink because no matter how I decorate it. It will never be my room, but an empty guest room because in the end, I never saw myself as her daughter. My arm retracted right back to my side as I bury myself like a mummy in the thick covers. My eyes started to get heavy from the crying. Soon, I was engulfed in a dream of endless possibilities. However, it wasn't my escape since I knew it was just a dream. My mental state may not be the best, but I can tell which of the two is reality. I can't feel any pain in my dreams and I able to stop my nightmares from manifesting. It is the only time I am in control of something besides refusing to eat or drink.\nMy boyfriend appeared with his man bun and a nice suit which is something he never wears. He didn't have much to wear, but I care for him anyways.\nHe held his hand out to me and I immediately took it. I fell for this man because he treated me like I mattered in the world unless he was stressed out which happened recently over the months.\nHe spun me around then held me against his torso as we swayed to the beat of our hearts as one. He was really insecure about himself and started to take out his frustrations on me which hurt, but he is only human.\nChuckling, he lifted my chin up then leaned in for a kiss. We are young, inexperienced, but in love. Sadly, life has a way of telling us to fucking wake up and adapt to being adults. Even when you have nothing, you must do something. No matter if it doesn't work out or does. During that time, I had somewhat of a choice, but it was no different from my mother's. Instead of being impactful, I was a burden. Moving room to room in each empty guest room. My true home in my eyes was him.\nI broke the kiss and stared at the man looking down at me with genuine care. It was just an imagination playing out in my mind, but my lips were tingling, my body was heating up, and my heart was singing. I really wanted him to hold me.\nSensing my thoughts, he turned me around, so my back was pressed against his abdomen. That's when I saw PINK. Could this be my future?\nI felt beams of heat on my face as I slowly woke up from my sad form of affection. My eyes were still closed as I saw the light from the sun rays through my eyelids. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my amazon prime. I searched every pink thing in hopes that I could be the woman I wanted to be. Motivated to find the real me and possibly use this color to encourage me out of my confinement.\nStiffly turning to the side, I sighed, \"Think Pink\"." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 ENCOUNTER\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1263\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about strangers becoming friends, or friends becoming strangers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There is going to be a wedding party. The supposed Bride is a close friend to Lily. It's going to be a big party with so much to eat and drink. The groom's father is one big businessman well known in town, so it will definitely be a feast. Though Lili, not a party-type, she of course has no choice but to attend this one. She's so excited that her friend is getting married after a long time of dating her soon-to-be husband. So she anticipates it with all her heart, hoping it comes right now. But no, it's still a week away.\n\n One week has passed. Here appears a lady in a short purple gown, well-designed and shining. Her legs are in block heels and her nails are brightly polished. Her hair is let down, just around her head is a scrunchy bound that matches the color of her gown. She carries a clutch bag embroidered in sparkling diamond stones. She's Brown-skinned, slim with an average girl's tallness. Also in makeup, surely a type that brings out the beauty she never knew she possessed.\n\n Walking in through the door of the party hall, she stood out gorgeously different. Yes, it's Lily. She has been preparing and hoping the day comes, good for her it's today! Different from her friends in body-fitted long gowns, a flared gown was her choice. She couldn't imagine anything snatching away her freedom at the party, not even clothing( the reason why she wore a flared gown). The party will be a long one so she is ever ready to give her whole self; feeling and attention. \n\n Her friends go on to find their place at the front side of the hall. But Lily, not wanting to call too much attention to herself, tries to figure out where to sit. Her eyes spot an empty chair just a distance away. She finds her way through the spaces between the tables. Right beside the empty chair is a man, groomed in black suits, a perfect gentleman in look.\n\" Is the seat reserved for someone?\" Lily asked.\n\"no\" answered the man.\nAgain she asks \"can I sit then?\" \"sure\", said the man.\nLili took her seat on the chair after throwing a quick hi to the other people on the table. The table is rectangular in shape with an uneven length and breadth. One chair each at the breadth sides and two chairs each at the long sides. A straight silence breaks in between the man and Lily after she sat down( that's normal).\n\nRay's POV\n When I saw her from afar I never thought she would be heading right to my side. There are many other empty chairs around. Watching her so close to me caught me in amazement. I couldn't help but reply sharply. I did think I could keep the silence alive until I let out the word which is in no way important as far as I'm concerned. \n\" So are you here for the Bride?\" \nWritten all over her face is a surprise.\n\"Yes I am,\" she answered. \nI never expected her to be that surprised. Well, who wouldn't be! It's strange, even to me, that I'm speaking to her right now. I suddenly became interested in conversing with her, and I don't know why. \n\"That's nice. I'm here for the groom. He is my neighbor from home\". \n\"That's good,\" she said.\n\" Pardon my manners, I am Ray.. Raymond. May I know your name\". \" Lily,\" she answered.\n\" Wow, that's a beautiful name\". \" Thank you, \"she replied.\n\" So are you from this town?\"\n\nLily's POV\nSeems my determination to give my whole; feeling and attention to this wedding will turn out futile. This man beside me is already diverting my attention to himself and I can't help but give it to him (it'd be rude if I didn't). He looks like a nice person. The way he asks his questions comes with peace and politeness. He just can't be ignored.\n\" I am not from this town, I journeyed from the city of Ontio\". \"Hmm that is cool. You won't believe I also came from there\" Ray responded.\n\"Really! What a coincidence. But the groom is not from Ontio, how come then, I thought you said he's your neighbor from home\".\n\" Yeah ….. home, I meant my parent's place. I no longer live at home. I moved to Ontio last year to take up a new job. So now, I'm settled there\", Ray said. \nHe speaks so fluently, my eyes were fixed on his lips as he pronounced each word.\n\nRay's POV\n She was really paying attention to every detail of what I said. How come she is from Ontio of all places. Seems I can't get enough of amazement with her, can I! \"Tell me, what do you do at Ontio?\"\n\"My parents stay there and I am also schooling there\" Lili answered.\n\"That's interesting\".\n\n\nThrough the period of their conversation, the party has spun right to the time food is being served. Two men in uniform were standing at the table to serve their food and drinks. A plate of Jollof and fried rice with two sauced chicken laps was placed in front of them. One way or the other their eyes met and they both tore into laughter.\n\" Woah this is big, I mean the chicken\", Ray said.\n\"Same here for me, it's scaring me,\" Lili added.\nAgain, they both burst into laughter as they started the eating battle.\n\n Lily's POV\n I can't believe we connected so fast. It's starting to look like we've known each other for a long time.\n\nRay's POV \nI watched her with my side-eye as she consumed the food graciously.\n\"I love fried rice to jollof rice, which do you like more\". \n\"Same as you Ray, I love fried rice more\", Lili responded.\n\n They both looked at each other and smiled.\n\"Yet another coincidence\", they both said at once. \nFascinated at that they burst into laughter once again.\n The party lasted long as expected and throughout, Lily and Ray dived from one topic to the other.\n The party concluded as the Bride eloped (so to speak) with her husband in an SUV car. Friends and families were gathered to wave and see them off. Amongst the people were Lily and Ray. They all waved as the SUV car zoomed off till it was out of sight.\n\n\" So what's next?\" Ray asked.\nLili standing before him smiles and says \"heading back home of course\".\nThough it's already late, Ontio is a neighboring city that will take just a maximum of 30 minutes drive to reach there.\n\"Cool then, I came with my car and I'll be heading back to Ontio now. If you don't mind, you may join me in my drive\", Ray said. \"That's the most perfect offer ever. I don't mind\" replied Lily.\n\nRay's POV\n \"shall we then\".\n As I walked with her to my car, all I felt was happy. Today is really a good day. I'm so glad to have met this stranger turned friend. I can't but anticipate the next adventure ahead. I hope she feels the same way.\n\n Lili's POV\n This party turned out to be the base of my greatest encounter. I'm so excited to journey back together with him. It's going to be a more thrilling adventure. I hope he feels the same way.\n\n\nThe door of the car was closed shut as Lili and Ray zoomed off into the busy street." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Happy Anniversary\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2353\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “I think someone’s listening/watching.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "At exactly 5pm Catherine heads into the restaurant. She sat in her car half an hour, waiting, but refusing to be early. She wasn’t early for Adam anymore. Before long, she is sitting at her booth, knee bobbing gently beneath her table. She stretches out her neck, feeling particularly sore before her meal. Ever since she took that wedding ring off, regular spin classes were back on the schedule. Beside her, a long, red, faux fur lined jacket. It was the first thing she bought after she walked out of divorce court and the perfect pairing for her skin tight red dress with stiletto black heels. She doesn’t need the cocktail menu, choosing their root beer float martini and a glass of water-her first of three for the evening. She doesn’t stand when he enters, just nods.\n\nAdam walks right past the hostess to the enchanting woman in red. He takes his seat and his menu, hiding his face for a few moments before smiling coyly and lowering it. \n\n“As if you’d change your order,” she says with a delicate eye roll. Catherine uncrosses her legs and leans forward, letting the words pour out like champagne, “Good to see you, Darling.”\n\nThe waitress returns in her heels and a short skirt. Catherine pretends not to watch Adam’s green eyes take all of the girl in. Catherine sighs as he places an appetizer order. “Good to see you, Darling,” he parrots dramatically. \n\n“How’s Megan?” Catherine asks as she leans back against the leather booth.\n\n“How’s John?” counters Adam as he strikes a mirrored pose. She responds by taking a long sip of that cocktail. They stare each other down like gunslingers in an old western until the waitress comes back to take their entree order. She approaches, eyes darting nervously to each side of the table before lingering on Adam and asking if it would be one check or two. “One,” he tells her and then looks at Catherine asking for clarification, “My turn, right?” She presses her ruby red lips together, nods, and adds the ribeye to their ticket. Adam frowns.\n\nThe memory of the stack of papers in the manilla folder comes their minds. Their words, biting and cruel, burst forward like snakes attacking one another. She called him a cheat. He called her a liar—just before thrusting a blue ink pen before her. Then, they ate dinner and drove home alone for the first time. Catherine had chosen to stare at the painting of the bull with the big horns hanging above Adam’s head after signing her name on the dotted line. He had drummed his fingers nervously. \n\nSo they do the same thing tonight. She stares at the painting. He drums his fingers. It always goes like this. The food arrives and the soothing sound of knives on plates distracts the two of them. Catherine always likes this bit, it reminds her of all the reasons they had divorced: the way he chomps his food with his mouth open, that stupid goatee he’s always trying to grow, and the mountain of hair gel piled on his head. Not to mention the bigger issues…but those were gone, faded away like her name with his.\n\nShe sits back, sipping her cocktail and says, “I think someone’s watching.” Her dark eyes flit to their waitress, standing guard at the podium behind Adam. He sits up straighter, follows Catherine’s gaze, and waves her over. Catherine rolls her eyes, fake eyelashes tickling her cheeks.\n\nTheir waitress returns, flighty and nervous asking, “Do you guys want me to take a photo of you? Are y’all celebratin’ somethin’?”\n\nHer fake accent makes Catherine want to barf so she sits boldly up in her seat, cheeks flushed as she says, “Yes. Yes, we are. We are celebrating our first anniversary.”\n\n“Aaawww,” coos their waitress. “How’d y’all meet?” she asks, pressing her tray into her hip.\n\n“High school,” mumbles Adam.\n\nShe gasps, “High school sweethearts? Well, bless my heart!” She presses a manicured hand to her chest. Catherine nods curtly at the girl before holding out her phone. The waitress waves her hand at Adam, indicating he ought to move to Catherine’s side. She sets her tray and all their dishes on a neighboring table before motioning at both of them to scoot in close. Catherine smells the soft scent of his cologne and tries not to cringe in disgust…tries and fails. She huffs a breath, remembering all of the nights of burying her face in his neck. Her smile holds the secret to eight years of wedded misery.\n\nThe photos are snapped and the girl with pigtails that hang just below her waistline asks, “How do they look?” before nodding at the two of them and bouncing back to the kitchen. \n\nAdam returns to his seat, sipping his soda. Catherine chugs down some water, feeling the effects of the alcohol. “Happy anniversary,” she says through a fit of giggles. \n\nHe grins at her and echoes, “Happy anniversary.” Then, he asks, in the same breath, “Do you think we should tell her it’s the first anniversary of our divorce?”\n\nThrough painful belly laughter, Catherine shakes her head. The girl returns with the tab and Adam’s card. He scribbles down a tip. He smiles at her and ogles her ass as she walks away, something that, at one time, bothered Catherine. Not anymore. \n\n“Are you good to get home?” Adam asks, with a raised eyebrow. She had once found that charming. Not anymore. \n\nShe nods saying, “John will come pick me up.” She holds his gaze for a minute and waits for him to crack a joke shout them “getting serious”. But she decides to beat him to the punch, picking up her cell phone and waves him away. Only once his back is turned does she sneak a peek at the broad shouldered man she had once called her other half. \n\nFive years later, Catherine is sitting at her booth, knee bobbing gently beneath her table. She admires the diamond on her hand. She stretches her neck, impulsively waiting for it to ache. But it doesn’t. Beside her, a silky red wrap. Tonight, her outfit is a sexy black number that shows plenty of cleavage. She doesn’t need the cocktail menu, choosing a soda pop-her first of three for the evening. She doesn’t stand when he enters, but smiles.\n\nAdam walks right past the hostess to the girl he once loved in the little black dress he doesn’t recognize. He takes his seat and his menu, hiding his face for a few moments before smiling coyly and lowering it. \n\n“As if you’d change your order,” she says with a cheeky grin. It’s light and easy, confidence only given with diamond rings. Catherine uncrosses her legs and leans forward, letting the words pour out like champagne, “It’s good to see you.”\n\nThe waitress returns in her heels and a short skirt. Catherine pretends not to watch Adam’s green eyes take all of the girl in. Catherine sighs as he places an appetizer order. “You, too,” he says.\n\n“How’s Megan?” Catherine asks, smiling fading when she realizes he didn’t return her joke; she leans back against the leather booth.\n\n“Good. She’s itching for a ring,” replies Adam as he strikes a mirrored pose. Catherine’s cheeks pull her lips into a knowing grin and she tosses a lock of long black hair over her shoulder. “I always liked it long,” says Adam with a smile. “So, you gonna show me the ring?” he asks. Catherine leaps forward in her booth, extending her hand out across the shiny glass table top that the manilla folder full of paper was once sitting on. In the light of the restaurant, her brand new diamonds glisten. Adam nods approvingly and offers her a soft smile as the waitress returns with her order pad out and ready to go.\n\nCatherine orders first and then reminds Adam it’s her turn to pay so he adds an Old Fashioned to the ticket with a grin. As he sits back, Catherine glances at the painting above his head. The bull’s horns seem less menacing than they once had. She sighs contentedly and barely notices Adam’s fingers, drumming nervously. \n\nWhen the food comes, Catherine digs right in. She only pauses when she sees that Adam’s drink is long gone, leaving his steak and potatoes in a puddle of gravy. Her eyebrows furrow, her mouth frowns, and her finger feels heavy with a new ring. She sets her silverware aside, leaned across the table asking, “Hey, are you ok?” He shrugs and begins cutting his first bite of the evening and taking it in slowly. \n\nThe waitress returns with a cardboard box and the check which Catherine paid without looking at. “Hey, can we get a picture?” asks Adam. The girl turns around quickly, smiling at the two of them. Catherine nods and waits for Adam to take his seat beside her. She feels the warmth of his body, the way their thighs touch, like the good old days. Up close, she’s able to notice the stubble on his cheeks, the way his eyes seem set further in his skull. Her smile longs to hold him the way they once did, to offer the comfort only a partner truly can. Once they are done, Adam’s eyes shoot down to the table. His voice is soft, but deep and gruff, “Happy sixth Anniversary, Catie.”\n\n“Happy Anniversary,” she echoes and stands. She grabs her wrap and pauses by his side of the booth, placing a hand on his shoulder.\n\nHe watches her red high heels as they depart before suddenly standing up and calling to her, “Hey Catie!” \n\nShe turns and he sees the way her eyes sparkle in the night.\n\nHe jogs lightly to stand beside her, feeling his pulse beat loudly in his ears. “Do you think there’ll be a seventh?” he asks her.\n\nShe nods and he watches her walk past the host stand. The doors let a gust of cold air in as she opens them and slides into the passenger seat of a big black car. Through the window, Adam can see a figure lean across the seat and place a kiss on her lips. He shakes his empty glass at the waitress who promptly returns with another one.\n\nOn the evening of the seventh anniversary of her divorce from Adam Montgomery, Catherine is sitting at her booth, knee bobbing gently beneath her table. She is pouring over the texts they’ve exchanged over the past year. He had sent her funny videos, she had countered with a few good memes, he had sent her promises that he intended to keep this time, and she swore she believed him. Beside her, a small black ring box. She doesn’t need the cocktail menu, choosing a bottle of champagne and a glass of water-her first of three for the evening. She runs towards him when he enters.\n\nAdam walks right past the hostess to hold his best friend. She is wearing his favorite dress-the one with the little blue birds. He takes his seat and his menu, hiding his face for a few moments before smiling coyly and lowering it. \n\n“As if you’d change your order,” she says with a laugh. He pats his booth and she leaps forward, sitting right below the painting of the cow. Catherine uncrosses her legs and leans forward, letting the words pour out like champagne, “Good to see you, Darling.”\n\nThe waitress returns in her heels and a short skirt. Adam’s eyes never left Catherine’s as he orders the appetizer. “Good to see you, my love,” he whispers after the girl leaves. They lean in close, their eyes flutter shut, letting their foreheads touch. While ordering food, Adam assures Catherine that it’s his treat saying, “The guy should always pay on the first date.”\n\nThe only thing on the glass table was her open palm, waiting for him.\n\nCatherine leans back in her seat, clutching her beloved’s hand as she says, “I got the promotion.” Glee twinkles in her eyes and a huge smile spreads across her face. Adam’s hands move to clutch her cheeks as if he could squeeze his pride and love into her face. He smiles back at her and she admires the way his teeth sparkle. She even begins stroking his annoying goatee. Their meal arrives and they eat their meal slowly, savoring each and every bite. \n\nCatherine grabs the ring box from her side, slipping Adam’s silver back onto his finger. He reaches across her and mirrors her action. “This is getting pretty serious, huh?” he asks playfully. Finally, the joke she had been waiting for.\n\nTheir waitress appears with a slice of their famous mudslide pie which the couple dug into together. As they enjoy their last bite, a familiar face appears. This time, she’s wearing a pants suit and her long hair is not in braids, but neatly curled and done in a full up do. “Hey you guys!” she calls at them with a huge smile. She rushes by to the table and looks at them expectantly. “It me! It’s Sherri! I was your waitress from your first anniversary, remember? You came here! It warms my heart you two have made this place a tradition,” she gushes and places a hand of polished nails over her heart. Then, she extends it for one of their phones, which Catherine happily provides, noting, but not caring that Sherri has dropped the fake accent. Sherri grins and waves her hand to have them move closer together. Adam places a wet kiss on Catherine cheek as the photo is captured. \n\n“Gosh, guys, I am just so glad to see you!” she says. “So…how long has it been? Almost a decade, huh? That’s a long time to be together,” she muses as she plays with her necklace. Her eyes seem to linger on the cow photo above them. She sighs contentedly and calls, “Happy anniversary,” as she walks away in her sky high heels. \n\nCatherine smiles, turning to Adam, and echoing, “Happy anniversary.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Chasm\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1102\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about strangers becoming friends, or friends becoming strangers." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The best way to describe them was inseparable. Two exquisite moppets romping around the moth eaten vegetable garden, near an old dilapidated house. Their infectious laughter rang out like tinkling glass. Ava with her beautiful smooth mahogany skin, enormous chocolate eyes and tiny coils that framed her lovely face led Susannah into the tool shed. The butterfly they were trying to capture had landed inside. Susannah with her porcelain skin, azure eyes, and sun kissed curls tried to stifle the burgeoning giggle that was trying to escape. Ava, lifting a raised finger to her lips to quiet her, lurched for the pretty insect. Disappointment clouded both faces as the butterfly escaped from their clutches.\n\nThe two girls mirrored each other in all ways except looks.\n”Let’s get a popsicle!” suggested Susannah digging into her pockets for change.\n\n”We should dig a grave and hold a funeral for the dead bird that’s in my backyard,” lamented Ava, holding an empty shoe box.\n\n”Let’s skip stones in the creek” laughed Susannah, as the girls raced to see who would arrive first.\n\n”Let’s pretend we’re princesses who slay dragons for a living,” insisted Ava, as both girls grabbed discarded branches for swords.\n\nThe close friendship of the two girls, however, did not extend to their families. Susannah, whose father was the manager of the local mill, did not like her friendship with Ava.\n\n“Stick to your own kind Susannah, those people are always up to no good.”\n\nAva’s father, who owned his own lumber business was leery of her friendship with Susannah.\n\n“Ava, those people will turn on you just as sure as I’m standing here.”\n\nThe girls, however, ignored the friction between the two families and their bond grew stronger.\n\nWhen both girls began attending school, they began seeing less of each other. In the beginning, when they would play after homework was done, their friendship remained intact. Wiping each other’s tears when one or the other was sad, or giggling about the silly things they noticed about people or life, theirs remained a deep friendship.\n\nAs both girls began middle school, the focus on classmates from their separate schools caused a slight drift. Their mutual heavy workload of assignments coupled with friends of their own race being antagonistic to one another, furthered the chasm.\n\nAva observed Susannah’s distance with her whenever they were together and sensed a slight annoyance toward her. Sometimes she wondered if Susannah’s annoyance was with her or Susannah herself. The gamut of emotions she experienced battled one another. Maintaining her relationship with Ava, often lost to, maintaining her white friendships. As Susannah began socializing more with her friends from school, friends that were more like her racially, the more Ava felt left out. Certain thoughts entered Ava’s mind that she didn’t want to entertain. Did Susannah decide not to be her friend because of skin color? Could she have been persuaded by her family to end the friendship? Ava told herself that it was all in her head and that they just had to get use to each other again.\n\n*************\n\nAva stared at the phone for what seemed like hours, but in reality more like minutes. Contemplating if she should call Susannah, she found her fingers dialing her number. The trepidation that engulfed her, came to a screeching halt when she jumped at the sound of the voice on the other end.\n\n“ Hello,” she could hear the nonchalant voice on the other end. A hint of blasé in the tone was more offensive than outright hostility.\n\n”Hi Susannah, it’s me Ava.”\n\nThere was a slight pause and Ava could hear the reluctance in Susannah’s voice.\n\n”Oh, Hi.”\n\n”I just wanted to call you since we haven’t hung out in a while.”\n\nThere was another pause, and Ava’s heart plummeted.\n\n”I’ve been busy,” the reply was unmistakably curt.\n\n”Oh, I thought maybe we could take a walk to the creek like we used to do.” Ava now felt foolish for even suggesting it.\n\n”I don’t think so. I have too much homework.” Her tone was dry almost lifeless.\n\nAva hung up and felt the tears stinging her eyes. Past memories began flooding her mind, memories of the wonderful times that she and Susannah had shared. It was a friendship, she thought, that would last forever. The person she spoke to on the phone sounded like someone she no longer recognized. Susannah became a stranger.\n\n**************\n\nWhen both girls went on to high school and then college, they had not spoken to each other since that last phone call. A phone call that seemed like another time. Ava looked back on that time and wondered if she dreamt it. Had their friendship been an illusion? Was it really that easy for Susannah to dismiss her? The two girls would, over the course of time, see each other occasionally. Ava would attempt a half smile, only to be ignored or rebuffed. Susannah’s refusal in acknowledging her presence, cut deep inside her soul.\n\nThroughout the years, Ava established friendships with girls from both middle and high school. These girls taught her another kind of friendship. These friendships changed her, as her maturity as a young woman with ideas and dreams, were shaping who she was becoming as a person. Girls that mirrored herself, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually, reciprocated genuine affection. These friends remained her closest and dearest friends. They were the friends that were her bridesmaids at her wedding that calmed her jitters. They were the friends that were the voice of reason when she was being unreasonable. They were the friends that were her rock when she was wracked with uncertainty. These friends would never abandon her no matter what. They were in it for the long haul. The disappointment over the broken friendship with Susannah had passed. What was it that St. Jerome said? “A friendship that can cease has never been real.” It was another time, another place in her life that was over. She chose to remember that time with Susannah and accept it as a small snapshot of her life. The memories were pleasant and the mourning of the broken friendship had passed.\n\n*************\n\nAva and Susannah had both reached their fortieth year of life, when they ran into each other at a mutual event. Both women had careers, husbands, and children they loved. Mingling among the throng of people, a soft collision brought them face to face. The two of them, quickly glanced at one another with no acknowledgement that they had ever been those two little girls that had been inseparable." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: MGENI NJOO MWENYEJI APONE (Swahili for “Let the guest come so that the host or hostess may benefit (get well)”)\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1000\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone welcoming a stranger into their home." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was not long ago in my mother’s house that we had a special cupboard for storing utensils meant for the guests - and the guests alone. I remember my sister and I waiting for our parents to live for work, so that we can have a feel of being guests. I think our parents knew, even though we did that behind their backs. Many are the times they would come home and find pieces of glass in the dustbin.\nMy mother, the lioness of the house, had shouted and punished us numerous times that she had given up – even lions when they fail to catch a prey for the day, they sleep hungry. Later in the week she would replace the broken utensil.\nI loved it when we had guests coming, especially my mother’s guests. That day, a million and one house chores that I had to complete everyday was done by my mum. At times I pitied her and would think about helping her; but my cerebrum quickly reminded me that as soon as the guests had gone, I would officially take back my office as house manager as if I never left. And oh, there was no retiring or getting fired from this office unless you were of age (18 years +), and had decided to move out. There were only 1 in 10,000 days off.\nIt’s not like I didn’t like doing house work; but again, I can’t say I enjoy it. It’s just that I like doing things at my own time: sweeping and mopping at night, laundry during the weekends only, and utensils when there’s at least a good number of dirty dishes.\nMay 16th every year.\nThis is surely the day that the Lord has made. No, it’s not my birthday or any of my kin’s birthday. It’s also not the day that I had my first kiss with the dreamiest boy in the world, who I have been crushing on (ladies Hmmm). This was the day that my mum was always hosting guests every year for their ‘chama’.\nA chama is like an informal women’s Sacco. They save money in a common fund and they can ask for a loan from the chama to start a business or do some personal developments. They also meet every end month and travel to different places yearly. Let’s put it this way: it’s like an only women’s self-help group.\n“Should I wake up or should I not. I think I’ll just continue enjoying my beauty sleep”, the Barbie part of me said. Unlike other weekends when I am usually rooster of the house, this day is different. And I know my mum would not wake me up. She wants everything to be perfect; and only her way is 100%. The previous day we spent the whole day shopping for foodstuff and house supplies for this one day.\nWaking up early can actually become a habit. After tossing and turning in my bed for approximately 30 minutes, the sweet-smelling aroma of freshly cooked mandazi got me of the bed so suddenly like a detective who had just discovered the final missing part of a murder case.\n“Mum, can I help?” “…Yes, you can start with the dishes!” Oooo noo, the question I initially meant to ask was ‘Can I help with tasting if there’s enough of everything in the meals?’ But now that the duty is assigned, there is no taking it back. I pushed myself to the sink, overcoming the repulsion force between myself and the stainless-steel sink, almost scattering everywhere the already prepared meals in our small of kitchen.\n“You want to eat but not work…even the Bible says…”\nHint! Hint! But anyway, that’s my mum. If she hadn’t said that, I would actually be stressed, questioning if she is alright today. That’s her famous phrase together with a lot of others.\nI got working and in no time, the dishes were sparkling, the table was set and the house was looking polished. All that was missing now were the guests.\n“Knock! Knock!”\nMy sister and I burst into a ran heading to our bedrooms; as my mum spoke with the softest voice I never thought could come out of her mouth, saying, “Karibuni ndani (welcome inside)”.\nIn a matter of minutes, more guests kept coming in until they were all present for their meeting. Later on, my mum would call us to greet the guests, who were strangers to my sister and I. It was a sign of respect. So, we calmly went and hand shook each and every one of the guests.\nThe food was in plenty, not only for the guests but also for us. Everything that you might have thought of eating in a party was there. My sister, Ashley, and I took turns in going to the kitchen to take different meals every now and then; of course, avoiding my mum. She always has the principle of eating after the guests have left.\nGales of laughter filled the house and everyone was chatting audibly (women’s gossip). The guests were happy, we were happy and especially, the host was the happiest. I am sure that even the ants were happy. Soft, low volume rhumba music was playing in the background and every now and then I could hear “Cheers…cheers” It was a happy day for all.\nI tried not to think about the piles and piles of dishes that would be waiting for me after the party/meeting; and I just enjoyed the moment while it lasted.\nI guess I never really understood all the perfection when we had guests; more of like strangers; but one thing is for sure: it was always a great, happy and amazing day. If I have guests in future, I would definitely treat them as my mum does.\nEventually the guests would leave for their homes and also leave behind gifts for my mum.\nThat’s why wahenga (ancestors) walisema (said) ‘Mgeni Njoo, Mwenyeji apone’" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Nightmare Doors\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2779\n\nPrompt:\n\nA character stands in front of two doors. Write a story about what happens after they choose one to enter." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Teili sat on the shallow, thin seated chair contemplating her alternately terrifying choices. Her thoughts long forgot about the combination of Lil Pops’ and L’Kesha’s blood and brain matter being matted in her sponge textured hair. She felt too broken to wipe their visceral off of her tear soaked face. Hours ago she had concluded that her end sensed to be likely near, so what was the point? She barely registered the stink of the dried bloody matter that wafted around her head.\nThe room measured as big as the walk in closet her millionaire uncle had shown her one day. The shape was a shallow rectangle, wider than long. Light blue, bio-luminescent sludge coated the walls, allowing for perspective within. Her only protection to the outside, waiting death became the door that sealed into its own frame behind her.\nShe continued to rub her dark-brown hands together, just like she did other times when under stress. Nightmare door on the left or nightmare door on the right. Doors. Fucking doors, she thought. Teili had enough of doors. Teili remembered back to when they first made their way down the stairs.\nThe stone shack in the middle of the cave made less sense than anything she had seen in all of her journey thus far. The structure’s obelisk block walls were nothing like the surrounding cave walls. Teili concluded that someone had to have brought the large stones from the outside, which felt to be equally impossible due to the entrance being barely able to fit Lamar’s linebacker frame. She panned her light around the hollowed room, searching for evidence of an alternate opening. The walls were airtight as they had remained for millennia. The structure’s door had a shape of a thick, lacquered birch reaching higher than her fingertips could reach. The obstacle appeared hinged to swing inwards. Devonte took the initiative to be the first past the moss covered entrance. The flexible joints made no sounds as he pushed his way forward.\n“Fuck.” His statement rang clear.\n“What is it now?” Teili asked, long have given up on good news.\n“Stairs.”\n“Damn.” Her frustration evident. “Another fucking obstacle.”\nDevonte shined his intense flashlight downwards. Hints of movement evaded the stream of high intensity light as the illumination panned into the carved, earthen staircase. The smell of aged, stale decay edged upwards to the group.\n“Oh, that’s a no. We are done.” Devonte said shaking his head. He swung his long, dark locks from side to side making the point clear.\n “No, no we’re not.” Teili looked past him at the new hindrance.\n“Teili. Look, you got us in this cave, which is, honestly, much farther than I expected to ever get myself into. But, impossibly built stone sheds or shacks or whatever the hell this is, with a set of creepy ass stairs is enough.” Clarice excitedly pointed out. Her panic kept at bay with the hope that Teili would agree.\n“We’re not done.” Teili offered no space for debate.\n“Lamar, take point. Lil Pops you’ve got our backs. Everyone else stay sharp. Momo has to be down there.”\n“Teili, the door is shut. Momo isn’t down there. If he was, the fucking door would be open. Like it is now.” Clarice pointed with her recently scraped finger.\n“You know, she could be -”\n“Shut it, Pops.”\n“Yeah, I’m just sayin’.”\nTeili stood chest to chest with Clarice. Devonte grumbled at the emotional impasse.\n“Ok, Clarice. If this isn’t for you. Feel free to go back and dig your way through the living rock-tissue, whatever the fuck it is, on your back to the entrance.”\nClarice challenged Teili through the illumination of the group’s combined flashlights doing her best to save face.\nTeili closed their emotional distance.\n“You can go back. You can wait in the dark here. Or, you can help us see if your ex is down there.” Teile pointed downwards.\nClarice lost the game of emotional chicken. She broke down in open sobbing. Teili reached her hand back and slapped her crying companion across the face.\n“Get your crap together.” Teili turned to the group. “We go, now.”\nDevonte moved to the front of the line. His rifle’s LED light made little work of the darkness in front. Teili filed down next with L’Kesha, Lamar, Doug, Clarice and Lil Pop in order behind. Flashlight beams covered most of the area around them during their descent. None of the group saw the heavy, wooden door ease itself back into place. They had walked long enough into the underground to have committed to their task. The walls were two person width apart with a domed ceiling lost into the shadows. The air felt drier with a smell none of them could place, as if burnt popcorn mixed with raw meat.\nTeili became caught up in her thoughts as the twin doors loomed before her. She thought of their first casualty. Devonte. The new room the group appeared to have no visible depth, as though light took a pause midair in all directions. Having no better options, they continued inside. Devonte moved in the front of the line. His assault rifle at the ready. The light’s high beam became limited by whatever muted its illumination. Teili felt as if the room’s darkness acted as a living entity. Devonte broke through an unseen, ankle high line of secretion. The floor seemed unusually pliable, like walking on the top of cotton candy custard.\nThey made the path halfway before Teili’s brother fell forward, face first. No one directly saw what happened to him. One moment Devonte had been walking ahead of the group. The next second he crumpled in place as a bloody mess. The rifle slipped from his fingers, bouncing on the ground. Its mounted light went dark. Lamar and Teili ran to his corpse. Hundreds of bird shot sized holes were visible on all sides of his body, from skull to feet. Blood eased out of each wound onto the ground. Teili shined her flashlight on the spongy floor. The flooring sucked in his lost blood through its top membrane. A BB sized, spherical object with razor sharp, protruding teeth ailed near Devonte, caught in his wrist. Kieli screamed at what she couldn’t begin to comprehend. Her foot crashed down through the creature. A deafening cry rang through the moist air. Doug, Clarice and L’Kesha screamed in surprise.\n“Run!” Teili shouted to the group.\nLamar picked up the rifle as he ran. His fingers felt multiples of small holes that covered its exterior. He dropped the useless weapon. A slight slurping sound could be heard like someone sipping through a straw. Devonte’s blood left no puddles. The group tore across the ground through the near dark. They made their way through a semi-illuminated pulsing round exit.\nTeili shook with the trauma of a last survivor. The guilt of being alive ravaged her mind. How could this all have happened, she thought. The silent room offered no answer. She replayed the deaths over and over in her mind.\nLamar hadn’t seen the upside down flower creature attached to the cavern’s ceiling. His football player frame became snatched upwards as if he weighed that of a mere packet of salt. Everyone’s lights immediately followed the screams upwards. The last sight of her girlhood crush became Lamar’s terrified face screaming as the spike laden petal insides wrapped around his fighting body. They could hear him scream through the spotted petals.\nThe twenty foot tall flower detached itself. Pussing, tentacle laden vines lowered the organism onto the soiled ground. The group could see Lamar helplessly trapped inside the petals. His movements began to lose their intensity. His screams became more guttural. The flower hissed at their intrusion. They stood back as the plant creature aggressively sprinted away from them on thick, canine-like legs into the darkness. The creature’s running sounds became lost in the distance. Lil Pop screamed in mourning at the loss of his friend. Everyone grabbed at their ears. Ramblings of confusion took the group’s discussion. Teili didn’t give them a chance to debate their course.\n“If we stay… we die too.” She led through growing tears, her voice cracking.\n“Fuck this, we need to go back.” Clarice said through ragged breath. Warm, tears rolled down her cheeks.\n“We can’t go back.” Doug looked at the ground, walking forward. “We signed our own death certificates at the entrance of the cave this morning.”\nHe panned his flashlight at the ceiling to make sure nothing else could surprise the group. The ceiling surface looked smooth deep into the underground. Doug dropped the illumination to the solid ground far in front of him. The others could hear his steps forward. Lil Pop began his own steps ahead.\n“L’Kesha, back me up.” Clarice begged as she openly trembled.\n“No, girl, what’s done is done. Lamar wouldn’ want us to go out like bitches. We’re rollin’ into this.” L’Kesha brought her flashlight’s illumination ahead. The natural shadow hid tears that stuck to her face. She could see the backs of Lil Pop and Doug becoming darker as they moved ahead. She followed their lead.\nTeili took Clarice by her shivering arm.\n“Let’s get this done.” They followed up behind the others.\nTeili sat shaking on the ill designed chair, forever looking between the two doors. Nothing made sense to her. She wanted to restart her journey. The memory of losing Clarice slow baked her insanity. She prayed for a more merciful fate.\nShe remembered Clarice being split in half on the walkway over the cavern. Clarice’s top and bottom halves falling onto the edges of the bridge walkway. The woman’s screams caused Teili and Doug to pan their lights behind them. Teili didn’t see what caused the casualty, though by now, she had hoped her body would have been laying there. The woman’s bloody torso half slipped into the cavern below as he legs kicked at the stagnant air. Teili never heard the appendage hit a bottom. Clarice’s upper half laid prone on the stone bridge trying to crawl as her entrails dragged behind on the uneven surface, leaving a path of blood and elongated intestines.\n“I’ll save you Momo. Clar’s on… her… wa-.”\nThe upper half of Clarice slumped dead. Blood flowed out of the massive wound behind her. A stream of lime shaped, multi-legged creatures crawled out from under the walkway. The mass began disassembling her body with scissor-like appendages that materialized from their backs. Teili thought that they worked much like ants in the world above as she looked on in horror. The sounds of her body being snipped apart affected her worse than the visual atrocity. Snip, snip, snip, tear. Snip, snip, snip, rip. The last of the creatures carried a claw full of soiled hair back upside down under the bridge. In minutes, the remaining evidence of Clarice had been evidenced by a mostly intact shirt and bra in a large pool of drying blood. Doug bent over the black bottom edge and vomited into empty space. An intense screech bellowed from below. Teili immediately grabbed Doug by his long sleeve shirt. They bolted at high speed across the remainder of the midair structure into the exit way.\nTeili continued to look at the two options as if they were going to freely offer their secrets. She felt disappointed that she hadn’t any means of ending her life. Her knife had been left being dissolved in the body of a gelatinous kangaroo creature. The malformation came out from behind stone columns they had walked by. The remaining two of them had become distracted at the wall of beetle-like creatures that scurried up and down the far end of the room as a if the scene were a living waterfall. She remembered watching as a monstrosity digested the same knife through its dark yellow form. The weapon effortlessly accompanied the stolen parts of Doug’s body. His dismembered chest, elbow and foot floated within its oozing torso. Each bloodied part slowly being dissolved into smaller and smaller chunks. Doug never had a chance. The creature’s torso had elongated and had attached to his chest, removing the cavity from his body. He wasn’t even able to gasp for air on the ground. His body soon became dismembered with equal simplicity.\nThe remaining piece of Teili’s sanity broke that moment. She ran for the only available exit at the far wall. Moments later she found herself in a two door room. A door sealed with a distinct sucking noise behind her. She could hear the barrier move in place, all while keeping solid. Teili became forced with choosing to exit through one of two occult engraved, ebony doors.\nScratching began at the bottom of the door. Teili’s body ran cold. Fuck. She began looking at the doors with more gusto. What did the markings mean? What could the engravings offer as clues? She caught herself assuming that one of the doors would be to safety. There wasn’t anything safe in this bottomless pit, she thought. Teili quickly stood up to investigate each ebony door against the wall. Neither offered up its esoteric secrets. The left door registered slight popping noises behind its nightmare marked front. She stepped to the door on the right. Markings as equally horrifying adorned the front. Her ears picked up a slight whirring sound. The scratching noises abruptly stopped. Time stood still.\nTeili sat back down on the lone chair unable to understand how she should feel in the moment. Lamar, Devonte, L’Kesha, Lil Pops, that bitch Clarice and the “great White hope” Doug all gone. All the closest people were lost down here in the worse possible ways. For whatever reason she remained alive.\nSilence bathed the room. Her shallow breaths were the closest aspects to sound. Nothing moved as if she sat in her own tomb. Self critical thoughts wove in and out of her consciousness without mercy.\n“Teili, it’s Lamar, let me in.” A familiar voice called through the door behind her.\nNo, it’s not, she thought. The formation of tears took home around her almond eyes.\n“Teili, it’s Lamar, let me in.” The inflection sounded as a perfect mimic of her former lover.\nNo, it’s not. Her sanity began to fully unravel.\n“Teili, it’s Lamar, let me in.” His voice without a body.\n“No, it’s fucking not!” She screamed at top volume. Hot tears openly rolled across her dark cheeks.\n“Teili. I’m coming in. You know I’m coming in. Teili. You’re already dead. Just like Lil Pops. Just like L’Kesha. Just like Doug. Just like me. Just like Momo, Teili. You failed him. You failed all of us.”\n“No, I didn’t.” She whispered to herself, shaking her head back and forth in denial. “No, I didn’t.”\n“We’re all dead because your ego gave us a death sentence.”\nHer body shook. Tapping on the sealed door started at chest level as the scratching continued again near the bottom. Teili’s will shattered. Her sanity began to swiftly disintegrate.\n“Time to choose a door. We’re almost in the room with you.” The voice insisted with a tone of taunting.\nTeili stood up. She walked to the door on the right. The room became overwhelmed with the noises just outside the door. The scratching and tapping. The voice imitating her dead Lamar. Teili couldn’t handle the emotional, auditory assault any longer. Her blood covered hand reached forward. She grabbed the stone indentation that appeared designed as a handle. The stone offered a warm sensation to her grasp.\nTeili pulled the door from its seal. An impossible combination of immediate, intense freezing and baking heat washed over her front. Her eyes widened to their limits. Mechanical sounds as if she looked upon a manufacturing floor flooded the room. Her full lips pursed.\n Goosebumps spread across her body. Her skin went ice cold and took on an ashen gray color. The small, neck hairs rose straight up with alarm. Her throat lost the ability to form the screams she desperately wanted to unleash. The experience that her eyes witnessed what couldn’t be accurately processed by her mortal brain. Deep, trauma instincts kicked in to rally what scraps of sanity that lay on her emotional floor. Teili began smiling in reaction to her synapses misfiring. The smiles evolved into a hysterical laughter. Her wide eyes lacked such brevity. Teili shuffled forward lost in a focused trance. She crossed beyond the doorway. The ebony door sealed shut behind her. The room went silent once more. Fallen chunks of her friends were the last remaining evidence that she had been in the room." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Judas's Price Tag\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2911\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone being presented with a dilemma." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Caution: Language; Mature Content\n\"Either you tell him the whole truth, or I will.”\nI slowly closed my eyes and rubbed my temple. A jackhammer would have created less tension. I shouldn’t have been surprised by her ultimatum, and yet I was. Why was this my life right now? \n “I don’t see the point.” I responded, hoping to convince her. \n “I can’t keep silent about this anymore.”\n “Why not?”\n “I might as well have the scarlet letter A on my chest.”\n “But you aren’t married.”\n “Shut up.”\n I thought I heard a chuckle. Good. At least the tension was starting to ease. \n Days had turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and yet I still hadn’t told Zeke what happened. The timing was never right. Then again, when was the time ever right to give your best friend devastating news?\n “Avery, don’t do this.” I pleaded.\n “I have to, Ellis.”\n “I’m coming over.”\n “Don’t.”\n “We need to talk about this.”\n “There’s nothing else to talk about.”\n “I disagree.” She didn’t argue further, so I added, “I’m on my way.”\n\n I cranked my Audi, and she purred like a kitten. If only life could be that simple. Push to start. Push to stop.\n I drove onto I-64/40 from Chesterfield, MO and headed into the city. The traffic was lighter than it had been the previous week. Last week had been Valentine’s Day; also known as a day for lovers. I chuckled to myself. That type of thinking is exactly why I was in this predicament in the first place. \nFrom playing basketball in elementary school to chasing girls in high school, Zeke and I had been thick as thieves growing up. We even attended college together at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Neither of our moms were thrilled about us leaving Jackson, Mississippi. Knowing we would be together, however, was enough to settle the mama bears. \nDuring our sophomore year, I was convinced I met the love of my life. Pricilla Easton was one of the finest girls I'd ever met. Her skin was the perfect golden brown, like freshly baked cornbread. (I'm from Mississippi, of course I love cornbread.) She had long wavy brown hair and hazel eyes that I got lost in. Although she was a year ahead of me, we never lacked conversation. She stimulated me both physically and intellectually. \nI invited her to meet my family over the Thanksgiving Break. She declined to say she would come another time. Imagine my surprise when she arrived at my house with Zeke. Seeing as she was also his girlfriend, he’d invited her as well. Being the young co-eds that we were, we almost came to blows over her.\n\"F.O.E.,\" my mother said. \"Family Over Everything.\"\nShe was right. That day, we promised each other we would never allow another woman to come between us.\nI exited onto Jefferson Avenue in the city of St. Louis. Rubbing the waves in my hair, I waited for the traffic light to turn green. My car was at a stop, but my mind shifted gears to the first time I met Avery.\n\nIt had been during the Black Soul Food Festival in Tower Grove Park. I was transfixed by her smooth mahogany brown skin, light brown eyes, and her 1000-watt smile. She was the perfect size; about 5’5 with curves in all of the right places. It was Zeke, however, who’d made the first move. She returned his smile, her feelings mutual. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. A 90 Day Fiancé’ would last longer. As far as I knew, she was just going to be a “one and done” for him. It didn’t bother me; I was cool as a summer breeze. At least, that’s what I told myself. \n One night, I went over to Zeke’s place to watch the basketball game. I was a Chicago Bulls fan and Zeke’s team was the Detroit Pistons. Zeke was working late but was expected at any moment. I had a key to Zeke’s place just as he had one to mines. It seemed logical since I always listed him as my “in case of emergency” contact.\nThe scent of chicken wings and pizza floated through the air when I heard a knock at the door. Why doesn’t that boy just use his key? However, it wasn’t my best friend at the door, it was her. My heart began a marathon, and I chided myself. She wasn’t mine; she was his. \nI cursed as the memories flooded my psyche. Avery had shown up to make Zeke’s favorite dinner---chicken parmesan. If only Zeke hadn’t forgotten. She wouldn’t have been pissed, and I wouldn’t have invited her to stay. The room was quiet, but the tension was thick. Her lips became loose after drinking a few beers. Liquid courage gave her the nerve to scoot closer. Looking into her eyes, and then her lips, my resolve burst like water through a dam. I captured her lips as we stretched on the sofa. Excited hands explored one another. Our clothes were gone, but our mouths never parted. Looking into her beautiful face, I linked her fingers with mine, and with no space between us, our bodies intertwined. Afterward, I held her. For just that moment in time, she was mine.\n Reality quickly set in when he called and said he was almost home. Clothes flew. This time on. I almost collided with him during my escape. He invited me to stay. After all, we were like brothers. I told him I had an appointment early the next day. The lie emerged easily from my lips, but my eyes couldn’t meet his. Neither could I get out of that apartment fast enough. After he gave me a dap, I left; never looking back. \n\nAvery wanted to confess from the beginning. I convinced her I wanted to break it to him myself. I meant to. I’d convinced myself that time would slow down until I was able to form the words. It was Zeke, however, who reached out to me first. His voice was grim, and I prepared myself to be a balloon, and him, a safety pin. \n“She dumped me.”\n“What?”\n“Avery. She dumped me.”\nThe confusion on my face was sincere.\n“Why?”\n“She told me she felt I had been neglecting her.”\nI paused; not sure what to say.\n“I mean, yes, I’ve been busy with work. Then I had to cancel on her a few times…” He faced me, “but that’s nothing to end a relationship over. You work on it.”\nI opened my mouth to speak, but he kept going.\n“I know what you’re about to say. Who would have ever thought I’d want to work on something in a relationship? But I did---with her.”\n“Did you tell her that?”\n“Of course I did! I apologized and asked her to give me another chance.”\nI swallowed. “What did she say?”\nZeke took a long gulp of his beer before looking me in the eye. “It’s too late. “\nMy shoulders dared to relax. We sat in silence for a beat.\n“What if there’s another guy?”\n My breath caught. “Why would you think that?”\nHe shrugged. “After that night I forgot she was coming over to make dinner, she just started acting different, you know. Distant. Like she didn’t want me to touch her.”\nI tried my best to laugh. “Oh, come on man. That’s a little bit of a reach, don’t you think?”\nHe swirled the liquid in his beer bottle. “Maybe, but something isn’t right. I can feel it in my gut.” He turned to face me. “You know my gut is always right.”\nI swallowed again but remained silent. The look on his face would never leave my memory bank as he speculated about the “other man”.\n“I’d been in love with her.” Zeke admitted.\nHis words were a sucker punch in the gut. “I know.”\nHe pulled out a small blue box, enveloped in velvet, and slammed it on the high-top table.\n “Can you believe that shit?”\nMy eyes widened at that little blue box. I returned my gaze to Zeke. While his words were laced with venom, I knew Zeke too well. Hurt didn’t suffice to define his current state. I put my hand on his shoulder.\n“I’m sorry man.” He had no idea how much I meant it.\nZeke shrugged again. “Nothing for you to be sorry about. It wasn’t your fault.”\nAs soon as the words left his mouth, guilt became my new best friend. \n\n I couldn’t dare see Avery after that. Her calls and texts went unanswered. Conflicted was my new middle name. While she was no longer his, I was now held captive by my conscience. I wanted to rid myself of my new best friend but saw confessing to Zeke as nothing more than a double-edged sword. I probably shouldn’t have treated her like a plague, but my new best friend took up residence easy in my gut. Her text today caught my attention. She’d texted me before that she was going to tell him the truth. Instinct told me to believe her this time.\n\nMinutes later, I parked onto a side street across from Avery’s apartment in Lafayette Square. It was a beautiful neighborhood, known for its Victorian-styled two- and three-story homes. It was also known for having restaurants that were great for brunch (e.g., Sqwires and Polite Society). The overcast created a dreary mood. As if my day wasn’t hard enough.\nBefore I could knock, the door opened, and our eyes met. I caught a whiff of her perfume. Japanese Cherry Blossom, I remembered. A large overcoat covered her small frame along with denim jeans. Once I entered her living room, I turned to face her.\n “Avery, you can’t tell Zeke.”\n A tear slid down her face. I wanted to comfort her, but my feet remained planted, and my heart nearly broke in two.\n“I have to.”\n “No, you don’t. You’ve already broken up with him. Why thrust the dagger into his heart?”\n I was being selfish, but I wasn’t ready to lose my best friend.\n “That was before...”\n “Before what?” I shouted.\n Another tear followed. Then she opened her overcoat, and I saw her swollen belly. My legs gave. Lucky for me, her sofa caught me. \n For two full minutes, there was nothing to say. \n “So, you’re getting back with him?” I didn’t give her a chance to respond. “If that’s the case, why would you tell him the truth? To clear your conscience?” I got up and began pacing the floor.\n She frowned. “This isn’t his.”\n I halted mid-step, frowning in return. “What the hell do you mean, it isn’t his? Who else have you been fucking?”\n I never saw the slap coming. \n “How dare you! You’re the only other one!” she spat.\n Her words had the impact of a train that came out of nowhere. The room began to spin. Once again, I landed on her sofa.\n “Are you saying…” I couldn’t even get the words out.\n She nodded again.\n I stared at her wide-eyed. “You’re sure?”\n “Yes.”\n There had to be some mistake.\n “How do you know for certain it’s not Zeke’s?”\n She huffed and got in my face again. I braced myself for the lightning strike.\n “Because I didn’t sleep with him again after that.”\n “He could have gotten you pregnant before that night.”\n She shook her head. “He didn’t.”\n “But how do you know?” I argued. This just wasn’t making any sense.\n “Today we have this little thing called technology. This technology in the OBGYN’s office can tell you the date the baby was conceived. October 21st.”\n I took out my phone to look up my NBA app and scrolled. Yep, that had been the date Chicago played Detroit. My team had gotten their asses handed to them. Mines was next. \n It became obvious she wasn’t pleased with my initial reaction.\n “Forget it, Ellis.”\n I gave her a confused look. “What do you mean forget it. It’s too late for that now!”\n “Not if I don’t keep it.”\n I bolted to my feet. Fury replaced the confusion in my eyes.\n “What do you mean you’re not keeping it?”\n “Why should I?” She squared her shoulders and looked up at me. Her eyes peered into mine, returning their own fire. “We’re not a couple. You obviously don’t want it…”\n “That’s not true!”\n She wasn’t convinced.\n “I mean…I admit I was shocked…”\n Avery crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve been ignoring me for months! You wouldn’t even pick up your damn phone! The only reason you did so today was because I gave you an ultimatum. If you had just picked up your damn phone, I could have told you this weeks ago.”\n “I’m sorry.”\n “On that, we agree.” She replied. \n My eyes went back down to her belly. We hadn’t planned it, and the situation wasn’t ideal, but now that the initial shock had worn off, I smiled. I was going to be a dad.\n “Avery.” I spoke softly and pulled her into my arms, “You’re right. I was wrong for ignoring you. I’m truly sorry, but I’m not sorry, you’re carrying my baby. I mean it when I say I want it. I want us to be a family.”\n I’d been ignoring her, yes, but it wasn’t because I didn’t have feelings for her. Rather it was the opposite. I had fallen for my best friend’s girl. Every time I was around Zeke, I felt lower than low, especially when Zeke told me Avery dumped him.\n “Really?” she asked.\n I kissed her forehead. “Really.”\n Our embrace was interrupted by a knock at the door. When she opened it, Zeke was standing on the other side. Surprise washed over his face when his eyes fell on me. \n Zeke pushed past Avery and stepped inside.\n “What are you doing here?”\n The question was directed at me. Before I could respond, Avery asked a question of her own. “Zeke, what are you doing here?”\n Zeke pulled his gaze from me and faced Avery. “I came here to tell you to end it.”\n Her eyes shifted. “End what?”\n “Whatever you have going on with this other guy. I heard you loud and clear, and I don’t want to lose you over something as crazy as my pride. I love you.”\nIt was then that he noticed her stomach.\n“We’re going to have a baby?” His eyes lit up, and he grabbed her in a hug.\n Oh shit.\n “Zeke, please put me down.”\n He did as she asked. His face searched hers. “What’s wrong?”\n “Zeke…I’m going to have a baby.”\n His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”\n Her voice trembled. “Zeke, I’m so sorry…”\n Comprehension of what Avery was saying finally set.\n “Whose is it, Avery?” Zeke sneered at her. “After all of the shit you put me through, I deserve to know.”\n This was the moment. It was now or never.\n “It’s mine.”\n He spun around so fast, I just knew he was going to get whiplash.\n “What?” Zeke croaked.\n I shoved my hands into my pockets with my head down and slowly walked towards him. Meeting him face-to-face I confessed. “I said, it’s mine. I’m sorry, Zeke. I should have told you sooner. I just didn’t know how.”\n I watched a wave of emotions cross Zeke’s face. Confusion. Denial. Pain. Rage.\n In a flash, I was on the floor, and his fists were getting well acquainted with my face. I heard Avery scream, but the punches continued. The hate in his eyes was clear. Zeke no longer saw me as his best friend. I was the enemy, and at the moment, he was a bull who saw nothing but red.\nIf someone hadn’t heard her screams and came over, Zeke probably would have killed me. After what felt like an eternity, Zeke lifted off of me. Then I felt the arms of someone helping me sit up. It was two of Avery’s neighbors. Her screams had subsided, but her tears continued to flow.\n “I’m going to call the police.” Neighbor #1 said.\n “No.” I rasped.\n “Are you sure?” It was Neighbor #2 asking this time. The bull was still in his grasp, breathing heavily.\n I nodded and coughed. I could barely see out of one eye. My face felt numb, and I was drooling. When I looked at my hand, I saw the red sticky substance. Still, I said, “I’m sure.”\n The bull yanked himself from Neighbor #2’s grasp. He shot both Avery and me an evil look, then left.\n\n Months later…\n Avery was sleeping peacefully after a long night. I, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough of her. She had stolen my heart at first sight. Her light brown eyes sparkled in the sun, and her skin was soft as butter. I even loved watching her yawn. She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was mine.\nI hadn’t seen or heard from Zeke since that day at Avery’s. My mother had given me an earful. \n “Ellis, I’ve always told you, Family Over Everything. How could you do that to your first cousin? He’s your blood!”\n What she didn’t realize though, was that I did choose family. All that mattered to me was right here in my arms.\nI looked into my daughter’s light brown eyes. If this was the price of being Judas, so be it." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Bookstore Door\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1587\n\nPrompt:\n\nA character stands in front of two doors. Write a story about what happens after they choose one to enter." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was walking down the street, just chilling, until I saw a bookstore. To tell the truth, there were two bookstores. One next to the other. As a good writer I love a good bookstore, the smell of books, I love everything. I didn't know which way to go, I was on the sidewalk, in front of two tall wooden doors. But one thing I was sure of, regardless of which door I chose to enter, I would be feeling at home. It's inexplicable how a bookstore messes with my feelings. I looked quickly through the windows and entered the empty one. After all, peace at that moment would be a good choice. As soon as I entered the establishment, I was already looking for the section on detective novels. Inside it was cozy and it brought me many good memories. When I took my eyes off the shelf I noticed a man in the background. At the first moment, I realized we were wearing the same clothes. But as soon as the man turned around, I was startled. It was like looking in the mirror! In addition to being dressed the same, our appearance was very similar. A lot of coincidence for the tranquility of a bookstore. I turned my back and headed for the exit. I didn't want the man to see me, it would be very strange. I left the bookstore and everything happened very quickly after that. In a matter of seconds, a speeding car came to a sudden stop right in front of me. The back door of the car opened and a female voice spoke from inside: Get in the car, please, we need to talk. I hesitated and this time she shouted: Come in, now! I got in the car, sat next to an armed man in a suit. He had a briefcase on his lap. I was very afraid, my hands were shaking and I started to sweat. They were all silent for a while. My nervousness did not leave me silent, I immediately asked what they wanted from me. The woman from the front seat said she didn’t understand my shock, she asked if I was okay, and also said she would agree with our agreement. They would pay half now and the rest later if my service was good. They would send a letter with more information about my mission. I didn't understand anything. I didn't even know what to think at that moment. The car braked again, they handed me the suitcase and told me to get out of the car. There I was, with a briefcase full of money (by the weight I believed I had a lot of money), standing on the sidewalk without knowing where to go. Trying to process everything that had just happened. What did they want with me? I don't remember arranging anything with anyone.\nAfter a while, I concluded that I would take a taxi, go home and wait for that letter. Where I was getting into I didn't know. However, I was a writer facing creative blocks, I needed agitation in my life, after all, nothing happened in a long time. Three days passed and the letter finally arrived. I was in doubt whether or not I wanted this message to arrive. But as soon as I got the message, I started reading it. I was appalled and at the same time, I felt a strange feeling of happiness. The message said that in 4 days I should be ready for my mission: to protect actor James Lancaster on the night of the film festival. There were several rules and duties that I had to comply with, but basically, he was receiving death threats for his political positions. A child's dream seemed to be coming true. Whether it was a coincidence or a destination I didn't know, but I was very excited about the festival. I would finally live in the flesh what the characters in my books go through in my stories. I am very apprehensive about the big night to come, but I felt it was my duty to research a little more about the life of this actor. Who was James Lancaster? After a short time, I reached the following conclusions about the actor: it was the new phenomenon of the film industry. Young and beautiful-looking he seemed to attract crowds and separate opinions on the internet. Some idolized him and others not so much (to the point of threatening him with death). \nThis is since he came to live here in California at the age of 4, a refugee from some country in North Africa, probably Morocco. That was never a problem in his life, at least until he became famous. James began to suffer prejudice from people who did not accept an African man being the film star of the country. He had a strong personality. He was unmoved by the prejudice of stupid people and went on, always supporting the fight against inequalities. However, he had been very frightened lately by threats from some groups who didn't want him to win the prize. I was incredulous, as in 2021 we still find people with this type of thinking so outdated. My mission had just gotten more serious.\nAnyway, the big night had come. With every hour that passed, I sweated more. At the end of the message, it said that I should be at a certain time in the same place as always. Did that make me thoughtful, what do they mean, in the same place as always? It was simply confusing, but it was decided that I would do my duty, after all, I had nothing better to do. I waited in front of the two bookstore doors. The same car arrived to pick me up and take me to the festival. I asked questions and nobody answered me. We arrived at the scene quickly, parked the car and I started walking towards the great hall where I would meet J. Lancaster. I shouldn't talk to him so as not to raise suspicions, but I should keep an eye out for certain guys who were considered suspects of the threats. The ceremony was going very well. The actors were seated and called to collect their prizes. I kept one eye on the cat and the other on the fish. At the same time that the festival entertained me, I needed to keep my focus on James and the suspects. I spent like two hours like that, I look here and there. Until when I looked at where James was sitting, I didn't find him. I felt my pressure drop instantly. What the hell, he's gone? Where could he have gone? I left the main hall running towards the corridors and the exit. When I arrived in the corridor and decided which way I was going to look for him first. I felt a pain in my head and saw the lights go out. They probably hit me with something. When I opened my eyes again, I was tied up in a dark room. I could feel the presence of another person near me. I was dizzy but soon regained my senses and remembered the mission. I started screaming for help and a man suddenly turned on the lights, pulled out a chair, and sat across from me. I realized that I knew that man, I had seen him somewhere. It didn't take long and I remembered, he was the man at the bookstore, my \"mirror\". \nWhy was he there? What did he want from me? I started asking questions and he took a piece of cloth and put it in my mouth saying: now only I speak, you already stole my job. I tried to scream but no sound came out. \"What do you mean I stole your job?\" I thought. I was very agitated, and \"my mirror\" on the contrary aspired for tranquility. He started talking again: you stole my job, my dignity, and my money. Now we need to resolve this situation. I realized that if I didn't take action, things would be difficult for me. When he turned his back on me, I didn't think twice. I thought what I would do, joined forces, and jumped with the chair towards the door. I broke the door and luckily a waiter was passing by. They started fighting, other waiters arrived and \"my mirror\" ran away. They helped me to get rid of the ropes that held me and as soon as I could I ran back towards the main hall. I really needed to find the man I swore to protect. I arrived in tatters in the hall, everyone looked at me strangely but there he was, as if nothing had happened, receiving the award for best actor. Finally, I was calm and managed to think more clearly. Everything had happened so fast, but this time (for now) everything had worked out. Lancaster was safe. I didn't know what the future was keeping for me. Would the \"mirror\" come after me? Would I need to protect myself from him for the rest of my life? And all of this happened because I decided to enter a bookstore. What would have happened if I had chosen to enter the other one?\n\"Small uncertain choices await us with uncertain futures\".\n\nI don't speak English as a native language, I'm Brazilian. Forgive me for some mistakes that I may have made. ❤" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Whispers in the winter\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1248\n\nPrompt:\n\nA character stands in front of two doors. Write a story about what happens after they choose one to enter." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I skate to feel. To feel the air and the Earth, and absorb the summer’s vibrant hue. Skating is my dance, my inner serenity, you could say. I push forward on the paved road, passing by all the colorful blurs that once were people, watching the sun peek in and out from the trees, like a toddler playing peek-a-boo. I notice how strangely vacant the road is. Even as I get closer to the main part of town, the road remains clear. I shake the thought off and the winds pick up. Not so much that I have to slow down, but I shut my eyes- just for a second.\nMovies always describe falling as another kind of flying, it’s relaxing and you always have a soft landing- they lied, it feels like something is dragging me deeper into the darkness and not a lazy drag like an older sibling dragging the younger to the bath it was harsh and urgent, like whatever it was going to bring me down whatever the cost. It’s not painful, really, it’s more like intense pressure on my arms and legs, like they’re scraping against a tight rocky cavern. \nThen it stops, and I fall towards something. Then pure blackness when I hit the ground.\nI wake up real slow and relaxed, waiting for the sunlight to leak through my blinds and hit my face, but there’s nothing, just icy darkness. Something thumps on the ground. I turn to see my sticker-covered skateboard. I move closer to it, flipping it over and spotting the crushed remains of my hearing aid, the bright blue now looking dull.\nI swear, but I don’t hear it, all I hear is hums everywhere, monotone- lifeless hums. I feel myself mouth the words, “I’m not scared,” but my body tightens and the silence is long- too long. I want to jump out of my skin and leap back onto my skateboard, to the sun and the empty road.\nMy eyes flick on like a light switch glued on some kind of complexed design in the black space. I tried to make even the slightest movement with my hands and nothing. Suddenly, the design glows white and carves two door shapes in the darkness. All at once, the ability to move came back with a loud smack to the face from my once comatose hand. I rubbed my cheek, “I pack a lot more of a punch than I thought,” I think slowly approaching the designs, something screams at me, “No, don’t touch them!”, but I don’t listen, not like there’s much else for me to do anyway.\nThe closer I get, the more I can feel it moving like it’s... breathing- or maybe a heartbeat? \n“Since when do doors have heartbeats?” I run my fingers along one shape when a small white tile appears. I touch it and it multiplies three white tiles, I touch it again, six tiles, nine, twelve, nothing. “Nothing?” I touch it again, “Nothing!” I hit it, “Come on, give me somethin’ here!” I mouth at the abyss.\nThe ground rumbles, and the tiles spread filling both shapes, one filling with white, the other with purple. Igniting the area in a new blinding white. I clench my eyes shut. When I open them back, I’m standing in front of the white door. The doorway is framed by ice, soft blue swirls of the cold giving it a ghostly hue. I look over at the purple door, its swirls containing entire galaxies; the stars and planets look like polka dots and admitting a low rumble.\nMy eyes go wide as the door opens revealing clothed trees dressed in pure white, like the snow in fairytales- a wintery place, plagued with dull clouds. Anxiety and fear grab me by the arms and dry my mouth. I can feel the fear in my chest, waiting to take over. It sits there like an angry pitbull prowling me towards anxiety. Still, I take a deep breath, look back at my skateboard, and let out a tired sigh, “Come on,” and we head through the door.\nIt was as if the trees had frozen in the camera flash, completely covered in the wintry feathers of pure snow. I hold my skateboard close and wait for the cold weather to seep through my thin clothing, for it to suck up any remains of heat from my body, but it doesn’t happens. There’s no shivering- there’s no runny nose, nothing.\nThen a burst of lighting illuminates a dull wooden fence above. I clench my skateboard just a little tighter and continue the journey towards it. The boredom flows without a tick or a tock, and the fence is still a blur away. “If only there was less snow,” I mumble to my skateboard, the path seeming to grow longer by the second. When I finally reach the fence, I see how old and worn down it really is. The fence is many shades of brown, having been renewed a piece at a time over the years. It had probably stood there in rain and snow, withstood winter after winter. In a way, it was part of the landscape. \nIt’s strange how the fence seems familiar, like a tree you’d broken a leg on when you were younger; a memory surrounded by pain, but still fond. There’s another flash of lightning in the distance, then I’m on the side of a road, fence still there, standing proud.\n“Where am I?” I wonder, watching the cars flow over the road, lights on full beam. I watch how the yellowed yet bright light played in the snow, this avalanche from the sky, in solitary flakes. I take in this peace, this calm for a moment, only a moment. Then there are loud screeches, acrid smells, and screams I wish I could erase from my mind. The way the vehicles smashed against each other like they were nothing, the screams for a loved one that was long gone, and the heavy song from the horn. Knitted tight into my brain. \nI hold myself tighter and cling to the fence like it was my mama bear. I wait for the tears to fall, but they don’t. I’m not sure why. It’s like there’s a blockage. I wouldn’t doubt it. I’ve been through a lot and crying never did me any good.\n“Mama?” a voice calls. I look up and search the grim scene for any sign of life. My eyes land on a small shadow in the distance. Without a second thought, I rush over to it. Not caring if my lips are turning blue or if my vision’s getting weaker. It seems like forever. Still, I reach the shadow which has taken the form of a small boy. He’s wearing a bright blue snow coat now ruined with smears of blood. \n“Poor kid,” I think before moving some debris out of the way, “It’s okay- friend” I sign, “Damn, does he even know sign language?” Still, the boy looks up at me. I can see it clearly now; the blood is trickling from his ears, his ebony eyes pink from tears. It feels stupid, but I give him a thumbs up and look around him, seeing if I could find anything to help. My hand grazes by something- I silently pray it isn’t a body part, but when I unfold my hands there it is, that bright blue hearing aid, looking better than ever." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Flying, soaring, plummeting\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2105\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who’s extremely impulsive — or extremely indecisive." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sometimes I just want to fly. You dig. Flying, you see, is not something fit for the mortal dimension. It is a spectacular phenomenon, nonetheless. A human gets to overlook life's greatest mysteries through being a saucer of sorts. No one has felt such liberation, such authority over one’s existence, yet. It is a blessed experience locked away from our race of mongrels because we are, as of yet, a weak species, particularly of the mind. Regardless, there is hope for another avenue of admission to the abilities one can only dream of. A possibility is feasible.\nThere is a present remedy which can still be treated, disconnection to the spiritual realm. All it requires is attentive dismissal from attachments of any form. Like mwah, one must be willing to give up past relationships, even with one’s lineage. For true liberation and flight, this is the way. It is difficult though, understanding that modern beings still struggle with being free! But, hey we are still, as of yet, blind. Honestly, we are a caged animal species, barred from our authentic selves. I can slightly grasp the bias towards one’s ancestry, but what is the meaning of these additional fixations? I am referring to that garbage form of currency, individuals delve on, or more so, sacrifice their existence for. Ehh, green this… green that. Are we so imbecilic? I guess so. There is apparently a new form of obsession, on the rise. Those square-like communicative devices, which individuals seem to associate with identity. Those are robots, by the way, in the making, and they have no use for us. It is simply another part of the plague keeping us from genuine liberation.\nNow what was I- oh yes, right- now one's access to spirituality cannot be overlooked for it is the difference between true flight and bondage. A power, as you may call it. One must be able to garner strength from this dimension for it can impose abilities unknown to man. Within the confines of our world, specks of the intangible reside.\nFlying is not exactly a part of my arsenal, at the moment. It is difficult to fathom, with all the knowledge present, but I shall try to explain. At times, I just can’t shake the feeling that I am not meant for this modern life. What are my abilities, one may ask? I am still working out those kinks. For outsiders peering in, know that I am at a standstill right now. What once was, is not coming out right now. For some odd reason, I am suffering from a form of memory loss. I can’t seem to recall the last time I exerted the force instilled within me. I know it's there. Whatever it is, I can still feel it deep, even to the level of my bones.\nOf course, there are limitations in the human race, but in all honesty, I am the exception. I am a superhuman being. I know it. Non-supers do not really deserve my presence, my breath of unique vitality, my- I thought I heard something. Well, none the matter, I have tried to be fair, but, quite frankly, it cannot be held back any longer. I am the alpha. There is no real need for an omega. In due course, I will get my chance to prove myself, yet for now I must subside my processions of the mind, so no one suspects any irregularity.\nTap… a silence glistens. Tap, tap… there is a noticeable halt in the break of action. Tap, sho-v-e. “Ok, umm… hello, are you okay, sir... what is it, Mr. Connor?” Delia asked, puzzled but not shaken. “I mean, you have just been sitting with your eyes locked out to space. What gives?”\nA six-foot, man-child, sits hunched on a public bench studying the movements of the rushing traffic. It was, in a sense, an algorithm of sorts. Of what he sees, only that answer lies in the twisted fragments of his mind. A voice procures around the abscesses of his mind, but only by a faint amount. Nevertheless, this man was in his own time zone. As for the neighborly female, she continues to pester and dwell for the man does not even shed her a hint of acknowledgement.\nNow this girl was a college sophomore at the prestigious institute known as Georgetown University. Although there was no business for her being there, she had to do her due diligence. Delia Adams was brought up in a courageous light, stemming from the notion of being the better man. And yes, this is still the patriarchal social sphere, in which most American's, especially female specimens, are succumbing to the rules indoctrinated by the heads of society. But, nonetheless, the girl’s father taught her better than to leave a Caucasian schoolboy suspended out in the open, without any assistance, for his lonesomeness could be the cause of his downfall. There are too many young lads drifting about without proper stability, he would declare. It is our job as Americans to pick him up from his secluded position and get him producing again for there are too many Negros impinging on the purity this country stands for. Anyhow, there are a couple exceptions to the new case at hand. One being that this man, Conner, is not of any age to be in school. Give or take his dimensional figurations, he looks to be around the age of forty, withstanding his boyish layout and tendencies. Nevertheless, the underwear, which stands as his only support, does not rectify him as a school kind of guy. What would make a daughter of the senior vice president of postal services, commit such frailty? Well, it should probably be mentioned that Delia is the first out of many, to speak to the man. He is not one to be accepted in this world for Conner is of negro tracing.\n There was a persistent silence at hand, Delia pressed on, nonetheless. This was, of course, a purposeful visit. “Sir, you are looking duly catatonic, can I spare you some help? I mean, I am in no position to wage sufficient medical help, but there is obviously something keeping you so riveted in place. Why is that? Did your family leave you here? They must be so worried about you or maybe you were the one who left them. Hmm… well, in any case, you do not seem at odds to-”. She stopped herself before revealing the manifested beliefs, she has already worked so hard to readily disclose.\n Before Delia began developing the next arsenal for her attack, she was interrupted, in a rather timely fashion. “Miss, umm… I am not sure about your name, but are you alright? My associates and I have been watching you remain, in that up righted position, for quite some time. We wanted to check on you before but waited to see if you would eventually move on.”\n “I am fine, Ma’am. This here gentleman-\n “Oh, that is good” was her response, waiting at the ready. The interruptive specimen was not rather tall, nor short, thin nor plump, but of average proportion. Mrs. O'Hannigan was the name of a lady who did not dare introduce herself, in entirety, except for on occasion, in the household and the “Come one, Come all, Beauty Salon”, she oversaw. Nonetheless, she was amid dragging this younger child back into the shop, when the girl managed to explain the situation.\n “Yes, so I happened to pass by this bus stop on my way to school and-”\n “Oh, speaking of school, aren’t you supposed to be there? Where is it you go to?\n Delia, with an irritated stitch, replied “Georgetown”. Her voice came out rather monotone-like.\n “Oh, how splendid, dear. You know, my niece attends there. It is such a nice school, with so many opportunities. Have you already made up your mind about your major?\n “For god’s sake lady, this man needs assistance.” Mrs. O'Hannigan motioned toward the pointed finger only due to the obviousness of the situation.\n “Oh, right-him. Well dear, to tell you the truth, this man is probably a drug addict. We believe he is waiting for a ride if you catch my drift.”\n“Right… but have you checked his pulse? It is just what I was getting ready to do.” The man’s hunched cross-legged position remains. He does not flinch a muscle in the hope that no one will suspect his thinking intervals or delusions. “Do you need assistance to find your way back home? Please answer me, sir! I am here to help.” No response came from the man; however, his left pupil sheds a couple inches toward her vicinity. A landmark from its previous five-year mark.\nI so want to fly, but I am honestly unsure if this body is ready to take on the challenge. My mind training seems to be preparing me for the inevitable task, yet this body of mine, it is not read-I mean, I have never truly flown… I guess, you never know if you don’t give it a good visceral push, huh… The decision, to be frank, is difficult, but I must be the captain of my own ship, right?... Huh, what is that? Am I being watched?... This eye trick sure does wonders… What are those women discussing? Well, at least they are not looking in my direction. Honestly, this flight must be at the ready for it can never be known when the powers instilled will have to be activated… I mustn't tell anybody what I feel I am capable of, on account of the government. That corrupt establishment is always looking for weapons of “mass destruction”. Take it as my own death sentence if I ever submit to their requests. I would have lost the war for choice… They will never take me! Ugh, I am being watched. I bet they work for the government, probably some spies. No, no siree, I will not be taken captive, if it is the last thing I do.\nDelia silenced the women’s pressing concerns, motioning towards the man’s vein-popping neck. Slowly she gestured- gulp. The girl had no idea what she was getting into. Chomp! With that, the man took off on his predetermined destination. He had no choice, but to fly. As for the girl, who’s screech alerted the whole neighborhood, her original premise had been restored.\n ---\nKnock, knock. “Hello dear, can I come in? I am unsure if you are still accepting visitors for the moment, but I cannot leave you unattended.” \nThere was a fear piercing on the exterior of the college-age girl. She was understandably shaken from the event, no doubt. But that is not the entirety which evidently shapes it. By her calculations, the man was not supposed to act, for it was programmed in Delia’s mind that he would never resist her temptations, he would always remain idle. “Yes, I am waiting for my family at the moment, but sure, come in.”\n“So, how are you doing? I know the man was a menacing creature, but I was definitely not expecting him to be so vicious.”\n“I… Well, give me a second.” Having it brought to fruition; the event became real. Delia needed some more time to process her fright. While she did not necessarily want to speak to Mrs. O'Hannigan, Delia did not want to be alone for the moment.\n“Oh, of course. But let me just tell you that while you were screaming, that man did not get too far. I may have misjudged him; he is not a drug addict. No, just crazy in the mind, that’s all.”\n“Really, how do you know?” Delia pressed.\n“Umm, well, it is rather interesting. After he bit your- um- finger, he ran off and leaped into the highway. He did not make it far obviously, but maybe he thought he could just fly away.\n“Wow, I would have never thought. Hmm… thank you for this, I did not necessarily know that. I guess they- I mean, he is deranged.\n“No problem, and before I leave, let me get you some food. I know this is a hospital, but they have to have something decent here.” And before waiting for any answer, the lady was off with the door shutting behind her. Delia relished in bed. She was now no longer an outsider, like the man. Mrs. O'Hannigan, on the other hand, was on her way to the café. She kept thinking to herself, “why would anyone want to fly away from this heavenly place? He must be crazy, must be.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Yuck!\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1775\n\nPrompt:\n\n‘The worst meal I’ve ever tasted.’ Imagine a zero-star TripAdvisor restaurant review: capture the customer’s evening out that compelled them to complain." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“You’ve just got to try this place, Walter. I’m tellin ya I’ve never tasted a better burger in all my life! It’s out on Highway fifty-one going west. I think it might be a truck stop but, at any rate, it’s darn good!”\nSo were the praises of my neighbor, Dave. I should have taken them with no more than a grain of salt. Dave is an alcoholic and a survivor of a car accident that destroyed his sense of taste and smell. But it still seems as though he can taste a little something. The food must be very spicy. I declined the offer to go.\n“No, no, no, Walter,” insists Dave. I’m tellin ya the truth! They make this thing called a triple bacon cheeseburger that is out of this world! Honestly, I could taste every bite. It was like a miracle!”\nI concede with a sideways glance and a pat on Dave’s shoulder. \nOkay, Dave, I’ll try it sometime.”\nHis jaw drops open, and there’s a twinkle of joy in his eyes. “That will be great! Let me know how you like it. Okay?”\nMy wife Ruth greets me when I come through the door. “What was Dave talking to you about?” Suddenly, my head is filled with the fantastic aromas of a pot roast boiling in the kitchen. I can almost feel the meat cooking slowly, allowing the spices to tenderize the roast, carrots, and potatoes to perfection. Ruth will pour the juices into a gravy bowl, and we will have hot buttered rolls on the side. My stomach grumbles in anticipation. Again, Ruth asks, “Well?”\nI lift my eyebrows, “What? Oh, Dave. He told me about someplace out on the highway with, according to him, good burgers. I ask you, how can he even tell? He has no sense of taste! For all I know, he was probably half in the bag and ate a picture of a hamburger.”\n“Walter!” Ruth scolds. Dave is our neighbor and tries to be friendly and helpful whenever possible. What’s the name of the place?”\nFrom under hooded brows, I tell her. “Biggy’s Big Bite Burgers!” But listening to Dave might as well be the Waldorf Astoria!” Casting her eyes off to some distant spot in the kitchen, Ruth tells me she once asked Dave about his inability to taste. “He said he could taste some things along the outer edge of his tongue near the back of his throat. Just imagine how awful that must be.”\n“Yeah, just like me now, smelling that delicious pot roast and being unable to eat it!”\nas I’m savoring a mouthful of potatoes and gravy, Ruth says, “Perhaps we should try it sometime.” Stuffing in another bite of pot roast, my eyes narrow before I understand what she is talking about. I swallow hard, “You mean that hamburger joint?”\n“Yeah! It could be good. You see it all the time on those TV shows. That guy with the white spiky hair is always finding some hole-in-the-wall place that serves five-star meals for five bucks.”\nI use my knife to point over my shoulder to Dave’s house. “Ruth, dear. We’re talking about a place where Dave ate. I highly doubt that Biggy’s Big Bite Burgers is selling five-star cuisine.”\n“Don’t be such a stick in the mud! What do you say we give it a try this Friday? Let’s be adventurous, uh?” I grab another roll, “Okay, it’s your funeral.”\n …\nMy GPS says it’s twenty minutes from our house. “I hope you’re hungry,” I say, starting the car. I listen closely to the engine, hoping to hear a strange noise so I won’t have to go, but no such luck.\nAt the end of our twenty-minute ride, I see a sign on a post that reads “Eat Here” with an arrow pointing to the parking lot. Under that sign, someone stuck up a handwritten one that reads, “If You Dare!!” Glancing at Ruth, I smile, “Look! A Yelp review.”\nBiggy’s Big Bite Burgers looks like someone found an abandoned shed and converted it into this joint. The neon light B is burned out in the word burgers. As I park the car, I ask Ruth, “What do you say, Dear, are you ready for your urgers?” There are more cars here than I expected, but several motorcycles also. I notice some riders are lingering around outside by their bikes. “I think this might be a biker bar. What say we leave now? I can see a Wendy’s just up ahead.”\nI hear Ruth’s seatbelt fly open and her door unlock. “ Don’t be such a scaredy-cat! Besides, I’m hungry, let’s go.”\nI step out of the car, and the first breath I take gags me. With wide eyes, I put a hand over my nose and mouth to prevent smelling the pungent odor of sewage! “ Oh my God! Are you kidding me?” I bellow, “I’m out of here!” I start heading back to the car. Seemingly unaffected by the stench, Ruth is already halfway to the front door. As I catch up to her, I hear a big fat biker wearing dark sunglasses and sporting a ZZ Tops-style beard say, “Hey, baby. What’s happening?” Ruth is fifty-eight, and this guy looks to be sixty-eight. My eyes begin to bulge out of my head as I start stuttering. I feel Ruth grab me by my arm and say softly, “Come on, just keep moving and shut your mouth.”\nAs soon as we enter, we’re accosted by loud heavy metal music, screaming conversations, and an abundance of four-letter words I haven’t heard since boot camp. Ruth is saying something to me, but I can’t understand. I can only see her lips moving. Finally, she points with her chin. I turn to look and see standing before me, “Lydia the Tattooed Lady.” She stops mauling her gum long enough to shout, “YOU GUYS WANT A TABLE OR A BOOTH?’ I want to feel safe, so I request a booth. After scanning the dimly lit dining area, our waitress announces, “COME ON!” Eyebrows high, I skeptically look to my wife and mouth, “Come on?”\n We slip into the booth and find it’s a decimal or two quieter here. The table is a filthy mess, and Lydia tells us she hasn’t had time to clean it yet but will now. She grabs a bottle of Lysol and sprays it everywhere, including on us. She wipes the whole thing off with a dishrag that looks as if it has never seen a washing machine in its entire life.\n“Okey-Dokey! Are you guys ready to order?” Ruth responds as if we’re in a real restaurant, “Yes, please. We heard from a friend that the triple bacon cheeseburgers are really very good. We’d like that, please.”\n“And would you like fries with that?”\n“That would be nice.”\nShe looks at me and asks, “Would you like something to drink?” I blink and smile sweetly, “Yes, I would like a Coke--in a clean glass.” Ruth kicks me under the table, making me purse my lips and scrunch up my left eye. Lydia then tells us that they are out of buns and asks if it would be alright if they were on white bread. “We’ll toast it, of course.” I say, “Fine.”\n “Great! I’ll place your order now.” She turns toward the kitchen and bellows, “Jimmy! Two triple bacon and cheeseburgers with fries!” She turns back to us, tells us they’ll be out in a minute, and walks away.\nAfter waiting twenty minutes, I spy a dessert menu and pick it up to see what they offer. The plastic menu is stuck to the holder, and my fingers slip right up it due to all the grease. Frowning, I declare, “Yuck!” and look at my fingers as if they are contaminated. “Do you have any sanitizer in your purse?” Ruth hands me the small bottle of Purell, and I empty almost half of it into the palm of my hand. Scrubbing my hand furiously under the table, I see the only thing to dry them with is the paper napkin holding my dinner utensils. I swallow as fear strikes deep into my heart, thinking what condition those dinner utensils might be in hiding inside that napkin. Like a bomb expert defusing a bomb, I gently and gingerly unwrap the napkin. Falling back in my chair, I exhale the breath I am holding, relieved to see that the utensils are plastic wrapped in cellophane. Holding them up to show Ruth, I shake them. “You only find this type of silverware in high-class places.” Placing the packet back on the table, I notice the people sitting opposite us preparing to leave. Getting Ruth’s attention, I nod my head in their direction. “See those people about to leave? They came in after us, ordered the exact same meal, and are going. On the other hand, we have waited a good half an hour or more and still don’t have our drinks!” Ruth just sort of smirks and shrugs her shoulders. \n“Lydia the Tattooed Lady” brings us our Cokes with a promise that our meals will arrive soon. And sure enough, here they come. The waitress proudly places our meals on the table and leaves us the check simultaneously.\nI sit momentarily and stare at the unbelievably gelatinous mess before me. It’s so thrown together that it doesn’t even look like a sandwich. Then I notice that my french fries are so overcooked that they resembled twigs off a tree. The toast must have been slathered in butter and then fried in the bacon grease, making it incredibly soggy. It looks as though it was soaked in a bucket of water. I can’t distinguish any bacon anywhere, and the three burger patties look like Brillo pads without the blue soap. The cheese is just a yellow puddle in which everything sits. Ruth’s plate looks the same, except her fries are undercooked and floppy.\n“Ruth, dear, if I eat this, I will surely die. Let’s just go home and have a bowl of cereal or something, okay?’ I pay the bill and start walking toward the exit. The fat biker sits beside the door, no longer wearing his sunglasses. When he sees my wife, he grins a toothless grin and winks a glassy bloodshot eye. Ruth shoots him the finger!\nWe hold our breaths and race to the car. Once inside, I turn to Ruth, “Darling, let’s never listen to Dave ever again!” I slam the car into gear and peel out of the parking lot as fast as possible." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 people´s temple\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2999\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who’s extremely impulsive — or extremely indecisive." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "—Brenda! Are you awake? Please come with me. I want to show you something.\n—Show me what? — She answered a bit dazed. She did not like being bothered at those hours.\n—I want to take you to a beautiful place in the jungle.\n—Do not be silly! We are forbidden to go to the jungle. It is almost midnight now. You better go back to your bed, Walter. You will wake up the other children!\n—It is forbidden to go to the jungle? It was my understanding that there were no prohibitions in this community.\n—Of course not. We are all free. However, we must behave in a civilized way, for our own well.\n—I know that. However, i cannot tolerate this boredom. There is nothing to do here! In addition, I cannot get to sleep.\n—Do your best. Close your eyes, blank your mind and sleep.\n—I refuse. I am leaving now.\nAnd the young boy left. Walter crossed the wide room where the children slept. There was no security guard or adult that could stop him. The boy calmly evaded all the beds where his friends rested and left the hut. Brenda concluded that if something happened to Walter, she would be responsible for his disappearance. She did not want to be punished because of that reckless boy. After all, she was fifteen and for being the oldest, it was up to her to take care of her own. Brenda snuck out of the hut and went in pursuit of that extremely impulsive boy.\nWalter Rodnor was fourteen years old. He was born on December 23, 1964 in San Francisco. Like Brenda, his skin was black and his height was medium. They were both smart and enthusiastic boys from California. They had been in that place for two weeks. Her parents referred to that territory by the name of: \"The people's temple.\" Their free time was devoted to reading books, conducting group ceremonies and working hard on the plantation nearby. The two of them were lively and helpful young boys. Until that point, Walter had shown no sign of being a troublemaker. Yet, that night he was mortified. In his own words, being in that place was \"awfully boring\"\nBrenda ran quickly and found herself face to face with the boy.\n—Stop there! Where do you think you are going?\n—I am sorry, Brenda. It is proven that i am an unstoppable adventurer. You certainly cannot tie me down or stand in my way.\n—Why are you behaving in such an absurd manner?\n—It is my nature. It makes me sick to be lock up in the same place. Do not worry! I will be back before dawn.\nThe boy walked towards a tall palm tree where bushes grew. He raised his head and saw the moon shining on the sky. He looked excited. He seemed ready to explore the jungle and nothing could change this decision. Brenda said:\n—You will get me in serious trouble! Go back to bed immediately.\n—Brenda, my friend. I was wrong to bother you with my proposal. I now understand that I must go alone to that beautiful place that I have found in the afternoon. I could not enjoy it at that time because the vigilance of our parents is very intense during the day. Well, right now, they sleep soundly, and I cannot wait any longer. I must leave at once. And I cannot force you to come with me.\nBrenda said:\n—Stop this nonsense! It is very dangerous for you to go alone to that desolate place in the middle of the jungle.\n—I have requested company and it has been denied! — Walter exclaimed.\n—A fool! That's what you are! A stupid buffoon!\nThe boy was tired of the repetitive nature of that argument and ran off into the jungle. He sped down a long trail that led him into the heart of a thick tropical forest. When he was far enough from the huts, he stopped running and stopped suddenly under a lush tree. The jungle was silent and so far, he had encountered no animal. In that same place, he tried to remember the fastest route to the place he longed to visit. He was not anxious, but he had to be cautious. He did not want to be seen by the guards who guarded the entrances and exits of that territory.\nIt was then that he heard a strange sound and turned around. There was nothing to be afraid of. Brenda had followed him. She said:\n—Very well! You have it! You convinced me to come with you. I imagine you will be happy.\n—I am stunned.\n—Well, here I am. Now what? Where is that beautiful place you mentioned before?\nThe boy climbed a thin tree and observed his surroundings from that height. Then he descended and without much emotion, he asked:\n—Why did you accept my invitation?\n—Well, you happen to have a remarkable talent. You know very well how to drive people crazy until you get what you want. Honestly, you are very impulsive and disobedient. You will not contribute much to the temple if you insist on acting this way. Let me ask you something... Do you think this is a field trip? Well, you are wrong! Now we belong to this place and the laws of our community deserve our respect.\nThose statements overwhelmed Walter.\n—I cannot bear so many contradictions. Are you telling me that there is no freedom in this community? What are all those morning ceremonies about, then? And the speeches of that pale man? Everyone talks about freedom and then they impose chains on us!\nBrenda did not know what to answer. Walter descended a steep terrain and walked in a straight line until he saw the silhouette of some magnificent mountains. Brenda followed him silently. Walter turned his body to the left and decided to walk through what appeared to be thick grassland. The boy led the way. Fireflies began to surround the intruders. Without getting upset, Walter questioned his friend:\n—Why did you come? To watch over me?\nBrenda recognized that that was her main motive. However, she agreed that the huts and religious activities were not very stimulating.\nBrenda decided to be sincere:\n—I understand you, Walter. I have not been able to sleep in recent days either. Insomnia is a very debilitating disease. I have also sometimes felt the need to explore these places. Nothing extraordinary, just walk a bit, and break the routine. Since we arrived in this country, I have not occupied myself with anything other than reading the books that have been kindly given us by the masters. There are books of all kinds. The biology ones are my favorites. They are very revealing, you know. I fervently believe that we are the creation of a powerful entity, but at the same time, we are mere animals. We are not the strongest or the fastest animals. We are weak. Don't you think? We are very fragile. We have invented all these ideologies, to believe we own the world. We act as if we are enduring, indestructible, eternal. It does not seem reasonable to me. You understand?\nBrenda constantly sought the approval of her equal, in order to feel less helpless. Walter told her that he agreed with her, but did not think much about these matters. What truly bothered him was leaving home.\n—At first, I thought this would all be like an adventure. \"A new and free world\" they told us. \"The temple of the town where we will all be equal\" they insisted. \"A community away from the cruelty and injustice that reigns in Western civilization\" And all that seemed great to me. My mother was very excited. We have attended many churches. We have consulted many ways to approach our spirituality. Until one day, we heard that pale man preach... For the first time in a long time I saw her happy and joyful. It was a different woman. Who wouldn't do anything for their mother's happiness? I am that kind of boy, I guess. A mommy's boy, always ready to make her life easier. And here we are. We abandoned everything in California for this adventure. What a disappointment. This is not the promised land that we both long for. She is a strong woman, always has been. However, we are getting tired of this whole situation. She has fallen ill and no one cares enough to take her to a decent hospital. If her condition does not improve, I will have no choice but to transport her myself out of this prison.\nBrenda understood his suffering. The two boys entered a cleared area of the jungle, walked a bit and jumped over fallen trees. After reflecting for a long time on her friend's plight, Brenda stopped in her tracks and said:\n—I have good news for you, little Walter.\n—Good news?\n—I have heard some information that may be useful to you.\n—What are you talking about?\n—Someone will come.\n—Who? - Walter was alarmed.\n—The savior is coming.\n—Ah! I have heard that one before.\n—I do not mean that. An important man is coming from California.\n—How important?\n—Very important. He is already in this country. He will come to visit us and those who wish to return to California will be free to do so. When you hear the sound of a helicopter, you and your mother can rejoice.\n—Is this a joke, Brenda?\n—It is not! I have heard all this from the leader himself! On one occasion, i was passing by his office and he was talking about this.\nWalter got excited. He took Brenda's hand and led her straight to a beautiful, medium-depth lake where there were no fish or amphibians. That was a lovely atmosphere. In the distance, they heard some birds squawking. The air there was cool and humid. They absorb in a breath of air and felt relaxed. They both sat on a huge rock. Walter stripped off his shirt and prepared to jump into the water.\n—You would not dare — Brenda said.\n—Nothing can stop me! The news you have given me are fantastic. I have regained my happiness. There will be no more sleepless nights and my mother's health will return soon! It will not be long until we get home! I am the happiest boy on earth!\nBrenda smiled pleased.\n—Well, calm down a little. You cannot dive in here. There may be crocodiles.\n—Oh! Do you remember the ones from California? They are phenomenal creatures!\n—I remember them… My father transported many tourists in his boat who wanted to see and photograph the crocodiles. Once he invited me on one of his tours, when we were getting ready to set sail, we ran into a herd of pigs on the shore. We also saw that a black crocodile was approaching them, stealthy, patient, and determined. My father told everyone to be quiet and just watch the crocodile. If that crocodile wanted to eat one of those pigs, it had to do it on its own. Suddenly, ignoring my father's warnings, one of the tourists maliciously threw an apple into the river with the clear intention that one of the pigs would approach the ferocious reptile. A young mature pig fell into the trap. Distrustful, this pig went in search of the apple, and when he was in the water, the crocodile gave him a voracious bite on the neck. The pig fought for his life while bleeding to death. The other pigs did not know what to do. One of them even wanted the apple back. However, he did not dare so much. Finally, the dying pig was pulled into the depths of the river and was no longer seen.\n—How dreadful! — Walter shouted.\n—But that is not all. My father was furious. He accused the tourist of being a complete jerk. And he ordered everyone to get off his boat. Tourists were shocked, but none of them wanted to confront my hulking six-foot father. One by one, my dad gave them their money back and then we went home. He lay down in a hammock and smoked a cigarette. I remember him saying to me: “Do you see it, daughter? Those are the unexpected reaches of human cruelty!\" At the time it did not seem like a very wise phrase. I could not understand how my father had gotten so angry about a simple pig, to the point of returning the money we so badly needed. Now I understand… I do understand!\nWalter was silent for a few seconds, trying to analyze that story.\n—And where is your father now? — He asked.\n—He did not want to come. He flatly refused. My mother and I could not convince him to come. He thought this was a crazy idea.\n—A very intelligent man, your father!\nAfter such reckless annotation, Walter studied the lake carefully and then fixed his gaze on the moon. Then he said:\n—Brenda! You have read many books on biology and you are a connoisseur of the habitat of these animals. Do you think there may be crocodiles in this lake located in this tropical country? I mean, I am convinced that there are no fish on this lake. What could these ferocious beasts feed on?\nBrenda answered:\n—They feed of reckless boys who jump into dark waters in the middle of the night.\nWalter laughed.\n—You are so funny and clever!\nWalter got up and stretched his arms. Brenda looked at him, saying nothing. The boy gathered momentum and then jumped. From Brenda's perspective, Walter was frozen in midair. The fireflies kept flying, the birds in the trees squawked, and the ants kept doing their jobs. Everything was still latent, except Walter stuck in midair. Suddenly, Walter fell like a bomb into the water. The boy remained underwater for thirty seconds. Brenda called his name, but no one answered. She began to get worry. A small head poked out over the surface. Walter yelled:\n—Come here, Brenda! The water is wonderful!\n—Did I tell you that you are a fool? You scared me! I thought you drowned.\n—You should not underestimate my abilities. I am the best climber and swimmer in the world! — Walter said swimming on his back like a professional.\n—Certainly you are. You look like a dolphin. — Brenda said, laughing.\n—Come on Brenda! Join me in the water! There is nothing to fear! There are no animals in this lake!\nFor a moment, Brenda thought about the pig that went looking for the apple. She remembered her father lying in the hammock, frustrated and annoyed by human stupidity. She thought of the warm California weather. Then she wiped the sweat from her forehead and took a few steps back. Brenda launched herself into the air and felt stuck for a brief moment. Then she skillfully dove into the magnificent water.\nThe two young boys swam joyfully for half an hour. They enjoyed that getaway very much, and before the dawn, they headed back to the huts. As they crossed the pasture, Walter gazed at the sky with his soaked hair.\n—It will not be long — he whispered.\nThen he turned his gaze to the place where he supposed the guards were stationed. \"We are an exceptional free for all community, where no one can go out when they want to,\" Walter thought. He face the dilemma of trying to escape with his mother or wait for the savior. Surprisingly, Brenda gave him a shove and said:\n—Wake up you fool! Let's race to that palm tree!\nThe two boys ran hard until they were exhausted. Brenda was the first to arrive, after celebrating her victory with leaps and shouts of euphoria; she sat down on a rock to rest. Walter asked him:\n—Do you know who invented democracy, freedom and the human rights?\n—Wow! You really like history a lot… I do not know! Who invented such useful, fair and true concepts?\n—The French.\n—Oh yeah! My teacher told us something about them. Did you know that they gave the Statue of Liberty as a gift to the United States of America to congratulate them on their independence?\n—Of course! They are very generous. Imagine being so grateful to someone that you gave them a gigantic statue.\n—That’s certainly impressive!\n—Have you ever wanted to travel to France? — Walter asked.\n—All my life. France! What a splendid country! — Brenda responded tenderly.\n—Well, you already have travelled to France!\n—I do not understand. What do you mean by that? I have never been in France!\n—We are in France! This country is a French colony!\n—Oh! I see! This country is like a piece of France in South America. How fascinating.\nWalter got up from his rock a bit annoyed:\n—What is so fascinating about a country that is subdued by another country that is an ocean away?\nBrenda laughed. And she got up:\n—Do you have to question everything? \n—Someone has to! — He said proudly.\nThat gave Brenda a lot to think about. They were very silent when they saw the huts. Very cautiously, they both returned to their respective beds and slept until eight in the morning. Early in the morning, Walter went in search of his mother who was fainting in bed due to a strong fever. She smiled happily when she saw him. Some nurses examined her, but could not provide any explanation or solution for her sickness and pain. Any request to take her to a hospital was denied by them. The nurses left. Walter approach his mother, took her hand and whisper in her ear:\n—Don't worry, Mom. It won’t be long. Our savior will come.\nAnd her mother smiled with visible tears on her eyes.\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: Favorite Baby Girl\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 1208\n\nPrompt:\n\n‘Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once.’ Use the senses to transport a character back to the past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "After the traditional Thanksgiving dinner has been presented and vanquished, Harland Covington retires to the family room to watch some football while everyone else cleans up. He sits in his old faded brown recliner, the one that hugs every contour of his seventy-seven-year-old frame. It’s the same chair that has been the subject of many arguments with his wife, usually with Harland exclaiming, “When something hugs you just right, you don’t throw it out, you hug it back!” The chair is positioned by the fireplace so that the warm dry heat swaddles him like a baby who just had his belly filled while cheers and whistles of the game distort themselves into the soothing white sounds of the ocean lapping against beaches with seagulls flying by as his eyes grow heavy and the images of the game blur into familiar dreams.\n\nIn the Covington home, Harland’s after dinner nap is just as much a tradition as the dinner itself. The family has made a game of waking grandpa for dessert. It’s the way grandma wakes him every year. Under Harland’s nose she waves the smell of roasted apples and the sweet spicy essence of cinnamon tied together with splashes of melted butter that soaks into the crispy, flaky crust that is the fragile taste of freedom. An aroma that calls to the taste buds like angels heralding the arrival of a culinary delight that is so simple, yet so elegant that it is the staple of every celebration. Every year Harland is roused from his slumber by the smell of a large piece of America’s favorite baby girl, the apple pie, still warm and with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream. To the family’s delight, this year is no different, and he wakes with a giggle and a grin as he does year after year.\n\nAs Harland makes his way to the dining room to join the rest of the family, eating his pie as he goes, young Sally asks the question that everyone has never thought to ask, “Grandpa, why does pie make you smile all silly like that?”\n\n“Not just any pie,” he tells his granddaughter as he takes a seat at the table, “apple pie.”\n\n“Now I’m curious, dad,” Marjorie, his youngest speaks up, “what is so special about apple pie?”\n\nHarland looks around the table at all the inquiring faces eagerly awaiting an answer. “It was late fall, 1966. I was in the student hall handling bets on the Cowboys vs. Packers game. The game was running a little long which was making me nervous. I had to be halfway across town to catch a train home in twenty minutes. My father had purchased the ticket and if I missed the train, he was sure to come down on me with the wrath of Zeus. By the time the game concluded, and everyone cashed out, I was left with ten minutes to make it to the station on foot, so I ran. I imagined myself a quarterback, rushing the ball, hurdling benches, rolling off people on the streets, and dodging cars like tacklers, but it was all for naught. When I reached the train station, the train was fading away into the distance. I was left breathless, my lungs searing in pain as they sucked in the cold November air.\n\n“I was left on that platform to yell at the top of my lungs, flail my arms, and stomp my feet like the world’s worst tap dancer caught in a swarm of bees. As I finished my tantrum, I felt drops of rain that quickly turned into a torrent of wind and water. I should have seen it coming. I smelled the freshness of the water in the air, and it had been a dreary, black day, but in the rush of things, I left without an umbrella.\n\n“I hurried my way over to the closest place open, a little diner situated across the street from the train station. It was a small freestanding building that occupied the parking area for the train station. It just had a row of booths under the large front windows and stools at the counter. There wasn’t room for any additional tables. I went in and sat in the farthest corner booth I could find; all sop-and-wet, and rested my head on the table, trying to come up with a more acceptable story to tell my father for missing Thanksgiving than gambling.\n\n‘I thought you could use these,’ a chorus of morning songbirds said to me, breaking me out of my thoughts of self-loathing. I lift my head to see a beautiful brunette with warm, soothing brown eyes standing by my table dressed in peach and white checkered waitress uniform, looking at me empathetically. In one hand was a cup of coffee and there was a towel draped over her forearm. In her other hand was a fresh out of the oven piece of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream. ‘I baked this myself. Everybody says it’s the best. Try some,’ she says as she lays everything down in front of me and takes a seat on the opposite side of the booth.\n\n‘Don’t you have other customers to wait on,’ I asked, shocked that this olive-skinned image of perfection just invited herself to keep me company. She looks around the diner and I look too, wondering what she’s looking for when it dawns on me, I’m the only person in the entire joint. ‘Oh, well thank you for the pie, coffee, and company, I guess,’ I tell her, taking the towel and wiping my face.\n\n‘No problem,’ she says with a soft white smile outlined by succulent pink lips, ‘it’s on the house.’\n\n“I was charmed by this pretty lady and was grinning ear-to-ear until I bit into that pie. Then my countenance changed dramatically. Everything melted in my mouth. Apple, butter, cinnamon, and the crust melded together and exploded. I couldn’t help the change in my expression to one of unexpected pleasure. I rolled my head back to complement her and I caught a glimpse of her bright green eyes with flakes of gold twinkling in the light. Her eyes caused me to pause, I was a little lost in her beauty, but the anticipation on her face snapped me back. ‘It’s like Heaven is crying in my mouth,’ I told her, and her face lit up with pride and delight.\n\n‘Well, if you think that’s good, wait until you taste what I’m cooking for dinner. You have a name,’ she asks, all sure of herself.\n\n‘Harry Covington, and are you inviting me to dinner?’\n\n‘I am. I get off at five,’ and she got up to attend to some of her cleaning. As she walked off, I called after her for her name. ‘Maureen Bennet,’ she said with a smile as she looked over her shoulder at me. Two years later, Maureen Bennet became Maureen Covington when she agreed to be my wife. She hasn’t left my side since,” Harland says as he leans over to kiss his wife.\n\n“So, the smell of apple pie always takes you back to the day you met mom,” says his oldest, Michael.\n\n“Every time, Michael. Every time.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Close enough\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1077\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone finally making their own choices." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Take a deep breath… you got this I spoke to myself silently. I could hear my heartbeat in my ear pumping away as my fears crept in. Your mother and father drove hours to get here for your special day you can’t disappoint them. Once again I am grasping to stay out of my head. It’s so crazy how I wanted a cigarette but didn’t smoke. The piano begin to play as my father grabbed my arm and begin to walk me down the aisle.\n 3 Months before….\nHis lips were so soft was all I could think as my man place his lips against mine. Damn baby your lips is like kissing a chocolate covered strawberry soft and juicy\" he said. Smiling at Kevin like a school girl crush I inhaled all of his cologne. If we don’t get out this bed we not gone make it work I said. Can I ask u a question Patrice? Yes I replied, would you love me through anything he asked? With all my heart I answered yes. That’s all I need to no he gently grabbed my arm in we both went to shower.\nDamn Patrice we only got 3 months left until your wedding in your playing around. My best friend Amanda could be a prude sometimes but I loved her. She was also my maid of honor which was starting to be a torture. Girl!!! Sit back in enjoy that martini with your crazy ass I replied.\n Me Amanda and Kevin have all been friends since we meet in middle school. The 3 stooges is what they called us we were Inseparable. That is until me and Kevin started really seeing each other in the 10th grade. Something about the way he played with my hair that day had me seeing him differently. From there we new this thing called love recruited us that day.\n3 Days before wedding **\nI’m your only stripper u remember that while your out with James and Devin hoeish ass. Kevin was dying laughing, holding his stomach as if it was so funny. Only fueling my anger about his bachelor party tonight. Baby you no I would never look at another women. He kissed me and walked out the door…*****\nThe masquerade party was jumping!!me and my guys were looking good and smelling nice. My boys came through they no how I rock. We were having fun and getting twisted. Not being able to see the women made it better. No I definitely wasn’t checking for anyone I knew what I had at home. She slightly whisper in my ear let me buy you a drink. It was harmless so I agreed. Give me a second I told the woman with the black and gold sparkling mask. You can order me a gin and juice I said walking to the bathroom.\nI sipped she sipped we laughed and than things went dark…… The night was a blur as I struggled to open my eyelids. Her feet were small and skinny, I looked up slowly preparing for the worst and my heart sunk in my chest not prepared for this. Amanda WHAT THE FUCK I YELLED!!!!! She turned to look back OH MY GOD..KEVIN….\nMy lungs were struggling to grasp any part of air it could. This can’t be I said as I dropped to my knees crying. No Amanda your dreaming I said trying to pinch my skin off. Its real a voice said aloud we have really fucked up. Kevin scrabbled across the floor in search of his vibrating phone. 12 missed calls 30 text messages. This wasn’t gone be good Patrice was sure ready to kick my ass. I listened to the messages from her and my boys asking were the fuck I was. What are we going to do Kevin, yelled “ Amanda she gone kill us. \n1 Day before wedding…\nIt woke me up drenched in soaking wet clothes. Dripping wet I made my way to the bathroom to get in the shower. This the second night I have had this dream that Kevin chasing me out the church with weeping eyes. I’m praying its just my nerves we were a day away from getting married in I didn’t need that type of stress. \nI turned off the shower and sat on the bed with the towel wrapped around my body. My phone started flashing letting me no I have a message. I looked at the clock that read 2:30 am. My baby so sweet he couldn’t sleep either I said to myself. Checking the message it was from a unknown number. That’s weird I clicked on the video. As tears fell from eyes I rewind it over and over. My husband and my best friend were having sex. The pain shot through me like a ton of bricks how could they do this to me. I quickly called my mother and my other friend Kate to tell them about what happened. The both told me that Kevin is a good man and whatever happened Amanda seduce him. I need to still marry him he’s a provider and that’s what I need.\nAgreeing with them I hung up the phone in went to sleep\nDay of wedding… \nThere I was looking like a new modeled car. Smooth and shiny as ever. The diamonds hung off my ears, sparkling with the matching bracelet. My hair was in a Mohawk with sparking beads crossing through it. The dress was breath taking only I could pull off something so beautiful but fill like shit.\n2 min away from wedding..\nMy father grabbed my arm and I inhaled as much air as I could. Here comes the bride echoed in my ear as I approached my soon to be husband. Please exchange rings the pastor said. I touched Amanda hand to get the ring in a chill came over me. Do you Patrice take Kevin to be your husband? I looked from him to Amanda and then out at the guest. My mother was crying and my friends were smiling I loved them but at that moment I need to go with my gut feeling. In that moment I chose me and told Kevin I never want to see him again…. Running down the hall and out the door I heard him call Patrice please lets talk about this.. I ran as fast as I could I never looked back…" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Quit a Well-paying Senior Electronics Position for a Trainee Job?\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2773\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone making a seemingly inconsequential decision, which goes on to have important consequences." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Charles was a senior electronics technician working for an aviation company in Southern California back in the early 70s. It was an interesting job diagnosing aircraft navigation computer problems, then repairing them or having other technicians repair them.\nOne day he received a mysterious phone call on the job. It was from someone, unbeknownst to him, asking him if he wanted a computer programmer trainee job.\nThe gist of the conversation was for Charles to just go on the interview and he’d get the job. Was this a joke or what? Who was this person calling? Why would Charles, who had a nice, fairly high paying job quit for a trainee position in a totally different field?\nThinking about it, on the surface it seemed like a bad proposition if the idea had any merit at all. Even if it were true and not a prank call, why would Charles, in his early 30s, give up a prime electronics technician position for a trainee job in a relatively new field of programming?\nThat should be an easy decision even if the caller was just playing him for a fool. The idea of quitting a good job with an excellent chance to advance to an engineer didn’t seem reasonable. Was there was something Charles was overlooking? \nCharles had a very Unusual Background\nAbout a year and a half before, Charles had quit his job as a computer operator for an optical engineering company in Pasadena, California. There he ran computer jobs for over 200 engineers on the company’s powerful IBM mainframe scientific computer. Computer operators operating those big IBM mainframe computers were good, well-paying jobs in those days.\nA highlight of that job was running computer analysis of some of the rocks brought back from the moon.\nAnother was Charles designing that company’s brochure. It illustrated how zoom lenses were designed. That was the business the company was in. Zoom lenses, which are common today in cameras and other optical instruments, were new in those days. It took the most powerful IBM computers to design them.\nAn additional bonus of that job was being able to talk with engineers in many different fields. Charles always wanted to be an electronic engineer.\nBetter get that BA Degree Now\nUnfortunately, the last class he needed in college in order to graduate was only offered in the daytime. That class was in American Studies.\nIt was not offered on a regular basis. That had meant either continue working and put off graduating from California State University indefinitely or quitting that job.\nThat had been an easy decision. So Charles had reluctantly quit that job in order to take that final class, graduate, and get his BA degree.\nThat Mysterious Phone Call\nBack to that mysterious phone call. Charles had a lot of questions while listening to the man on the phone. Was there some scheme behind that person’s call?\nHow did the caller know Charles was even interested in being a programmer? During the conversation the mystery caller indicated he was a headhunter (the type that finds jobs for people).\nHe seemed positive Charles would get the job if he went on the job interview. It was for a computer programmer trainee position with one of the largest insurance companies in America.\nCharles sort of promised he’d go to the interview the next day. Driving home, he pondered the implications of switching fields.\nHe’d be starting over at the bottom if he did get that hyped up, slam-dunk sounding job. Upon arriving at his apartment he drove his bright red Corvette up the steep driveway and parked in his parking stall.\nCharles was No Stranger to Computers and Programming\nCharles never mentioned to that caller that he knew anything about programming or computers. However, it turned out that Charles had given up looking for a programming job some eight months previous, having no luck in finding one.\nHe had gone back to electronics which was his passion. What a coincidence, that strange call for a programming position.\nCharles did know how to program in FORTRAN and COBOL but never mentioned that. Nor did Charles mention he had an AA degree in Computer Science.\nSomething just didn’t seem right. Out of the clear blue sky he’d get a phone call, on his job no less, about a programming job some eight months after looking a year and a half and failing to find such a job.\nCharles’ Past had been Anything but Normal\nAs it turned out; for eighteen months after he graduated from college Charles had looked for a programming job with no luck finding one. Although programming was hot in those days numerous interviews for programming jobs had yielded nothing.\nEvery job position wanted paid programming experience. Knowing COBOL programming, which all those jobs were asking for didn’t help.\nHe had finally given up getting that elusive programming job and gone back into electronics which he knew well and had paid experience in.\nCharles had a Secret Few Knew About \nCharles had a secret. One that tided him over, as it turned out, for 25 years. That secret allowed him to easily go many months without working even while looking for that elusive programmer job.\nAlthough initially he didn’t have any luck finding that programming job he was seeking, he nevertheless was doing quite well moneywise.\nHis secret was one most people would probably think was crazy to pursue. If not that, they might laugh and think it impossible to make money doing it. If so, they were very wrong.\nWhat was that secret of Charles? \nIt all started back about a year and a half before he left his computer operator job to finish his last class in college.\nCharles had a burning desire to find out if one could actually make a living betting on thoroughbred horseracing.\nHis father had been betting on horses ever since Charles could remember. Charles didn’t know if his father came out ahead in his betting. However, he figured he must have since he did it for so long.\nHe never heard his mother complain and they never seemed to be short of money. His father never had a high paying job but always seemed to have money to bet the horses.\nCharles’s secret was betting on Thoroughbred horseraces. He could make a profit on such bets. Profits were not easy, however, but challenging and worthwhile.\nCould a Person make a living betting on Horses?\nCharles had made it a mission to find out if one could make a living betting on horses. Living about a half hour from Santa Anita racetrack made it an easy first step to find out. It was one of the three racetracks for Thoroughbred horseracing in Southern California.\nHe had been there an untold number of times when attending Pasadena City College. He‘d go to the top of the bleachers at Santa Anita Race Track in nearby Arcadia and do his homework while watching the races.\nHe never bet a lot in those days, but was testing racing systems, methods of picking horses and ways of betting. However, after graduating and not being able to find that elusive programming job, he started betting a lot more money.\nDuring racing season at Santa Anita he would go there to bet on the races. When racing was at Hollywood Park, in Inglewood, California he’d drive there once in a while on the weekends to actually watch the races and bet.\nOn weekdays he’d go for early morning betting. Being there at Hollywood Park at 7 am sharp insured he could place his bets right away. Then he’d drive back to work in Rosemead where his technician job was.\nMost Systems didn’t Work or make a Profit\nCharles tested many racing systems with actual money. His goal was to find a winning system he could rely on. Most systems didn’t work or make a profit. But handicapping the races worked well for him.\nHe had to be very selective in the races he bet, however, otherwise even that was not profitable. Charles found the best way for him to profit with small bets was to bet horses that were longshots. That way he could bet much smaller amounts of money and it would still be worthwhile.\nVery few races, however, presented a betting opportunity. So to compensate for that Charles often went to a bookie to place his bets. Bookies were illegal, but some people used them anyway. That included Charles when he found bets that were longshots running at tracks in other parts of the United States.\nThe main thing about using bookies was their odds cutoff of 8-1 odds. So if the horse won at 30-1 odds and paid $62 for a $2 bet the bookie would only pay you $18.\nCharles was a Good Handicapper but it was very Time Consuming\nAlthough Charles was a good handicapper it was very time consuming. Also the most logical contender often won the race but with odds too low to be consistently profitable. There weren’t many races most days where he could make more than two or three solid bets.\nTo make decent money he had to bet a lot of money which was impractical in those early betting years. The other way he could come out ahead was by using racing angles and betting three horses to win in specific races.\nThose races had to have the three horses go off at odds such that if any one of the three horses won he would still be a winner. Instead of handicapping the race he’d be using racing angles to pick three contenders in a race.\nIn a thoroughbred race there are about 120 factors that influence a horse race. Most of those can be ignored. But about a dozen are Important and can often determine the winner without handicapping the horses in the race.\nDutching with Three\nBetting multiple horses to win in a race is called dutching. It is not as accurate as handicapping a race. However, due to the higher odds that such horses go off at, it is still possible to come out a winner.\nOut of all the methods Charles tried or tested, and there were many, “Dutching with Three” was his favorite. He used it the most if the odds of the contenders allowed it.\nThat was only when the favorite in the race went off at 5-2 odds or greater and the other two horses met some specific rules and odds criteria. He’d then bet all three horses to win proportional to their odds. Note that the favorite in a race is always the horse with the lowest odds.\nBetting horses those eighteen months while looking for a programming job paid off well. Often he made more money betting horses than if he had a programming job.\nCharles decided to go on that Fateful Job Interview\nBack to that phone conversation and upcoming job interview. Charles finally decided he had nothing to lose by going to that job interview. Serious or not, that headhunter’s conversation could lead to a different future.\nShould he get lucky and get the job, it could possibly open up more opportunities in the future. Either way, getting that trainee job or not was maybe not so trivial a matter as it first seemed. A new job might offer new opportunities.\nAlthough he already had a good job with great potential to move into electronic engineering, getting that programming position also offered Charles future potential.\nComputers were the up-an-coming thing since big corporations had started using them. The field of computing was new and evolving. More opportunities might exist in the near future.\nOff to that Programming Job Interview\nCharles went on that interview. There were no surprises and all went smoothly. At the end of the interview to his great surprise he was offered that programmer trainee job.\nHe gave notice that next day where he worked and about three weeks later started his new job as a programmer trainee.\nAs it turned out there were hundreds of people that had applied for those few positions. They had taken tests and competed with hundreds of other people for one of the trainee positions.\nOf those who applied only about a dozen people were hired with Charles being one of them.\nSomething was Strange about getting that Job\nCharles never had to take a test like the others. Charles never found out why he got the job but didn’t have to compete with the other applicants.\nBut after talking with people after he had been there a while he came to the conclusion that he was hired because he was a minority, a Black person.\nOf the dozen or so people hired with him there was one other Black person, a young lady. She had no experience in anything related to computers and had been an art major in college. She even had no desire to be a programmer but was convinced to go on the interview.\nPutting two and two together, Charles had done a little research. He came to the conclusion he and that girl got hired mainly because they were minorities.\nIt so happened that big corporations at that time were pressured by the government to hire minorities. Minorities at that time were mainly Blacks and Mexicans. Regardless, Charles was thankful he got that hard to get job.\nGoing on that Interview changed his Life\nThat simple, but questionable decision to go on that fateful job interview ended up changing Charles’s life for the better. Two planned short term job switches afterwards enabled him to double his salary and barely qualify to buy his first house.\nCharles wanted to learn online programming while it was new. So a short time later he ended up with another new job and going to IBM training for online programming. \nA year later he left that job along with a fellow programmer to start their own import/export business. Six months later Charles headed off on a trip to Hong Kong for their business he and that fellow programmer had started.\nMore Adventures for Charles Followed\nThat set off a long series of adventures for Charles. It included getting married in Hong Kong two years later on another trip there to one of the Filipino ladies he had met there previously.\nHe continued his racing research and betting for a total of 25 years taking profits all along the way. When AI (Artificial Intelligence) came along he and a friend did a lot of research using it for selecting horse betting situations.\nUnfortunately AI was new in those years unlike now. He found that unless one was a skilled handicapper AI was not quite good enough to make a person a consistent winner. That’s probably not the case now since AI is radically improved.\nCharles ended up making computer programming his second career after electronics and eventually retired in 2007. On his final job he broke his record of keeping any job longer than 30 months. He kept his last job exactly ten years, just long enough to retire.\nRetired and now Online with many Websites\nSince then Charles has made the internet and online activities his new passion. He has had over 80 websites he has put up on some of his hundreds of domain names.\nHe has hired people from all over the world to write articles for his sites. That’s in addition to probably writing a thousand articles himself for his many websites over the years.\nOne never knows the future. But in Charles’ case that one, long thought over decision, to actually go on that programmer trainee job interview ended up changing his life forever in so many ways. \nSome Final Thoughts\nCharles never found out who that mysterious headhunter was that called him on his job back in the 70s or how he found out about him. But he is thankful he did and pointed him to a life changing job and opportunity.\nHis partner in his horseracing research and betting passed away in 1995 so Charles finally ended that 25 year research project after his death. It’s unlikely he will do any more research. There is, however, one very promising longshot horseracing system Charles wrote using mystic information that needs testing.\nCharles is currently working on a new DogSploot website while still adding new posts to his main Yolky blog and to an ever expanding TravelESP website. Look out for when the Covid-19 Pandemic is over. Charles and his staff in the Philippines have their work cut out for them." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Erasing doubt\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1085\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone being presented with a dilemma." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: mention of child molestation\nYou're ugly and no one is going to love you but me.\nThose words were branded onto Toni's heart, those words seemed\nto appear anytime Toni Had a decision to make. And now, before her was her\nfuture and the biggest decision of her life.\nToday was the day of reckoning, today Toni was going to leave\nher mark on the world.\nJust three months ago, Toni was discovered so to speak. She was\nshowing some of her drawings and sketches at a community art fair, when she was\npropositioned about hosting her own art showing at the local Museum. Toni agreed\nat once as the asker was the Local Museum Curator, He was gushing about the\npotential Toni's art possessed and was adamant that she present herself\nformally to the art community.\nToni was taken aback by the voracity of the Curators praise. She\ndidn't think of herself as an artist, instead she saw her creations merely as\ndoodles or amateur renderings. Oh, they were good, but Toni didn't think they\nwere exhibition worthy.\nThe Curator promised Toni That he would make all of the\narrangements and that she only need to select 30 to 40 pieces of work to show\nand possibly sell, it was overwhelming in the moment, Toni was so bombarded by\nthe praise being heaped upon her and her work that she agreed without thinking\nabout what would have to come next.\nToni was a shy introvert, a girl who survived her horribly\nviolent and abusive childhood by withdrawing into herself and creating worlds\nwhere she fit in, worlds where she was the hero who was brave and confident,\nworlds where she belonged, where she was cared for, where she mattered, where\nshe was safe. Toni created galaxies of worlds through her drawings, beautiful\nmeadows filled with sunflowers, Dales and Glens inhabited by faeries and\nsprites, fantastical places in which she could retreat and disappear, where she\ncould dwell in her heart space to try and heal from her daily doldrums.\nthe Curator did not exaggerate when he told Toni that he would\ntake care of all the details of the exhibit. The rooms where Toni's collection was\nto be shown were immaculate, the walls were covered in large lithographs of\nVanGough, Picasso and Warhol, a perfect complement to Toni's art style. There\nwere platters of crudités and dozens of bottles of Champagne. The Curator even\nhired Professional wait staff to serve the appetizers in white tuxedos with\ntails. Toni was overwhelmed, she had selected 44 pieces of her best work to\nshow, it was an eclectic mix of serene nature renderings, quirky caricatures,\npoignant shockingly dark and violent scenes as well as a host of political\ncartoon drawings to sell.\nToni felt as if her world had spun into hyper drive, all these\nwonderful things were happening, doors were opening, dreams were being\nrealized, manifested right there before her very eyes. Every wish and hope that\nToni had imagined. Fame, fortune recognition, acceptance, it was all there\nwaiting to be taken ready to be accepted. All she had to do was reach out and\ngrab it.\nToni stood in the restroom of the Museum staring at her\nrefection in the backlit mirror. She was trembling from excitement and\napprehension. Why did this always have to happen? anytime anything good comes I\nblow it! Tears are streaming down Toni's cheeks, her mascara is pooling in black\nponds at the corners of her eyes, doubt is creeping up inside of her like a\nbroken water main, filling every inch making it impossible to breathe. Toni\nfeels like her heart is going to burst! oh no oh no oh no please no Toni pants,\nshe knows she is experiencing a panic attack. Toni consciously tries to control\nher breathing, but she becomes lightheaded and sinks to the floor, her hands\nlocked in a death grip on the edge of the vanity, her head cradled on her\nforearms, tears flowing unceasingly from her eyes leap to their demise from the\ntips of her nose and chin,\nGod! Seven years of Therapy and look at me! No Better than the\nday I left home! Here I am on the most important day of my life letting my\nanxiety keep me from my destiny! Toni Pulled herself to her feet trying\ndesperately to calm her breathing, I will not let him win!\nToni declares to the empty room. I will not let him control my\nlife for one more second!\nStanding to her full height, Toni looks herself in the mirror\nand says \" I am Worthy of good things, I am not a victim anymore, I take\nback my life, I reclaim my sanity, my strength, my voice, my power! I am worthy\nof happiness I am worthy of success; I am talented I am creative, and I am\nBeautiful! I forgive myself; I forgive him. I love me and I am grateful for all\nmy blessings.\nthis will be the last time I let your hurt filled words stop me\nfrom realizing my dreams. I am not that Twelve-year-old girl you molested and\ndestroyed with your twisted words. I am Beautiful and I don't need your love\nBecause I love myself!\"\nStaring into her own eyes in that restroom mirror Toni realizes\nshe had stopped crying. Quickly Toni washes the ruined makeup away and\nreapplies a fresh look, checking her hair and smoothing her lipstick She\nreaches for the door. I am ready, she says. I choose me!\nStaring into her own eyes in that restroom mirror Toni realizes she had stopped crying. Quickly Toni washes the ruined makeup away and reapplies a fresh look, checking her hair and smoothing her lipstick She reaches for the door. I am ready, she says I choose me.\nToni Opens the restroom door and is greeted by raucous applause\nand the sound of clinking glass,\nThe Curator announces, Ladies and Gentlemen Please welcome our\nArtist of the evening, I give you Toni Yates! The Curator extended his elbow to\nToni and escorted her to the center of the room.\nToni stood at the lectern staring in amazement at the crowd of\npeople there to see her, to see what she had created, to see the person behind\nthe pictures.\nThank you all for coming. Toni states, this collection is called\nAdversity it is the story of my life depicted in art, and today with your help\nI have just defeated it." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Newly Dead\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2917\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that begins, ends, or changes with a song played by a busker." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s 1:13 a.m. on a Monday night when Bob sends me a pro bono assignment, and I am too dead inside to spare an ounce of compassion. I am being appointed counsel to Arles Ortega and Christina Lima Ortega and their daughter Anabel who are seeking asylum from Ecuador. Another thankless task—Ecuadorians are almost always denied asylum—all they can ever prove is vague government persecution, but it’s impossible to put meat on the bones and show personal stakes.\n\nI’m still in my office on the 32nd floor of Lexington Avenue. For the past five hours, I have been filing creditor claims in the Revlon Bankruptcy for our corporate clients to whom Revlon owes massive amounts of money. And I’m not nearly done. \n\nA second e-mail from Bob pops up: “I expect you to come through on this one, not like last time. Remember, part of our job is to keep up appearances and be seen as philanthropic—we can market off of delivering the American Dream—our CEO clients could give two shits about the old college try.”\n\nAs I shift focus and continue to check e-mails, I stumble on an e-mail from my brother Robert which says: “Annie, can you please write back this time? I know we’ve been out of touch for years. But it’s about Ruth—about mom. It’s important.” I can never finish anything before three more things are forced on me—and everyone wants something from me. I have reached a point where I am at capacity and don’t even have the bandwidth or energy for this. Good news always comes in threes, that’s what Ruth used to say—so I can’t wait to see what comes next.\n\nMy law firm, Dickens, Woolf & Poe, PC is only a few blocks down from the Roosevelt Hotel where the asylum seekers have been gathering throughout the July heatwave, sleeping outside on the dirty streets by Grand Central Terminal waiting for a room. The city reopened the shuttered hotel. Renamed it the “new Ellis Island.” All eighteen floors are now being used to house migrants. \n\nI decide to walk by the Roosevelt Hotel on my way to get a drink at Sally’s. As I hit the streets, there is the familiar rumble of tires, the hum of traffic, and the kick of an occasional muffled exhaust. The streets smell of an odd mix of detergent from the vent fumes, skunky drafts of weed, roasted nuts from street carts, and the wet mildewing stench of still-steaming coffee grinds creeping out of partially opened garbage bags piled outside of restaurants. There is also the warm hug of a summer breeze. The constant honking of horns to which I am familiarity deaf, like a fire alarm beep that you have subconsciously muted until someone brings it up. I’ve muted out a lot of things that are meant to warn me before I am consumed in smoke and flame, I suppose.\n\nThe electric friction of the concrete—hard and tangible—anchors me in the thrall of the streetwalkers. There is a hypnotic effect to the sound of the click of my Christian Louboutin black leather pumps which I reflexively keep on a steady beat, with a sassy clomp, clomp, clomp, and an occasional snare—click—as I pass by slow walkers—because mommy needs a drink. \n\n“Bienvenidos al arrival center!” a sign reads, and another right next to it says, “We are currently at capacity.” I know that unnerving lost feeling of taking a last-minute late-night flight and arriving in a strange town where all the hotels are booked—and driving bleary-eyed from one hotel reception to the next before finally finding a room at a fleabag motel offering hour rentals. This is even worse. These people have traversed jungles and continents to land here, to a reception of indifferent concrete.\n\nThere are new smells of urine and body odor. There is a restless rustling and scraping of clothes as people try to get comfortable on the cold hard pavement. Kids groan and grumble to their parents with shrill yelps. They are stretched out between 45th Street and 46th Street, maybe two hundred or three hundred families, restless and sweaty in the humid, damp squalor that has followed them. They are all huddled between the exterior of the famous hotel and a set of metal barricades, imprisoned between worlds. \n\nI walk past the intersection and duck into Sally’s, the midtown dive bar par excellence. Now, I really need a drink.\n\n* * *\n\nSally’s smells like teen sex in the back of a Ford Focus with too much perfume, too many breath mints, and a double shot of Little Trees New Car Scent. And cinnamon Fireball. And there is a homey hint of sudsy keg beer lathering in the drip tray below the taps. An anxious DJ with a laptop—DJ-Push-Play—is in the back playing “Don’t You Worry Child” by Swedish House Mafia.\n\nJamie comes to the bar and pours me a tall glass of Macallan on the rocks. “What’s up single malt,” she asks, flicking her head and tossing her straight-ironed bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing a scoop neck tank top that says, “Tequila is my spirit animal.” Much as I love her, she’s only in her late 20’s and I envy her youth more than she could ever envy my money.\n\n“Pondering lipstick,” I tell her, pulling out a case of Tom Ford Scarlet Rouge and applying it to my lips. Then I look up and say, “Revlon bankruptcy… channeling my inner Charles Revson… I feel like fighting the entire world armed only with lipstick and nail polish.”.\n\n“Ha. Good choice of weapons. They are up for the job. Trust me,” Jamie says, shooting a gunmetal glance at some doe-eyed young pup NYU student at the far end of the bar, and running her fingers through her hair to pull it behind her ear, simultaneously exposing her neck.\n\n“’Lipstick is made in the factory; ‘hope’ is sold in the store,’ was the famous Charles Revson line,” I tell her.\n\n“I like that,” she says.\n\n“For families, I think it’s the other way around,” I say, “It’s the home that crushes the hope out of you. And ‘lipstick’ here means sweeping all of your financial problems under the rug.”\n\n“So, we’re back to Ruth, huh. What do you think of this squirt at the end of the bar? Kind of cute right?” Jamie asks.\n\n“You think any guy that makes googly eyes at you is cute—which is all of them. Not very discriminating, if you ask me,” I say.\n\n“Ehhh. So, what is the Ruth emergency? She call you for money again?” she asks.\n\n“No. I got a text. From my brother,” I say, and shoot the whiskey down in a single gulp.\n\nJamie grabs the bottle and says, “Careful single malt.”\n\n“It is kind of ironic that a misogynist prick like Charles Revson started Revlon. That he empowered generations of young women,” I say.\n\n“Ehhh, it checks out. It’s not what they give you, it’s what you do with it,” Jamie says.\n\n“You know, my mother always said, ‘Women fall in love with what they hear. Men fall in love with what they see. That’s why women wear makeup and men lie.’”\n\n“Oh, you’re going to do great on the speed dating scene,” Jamie teases, and then says, “Here’s one for the road. See you same time tomorrow?”\n\n“You can count on it,” I say, “But I may need you tomorrow morning for something… text you the details.”\n\n“Last call,” Jamie screams and then jumps up on the bar—Coyote Ugly style—and takes the $100 bill I gave her and sticks it to the ceiling. They have walls of foreign bills and a ceiling full of American bills to boot. The whole purpose of this place seems to be to make their profits into wallpaper, with the exotic foreign currency covering the walls, and the boring local tender looking down from above.\n\nAs I walk out, I see Jamie flicking on the lights and chatting up Bobby Boucher at the end of the bar.\n\n* * *\n\nThe hotel room where Arles and Christina Lima Ortega are staying has red walls and smells of stale cigarette smoke and carpet lint. I’ve convinced Jamie to come with me because she speaks fluent Spanish, and she is acting as a translator.\n\nWhen the gangs killed presidential hopeful Fernando Villavicencio in Quinto in broad daylight last month, that sealed it. It was like killing Kennedy. It killed all hope. Christina tells me that during the election, polling places had signs that said, “El voto es secreto.” But no one believed it. The gangs knew everything and ruled everyone. Villavicencio was a former journalist and writer who vowed to free the country from the grip of organized crime. So much for that romantic idea. When they shot him eight times as he left a rally, it was like the gangs were saying, “Bullets triumph over words.”\n\n“Why are you afraid to return to Ecuador, Christina? Have you been harmed or threatened to be harmed in the future,” I ask.\n\n“We live in Quinto,” she says, shrugging, “It is a jungle.”\n\n“But specific harm Ms. Ortega—a beating—being detained—threatened with treason—held at gunpoint—accused of being part of Villavicencio’s regime—anything like that?”\n\n“Of course, of course. You want me to make something up. Everyone has been threatened. Not just us,” she says.\n\n“Please, Ms. Ortega, I need details for the papers,” I say. \n\n“Things are as likely to turn around in Quinto as Villavicencio is to rise from the dead,” she says, shaking her head, “I won’t take my baby back there. Deport me then. I will find someplace else.”\n\n “Maybe Villavincenzo [Vincencio] can be a spiritual rallying cry for the people, after all—like Jesus coming back in spirit.” \n\n“Oh no, letrada, you are wrong, ledtrada de oficio, you make mistake,” she says.\n\n“What do you mean?” I ask.\n\n“Have you ever seen a spirit eat fish?” she says. \n\nThe problem here is that general corruption and gang violence aren’t enough to make a case for asylum, and Ms. Ortega’s specific threats are vague at best.\n\n“Returning to your application, we are going to have to demonstrate ‘credible fear,’ of an identifiable harm upon return…” I say. I watch Jamie translate and Christina gives me a confused look.\n\n“They shot Villavicencio eight times!,” Christina says.\n\n“But they didn’t shoot at you. We have to show a significant risk they’d persecute or torture you and your family,” I say.\n\n“I am supposed to just wait for that to happen,” she says, adding, “What kind of mother do you take me for?”\n\n“No, of course not,” I say, “It’s just the procedure.”\n\n“Sólo el procedimiento? Sólo el procedimiento! Tengo mas miedo de vivir en Ecuador que de cruzar el Darién,” she says, and I look at Jamie as she scrambles to translate.\n\nJamie flicks the blonde hair out of her face and blows on it saying, “She’s saying she has more fear of going back to Ecuador than she did crossing the Darien Gap—how can I describe this—I’ve seen it on YouTube—it’s like a trek—like if you tried climbing Everest—but it's through this rain forest jungle with mud and quicksand, tree roots, snakes, poisonous bugs, shoulder-high river crossings, treacherous mountains, roadside machete bandits—lots of them die.”\n\n“I see,” I say, and nod to Christina.\n\n“We were almost out of the jungle and came across a human skeleton,” she says, “A little one, a child’s skeleton. The bones were yellow, which means newly dead. The bones do that when they are newly dead. They still pull in nutrients because they don’t know the body is dead yet.” And she looks over at Anabel, the infant sitting on her father’s lap, playing with a gray elephant plush toy that he keeps pulling away to peals of laughter.\n\n“That’s horrifying,” I say.\n\n“Ñawparirka,” she says, and Jamie can’t translate this one, so Christina helps out, apparently knowing more English than she lets on. “One who went ahead,” she says.\n\n“Oh, so you’re saying, don’t be sad for the dead—they’ve gone ahead?” I ask.\n\n“Dead long time. Troubles here are short. The saddest thing is not to live when alive. Or not to go on when dead. The saddest thing is the newly dead, the bones still holding on to life,” she says.\n\n“Like all those people outside, waiting for a room?” I ask, and then ask a second question, “But what is the threat to you if you return?”\n\n“Ms. Meyer, you won’t let them send us back?” she asks.\n\n“Ms. Ortega, I will do what I can, but it isn’t really up to me—”\n\n“—No, don’t do what can; do what it takes,” she says.\n\n“But Ms. Ortega, I’m not the Judge—there’s one rule for everyone,” I say.\n\n“Are we newly dead over here, and don’t know it?” Christina asks.\n\nI’ve been down this road before and know that almost all of the Ecuadorians are turned away and denied asylum. \n\nBut somehow, I’ve got to come through for Christina. I’ve got to show that they are likely to be persecuted if they return, and probably do so with next to no documents and a case as thin as a single sheet of paper.\n\n* * *\n\nI walk out into the din of the city streets during the morning rush. Jamie pulls out a Newport cigarette and the smell of menthol and Chanel No. 5 covers the rusting of the summer sun on a jungle of steel and glass.\n\nA Jamaican man with hazel eyes and long dreadlocks is out on the corner by the Roosevelt Hotel across from the migrants, and he has a group of plastic drummers providing accompaniment. He strums his guitar and the streets ring with a voice like an angel appealing to the damned.\n\nThe busker finishes up his rendition of “Take on Me” strumming and saying, “You're all the things I've got to remember / You're shyin' away / I'll be comin' for you anyway / Take on me\n(Take on me)…”\n\nI think of how Ruth put her life savings into a Merle Norman Cosmetics franchise after my father left, and those first hopeful days setting up the displays at the Cherry Hill Mall, outside of Philadelphia. She had signed a ten-year lease. Gone into severe debt for the build-out. Bought a package of initial inventory from Merle Norman that she couldn’t afford. Set up point-of-sale systems and with great care organized her display cases. It was astonishing how quickly after that she had a bankruptcy discharge, and a sheriff was at our door asking us to leave.\n\nThe busker immediately breaks into “I Ran (So Far Away),” by Flock of Seagulls, singing, “Reached out a hand to touch your face / You're slowly disappearing from my view / Reached out a hand to try again / And I ran, I ran so far away / I just ran, I ran all night and day / I just ran, I couldn't get away.”\n\nAs melodramatic and offbeat as the tune is, it stirs something in me. It reminds me of that feeling, that shame, and the way that simple man in cheap polyester, smelling of fast food and human detritus could strike mortal fear in you with only a badge and a piece of paper.\n\nI need to find proof of a credible threat from a supposed authority figure—or invent one. But there’s somewhere I have to go first.\n* * *\n\nThe hospital rooms at Mt. Sinai are yellow. The smell of antiseptic reminds me of nail polish and the faint smell of talcum powder in the air makes me think of concealer.\n\nRuth has her permed hair perfectly arranged, as she sits up watching Fran Drescher in The Nanny. I look in from the hallway. I heard that she is selling Mary Kay Cosmetics now. Even from here, I can tell that she is wearing Chanel 31 Le Rouge L'Esprit Cambon out of its crystal glass case, her lipstick du jour. She’ll be wearing this stuff when she is buried no doubt.\n\nI walk over to her and say, “Momma, it’s me.”\n\n“Oh Annie, are you wearing M.A.C. Angel? It looks like frosting, dear,” Ruth says.\n\n“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.\n\n“I didn’t want to bother you, honey, with all the stress you have,” Ruth says.\n\n“But, mother, you’re dying,” I say.\n\n“Oh, I’ve been dying a long time now. Not much you’re going to do about that,” Ruth says.\n\n“Mother, I can’t believe you were just going to sit here and die, watching old reruns of The Nanny and never even say anything,” I say.\n\n“You haven’t said anything to me in a long time now,” Ruth says.\n\n“Mother, I know, I’ve been trying to set things right… for myself… but I’m lost,” I say.\n\n“It’s ok dear, we all are. Lost. Somewhere between life and death. Between hope and despair. Unsure if we are still here or if we are just ghosts hanging onto a dream that died a long time ago.”\n\n“But Mom, you’re leaving us,” I say.\n\n“I’m so proud of you,” she says, looking at me every bit the same as Christina Ortega looked at Anabel.\n\nAnd as I take her wrinkled hand in mine and turn off the television, her bones pull back some of the old magic from when the things that mattered to us were still alive.\n\n* * *" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When All We Have Left Are Memories\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2762\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people who need each other, but are too stubborn to admit it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When we broke up\nI wish I didn’t remember so much about that day. Caleb and I were fighting. It was raining. He had an umbrella and I didn’t. I refused to stand under his no matter how much he asked. He thought it was because I was being stubborn. Too contrary for my own good, he would say. He was wrong. Standing in the rain made it easier to mask the tears. I’ll never admit it though.\n“Tell me you love me,” I said. “Tell me you need me. Tell me anything that’ll keep me from walking away from you right now.” I didn’t want much. I just needed to hear that I meant something to him, that he needed me as much as I needed him.\nHe scratched the beard that had begun to grow on his chin. I wondered when he had last shaved. There were bags under his eyes. It had probably been a long time since he slept. He had a lot he was up against-- leading the Immortal Enforcement agency, dealing with Mage-Familiar relations. This conversation wasn’t making his life any easier.\nMaking his life easy was never a part of my job. Be there for him and love him. That’s what I was supposed to do, but that’s hard when it feels like he doesn’t even care. “Caleb!” I yelled. “Say something.”\nHis eyes were stony when he looked at me. The cool, practiced glare of someone who was used to being in control and didn’t like being told what to do. “Athena, I don’t love you,” he said, with the same tone as if he was giving me directions. “I don’t need you. I don’t care what you do. Leave. Stay. That’s up to you.”\nI was thankful for the rain. He would never know how much I cried that day. How much he broke me. I nodded, wiped the not tears from my face and said, “Okay.” Then, I walked away from him and never looked back.\n***\nWhen we first met\n“Athena Kincaid?”\nAt the sound of my name, I looked up from the book I was reading. The heavy-set, brown-skinned man looking down at me was bald with sharp features. His aura screamed intimidating until he smiled widely at me.\n“Hi, I’m Agent Darius Langston.” He held out his hand to me. “I’ll be showing you around.”\n“Nice to meet you,” I said as I shook his hand. I stowed my book in my bag and followed him.\nHe pointed this way and that highlighting all of the important places. On the surface, it looked like an ordinary office building with mentions of break rooms and water coolers. It was when Darius brought me to the vault which was right across the hall from the armory, I knew this was no ordinary building.\n“You’ll be assigned a weapon and will have to go through mandatory testing every three months to keep your qualifications up to date. That shouldn’t be a problem for you with your scores. Confiscated artifacts go in the vault,” he pointed to the steel door on our left. “Talia will set you up with a memory code so you can get in and out.” I had learned about memory codes in training and they’re a fascinating security failsafe. It’s more than remembering a four digit pin number. A unique code is implanted into the memory cortex of the brain, so no one, not even the agent knows what that particular number is. The only way to access it is via the proprietary brain scans stationed outside the vault door. It would take an act of God for an outside person to find their way inside.\n“Caleb, just in time,\" Darius said. \"Come meet our new recruit.”\nI turned as Caleb Emerson came walking down the hall towards us. I’ll probably always remember this moment that seemed to move in slow motion. He had chocolate brown skin, a strong jawline that could slice butter and a smile that could disarm a bomb. When he shook my hand, time didn’t just slow down. It stopped.\n“You must be Athena,” he said, shaking my hand. “The woman that took my spot as top scorer.”\nThis news shook me out of my reverie. I knew my scores were impressive. As hard as I trained, they better be. I didn’t know I got the top score though. I intentionally missed the day when the rankings went up. “What do you mean I took your spot?” I asked.\n“Before you, Caleb had the highest scores across the board on the qualifying exams,” Darius answered. “And can I just say, on behalf of everyone here, thank you for dethroning him. Maybe he’ll stop bringing it up every chance he gets.”\nCaleb punched Darius lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not my fault you barely passed.”\n“That’s because you messed up the curve, Mr. Overachiever,” Darius said, punching him right back.\n“And if I hadn’t, my dad would have never let me hear the end of it.”\n“Speaking of, he’s been looking for you. Told me to send you his way if I saw you.”\nCaleb nodded. “Thanks for the heads up.” Then he looked from Darius to me. “You never saw me.”\nDarius shook his head. “I've never met you before in my life.\"\n“I don’t even know who you are,” was my reply\nCaleb chuckled at that. “You catch on quick,” he said. “One of these days, let’s have a rematch. Give me a chance to earn my spot back.”\nI shrugged. “I already took the spot once. Wouldn’t taking it again be overkill?”\nCaleb laughed out loud, throwing his head back. “You’ve got a bite to you. We’ll get along fine.” Then, Caleb left with a wave behind his shoulder. I watched him go until he disappeared around a corner. I should’ve followed him.\nI turned back to find Darius looking at me. “Friendly piece of advice,” he began. “You’re both consenting adults, so you will do what consenting adults are allowed to do, but you might want to be careful with that one. He’s set to inherit the keys to the kingdom.” When Darius saw my confused expression, he continued. “Caleb’s the director’s son and with his scores and seniority, he’s going to take over once his dad steps down. They say it’s lonely at the top for a reason. He won’t be in the right headspace for a relationship once he becomes director. Before you go starting anything, keep that in mind.”\nI was warned. That’s the funny thing about it. I knew upfront it was a bad idea. I went in forewarned and still, I was foolish enough to fall.\n***\n5 years after When we broke up\nTime moves differently for immortals. Five years goes by as quickly as a blink of an eye. In the years after our breakup though, time was not on my side. Minutes passed at a glacial pace and each of them were filled with memories of him.\nI left the IEA and moved to the human realm. I thought the farther I could get from him, the better it’d be. There were realms between us and it still wasn’t far enough.\nI got a job at an elementary school right after I came here. Surprisingly enough, wrangling a classroom full of kids was not that far off from keeping a team of agents in line. Sure it required more patience and calm tones, but the concepts were pretty much the same.\nAfter work, I visited Honey Bea’s bakery which was two blocks away from the school. It was run by this older man named Leonard who named the place after his great-grandmother, Beatrice. The walls were striped yellow and white and it always smelled like something freshly baked regardless of the time of the day.\n“Lenny, sweets!” I said when I entered, the bell above the door tinkling. “How’s it going?”\nLenny turned to me. His white beard matched his apron front which was completely covered in flour. “All good here,” he said, smiling ear to ear. He gestured to the display case in front of him. “The croissants just came out of the oven. Wasn’t sure if you were coming today, so I put a couple to the side for you.”\n“Oh, Len. Keep it up and you’re going to have marry me.”\nHe laughed as melodiously as the bell above the door. “Show me a ring and then we’ll talk.”\nI paid for my croissants. I always made sure to give Lenny a little bit extra since he’d been so nice to me in all of the years I’ve been here. Outside, a sweet breeze kissed my cheeks. It was a surprisingly temperate day for a Maryland August and for once every table out front wasn’t taken, so I decided to eat outside.\nA moment after I sat down, a woman sat in the chair across from me. She looked younger than me, but she carried herself with a maturity that suggested she was much older than she appeared. She’d been following me since I left work, but I was probably not supposed to have noticed.\n“What can I help you with?” I asked, handing her one of the croissants I just brought. Her eyes clearly showed how surprised she was to be getting anything.\n“Emer Athena, apologies for approaching you without any notice.”\nI rolled my eyes at the title used for retired agents. “Please drop the title. Just call me Athena. And you are?”\n“Agent Vera Kelsey. It’s an honor to meet you.”\n“And what can I help you with, Agent Kelsey?”\n“There’s been an incident,” She began. “Director Emerson has been injured. And um…” She was new to this, the delivering of bad news in a way that was respectful and softened.\nI had no patience for such handholding. “I don’t like to be handled,” I said, interrupting her. “Just tell me straight. What happened?”\nZora Knight happened. She was a scientist that specialized in metabiology-- it’s basically the study of superhumans and other enhanced beings like immortals. Zora didn’t just study them. She was obsessed with them. She wanted to figure out the secret of immortality and she went about it in some unsavory ways. It was after our last fight with her that I knew I couldn’t work with the agency anymore. In her, I had seen the darkest depths of a person’s psyche. The depravity was unnerving. Though we’d all like to think we’d lead the charge to protect the world from people like her, when it comes to down to it, we’re all cowards and we’d much rather leave the charging to someone else.\nI had told Caleb I wanted to leave. I had hoped he would have asked me to stay. I might’ve stayed if he asked.\nApparently in the years since our last fight, Zora had figured out the secret of immortality and with that knowledge, she knew how to take it away. Even though, he should’ve been in his corner office, safe and free from harm, Caleb was there. He didn’t get the worse of the blast, but he was injured all the same. Two agents had already died. One agent was in critical condition, but they didn’t think she’d make it through the night. It was unclear how much time Caleb had left.\n“He told me to give you something after he died.” Vera opened her bag and pulled out an envelope. “I’ll probably be on paperwork duty for a year for disobeying a direct order by giving this to you now, but I thought you should know before it’s too late.”\nShe handed me the envelope. It was thicker than I expected. I opened it and there were pages of lined paper inside filled with Caleb’s handwriting.\n“What is this?” My voice was thick with grief that was threatening to bubble over.\n“He wouldn’t tell me what it was. All he said was to deliver it to you when he died.”\nI stared at the papers in my hand. Five years. It’s been five years. Not enough time and not nearly enough distance for me to forget about him. And this was how he chose to say goodbye. This letter was all I meant to him. No. No way! Whatever he had to say to me, he’ll have to say it to my face. “Where is he?” I put the long-forgotten croissants in my bag and stood up.\n“I’m really sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Vera stumbled.\n“Please!” I begged, the sound foreign to my ears, but no less sincere. “It can’t end like this. Please don’t let this be the last memory I have of him. Please?”\nShe chewed on her bottom lip for a moment and then said, “He’s at McKinley Memorial. I hope you’re not too upset by what you find.”\n***\n5 years and 2 hours after When we broke up.\nI was just outside of Caleb’s hospital room when I heard angry, hushed voices coming from inside.\n“You’re a goddamn fool.” I instantly recognized the voice as Darius’s.\n“Darius, bro,” Caleb said, his voice weak. “Your bedside manner is atrocious.”\n“Why haven’t you called Athena? Has anyone told her what happened?”\n“She doesn’t care about me.” I heard Caleb say. “If she did, she wouldn’t have left.”\n“She left because you said you didn’t love her which we both know was a bold faced lie,” Darius’s voice was close to screaming. “I get it. You were doing what you thought you needed to in order to protect her. You knew that fight with Zora shook her. You knew she wanted to leave, but one word from you and she would’ve stayed. So you pushed her away.”\n“Darius…” There was what sounded like a tinge of regret in Caleb’s voice, but I had to have been hearing things.\n“You should’ve went after her! And now, you’ve run out of time. And you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”\n“Lucky for me, I don’t have much longer.”\n“Looks like that sunny personality of yours hasn’t changed.” Without giving it much thought, I opened the door and walked in.\nDarius eyes lit up when he saw me. “Athena! Oh, thank God.” He pulled me into a hug. The familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with cologne was like an old friend welcoming me home. \n“It’s good to see you, Darius,” I said. Then, I forced myself to look at Caleb. I was glad to have been warned by Vera, so I had time to mentally prepare myself. Caleb’s chin sported a full beard, but that bomb-disarming smile was nowhere to be seen. His face and frame were gaunt, a far cry from the muscular frame from before. There was no telling how much more time he had. “You mind giving us a minute?\" I asked Darius.\n“Take all the time you need,” he said. “I tried to smack some sense into him, but you know how stubborn he is.” Darius left quickly, leaving Caleb and I alone.\nOnce Darius was gone, Caleb wasted no time. “What are you doing here?”\nI took the envelope from my bag and dropped it at his feet. “I deserve a better goodbye than this. All those years and a letter is all I get? You could’ve at least called.”\n“Did you read it?”\nI shook my head. “I want you to tell me yourself. Whatever you have to tell me, I want to hear you say it. That’s what you owe me.”\nHe nodded, not putting up a fight or trying to draw out the argument. “Memories. Years together and that’s all we have left. I’m sorry about that. I should’ve never let you go. I should’ve told you I loved you. I…um,\" He swallowed. I could see the tears begin to well up in his eyes. \"I...I said it a lot better in the letter, so I hope you do eventually read it. But basically it boils down to the fact that I love you and I do need you and I care about you more than you will ever know.”\nThis time, I didn’t have the rain to hide my tears and I didn’t want to hide them. “I love you, too, Caleb,\" I said. “I’ll always love you. No matter what happens, we’ll always have those memories. Even if memories are all we have left, that’s more than enough for me.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Dare for all Eternity\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2080\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone accepting a dare." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Chayen processed a longer study of the pristine necklace. The young man hadn’t gazed at such a splendor in all his privileged life. The amulet appeared to shine in the simple cottage room. The treasure was nestled within a purple velvet lined, stone jewelry box resting on a wooden table. He had been privy to the many exquisite necklaces on the collars of his immediate female family. Chayen understood that this one was something awe inspired unlike anything from a high end jewelry store. The amulet at its dark green center radiated with some type of unseen power of confidence. The tempting jewel had been nearly the last thing he expected to have found in the abandoned house, second to the aged woman who offered it to him.\n“C’mon, Chayen, ma boy. Put’t on fo’ a looksee. I’va clean’d ta lookin’glass fo’ ya ta git a betta’ look.” The old woman wove her words with a thick, focused confidence. She spoke with an identical amulet around her neck.\n“I don’t know, man. All of this seems so, so damn weird. I could’ve sworn this place wasn’t here when I first looked through the treeline.”\n“Oh, but’cha loves powa’ and dis amulet ‘ill give ya’ll ta powa’ ya could wan’, Chayen. Me time is ova wit’it, don’cha know. Pud’t on, I da’es ya. O’ mayba ya ta sca’ed?” She looked at him coyly, playing every word note like a virtuoso at the concert of her life.\nHis tycoon father had taught him that showing fear was a transgression for the common people. Chayen didn’t feel phased by the woman’s verbal manipulation. His curiosity of the necklace’s sense of power enticed his bravado. He believed his cunning to be too smart to fall for her game.\n“And if I don’t like it, I can take it off and leave without anymore bother from you? You’re not, like gonna call the cops on me.”\n“Honey’doll, ya put’it on fo’ a secon’, takes’a quick looksee agins’ ta lookin’glass and I promiz ya won’ wanna take’it off.”\nChayen reluctantly extended his impeccably, manicured hand. The crone intensely watched him, waiting to rebuff any possible hesitation. She felt elated as the circle was almost complete. He touched the unending chain link. The rounded metal pieces felt warm to his finger’s touch. Several, intense visions flashed through his mind. Castles. Courtyards. Knights. Thrones. Him sitting before his loyal subjects. Power. His fingers accepted more of the chain’s weight. The amulet followed suit, dangling in the air. Chayen was enthralled with what she was offering.\n“Yas, gut boy. Put’it on and let’sa see what’cha looks like in da lookin’glass.” Her kelp, green eyes burned with an intensity of a thousand years needing this him to fully comply in the moment.\nChayen found himself unable to assemble words into a cohesive sentence. He focused on the power that poured into his arms as he held her gift. As a billionaire’s son, he knew what wielding power was like. His servants obeyed, his middle class relations groveled and strangers cozied up to him for access to his father. None of that power was even close to the the look of defeat on the district attorneys’ faces. Each one thought they had his extensive list of reckless homicide cases won, only to have his father pull the necessary strings making sure the cases were thrown out on various “technicalities.” To be king of all the land was real power that was too seductive for Chayen, even if relegated to a vision.\n“Yas, yas, ya’olding ya destiny. Go’on.” She said seductively through misshapen teeth. The hunched crone circled him as she whispered encouragement. He didn’t notice the walls slowly thinning as if becoming made of cardboard. \nThe skeptical young man held the prize before him, hypnotized at the relic. The visions became more perceptible. He now wore the ornate robe of a religious emperor overseeing the rule of a large city spanning farther than he could imagine. His people followed every command in terror. Willing citizens took up arms in a grand coliseum and battled each other for his sole entertainment. Subjugated women and men provided all the pleasure his body could imagine. When he had his fill of carnal wants, each person became haphazardly disposed of at his command.\n“Chayen, ma boy. You’a so close. Make‘t ‘appen. Make ta fisions comes ‘live. Pud ta n’cklace on and gaze atta lookin’glass.”\nShe began to believe that the end of her nightmare was about arrive. What was once her heart began to beat as it hadn’t done since the time of her evaporated youth. Centuries of holding the amulet’s curse was about to come to an end. The crone wasn’t able to remember much of who she had been before being held captive by immortality. She retained vague memories of once being a barren, young woman who had been seduced by the possibility of carrying a child. An old crone, much like she was now, had tempted her with visions of birthing all the children her heart could want. She had long ago put on the same necklace and watched her life in the looking glass with a large household of happy children.\nThe young man held the necklace tight, with each side of the chain in his hands. He looked at her in the dimly lit room. Her lips turned upwards at the corners. She flashed a long forgotten smile of glee. Chayen slipped the chain over his head, past his immaculately faded hair cut. The heavy amulet settled upon the silk of his custom fitted shirt as the chain rested on the back of his mocha neck.\n“Yas, yas, yas. Now’cha see, see inta ta lookin’glass.” She said with elation, knowing that her entrapment was soon done. A solitary tear, more dust than water, edged downwards across her wrinkled cheek.\nThe emotionally overwhelmed Chayen stood motionless as the still air taunted his final decision. His home instituted sense control swept deep within a cultivated need for glory and power. He reveled in a sense of dominance which dwarfed that of his impotent, money driven father. An unending, almost deity-like command over his inferiors maturated within his soul.\n“Yas, all’ta powa’s yous. Look inta ta’glass!” the crone demanded. Through his fantasy, he was listening to the words of a trusted oracle that was encouraging him to see the reflection his beautiful, new dowry from a fearful dignitary.\nChayen raised his almond eyes at the standing, full length mirror. He saw the greatest of emperors looking back in the reflection. The crone cheered loudly as she danced around the open room. Her body began to recede from decrepit crone to stale, older woman to old woman to middle age woman to a young woman. Her deep wrinkles smoothed across her face. Long, auburn hair flowed where charcoal strands once moved. She collapsed on the floor looking like she before wearing the chain. He was too engrossed on his experience to notice her. An identical necklace to the one he wore faded off of her into the stone box. The box closed on its own, fading into nothing.\n“Now, ya, ya’ve the cu’se of ta’ages. Ha! May ta’gods b’as awful ta ya as tey be’n to me.” Her voice struggled the final words from her lips as her emerald green eyes went still. A purple orb floated from her silent body shell into the amulet on his chest.\nSunlight illuminated the woman’s rapidly re-aging body as it lay near his fifty thousand dollar gym shoes. Her rotting corpse had the look as if it was recently exhumed out of a forgotten crypt. Dust danced playfully in the air. Chayen continued to look upon the distorted vision of himself. He was unaware that his form was slowly devolving in place. His curly hair began to shed as the roots detached from his scalp in patches. His vision lied to him, showing a head of thick, majestic hair. His face began to wrinkle at the eyes and mouth, crumpling into cavernous grooves. The once healthy skin texture thinned, tightening against his skull.\nChayen was more impressed with himself than ever before. The vision altered from him being king to emperor to high priest to dictator to authoritarian, supreme chancellor. He wasn’t as concerned about the exact title as he was about immediate compliance. His expressed authority demanded that the people beneath his power feared him enough to obey every command. Chayen lived lifetimes through his visions in the mirror. The molted, physical form transformed into the final shell. An old man aged of several hundred years in minutes stood before the reflective lie, basking in his heart’s greatest desire. He never noticed that his original collared shirt and shorts disintegrated into dust.\nYears which passed through the window became decades and finally into a completed century. The mirror suddenly reflected no more visions. Chayen stood back with deflated shock, gazing upon a withered old man wearing an amulet in the dust laden reflection. He stared at himself in confusion. In a moment he went from a young, godlike ruler to standing within the frailty of time. A long, sapphire garment of a thick material rested upon the seat of a nearby wooden chair. Chayen found himself struggling to put the wizard’s style robe over his bony frame. An inner call pressing at his base instincts urged him to the basement. He looked down to see the dusty remains of the old woman, long deteriorated at his feet. Dusty skull fragments, fingertip bones and shreds of hair were all that rested on the bug infested floor. He immediately feared that this would be his fate one day, not knowing this was her greatest release.\nThe sun’s illumination through the opaque windows began retreating as his legs did their best to hurry out of the cottage’s main room towards an open doorway. The structure began to slowly shake as if responding to an earthquake centered below. A feeling passed through him that time was short. Chayen found a slender set of stone stairs in the back of an empty room. His aching feet shuffled down the stones until reaching a pair of thick basement doors. He used his body to push open a large, oak door and locked the entrance sliding a wooden bar across the entrance.\nBirds in the surrounding trees took flight as the dwelling above him began to fold upon itself as if it were in a children’s pop up book. He was unaware that everything in the house became a two dimensional representation of itself. The folding continued until the moss laden top of the cottage lay flat on the ground, concealing its contents and the basement below.\nThe old man expected the usual, musty scent of a basement. To his confusion, the room smelled of campfire with a tinge of honeysuckle. The elongated, basement room was extensively lined with wall mounted mirrors of all shapes interlaced between them. Illumination from the flaming torches reflected off the the stone laden ground. A full length, standing mirror indistinguishable from the one he had looked into stood by an equally similar wooden chair and wooden table. On the top of the table rested a purple velvet lined stone box, containing an identical amulet to the one around his neck. The torch lit room appeared without end. Chayen’s reflections in the mirrors afar watched his every move. He worked to grasp at what had happened to him, catching only fireflies of thought.\nThe human concept of time was void in the near dark. Chayen could hear the old woman’s voice taunting in his head. The single vocalization present among the silence. M’time is ova wit’it, don’cha know. Pud’t on, I da’es ya. O’ mayba ya ta sca’ed? Chayen walked from one hanging mirror to the next. Each close up reflection replayed his interaction with the old woman. He watched himself accept the temptation thousands of time, never being able to change his decision. A creeping insanity matured in his mind. Chayen wandered the room’s interior desperately searching for an exit. The middle of the room offered empty space to echo his steps against the sentry like walls. The back end of the basement always evaded his discovery. He had long forgotten the concepts of hunger, sleep, lust and thirst. He took a seat and waited as the woman’s words chimed over and over and over and over." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Even a Blind Man Could See It\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2913\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone sticking to a course of action even when it’s clearly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Even a Blind Man Could See It\nA Short Story by Mackenzie Littledale\n05/20/2021\n“So what did the doctor say, Mom?” I asked over the phone and plunked my purse down on the sofa. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” \n“You were? I was home. Must not have heard the phone.”\nHer nonchalance didn’t sit well with me. “What were the heart monitor’s results?”\n“I don’t need the pacemaker after all,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. It reminded me of a kid with a kazoo. Not that her voice was twangy, but sheer childlike happiness came through.\n“That’s great,” I said, but something was off. Her heart rate had been slow and somewhat irregular, so her cardiologist had her wear a monitor for two weeks. Everything about a pacemaker made perfect sense, so this verdict from the doctor left questions hanging. “Then what’s causing your slow heartbeat?”\n“I don’t need the pacemaker,” she repeated in a firmer tone of voice.\nI sighed and rolled my eyes. Subject closed. My knuckles ached and I realized I was gripping the cell phone way tighter than necessary. “Very well, Mom. What are you going to do next?” I eyed my red apple and strained to reach it. I could just about taste its sweetness and feel the crunch in my mouth.\n“You know I’ve always wanted a sporty Mazda.”\nI dropped the apple. “Oh God, Mom, what did you do?”\n“I had the money and I’ve been trying to think of one good reason why I’ve been waiting so long to get what I want.”\nI gestured with my hand the way a logic professor might. “You’re eighty years old. You’ll be too old to drive it before you even pay off the loan. You’ve never handled a sports car. Your eyesight isn’t great. You can barely hear the other cars honking.” \n“So says you, smarty pants. Well, I can’t think of any reason. I had the money,” she said.\nI got up to pace. Any one of the reasons I just rattled off was reason enough, but she hadn’t considered any of them for even a second. Not that elders can’t drive whatever car they want, but Mom was anything but world-wise, attentive, observant, or quick on her feet. A sports car with her behind the wheel would be a disaster.\n“Are you saying you bought the car?” I held the microphone away from my mouth and took a vicious bite of the apple, perhaps like Eve in the Garden of Eden with a misguided belief that knowledge would magically sprout to life in my head. What good is knowledge without the wisdom to know what to do with it?\n“You’re going to take me to the eye doctor. I’m having surgery next week.”\n“Wait, what?” Where did she come up with these bombshells? “Since when did the ophthalmologist say you needed surgery? Surgery to correct what and what are the chances of success?”\n“This surgery is to correct the glaucoma in my right eye. I failed the vision test for my driver’s license renewal and now I can’t even drive my new car. You have off work on Thursdays, so you can take me, right?” It wasn’t so much a question as a done deal.\n“Of course, sure,” I said, and left my mouth hanging open for a few seconds too long. I rubbed my forehead and resigned myself to add the details to my calendar.\n“I’ll see you Thursday morning, bright and early,” Mom said. “I love you.”\n“I love—” but she’d already hung up before I finished. “You, too.” I bit down hard on my apple and chewed furiously as my mind raced in overdrive for questions to ask the doctors about this surgery.\nThroughout the week, I went to work as planned but with my mother on my mind. Worries about an eighty-year-old woman behind the wheel of a Mazda faded to the background. Eye surgery seemed so dreadful. Thinking about a literal needle through the eye made me shudder.\nOn Thursday morning, I drove the eight miles to my mother’s place. She walked out of her door, steadying herself with her three-pronged cane. Even though she didn’t have arthritis, aches, or pains, sometimes she had dizzy spells. Her attire didn’t betray the occasion. A navy suit jacket with gaudy baubles and simple makeup. If she didn’t want anyone to know she was on her way to eye surgery, mission accomplished.\nI helped her get in my car and got back in the driver’s seat, donning dark sunglasses to block the glare of the harsh summer sun. “Do you have questions for the doctor?”\n“Like what kind of questions?” she said.\n“Mom, didn’t you discuss the pros and cons of this surgery with the surgical team?” I glanced at her over the rim of my sunglasses. “How many of these procedures do they do each year, what’s the success rate, what determines success, do patients have recurrence of glaucoma, can patients drive again, will you need more of the same surgery down the line? Those sorts of questions.”\n“You worry too much, Amina. Just drive.” She looked out the side window. “The landscapers do such a nice job maintaining the property. The plumeria are going to bloom soon.”\n“Yes, Mom.” I pressed the gas and took the wheel with both hands.\nShe provided directions to the outpatient surgical center and twenty-five minutes later, I pulled up to the entrance. Their pineapple logo made me think we’d gone to the wrong business. Pineapples are a symbol of hospitality, as in hotels and inns, not hospitals, but we were at the right place. Inside smelled vaguely antiseptic, not like a full on hospital. Hints of pine, bleach, and lemon breezed by in bursts every time someone opened a door behind reception. Mom and I took seats in the waiting area. Overhead windows ringed the walls holding up vaulted ceilings. Tons of natural light shone on the elm fixtures and furnishings. Mom turned in her forms and we waited some more as patients and their companions came and went. I never liked the sight of bandages, especially over people’s eyes, but several patients left with dark plastic glasses as if the most invasive procedure was dilating pupils in the back room.\nI crossed my fingers and slipped a prayer skyward for everything to be easy. I didn’t want Mom’s procedure to turn into a case study on outlier events.\nA plump woman with frameless eyeglasses opened the door behind reception and called out. “Leticia Lawrence?”\nI tapped Mom’s forearm. “That’s you.”\nI waved at the woman while Mom gathered herself and her cane. We followed the woman to an examination room. After we answered a series of perfunctory questions, the lady asked me to return to the waiting area so my mom could change into the gown. An hour later when I could rejoin my mother, I found her in a surgical bay hooked up to various machines. She looked like an old-fashioned doll in a bed much too big for her. \nThe air was impenetrable with medical knowledge, an invisible barrier to everyday people. Beeping machines, flashing lights, salves, balms, and latex gloves. Everything in the space had some purpose toward healing and none of it made a lick of sense to me. I looked at the nurses as they flipped through charts and notes. The beeping machines and flashing lights didn’t alarm them. They knew something I didn’t – when to and when not to panic. All of it unnerved me so I directed my faith in them for reassurance and calm. All the while, my mother lay in the gigantic bed between the steel rails with a placid smile on her face as she periodically nodded off. How could she think of sleeping now? Now? They’re going to stick a needle in her eye!\nOne of the machines let out an uninterrupted beep and I turned my attention to it. I had no clue what it was for. “Excuse me,” I said to a nurse standing behind my mother’s bed. “Why is that machine making that noise?”\nThe nurse looked from her handheld notes to the black machine. “Your mother’s heart rate is slowing down to less than forty-five beats per minute.”\n“That sounds too slow,” I said, raising my eyebrows as my own heartbeat sped up.\n“You can discuss it with the anesthesiologist,” the nurse said and returned her attention to her notes.\n“Okay,” I said, swallowing down panic since she seemed so cool, calm, and collected about it. “When is the anesthesiologist coming out?”\n“He’ll come out soon with the whole surgical team.”\nMy mother continued dozing until I caught her open one eye briefly and grin. The situation unfolding around her must have amused her. Great. The steady beep gave way to intermittent beeps again and my breathing slowed back down. My stomach had knotted up, but I only just then became aware of it and relaxed. As Mom’s eyes opened, I took her hand. “Are you comfortable?”\n“Oh yeah,” she said, smiling.\nFour doctors with clipboards came from nowhere and approached my mom’s bed in the cold surgical bay. They dressed just like doctors on TV in light blue scrubs.\n“Hello, Mrs. Lawrence,” each one said as they introduced themselves.\n“Which one of you is the anesthesiologist?” I asked, eyeing each one.\nThe tallest waved. “I’m Dr. Jenkins, the anesthesiologist. Who are you?”\n“I’m Amina, her daughter. That machine,” I said, pointing an accusing finger at the black contraption, “was beeping, but then it made a steady beep. Why is her heart rate falling and is the procedure safe?”\nDr. Jenkins flipped through a one-inch-thick file that he held under his clipboard. “Hmm, Mrs. Lawrence, you’ve been to a cardiologist.”\n“Yes,” Mom affirmed. “What’s the problem?”\n“Your heart rate may be slowing down too much,” said Dr. Jenkins. “Tell me about the pacemaker.”\nMy mom waved that away with a smile as sweet as apple pie. “Oh, the cardiologist said I didn’t need it.”\nI looked at her suspiciously. Something wasn’t adding up. \nDr. Jenkins shook his head. “That’s not what the doctor’s note says. It says you declined the pacemaker.”\nMy jaw dropped open and my shoulders slumped. “What? Mom, what did the heart doctor actually tell you?”\n“He said I don’t need a pacemaker.”\nI flattened my lips into a straight line and frowned. I turned to Dr. Jenkins. “What does that note say?”\nA shorter doctor with hazel hair in a style like Joey from F-R-I-E-N-D-S stepped forward. “This is a concern because during the procedure, we’ll push a needle through Mrs. Lawrence’s eye and it’ll tap the vagus nerve, which may slow her heart rate down. The anesthesia will also slow her heart. If, however, it slows too much, we’re not equipped for emergency service. We’ll have to call nine-one-one and wait for an ambulance to take her to the nearest ER.”\nMy stomach sent a warning salvo that if my mother didn’t give the right responses, my morning’s breakfast would be returned as projectile vomit all over my white blouse. All my muscles tightened. “Mom, do you understand what might happen? You have a lazy heart and a pacemaker will force it to beat every second like a drill sergeant. Everything could go wrong. You could freaking die. There’s nothing they can do here and if we need an ambulance, we start running out of time.”\nThe doctors and nurses nodded, urgency written large across their faces. \nDr. Jenkins held the file up. “Mrs. Lawrence, the cardiologist’s note is clear that you need a pacemaker. When you had the monitoring device, the decision could be delayed, but not declined. After this conversation, I’m not fully confident in going forward with your procedure.”\n“But I need to see to drive,” Mom said. Then almost inaudibly, “My Mazda.” \nOf course, I heard the longing in her voice like a violin. I hung my head and rolled it side to side to stretch, to buy time, to hope the doctors would send us home. “Mom. Listen, please? You’re not having the eye surgery today. I’m taking you home and we’re calling the cardiologist to make an appointment about a pacemaker. Once you’re cleared by that doctor, you can get the eye surgery. Got it?”\nShe screwed her face like a petulant child. “I don’t want a pacemaker.”\nThe lead surgeon stepped forward. “You can’t force us to perform a procedure if we’re not one-hundred percent comfortable.”\nI turned to the team of doctors. “Thank you. We’ll be in touch soon.” The team stood straight and tall while the nurse wheeled Mom back to the room where she could get dressed. I waited in the sunlit reception area, my nerves shot to hell. I glanced at my reflection in a compact mirror. My makeup hadn’t held up well against beads of sweat even though the outpatient center couldn’t have been more than seventy degrees. \nLeaving the bleach smell didn’t bother me one bit. They could try to smother it with lemon and pine all day, but it clung to my clothes and nose hairs. On the way to Mom’s place I asked, “What is it about a pacemaker don’t you like? You’re reluctant for some reason. Talk to me.”\n“I’m not afraid,” she said in a voice that no one could possibly count on.\n“Tell me,” I said. “We’ll write down all your questions and grill the doctor until you’re satisfied that it’s safe.”\nHer shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “I want to know if I can shower with it. Will I have to sleep in a certain position with it?”\n“Good, we’ll write it all down.”\nI hoped we’d find some answers online rather than wait to ask the cardiologist. We were only twenty minutes from her apartment, but worry and anxiety made the drive drag on as if the asphalt was taffy. I couldn’t show any negative emotion for fear my mom would catch my fears. She stayed quiet, but the worry wrinkles deepened across her forehead. My job had to be the picture of calm. “Knowledge is power. We’ll look up some answers on the internet, too.”\n“I can’t even drive my car without the eye surgery.”\n“That’s true, but you can’t get the eye surgery without the pacemaker. Everything is going to happen in the right sequence, okay?” I patted her arm and she smiled a thin, weak smile.\nThe following week when I was off work again, I drove Mom to Dr. Santini’s office. While we waited, we looked up FAQ about pacemakers online from my phone. As she scrolled through the questions and answers, she had her own list of questions folded in her palm.\nThe cardiologist came into the examination room. “Hello, Mrs. Lawrence. Amina, I haven’t seen you in a long time.”\n“Hi Doc.” I’d remembered him taller, but Dr. Santini couldn’t have been more than five-foot-five in platform wedges. He brushed his dark hair back, though not a strand was out of place.\n“What brings you in?” he asked, pulling out a rolling stool and sitting down.\nI sat with Mom on the exam table and opened my mouth, but she spoke up. “The reason I’m here is I was scheduled to have surgery for glaucoma, but my heart rate slowed down too much, so I’m here to find out more information about pacemakers.”\n“I see,” Dr. Santini said, leaning forward on his elbows. “You declined that even though I advocated for it. It’s obvious you need it.”\n“I’d like the monitor again to see how my heart is doing.”\n“That won’t be necessary,” he said, leaning back. “Your heart hasn’t suddenly started beating properly.”\n“If the pacemaker stops working, how would my mom know?”\nMom’s eyes widened as if she were struck by lightning. “That’s a good question.” She turned her gaze to Dr. Santini and folded her arms.\nI knew it was a good question. It had been burning a trail in my mind for days. \nThe cardiologist chuckled. “Every three months, your mom will come in and we’ll ‘interrogate’ the pacemaker to make sure it’s still performing.” He continued on to answer all her questions. She could bathe and shower as normal. She could sleep on her stomach and toss and turn all night if she had to. The device would force her heart to pound out sixty beats per minute.\nTwenty minutes later, we were walking back to my car.“How do you feel about the process now, Mom?” The plumeria ringing the doctor’s parking lot was in full bloom. I paused to admire it.\n“Much better. I’m going to do it.” She got in the passenger seat. “You know what though?”\nOh Lord. I took in a deep breath, bracing myself. “What?”\n“I got to drive my car a couple times already.”\nI side-eyed her as I clicked my seatbelt. “And?”\n“It gave me quite a thrill. I hit the gas a teensy-weensy bit and it took off like a racehorse.” She faced me, laughing with a schoolgirl blush. “It made me feel young again.”\nMy heart bottomed out and floated at the same time. She felt young. I couldn’t take that away from her, but she was a danger behind that car’s wheel. “Mom, are you keeping the car?”\n“Of course I am.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Won’t Give In\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1118\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two people who need each other, but are too stubborn to admit it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sharon\nI take my time getting dressed, I’m trying to find something cool to wear. According to the weather it’s going to be a very hot day. I’m getting ready for our yearly barbecue at my nieces’ house. I know my daughter Theresa is going to be there too. She comes every year. I wish she would give me a break and stay at home this year. Truth is I haven’t seen her or my granddaughters since last year at this time. I am always amazed at how much Nia has grown. That’s my youngest granddaughter. This year she is going to be sixteen years old. She’s the reason me and Theresa had a falling out in the first place. Theresa got her silly behind pregnant at thirty-nine years old. I was there for her when she had my first granddaughter, Jennifer. i was so excited when Jennifer was born. I convinced Theresa to buy a house with me. I know that was not her dream but by the time I told how great it would be to watch her daughter run and play in the backyard, she began to see things my way. Thank goodness Jennifer‘s father was out of the picture so I didn’t have to worry about him throwing a monkey wrench in my plans. We lived a happy life for fifteen years and then Theresa went and fell in love again. Sure it had been fifteen years before she allowed herself date, let alone fall in love and have another child but she had obligations to me. I told her that too every chance I got. Sometimes the arguments got ou of hand. I mean there was lots of yelling and when we weren’t yelling we just didn’t speak to each other at all. When she finally announced that she was moving out, I didn’t hold back I called her everything from stupid to selfish. As she stood in the living room pouring her heart out to me, she had tears streaming from her eyes. She said, “Ma I love yo. I would do anything in the world for you but I can’t stay here anymore. This house just doesn’t feel like home. Home should be a place fill with love. At the end of a hard day at work home should be a place I can’t wait to get to. It should never be a place that I dread.” I knew the day was coming when she was going to leave. I had many conversations with Kayden, he’s my babyboy. He said, “Ma you’re fool if you forgive Theresa first for having another child after everything you have done for her but I know you will.\nYo are just going to let her walk all over you and your feelings. I’m telling you it’s time for you to put your foot down.“ I remember asking him, “Have you forgotten that I am Taurus the bull just like you I can be stubborn when I want to, you just watch.” So the day Theresa began to load her bags into her car, I told her if she leaves this house she will never be allowed in the door agai, not even for a visit. That was sixteen years ago. Since Theresa left this house I have been struggling trying to keep this mortgage paid. Truth is this house is about to go into foreclosure but I will never let her know that I need her help. She once had the nerve to say, It’s time for us to lay our weapons down. I let her know in no uncertain term, I am not ready to lay my weapons down. I leave my bedroom and start down the stair.\nTheresa\nAs much as I look forward to the yearly barbecue I am in no hurry to get there. I know my mother is going to be there. Can you imagine not wanting to go somwhere because your mother will be there? I feel terrible saying that out loud but it’s true. Don’t get me wrong I love my mother. Moving out of that house was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. Truth is I had to leave that house for my sanity. I just got so tired of arguing and fighting. I did the best I could to explain my state of mind to my mother but there was just no getting through to her. The more she tried to convince me that I was wrong for having another child the angrier I got because I am a grown woman. I have a right to make my own decision. Besides I was in love and Luther loved me back. I just wanted her to understand for once in my life she needed to back off and just let this love thing run it’s course. I remember when I was a little girl she promised she would never try to make me choose between her and the man I fall in love with. I’m sure Kayden that’s my brother. I’m sure he was offering Ma advice even though he couldn’t help her even if he wanted to. He has never worked a day in his life but he’s full of advice. I would love to say I moved out of my mother’s house and lived happily ever after. Well, that is certainly not the case. Let me tell you, I had lived with my mother for thirty nine years so moving in with a man was something different and it was definitely not an easy transition. There were times I wanted to call my mother and beg her to let me come home but she let me know in no uncertain terms I was not welcome in the house for any reason. so I sucked it up and put on my big girl pants and learned how to survive my fear is that this will always be an unresolved issue between my mother and I. We have been apart for sixteen years now I don’t know about her but that really bothers me because tomorrow is not promised to either of us. The saddest part of all is Nia will never know her grandmother or the great person she used to be. I could really use my mother in my life but just like her I have feelings too and I will not continue to allow her to hurt me and treat Nia like she’s something on the bottom of her shoe. Since she refuse to lay her weapons down, I’m going to keep mine at the ready too.Well it‘s time to head out to the barbecue. I hope all goes wel." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hymn for the Fallen\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2899\n\nPrompt:\n\n‘Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once.’ Use the senses to transport a character back to the past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Rusty Sherman was having one of his episodes. Something always triggered these episodes whether it would be a certain heavy aroma or some object that would catch the corner of his eye or even a melody that once played from his sandblasted radio sitting on a table next to his rack in the barracks in Kandahar. Whatever it was, the episode that followed was best described as unpredictable.\nLiving in a small efficiency apartment on the shore of Saint Louis Bay near Oneta, Minnesota where he worked as a waiter at Besky’s, a shoreline restaurant that had been there for as long as he could remember. He grew up in Duluth. His mom Clara and his father Dominic still lived in the house he grew up in listening to his father’s famous family stories of his Nordic relatives. While Rusty was not his given name, he earned that name in two tours in Afghanistan where the sun bleached his hair to an orange color resembling rust. His given name was Galen which no one but his mother and father ever called him. Even his sister May would call him Rusty just like his fellow soldiers at the firebase. \n“Private Sherman, watch these prisoners.” Sergeant O’Malley ordered him, “We are going to patrol the streets for insurgents. This morning two IUDs were detonated, killing three of our guys.” \n“Yes sergeant.” He nodded as he took his place to stand watch over them. He watched his platoon walk away following Sergeant O’Malley through the narrow streets of the town. There were six women sitting in a circle, three of them holding young children. The usual ROE was to just watch over them until a crew would come and take them away in a truck where they would be processed for internment. Often they would be released back to their homes after spending the night in a holding cell. \nIt was all routine, or so he thought. Four of the women wore traditional hijabs while the other two wore burqas. He could smell the spices of their food as the sun beat down on them. None of them spoke English as far as he could tell, but he noticed that a couple of them started to giggle. One of the women pointed at him and made a gesture with her fingers that indicated his masculine prowess or what was believed to be the physical size. He became angry the more they giggled.\n“Stop that!” He ordered, but they just giggled more. He repeated in much more hostile tone, “Stop that now!” \nThey would not. He became so frustrated that he raised his weapon and fired off a few rounds into the air. This startled them, but after a few moments, they continued their private conversation. \nNow angered to the point he could not long tolerate their noise, he lowered his gun and began to fire. In less than a minute all the women lay in a circle, as their blood drained into the dusty street, their eyes open still holding their dead children. That moment would become the source of many nightmares. Seeing them lay there now silent would become the trigger of his episodes. \nThe vehicle drove up to pick the prisoners up.\n“It was a smell from the festival.” Rusty sighed as his V.A. psychiatrist wrote in his yellow pad. “I don’t know what happened next.” \n“According to the police, you began tipping over trash cans. Not a terrible thing, but still destruction of public property.” Dr. Geovanni held his hands in front of his pointed nose and leaned into his hands. \n“What about the assault?” Rusty asked as he rolled his head.\n“You get a free pass Go card.” Dr. Geovanni dropped his hands hoping to end the session with some light humor. “Please contact me if you think you are going to have another episode.”\n“I would if I could, but I never know what will set me off.” Rusty dropped his head. With a sigh, Rusty added, “It’s all just hymns for the fallen.” \n“What do you mean?” Dr. Geovanni inquired.\n“It’s what we called whenever they played ‘Taps.’ You know that tune they play at military funerals?” He closed his eyes. “I can’t tell you how many times I heard that tune. It sticks with me every day. It haunts my dreams. So doc, why am I the only one who hears it?”\n“I wish I had an answer.” He shrugged.\n“I thought you shrinks had all the answers.” He bowed his head.\n“I wish we did.” Dr. Geovanni looked up from the chart.\n“Me too.” He mumbled sardonically. \n“I have some antidepressants I want you to take.” Dr. Geovanna began to write a script.\n“More pills?” Rusty growled.\n“It’s all I have.” The doctor shook his head, “Unless you want me to reach in there and take out the damage.” \nRusty did not smile at the possibility, “I wish you’d take out the whole thing and do a brain transplant. Maybe from some kid where his only worries are how many fish he’s going to catch off the rocks out on the lake.” \n“You know I’d do that if I could.” Dr. Geovanni lowered his head to make eye contact with his patient. \n“Drugs don’t help me, you know.” Rusty took the script that Dr. Geovanni handed him. \nPost Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD had not been recognized as a mental disorder by the Veterans Administration until a few years ago. During Desert Storm One in 1991, many of the service men and women returned complaining of ailments that could not be diagnosed, meaning they often went untreated. Due to the short duration of the military operation many of those in charge disregarded the complaints of those service people as psychosomatic. It wasn’t until later when troops were sent to Iraq and Afghanistan for a much longer duration that the complaints were treated by the V.A. hospitals. Finally published in the DSM-V, PTSD became the hot new diagnosis for those who could trace their mental disorder to some tragic event that happened earlier in their lives. For Galen Sherman, murdering those Afghani women and their children was the event that haunted him the most. He had buddies who also suffered from major trauma from duty. \nDuring his time in the hospital, he happened to cross paths with Sergeant Paul O’Malley who lost both legs when an IED went off while he was driving a Humvee. \n“What are you doing here, Private Sherman?” He asked, sitting in his wheelchair. \n“Got some head stuff to take care of.” He answered. \n“I heard the report. Sounds like your shooting was justified.” He shook his head with those sad eyes of his. “You even got a citation.”\n“Yeah, I did.” He turned his head away from O’Malley in shame. \n“What a mess we have here.” The driver told the others as Rusty sat there with his head in his hand whispering prayers to a God he no longer believed in. “So what happened corporal?” \n“I shot ‘em.” He sniffed.\n“Yeah. Why?” The driver asked.\n“They were plotting to rush me.” Rusty lied or at least the driver could tell. He unsnapped his sidearm, removed it from his holster and dropped the .45 next to one of the dead women.\n“Shit, son, looks like they were planning to shoot you.” The driver smiled.\nRusty looked up and saw the pistol lying next to one of the dead women.\n“I don’t remember that being there.” He pointed to the weapon.\n“Well, facts is facts. She was gonna plug you, but you beat her to the punch.” He laughed the laugh of some kind of demon. Laughter would become a secondary trigger for Galen. \nRusty kept the medal he got for his quick and decisive action buried deep in his dresser drawer. Displaying the medal like his father wanted to was another trigger. Gazing at the medal reminded him of what really happened. He wasn’t brave and he wasn’t decisive either. \n“Son, me and your mother are proud of you.” He once said after prayers before dinner. \nHe wanted to kill his father for saying that. He wanted to kill his mother for her accepting smile. His father was in Vietnam. He should have known better. Back then they didn’t call it PTSD, they called it Battle Fatigue. His father was lucky. He had not seen the worst of the war since he was stationed in Saigon for most of his tour. Four boys he went to highschool with, did not return. \nAfter working the drunk shift at Besky's, as it was called, he walked out to the pier a block away. The water was black under a moonless sky. He had to be careful, because there were warnings that the dock was not stable in some places. He knew where those places were and was careful to avoid them. Sometimes he imagined he would just walk off the end of the pier and that would be that. He never told Dr. Geovanni that he had suicide ideation, but he sort of suspected the doctor already knew. Six of his buddies had taken their own lives when they returned from over there. He would not let Saint Louis Bay or Lake Superior become his final resting place, however, so he slowly walked back to dry land, got into his car and drove away leaving the gentle lapping of the waves echoing in his mind.\nWinters were long and summers were short in Duluth, but when it was summer it was time for robust celebration. While places in Lake Superior never completely thawed out beneath the waves, riding out was a thrill beyond explanation. Their graduation celebration included a feast by the shore and canoes and kayaks sloshing across the waves left by the giant freighters. Some of the waves would capsize their tiny crafts. The water temperature seldom rose above sixty degrees which made the dunking quite a shocking jolt to the system. Rusty went in his fair share of times, but the exhilaration was worth the jolt. \n“Looks like you owe a hundred and eighty dollars.” The clerk at the courthouse informed Rusty as he handed the clerk his citation.\n“Here.” He added his debit card to the citation so the clerk could take the money he owed for tipping over the trash cans at the festival.\n“Here is your card and receipt.” The clerk efficiently handed Rusty both.\n“Thank you.” Rusty bowed his head and walked away. \nHis father was sitting in the waiting area reading a newspaper.\n“Thanks dad.” Rusty nodded.\n“Son, there must come a time when you will be able to do this on your own.” His father gave him a stern look as he put the newspaper aside.\n“I’m doing the best I can.” Rusty closed his eyes. His ears were ringing. There was the sound of a rifle, his rifle echoing in his ears.\n“Corporal Sherman.” Major Cycellinni called him from the rank and file of his company at the outpost. He was dressed in his Class A uniform and he moved like he had been trained to do. He stood in front of the major who read his citation, “For quick and decisive action in the face of impending peril, I away this citation to Corporal Sherman who on September 22, 2009 took action to quell a possible deadly trap that endangered his life and those in the immediate area of Kandahar proper.”\nHe pinned the medal on Rusty’s left shirt pocket as the applause of his fellow soldiers. Their cheers echoed in his ears as he felt the weight of his medal dangle feely from his pocket. \nThat night he lay on his bed in his room. He ignored his mother calling him to dinner. He could hear them speak in hushed tones, just like the women sitting in front of him in Kandahar. Why did such things drag him back to that moment? Why didn’t his memories take him back to that graduation party on the lake? Why did his mind insist on taking him to that moment in time when he did the unthinkable?. How many times had he said he was sorry to God? That angry, displeased, Lutheran God he would sit between his mother and father every Sunday. \n“Galen, I put some dinner aside for you.” His mother poked her head in the door into the dark room.\n“Thanks mom.” He dutifully responded. \n“Get some rest if you need it.” She made the sound of the kiss that she blew to him across the room. It was an empty gesture at best. \nHe had romance for a short time with a young woman he met in community college who had a daughter from a previous marriage and was trying to earn a degree to get out oa dead end job at the deli second of a large grocery store. Her name was Mandy Sorenson and she was beautiful with her long golden locks, crystal clear blue eyes and her wide smile that seemed to warm the cold winter. \nIt did not end well, though. One night he made his clumsy move where he got a little too intense and a little too aggressive. She told him to stop, but he did not. When she resisted, he hit her and then hit her again until blood started to flow. Slowly he felt the energy subside in him, but she needed to go to the emergency room for stitches. He told her to call him back, but she never did. He was not surprised. The hard reality was, he was not ready for a steady relationship even though in a couple of years, he’d be thirty years old. He could see Mandy telling her friends about him. She would make a gesture just like that woman in Kandahar. The restraining order was delivered to him by the police as his mother and father sat in the living room watching television. He did not stay there to answer their questions. \nAs he waited on a couple during the dinner hour, the woman called him over to their table. Dutifully, Galen went over to see how he could assist.\n“Excused me, sir.” Her voice indicated she was not satisfied with something that had been delivered. \n“Yes ma’am.” He smiled.\n“I ordered my meat well done.” She blurted out, with her hand she opened her sandwich revealing meat that was red and nearly raw. “Does this look well done to you?” \n“No, I can replace that with meat that is more suitable.” He offered.\n“No, I think we are done here, don’t you?” Her face became red with her rage.\n“Darling, we can see-” Her husband interjected, but she cut him off.\n“If they cannot understand a simple request, what chance do you think we have of being compensated?” She looked up at Galen with rage in her dark eyes, “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept such incompetence..” \nHer husband rolled his eyes and removed the napkin from his lap.\n“Ma’am, if you just let me-” Galen started, but she cut him off, too. \n“No, I will not pay for this meal. I simply will not.” Her voice raised and Galen could see everyone was looking at her. “Tell them they can have their sandwich.” \nShe shoved the plate with her hand. The sound of the glass being clanked on the wooden table echoed in his mind. He could smell the gunpowder. He could hear the clinking of the shells as they hit the ground. His eyes could not focus. He picked up the plate and flung it at her. It hit her in the forehead. She screamed as a gash opened up where the heavy plate had struck her. Her husband lunged at Galen, but he grabbed his arm and twisted it until it was behind his back just like he was taught in an army training camp. The man yelped. Other patrons pile on to the pair, but Galen pulled away from them too. Marching the man outside with his arm pinned behind his back, Galen deposited him into the water of the bay. The man flailed in the water calling for help as his wife shrieked, holding a cloth to her wound where the plate had struck her.\nWhen he got home the police were waiting for him.\n“I can’t believe you did this.” His father snarled. \n“What were you thinking, dear?” His mother was in tears. \n“I see you have come home to roost.” Dr. Geovanni remarked when he saw Galen Sherman in a straight jacket. Galen’s response was a couple of explicit words that Dr. Geovanni expected as they took him to the small room where the staff would process him. \n“So doc, whadda think about this one?” One of the orderlies asked.\n“Looks like a full time project.” Dr. Geovanni sighed.\n“Do you think he will ever get better?” The orderly asked. \n“No, but we can hope to restore some of the broken bits so he can make it on the outside.” Dr. Geovanni picked up his clipboard and walked into the small room.\n“I wonder.” The orderly put his hand to his stubbly chin and shook his head.\n“Me too.” Dr. Geovanni closed the door behind him. The orderly could hear the patient screaming as it did." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Suffer the Child\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1354\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone sticking to a course of action even when it’s clearly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Lazily squinting, his eyes flutter than open to the realization that he was at least 2 stops further than he wanted to be, as he quickly reached-out to pull the cord, informing the City Bus driver that someone wanted to exit at the next stop.\n\nHe stood and was already headed for the rear-exit, as the bus was coming to a slow, yet determined halt. As he pushed open the double doors and stepped out into the bone-chilling “Hawk” of a wind, he wondered if Michelle's father would still be awake. He was way too tired and emotionally drained for a confrontation tonight. He had just returned from visiting his friend James. He had been shot in the stomach at point-blank-range earlier that week, during a scuffle with another youth, over a dice-game\n\nAs he walked, he fished in his pocket for the cigarette pack where he had several joints stashed. He found one and lit it. He had about a third of it finished when he checked his watch and realized the time. Shit! it was almost 9:30 now and he wouldn’t dare call-on the young girl after that. She (and her Dad, the local High-School football coach) had made it clear that he was NOT to come around the house after 9:30, no excuses.\n\nSo, after snuffing-out what remained of the joint, returning it to the cigarette-box and thrusting it into his coat pocket, he now broke-into a slow jog, as he rounded the corner. He was less than a ten-minute walk from her house, so he’d surely get there in a few minutes at his current pace. As he did, he could hear police sirens in the distance, their whining-blare increasing as they swiftly closed-in on the area. Crime in this City never stops, he mused; Damn. It’s Sunday, for God’s sake!\n\noooWerr - oooWerrr – oooWerrr! Whoop-Whoop! Suddenly, sirens screeched and stopped behind him and then in front; he was being surrounded. Blinding lights from the BPD cruisers destroyed his night-vision as he squinted through the harsh white glare, instinctively raising his hands to shield his eyes.\n\n“Lower your hands, and do it NOW!” a disembodied, authoritative voice spat from the cruiser’s loudspeaker. And before Mark had time to fully understand what was happening, he was being rushed and then tackled by two Patrol Officers and forced to the ground, while yet another held him at gunpoint. Knees, elbows and hardened black Department-issued steel-toed boots violently pushed and then pinned him to the concrete, as he tried to ascertain what was going-on, and why? Why him? Why now? What had he done?!\n\n“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em and don’t move! You hear?! Where’s the gun?! Huh? Did you throw it somewhere? You threw it in the bushes, didn’t you? You’d better start talkin’, fast, or your Black a-- is going to jail!”\n\n“Get the F--- off me, man!! What gun?? Ya’ll got the wrong person! I ain’t got no gun! Shit!” Mark yelled, his voice strained and muffled by the two burley BPD Officers who now had his slender 17-year-old frame pinned to the asphalt. As he pleaded for a Hearing, the officers began to roughly search his person while continuing to hold him down, kneeling on his lower back and pushing the side of his face into the grimy asphalt. “I told you I ain’t got no gun!” Mark snapped again.\n\n“That’s ‘cause you threw it somewhere, right?! In the bushes back there, maybe?” He motioned silently to the ever growing group of officers that were on the scene now, just standing there, hands resting on their holstered service revolvers, like cowboys prepared for a shoot-out.\n\nHis head, still being forcibly pinned to the asphalt, was beginning to pulsate with a crimson-rage, and he could feel the wet warmth of his own blood and sweat, as it began to ooze over and mix with the dust and grime of the city street. He watched with one eye, jaggedly breathing through livid thoughts and clenched-teeth, as a pair of boots broke-away from the others and hurried-off to his right.\n\nHe could make-out muted flashes of soft-white light, floating and weaving over the ground from the corner of his eye, as the patrolman combed the shadows for a discarded weapon.\n\n“And around the corner too! Go back at least a block or so!” The officer was yelling now, every emphasized word causing his weight to shift and press violently on the youth’s supple frame. More boots break-away from the crowd. More muffled white lights displace the dark. More Crimson, more Rage.\n\n“All right, so let’s start talkin’, Boy. Where were you coming from in such a hurry, huh? What were you running for?!”\n\n“I was goin’ to my girl’s house, and I wasn’t runnin' I was jogging! If I was runnin', you Fucker’s wouldn’t have caught me!”\n\n“Yeah? That’s the attitude you wanna take?!” Mark could hear him sneering, as he shifted his weight to press-down harder on his lower back.\n“Uugggh!” the boy gasped and squirmed under the weight. “F--- Ya’ll! GET OFF ME!” This was met with an equally painful kick to his upper-thigh, as a heavy boot now stood on his left-hip.\n\nAs his world begins to softly hum, he can see more boots falling into line all around him. Flashlights being clicked-off and returned silently to their places on the officer’s utility belts. The Officers would report to the sergeant that they couldn’t find a weapon, and that maybe, they had the wrong guy. ”Fuck that!” he would return, “Keep looking! I saw him throw something, we ALL did, you understand?! Now keep lookin’!”\n\nMore muffled voices, float above him. More bright lights, questions and prodding, but the night was turning soft and warm, and he was getting sleepy. Just rest a while, he thought. It’ll all be over soon. He was so tired now, but at least the pain was gone.\n\n* * *\n\nMinutes earlier as he lay on the cold ground, yielding to the weight of the officer’s red-hot adrenalin and fiery rage, he could hear more sirens approaching. Having lived in the City his whole life, Mark was able to distinguish between the sirens of the different agencies that were sworn to “Protect and Serve” the People of Baltimore. So now, he could tell that both another Police cruiser as well as an ambulance were approaching the scene. The ambulance raced past him and the others, but the cruiser stopped, lights and sirens still ablaze. Mark could hear the newly arrived Officer informing the others, that the “assailant” was seen about four blocks North and headed East, on foot. The voice continued that there were reports of “…one down and one injured” at the scene, and that the Medical Response Team was on the way.\n\nAs the officers slowly released their grip and began to untangle themselves from the pile of bodies one at a time, they carefully held him at arms-length after regaining their footing, as if they were releasing a wild ‘gator back into the Bayou.\n\n“Sorry, ‘Yo.’ - looks like it wasn’t you after all… You can go now. You’re O.K., right? No harm, no foul? Hey can you hear me? Hey - Quit pretending you’re hurt and get up! You hear me?! GET UP!”\n\n\n\n* * *\n\n\n\nAs he stood, he looked down upon himself, crumpled and disheveled, a scowl frozen on his lips for eternity. But he was, confused; how could he possibly be looking at himself from this angle? It just didn’t make any sense. Something, somewhere in Him wanted to scream, to cry out to Himself that this wasn’t right. That He should get up and leave. \n\n\nIt’s Okay. You can get up now. Come-on, I’ve got you. There you go.\n\nHe couldn’t see it, as much as he could feel the presence of the glowing apparition. An angel perhaps, but he couldn’t be sure. It was all happening in slow motion, and without sound. He was no longer apprehensive, or confused, as he slowly reached-out to Himself, to wipe-away his own tears." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Are We Just Playing Our Cosmic Roles?\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1862\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone sticking to a course of action even when it’s clearly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "W.H. Michael - Taurean\n\nI'm a Taurus through and through. Don't believe me? Well, that's me up there in the picture. As you can see, I even have the tattoo. But maybe you're thinking I'm just a guy with a really cool zodiac sign and a tattoo to match. Well let me tell you about how I got punched in the nuts by a TSA agent, then maybe you'll believe me.\nTaureans are notoriously bull-headed.\n\nGaneshaspeaks.com says of the Taurean:\n\n\"You are stubborn at times, especially when you truly believe that you are right. It can take a lot to change your mind once you settle down in your routine. You are very strong-minded and tend to stick to your guns.\"\n\nYup. That's me.\n\nSo, I'm at a Willamette Writers conference in Portland, a few months pre-covid, when I get a call saying my father is in the hospital and he's not doing well. I'm already near the airport for the conference, so I get on the first plane to Albuquerque.\n\nI have no bags, just me, my laptop and a one-way ticket. On arrival, my younger brother who is a doctor like my father picks me up.\nMost of my seven brothers and sisters are pretty successful and good all around people. Me? I'm the black sheep of the family, or maybe I'm just playing my role assigned by the stars.\n\nMy father turns out to be ok. He's out of the woods and clearly not going to die anymore so, bye dad. It just doesn't feel right for a guy to see his once strong and vibrant father in the hospital.\n\nIt's 4 in the morning, so with plenty of time on my hands, I watch a YouTube video on How to Catch an Uber. I'd tried once before, a few years ago on the Santa Monica pier but every driver would tell me, “Get out of my car, you’re not my fare”. WTF, I clearly see Uber cars swarming like bees on this ap, but I can't get a ride when one stops right in front of me? So, I deleted the ap and walked back to the hotel, swearing never to use Uber again.\n\nWell, as I see what must be my ride heading down the lane, I also see a lifted 4x4 barrel past the Uber at about twice the posted speed limit. For safety, I step far back away from the road as the truck spins around and charges back up the road, forcing my ride to stop. Both drivers get out briefly, say a few words, then my driver picks me up.\n\nOn our way, my Uber driver explains that Mr. 4x4 left his cell phone in her car. She’d offered to take it back to him because the man was flat out drunk, but he'd refused her offer and chased her down instead.\n\nIt was a bad decision on his part because just as my driver finished her story, we passed Mr. 4X4 pulled over on the side of the road, doing sobriety tests for Mr. Law Enforcement.\n\nMy driver felt really bad and told me she should have insisted on bringing his cell phone back to him.\n\n\"Or, maybe he's an alcoholic and this is just the universe, giving him a chance before he kills himself or someone else.\"\n\nShe said my answer made her feel better and dropped me off. I had a long wait before the gates opened, and as fate would have it, a man came by with a chessboard and asked me if I would like a game.\n\nThe situation seemed a little odd. He was just some random dude. He didn't have a plane ticket and said he didn't plan on getting one. Apparently, he just goes to the airport to play chess with strangers at 4 a.m. in the morning.\n\nWell, we ate pistachios and played chess for the next few hours. We discussed chess as a metaphor for life and he told me about his many great accomplishments.\n\nI weighed his words against the fact Mr. Chess looked a little homeless - and I ended up losing three games to the man, as well as most of the wisdom he tried to share with me.\n\nFinally, the gate opened and I got my ticket back to Portland. However, fate stepped in again and the scanner alarm went off as I passed through security. I knew it was going off for me. I was the only one there, but I could have sworn I removed everything metal.\nI was giving myself a quick check when the TSA guy tells me he's gonna need to pat me down.\n\nOh, no sir.\n\nSee I don't like being touched, but that's another story for another day. So, I reasoned with him.\n\n\"It's probably just something I forgot,\" and I continued to pat myself down.\n\n\"No. The machine says you have something down your pants.\"\nI laugh, \"That's what she said.\"\n\nMr. TSA guy didn't laugh.\n\nHe points to the screen behind me, where I see a little figure of a person, with a light blinking on his chucky. My brother hates it when I call it a chucky, as in \"damn it... got me in the chucky,\" but his name's Charles, so that could be why he doesn't like it.\n\nAt this point I will also confess I'm a former police officer and based on the fact I purchased two one-way tickets in a 24 hour period, with no check-in baggage, I was well aware I looked like a drug mule. In fact, I expected greater scrutiny from TSA. I did not, however, expect TSA to fake a positive scanner hit.\n\n\"Sir, I can pat you down here or we can go into a private room.\"\n\n\"That's what she said.\"\n\nI smiled.\n\nHe gave me a look as if to say, it wasn't funny the first time.\n\nBut it was. Right?\n\nWhatever, I chose the private room, but not for the free massage. I had my own plan.\n\nAs soon as we entered the \"private\" room, I started taking off my clothes.\n\n\"Whoa! Hey, what are you doing?\"\n\n\"Well, clearly you brought me into this \"private\" room, cause you want to see what I've got in my pants.\"\n\nNow, it was just the two of us and one other guy in the room. I fully expected him to respond with, \"That's what she said.\"\n\nHe didn't.\n\nInstead, he tells me if I take off my clothes he will have me arrested.\n\n\"For What?!\"\n\n\"Indecent exposure.\" He says this with a straight face.\n\nI frown, \"Now that's just insulting, dude.\"\n\n\"Sir, you don't have to take off your clothes. I will simply run my hands up your legs and caress your nether regions with the blade of my hand.\"\n\nOk, that caress and nether regions part. Those are my words, not his.\n\nI wasn't in a joking mood anymore. Now, I was just pissed off. I even resisted the urge to give my standard response to such an obvious setup.\n\n\"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You're telling me your machine says I'm hiding something in my pants and you want to feel me up. But, if I take off my clothes, you're gonna have me arrested.\"\n\n\"Sir, you're wasting my time. Like I said, it's a simple pat-down using the blade of my hand.\"\n\n\"Ok, look. I'm a former cop. I know how a pat-down works.\"\nYeah…. I said those words, former cop. I knew I sounded like a condescending ass. I knew, in my present situation he had all the power. I knew right then, he was probably getting a woody thinking I'm a former cop and a drug mule.\n\nKnowing all of this you might ask, why would I tell him I was a former cop? Let's just blame it on the stars. Perhaps, I am simply a tool of the universe promoting change. Maybe in a cosmic sense, I'm only doing my portion, playing my zodialogical role in life.\n\nOr, maybe I was just being a tool with no greater purpose because I spent the next thirty minutes arguing with Mr. TSA.\n\nIn the end, he tells me, \"That's it, I'm calling the cops and you're going to miss your flight.\"\n\nDamn it. I hate losing.\n\nI think for a moment and a little bit of what Mr. Chess guy said earlier begins to make sense. I hold my arms straight out from my side, spread my legs and brace for the inevitable.\n\nHe's very gentle but purposeful, as he checks my collar, arms, chest, and waistband. I can tell he's a professional and he's likely done this many times before.\n\nBut we both know what's coming next. I know it and he knows it too.\n\nWhat we don't know is why we feel helpless to do anything, except play out our predestined roles.\n\nSo, Mr. TSA runs his right hand down the outside of my leg, checks my right ankle, then comes up the inside of my leg. When he reaches my thigh he tucks his thumb down along the palm of his hand and brings his reverse karate chop up sharply - right into my nuts.\n\nMr. TSA paused a moment, gaging my reaction. We both knew all the cards were on the table now.\n\nWould I fight him?\n\nWould he now have a reason to call the cops for a more thorough search?\n\nI will admit, he straightened me up with that chop, but I was not going to give him the satisfaction of reacting.\n\nSo Mr. TSA repeated the procedure on my left leg and added a little emphasis to the chop, for good measure.\n\nI grunted and my safe word slipped out.\n\n\"Porcupine….\"\n\n\"What?!\"\n\n\"I said, I still don't believe you had the right to touch me because you think I'm carrying drugs and I couldn't just take off my clothes to prove you wrong.\"\n\nI demanded he provide me his name.\n\nHe pointed to his badge and said with a smile, \"Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer.\"\n\nSo I did.\n\nThis is Mr. TSA there below, in all his post chucky chop glory.\n\nMr. TSA\n\nI wish you could see the look on his face, but to be honest I really didn't change it much.\n\nWhen I arrived back in Portland, I told my oldest son, a TSA agent punched me in the balls.\n\nHe laughed.\n\nHe didn't even question if I was telling a joke, trying to be funny.\n\nHe asked what I did to deserve it.\n\nSo I told him, adding that I was still pissed and considering reporting the guy.\n\n\"Yeah, but you won't, 'cause you were kinda being a jerk.\"\n\n\"I know. Plus, I like how he had the guts to actually do it.\"\n\nIn retrospect I ask myself, were we just two guys being stereotypical males?\n\nOr were we in fact, doing our part to fulfill our cosmic roles?\n\nMe, playing the awesome role of the headstrong Taurean.\n\nAnd Mr. TSA guy playing the role of….. what's the zodiac sign for dick?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Clean-up\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2906\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite your story about two characters tidying up after a party." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A peaceful black void. That’s what Marquise was experiencing. In the far distance, he could faintly detect strange sounds. It didn’t matter. Whatever the noises were had to be thousands of miles away and not in his immediate space. Therefore, they were of no concern to him in his endless space of comfort. The noises slowly became more discernible and increased in volume. It was a voice. That’s impossible. How could anyone get here? This was a safe space. Whatever this disturbance was would surely go away. All he needed to do was continue to float wherever the atmosphere took him. Definitely not a care in the -\n“GET UP!”\nMarquise’s perfect black voice shattered into a thousand pieces. Light flooded in as the pillow he had over his head was ripped away from his face.\n“Did you hear anything I just said?!?” A beautiful girl with soft, tawny brown skin and tediously styled curls stood looking at him. Despite her petite stature, the fury in her light brown eyes made her seem a lot bigger. She waited expectedly for a response. Her gaze was unwavering as she stood with empty red solo cups in one hand and a half-filled trash bag in the other hand. \nMarquise was still in a state of discombobulation. Slowly, as if his brain finally finished rebooting, he started to remember the past 12 hours. \n“I heard you,” he gruffly responded as he massaged the side of his head. “I’m sure they can hear you all the way on campus.”\n“Your door was wide open when I came in. It also smells several different body fluids mixed together in here.”\nMarquise was barely sitting up. The light hurt his eyes making it difficult to fully look at his angry girlfriend standing before him. “Yeah,” he managed a wry smile, “it was epic. You shoulda been here.” \n“Some of us actually have responsibilities this morning.” Maybe you should -- “\n“If you’re going to tell me all about myself, can you at least make some eggs first? Everything sounds better over eggs.”\nElisa crushed the cups in her hand as her eyes widened with rage.\n“Ok, ok,” Marquise added, “I’m sorry. You’re right… It’s definitely a waffles kind of morning. No! Wait. You’re always telling me about compromise. Put me down for both. I love waffles. It’s actually the only food I can make well.”\n“Yup. That’s you,” Elisa said as she threw her hands up in the air as if to concede. “Just make jokes and eventually everything will be fine.”\n“I thought you liked my jokes,” Marquise added feigning hurt feelings. \nMarquise wasn’t sure why he was poking the proverbial bear this morning. They arugured frequently in between the sweeter moments. James, Marquise’s roommate once described their relationship as a “Disney fairytale… where, instead of happily ever after, there’s a lot more swearing in Spanish and nobody really learns a lesson.”\nHow did it get to this point? Elisa was once the center of his universe. Now she feels like a black hole, destroying anything fun that comes anywhere near it. Marquise would often wonder why she even tries. Doesn’t she get it that there’s too much to fix? Marquise knew he was not innocent in all of this. Elisa was the pinnacle of success. She grew up on the top floor of a converted single-family apartment off Woodhaven Boulevard in Queens. All six members of her family lived upstairs with her. A beautiful biracial product of an African-American father and a Dominican mother, Elisa was the youngest and defied every statistic thrown in her face. Neither her mother nor her father finished high school and yet education and the acquisition for knowledge was her main purpose for living. At this point, she had to have greater than a 4.0GPA and was involved in just about every activity on campus. No. Correction: She was on the board, running, or facilitating just about every activity on campus. She never missed a day of class nor was she ever late to work; not even once in the two years they had been together. She hardly needed Marquise or any of his underachieving habits. What could he do, though? Was he to stay in a relationship with someone who loves him, but didn’t need him or end the relationship and be alone and continue his abusive relationship with himself? Marquise knew there was a reason he always ended up at this point. It’s because he always realized that he wasn’t worth the effort and needed to do the right thing and end this farce. \nMarquise’s tone suddenly shifted. He felt his hunched-over body straighten up as his eyes finally adjusted to the morning light. \n“Elisa,” he began with no plan of where he was going, “I think… we...”\n“Save it, Marquise. I don’t want to hear it right now,” Elisa said as she continued to clean. She picked up a trash bag and began stuffing cans, cups, and pizza boxes inside. The sounds of angry cleaning filled the air for the next 15 minutes. Marquise knew he had to say something. He would tell her that it’s probably best to call it quits now and save her the detective work of discovering that he’s not worth it. Here it goes. As Marquise turned around to face Elisa, he opened his mouth to deliver the knockout punch. To his surprise, he was relieved of coming up with the perfect break-up conversation starter. \nElisa was already facing him when he turned around. “I’m... not sure this is working out”, she hesitantly stated. \nMarquise had never felt so many different emotions at one time. It felt like his chest was going to burst. Isn’t this is what he wanted? Why then does he feel so much turmoil? It’s fine. He would just calmly ask her to expand on her previous statement.\n“Are you f$@#ing crazy?” \nNot quite as eloquent as he had hoped, but it didn’t matter. It was out there now. \n“Excuse me?” Elisa was in shock.\n“What? You think I’m the problem?!? What about you?” Marquise wasn’t sure why he was getting so upset. “Little Ms. Perfect isn’t so perfect in all this.”\n“What are you talking about?!?”\n“All you do is criticize me. There’s nothing I can do right. You constantly remind me that I’m not what you want or need. If I was, you wouldn’t want to change everything about me.”\n“Marquise, you’re not happy! You self-sabotage to the point where you won’t even try anything new.”\n“Is this because I wouldn’t watch Jane the Virgin with you?” Marquise asked in utter confusion.\n“See? You just deflect and never take anything seriously. Being serious means effort. Effort means commitment. Commitment means risk. You never want to take that risk which means you don’t think the risk is worth it… which means you don’t think I’m worth it.”\n“Since when did you change your major to psychology?”\n“Marquise --”\n“No. You’ve said enough. Seems like you’ve been thinking about this for a while. Also seems like you have all the answers today, but the one flaw in your logic is that you think you’re easy to love.”\nA chilling silence engulfed the room. Marquise actually felt the temperature in his apartment drop after his words.\n“You don’t think it’s obvious to everyone how embarrassed you are by me. But it’s just as obvious to me how much you change when you’re around your friends. You never speak Spanish around them. You never talk about your family. You’re ashamed of where you come from. I don’t know why you keep me around. Guilt? Like I’m some connection to who you used to be.”\nMarquise’s words hung in the air to the point where he almost thought they were visible to anyone who might walk in. \n“Ok, Marquise. It seems like we’re in agreement.” Elisa dropped the trash bag she was filling up and calmly walked out of the door. It was almost graceful. For some reason, this made it worse. Marquise actually preferred that she would have stormed out like usual. \nIt was then that James slowly emerged from underneath a pile of pizza boxes and beer cans he had passed out under like some kind of trashcan phoenix rising from the ashes. He cracked his neck as he stretched, “What did I miss?” \n“Something that was overdue,” Marquise said staring at the empty doorway. \n“O… K... That’s not mysterious at all. Was that Elisa I heard?” James began sifting through the pile of cans right next to him. His face lit up as he found an unopened beer. He cracked it open and took a deep gulp. “I gotta say, in the four years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you act the way you do with her.”\n“What do you mean?”\n“You need her, man. She’s been around longer than any girl I’ve ever known you to be associated with. That’s saying a lot. You used to be kind of a slut.”\n“Nah, man. She was too good for me --”\n“Which is probably why you should keep her around. I’m just sayin’, you always seemed like a better version of yourself when you’re with her. You used to avoid any and all challenges before her.”\n“You hear how she talks to me! She shouldn’t talk to me like I’m some kid!”\nJames took another gulp from his beer and casually took a seat. He leaned back on the couch as if he was settling in for a movie marathon of his favorite show.\n“Marquise… why shouldn’t she? We train people how to treat us.“\nMarquise slowly threw his head back and closed his eyes as he let out a loud groan.\n“When did everyone in this city get so enlightened?”\n“I’m a philosophy major,” James said with a smile. \n“You’re also sitting on a slice of pizza.”\n“We’re not questioning my life choices right now. We’re trying to undo yours. She’s probably at the train station by now. You can’t avoid this one. Remember, ‘one often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it.’”\n“That’s from Kung Fu Panda… and I’m not even sure it applies.”\n“Why are you still here?!? We don’t live that far from the Marta station.”\nMarquise once again let out a groan, grabbed his coat, and sprinted out the door. \nIn full sprint, he caught up with her about 5 blocks away.\n“You… destiny… growth…,” Marquise was gasping for air.\n“What are you talking about?” Elisa asked impatiently. \n“Elisa, first of all, you take very long strides for someone with such short legs. Second, I messed up. I’ve been looking at everything wrong. I saw you as a hurdle in my life when really you’re the only reason I’m still in this race. I’ve never met anyone like you. You get me. My issues shouldn’t have to become your problems. I wanna try this again. I… I… -”\n“Marquise, you were right,” Elisa admitted. “I’m not easy to deal with sometimes. I don’t know how to do this. All I know is that when I’m with you, things usually seem easier. I do lose myself sometimes when I’m with my friends. I put a lot of pressure on myself --” \n“So don’t carry that by yourself. I don’t put any pressure on myself. I have more than enough space to carry some weight for you as well.”\nElisa smiled as she wiped her eyes. Marquise pulled her in and hugged her. Her forehead was just below his chin and he leaned down and kissed her forehead.\n“We can do this,” he reassured both of them. “Also, I don’t want to clean that whole apartment by myself. James is not good at cleaning. He’s currently drinking leftover beer and sitting on an open box of pizza.”\n“Then we better get started,” Elisa said through a grin. \nIt’s Friday night again. Marquise takes one last look in the mirror. Everything has to be perfect. No hairs out of place. His shirt must be ironed and pressed with professional quality. He examines the plug-ins throughout the house making sure they are full and not needing to be replaced. The apartment was clean and looked enormous with all of the extra space. Marquise walked over to his waffle maker to make sure nothing was burning. The rich aroma of blueberries permeated throughout the house. \n“Why are we having breakfast for dinner?” James was standing in the kitchen doorway wearing only pajama pants. “And why is the apartment so clean? Did we get evicted? We can’t get evicted. My mama said I can’t live at home--” \n“No special occasion, my man. Also… you gotta go,” Marquise calmly informed his roommate. \n“But, where am I supposed to go?”\n“Don’t know.” Marquise reached in his pocket, pulled out a wad of money and counted out twenty-five dollars. “Wherever you go, this should be a good start for you.” \nJames looked at the money being extended to him, squinted his eyes as he thought it over, and cautiously took the money. \n“OK. I don’t know what you’re planning, but have fun.” James then returned to his room and began getting dressed. \nMarquise returned to the kitchen. He grabbed a pitcher of sparkling water and placed it on the table. He ran back to the kitchen to make sure take out the waffles and add more batter and blueberries to the waffle maker. He had just closed the lid on the maker when he heard the doorbell.\nMarquise ran to the door, stopped just in front, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He opened the door to see Elisa standing there. Marquise was absolutely seeing her for the first time. It didn’t seem possible, but her eyes seemed an even sharper shade of brown. Looking into them caused his heartbeat to accelerate, a feeling she had not been responsible for in recent memory. She wore a blue and white skirt that hugged her body tightly and caused his eyes to linger over every inch of her lower half. He caught himself and immediately returned after what seemed like hours to make eye contact. She was blushing. He just realized at that moment that he never made her blush before.\n“Hi.” James honestly couldn’t think of anything else to say.\n“Should I come in or are we eating on the porch?”, she asked with a grin.\n“Oh. Yeah,” James said as he regained his composure. “Right this way. I mean, por aqui.” James couldn’t help but raise one eyebrow and deepen his voice as he spoke. \nElisa’s head tilted slightly as she gazed at him both surprised and impressed. She came in and sat at the table. “Do I smell waffles?”\n“It may not be as classy as the Waffle House, but I think you’ll be satisfied with the menu.”\n“So there’s an actual menu?”\n“Well… no… that woulda been pretty cool, though. Damnit.”\n“It’s OK,” Elisa laughed, “I’m still impressed so far. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen your carpet. It’s usually covered by people, stains, and clothes. And one time I think I saw a ferret in here.”\n“Yeah. James went through a phase. It was weird. Anyway, we should eat. Maybe we can watch Jane the Virgin.” \nElisa smiled. “Marquise, you don’t have to watch that. I know you --”\n“No, you’re right. It’s kind of a roller coaster. Jane’s baby’s daddy’s sister violating her like that. The will they or won’t they back and forth with Jane and Rafeal. And don’t get me started on what Susanna did to Michael. I’m sure that won’t stick right? Mike’s going to pull through, right? Right?!? Wait… why are you looking at me like that?”\n“You watched all of that for me?” \n“Of course. I know you can’t watch too many episodes tonight because you have to work tomorrow. So I caught up so we wouldn’t be up all night.”\n“Elisa sat silent. She was expressionless. She suddenly stood up and walked across the room towards Marquise. She grabbed threw her hands around his neck and pulled him close and passionately kissed him. Marquise was immediately transported back to his peaceful void. The world pulled away from him as he again was surrounded by a peaceful void. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed before that moment or after that moment. He was frozen in time for eternity. \nWhat seemed like hours later, they separated, but only by inches. Their foreheads were touching as they smiled and looked into each other eyes.\n“Marquise, the toilet’s clogged again--” James had come around the corner and froze like a rabbit in the forest that suddenly heard a large animal moving in the bushes nearby.\n“I am so sorry,” he said backing away, “I’m just going to see myself out. Pretend I wasn’t here. Wow. Sorry.” James quickly disappeared back through the doorway only to suddenly reappear in the kitchen. “You guys probably won’t eat all these Waffles. I’m just gonna take a few. I get hungry on long Uber rides. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”\nBoth Marquise and Elisa smiled and waved before looking back at each other.\n“I guess we better get started if you’re going to make it to work on time tomorrow.”\n“Actually,” she said softly as she pulled him down onto the couch, “I think I’ll call out tomorrow.”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Backyard parties are deathtraps\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1015\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a party that has gone horribly wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"What?\"\n\"I'm getting dressed.\"\n\"Meet you on Natalie.\"\nAlmost ready to go. I've been waiting to wear this outfit. This party in this backyard was the most talked about event of the week. My outfit was set. My sneakers were clean. My crew was going and we were deep. I could hear Hip-Hop and reggae thumping from up the street. Guzzle 40's like water. And girls from different high schools always looked better than the ones I already knew. Mostly everyone knew my crew; hustlers, gang members, and gamblers. I was a hustler who enjoyed the company of both. Rival gangs might show up at this backyard party. That would be a problem because nobody likes getting jumped in a backyard.\nBut this backyard party felt different. There was food, girls, and the D.J. spun good music; reggae to rap. Biggie Smalls to Supercat. There were balloons next to the garbage cans. I even saw the car I wanted sitting on BBS rims. The sky had been clear. And no cops threatened to shut the party down. If our enemies were in this backyard I couldn't make them out in the crowd. We only had beepers back then, so everyone mingled, bumping and grinding as if the day would last forever. I personally had one of these fine women on my menu. I was brave once, and spotted a girl who smiled at me. She had one gold (tooth) front. We kicked it and had a lot in common. Her skin looked like soft, brown, leather in the sun.\nDidn't mind me being aggressive when I grabbed her waist. Had to let her know she was the one, even if she wasn't. I told you I'm a hustler.\nSomeone from my crew passed me a blunt. And I shared it with my woman of the hour. The garbage cans were filled with Heinekens. I appreciated the person who went through all this trouble to accommodate strangers. I used my teeth to open 2. Something that I regret in my early 40's. We exchanged numbers then I returned to my crew. Everyone of them had a blunt in their mouth. We became a cloud. And the wrong static will electrocute you. It became hard to keep that negative energy going. This backyard party will be legendary. Hats off to the homeowners. I wish nothing but the best for your child; graduate and leave this place because there's nothing here but corners.\nThe speakers were huge. I loved music so catching me gravitating toward the bass was nothing unusual. I would run out of fingers for all the things I regret.\n\"Huh?\"\n\"What did you say?\"\nAnyway the day couldn't be ruined even if it rained. There were trees in this backyard so there was plenty of shade. The chicken wings were gone. I only had 8. Our childhood was the best. You had to be somewhere to experience anywhere. There was no social media back then. It wasn't so easy to pretend who you were, or hide behind a keyboard and clown the gangsters that stood for something. There was a mutual respect, even for your enemy. And if you knew how to pick women no telling the sweet fruit that would fall if you shook the right tree. We were built different. Built for backyard parties like this one. The trees even swayed from the base that rattled my poor eardrums.\n7:00 P.M. and all the troubles were behind me. Started dancing because I was light on my feet. I saw smiles from people that never smiled. All I needed was for someone to pull out some dice. That would be nice. I have a couple of hundreds for anyone who felt lucky. Everyone was having a good time. There were no Chucky's. I realized you don't have to sacrifice who you are to become someone you were never meant to be. All of us were chill. There were so many girls. I felt how special this backyard party was. No. It was more than that. It was the people. Positive people create positive energy. Need to take it easy on the drinking before I accidently drown the voice that's trying to self-preserve. My crew keep rolling up, and I'm at a loss of words. Lucky for me I found a lawn chair. Back of the party. By the fence. Next to the dancing tree. Everyone's around me. If this night ends with sex this backyard party would go down as one of the best.\nI was dressed to impress. And there were no Mosquitos. My shirt drenched in sweat. How many people can this backyard hold? Come to think of it I've never noticed this house before. I walked its block before. Maybe I'll find the owner of this house and thank him for such a wonderful jam. Every song people threw up their hands. Singing word for word. The record didn't skip once. My eyes are lazy, red. Backyard makes me feel like there's something I'll miss if I close my eyes for just once. Those 8 wings were good. Wish I had some more. There were still beers in the garbage can. Figures the water would still be cold. Nothing could go wrong.\nSilly me. Gunshots rang out!\nEveryone scattered. I jumped multiple fences hoping the shooter wasn't aiming in my direction. Dam. This was a birthday party. Did the person get a chance to blow out the candles on their cake? Or were they too busy getting underneath the table. I made my way around the block, and caught up to some of my crew. We weren't scared because these backyard parties were something we were used too. But this one was different. It shouldn't have ended this way. Who did the shooting. Why? Word travels fast around these backyards. A man had been shot in his chest. He made it to the street before he collapsed from shock. His body bag looked like a lump of coal; unwarm. This was years ago, but I've never attended a backyard party since." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Last Hurrah\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2649\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who’s nervous to attend a party - their first in a long time." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "If 30 is the new 20, and 50 is the new 30...then what does that make 40?\nKaren felt tired. Very tired. Not just because she was newly divorced, but because of everything. The truth is Karen didn't have much of a childhood. She became an orphan at 10 years old. A story her relatives still hush to a whisper to share: \"Poor little orphan Karen. She didn't ask for any of this. What do we do now?\". \nNobody wanted to take sole responsibility for Karen. Both her parents came from big families and hadn't named godparents because nobody expects to die at 35, leaving your only child...and they figured if anything were to happen - their families were large enough and Karen would find a home, a new place to settle. \nThat's exactly what Karen didn't find. Because nobody wanted to claim sole responsibility for \"poor little orphan Karen\" they decided on a multi-house arrangement. \nYep, I'm as confused as you are; but they decided that Karen would live with each aunt/uncle - who had the space - for a few months of the year. \nAt first it sounded cool. Flights and road trips all across the state and even sometimes to different states. Karen felt like she was going to see the world and have so many adventures. But, in hindsight, maybe all she needed was a stable home. \nThe novelty of the travelling wore off quickly. Especially when she had to keep changing schools. For one half of the school year she'd be in one school and then by the second term she would be in another. This continued for three years before she found the courage to write a note to the aunt she felt closest to - Violet - her mother's younger sister. She was staying with her father's eldest sister at the time - Millicent - who was upset that she preferred to write and mail a letter across the state instead of talk to her. \nBut Millicent was strict and Karen didn't speak much when she stayed with her because she was never sure of what would upset her aunt. Violet - on the other hand - she only saw on special occasions because she was studying Psychology at the University of Miami. Violet was the youngest of all her aunts and she felt more comfortable talking to her. The fact that she wrote a letter...and mailed it...instead of making a phone call or sending an email was something Violet thought about for a long time. \nThe thing is...with all the moving around to different relatives Karen hadn't found her voice. She was always told to be quiet and she was never sure what would offend or bother her cousins...so she said nothing. Well, not entirely nothing - but she limited her interactions to answering questions like \"how was your day\" and \"what do you want for dinner \"? \nKaren already felt like a burden to her family, so the less she spoke the better. Every few days she wondered if the world would just take her back. I know it sounds weird but she wanted to disappear. Not that she wanted to appear in any other place, she just wanted to disappear altogether. She already felt invisible, so disappearing shouldn't be that hard. But each day she woke up and was still in her \"suitcase life\". \nShe had two suitcases she moved around with at all times. Her aunts and uncles would swap out the clothes and shoes as she outgrew them. This was the part Karen didn't like. She wanted to keep all the clothes her parents bought for her, She wanted to hold on to their scent and squeeze her almost womanly curves into them still. At 13 she ripped her favourite pair of shorts and decided it might be time to allow her uncle to buy her new clothes. \nThat was a bit of an awkward moment. Why couldn't the shorts have ripped when she was with Aunt Shelly? She was the fashionista and would've gotten her some cool clothes. Instead, they ripped at Uncle Bill - her father's brother who was a farmer and bought his clothes the same place he bought his wheelbarrow. \nNow that Bill had bought her clothes, the other aunts and uncles started buying her clothes too. So now she had to remember who bought what and when to wear it so they could see her wearing it. She figured out that she was obligated to do this after one too many \"where's that nice____ I bought you\".\nI'm just gonna come out and say it. This is a lot for any child to handle. Especially a child who lost both parents at 10 years old and who hadn't been to therapy because \"this family is all the healing you'll need\". When her Aunt Maureen had said this - her mother's eldest sister - it had sounded comforting at the time. Now Karen wondered if they had diffeent definitions of the word \"healing\". \nBecause she had to be whoever her aunts and uncles wanted her to be when she visited - she didn't develop a personality of her own. She played so many characters and had so few friends that it didn't seem worth it anyway. The few friends she made were only for a time, because she didn't own a cellphone so she couldn't keep in touch when she went to visit another uncle or aunt.\nBy the time she went back to these schools nobody remembered her either. So at 13, she decided to go the school library to research online/ home schooling options. She knew none of her aunts and uncles wanted the extra work, so she would have to look for an affordable online-only program (which meant they didn't have to do any of the work). \nThat's what she wrote in the note to aunt Violet. It's hard as a 13 year old to tell \"your adults\" - that's what she called the crew of them that took care of her - that you want more stability in your life. When Violet shared the contents of the note - the aunts and uncles realized that they had all been too caught up with \"wanting to help\" that they had failed to do what was in Karen's best interest. They felt scolded and Karen felt bad for sticking up for herself. But, she was enrolled in online school almost immediately and instead of moving around to 6-9 homes, she would be splitting her time between 3 homes - Aunt Shelly, Uncle Bill and Aunt Violet (once she graduated and got an apartment off-campus). \nNeedless to say, Karen enjoyed her time with Violet the most. It worked out that when Karen was leaning towards 16 was when \"Violet finally got herself together\" as Aunt Millicent put it. It took Violet a little longer than most to finish University and it took her a little while to find a \"decent job\" - these were Uncle Bill's words, he never missed an opportunity to remind her that \"her turn was coming up\". \nKaren lived with Violet for 3 years - from she was 15 and a half until she was almost 19 - just before she moved away for college. For the first time Karen felt like she could ask questions about boys, sex, life. The first party Karen ever went to (other than her cousins' birthday parties) was the school leaving \"dance\" - if you could call it that - that her online school hosted. The principal - Mrs. Darby - thought it was a good idea to do an in-person event since students only got to interact online. \nBy this time Karen had a phone and was in a group chat with 5 of her classmates. Ronald - who of course had the nickname Ronald McDonald - had been her first friend at Virtual Heights Online School and he had asked her to the \"dance\". \nAunt Violet was more excited about this than Karen was. In a way Karen had lost enthusiasm for everything after her parents passed away, but she felt one butterfly dancing in her belly as she waited for Ronald's brother to escort them to the \"dance\". \nThe \"dance\" was really just half a gymnasium with chairs and tables (some with tablecloths, some without), a banner and a DJ. When you turned off the main lights there were some Christmas lights that lit up a makeshift dance floor. In the shadows, Karen had her first kiss. \nKaren and Ronald both moved away for school -NYU. She had received an Arts scholarship and Ronald had received a sports scholarship - his father had put him in football camp at 8, and that laid the foundation for an obsession with football. \nWhen Karen and Ronald completed their degrees they were faced with a hard task - telling their families that they were married. Yeah, it shocked me too.\nThe truth is, they - by they I mean Ronald, but Karen had gone along for the ride - had gone to a rival school for a game. The football game was in LA and since it was the end of the pre-season, coach gave them the option to take two weeks off if they wanted to. \nRonald and Karen decided they'd spend the two weeks in LA. They split their time between Las Vegas and their small AirBNB in Culver City. One night - after they realized the Vegas casinos gave you free drinks if you sat at the machines- they decided to get married. More than one L - word led to this decision. They both loved each other, but the liquor was definitely the catalyst. \nWhen they awoke the next morning - not sure whether to be happy or to freak out, they decided they'd keep it a secret until they graduated. Neither of them thought of annulment.\nMarried at 20, in their sophomore year. It took a little getting used to, but they settled in their secret marriage. They pooled the scholarship money that WA supposed to pay for their on-campus housing and used it to rent an apartment off campus where they didn't have to be married In secret. \nYou can imagine this didn't go over well with their families, especially Uncle Bill who had been sure he would walk Karen down the aisle. Ronald's parents were sure Karen was pregnant and it took more than one pregnancy test to convince them otherwise. \nKaren and Ronald decided they'd live in Georgia. That way they didn't feel like they were living in the shadow of their relatives, but were still close enough in case of an emergency. They had 15 good years. The last 5 were a bit rocky, but they'd been together for 20 years. Some would say you don't really know a person if it took a drunk night to get married to them, but it was more than that. \nAfter 20 years of marriage Karen and Ronald called it quits. It wasn't for a lack of trying...but now they were both tired of trying. It all felt like too much and as Ronald had said \"I love you too much to keep you chained to this marriage\". Karen finally understood what it meant when they said \"I love you, but I'm not in love with you\" in the movies she watched with Aunt Violet. \nSo, Karen found herself celebrating her 40th birthday on the floor of her kitchen next to a bottle of wine and a half eaten chocolate cake. The phone rang. She thought it was Ronald again - he had called at least 3 times asking how ah was spending the day off - so she answered \"Ronald, please I'm not a charity case. I want to be alone on my birthday\". \n\"Nobody wants to be alone on their birthday!\" Aunt Violet said on the other end of the phone. \"Oh Aunty it's you\", Karen smiled. \"But I really do want to be alone. This year has been a lot and I just want to reflect\". \n\"Rubbish!\" her aunt shouted in the phone. \"I'm on my way to you. Go shower and get ready\". Click. Before she could protest her Aunt had hung up the phone. Also, did she mean she was driving from Florida to Georgia?\nViolet arrived 5 hours later and confirmed that she had driven the 6 hours and 29 minutes from Florida. \"You really shouldn't have done that\", Karen said as she adjusted her hair into a high ponytail. \"Girl, I'm just a little older than you\", Violet protested. She was going to be 61 this year, but still told the bakery to put \"happy 50th\" on every cake. \nKaren kept asking where they were going but Violet told her she wanted to catch up first. So they sat and talked. \nAfter almost 2 hours, Karen said \"It's almost midnight now Aunty. Where are we going?\". There was a faint honk of a car horn outside. \n\"That's your ride dear\", Violet said as she eased herself out of the arm chair. \"I called Ronald on my way and asked him to arrange a night out with some of your lady friends\". \nKaren groaned. \"Why did you have to get Ronald involved?\". \n\"Well I don't exactly have your friends on Facebook\" Violet retorted. \"...and I wanted you to have a good time celebrating your 40th\".\nEven though she didn't want to go, she rationalized that it was a kind gesture. All her life Karen did what she was supposed to do - out of obligation...and years later not much had changed. She went outside to see two cars: one filled with work colleagues and another with ladies she did yoga with. This would be weird.\nKaren got into the car with her yoga friends. She tried to tell herself they weren't going clubbing - but where else would 2 cars filled with almost middle-aged women be going at midnight? She started to breathe deeply - to calm her nerves. She had not been clubbing since freshman year in college and before that her first party had been the Virtual Heights Online School \"dance\". \nShe wanted to live in the moment but she was freaking out. She hadn't been to enough parties or clubs to know what club etiquette or party etiquette looked like. Should she wait at the bar for a man to buy her a drink? She thought of her aunt, the wine and the chocolate cake at home and how much she wanted to ask Maribelle to turn around. She would lie and say she didn't feel well. \nBut even as she was thinking this she knew she wouldn't do it. They arrived at the club. Karen shuffled through her purse to find her ID and felt a little dejected when the bouncer waved the group in without checking ID. The dance floor was covered in a light haze and all Karen could think about was the Virtual Heights Online School \"dance\". It must've been the nostalgia, but in this moment she missed Ronald terribly. A tear almost escaped, but she caught it with a quick sniffle - \"Crying on the dance floor? What the heck is wrong with you\" she whispered to herself. \n\"May I have this dance?\" A voice said over her shoulder. Before she turned to see him, she knew it was Ronald. \"It's crazy. I know. But I just wanted to have one dance with you...and then I'll leave\", he said. She had never been more relieved to see his face. She chuckled \"you can't leave! You have to be my wing man tonight\". They laughed and headed to the dance floor. \nShe knew she would have to get used to living alone, and figuring out life without Violet and without Ronald...but after tonight." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: In The Darkest Hours before Dawn\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2981\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story set in a city where the power suddenly goes out, leaving everyone in darkness." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In The Darkest Hours before Dawn\nBy Shane LaGrange\nWrite a story set in the city where the power suddenly goes out leaving everyone in the dark.\nLasing, Michigan\nOctober 22nd. Eleven fifty-eight pm. \nWhen my world went dark.\nMy name is John Peter Fitzgerald. Yeah, I know, but mom was big on religion. Although, when you are 6 1,” black and look like you were birthed straight out of a fitness magazine, people tend not to ribb you.\nBack to my point. Normally I would sleep through a small thing like a power outage.\nJennifer Shaw came bursting into my room. The flashlight played all over my bedroom like a drunken spotlight operator that can‘t see for shit.\nLike I said, normally.\nThe flashlight beam hit me square in the face.\n“What are you doing?” I said, holding the palm of my hand in front of my eyes.\n“Sumupthing is wrong, J! The power is out!” \n“Geez, turn that damn thing away from my face.”\nJennifer Shaw, twenty same as I, but of mixed heritage, toned down the power of the flashlight. She wore a dark blue terry cloth robe. Not much else underneath I managed. Single. Smart and beautiful. Always with high expectations. \n“Everything is shut down,” she said coming closer.\nI turned over and looked at my Smart Unit.\n“Call the power company.”\nNothing. Not even a busy signal.\n“Exercise play list. . .tell us a joke?”\nIt continued to be dark.\n“Thing can’t be busted,” I mumbled. \nI got out of bed; threw on a pair of Checkered Loungers and my slipper. I went to my window and carefully looked out.\nAn early frost settled in. Not a whole lot of snow, but enough to feel it. No power meant the heating unit was out.\n“This just the neighborhood,” I mused.\n“All I know is nothing is working.”\nFor a second, I thought I saw figures moving around. \n“Couldn’t you have got a regular apartment?” Her voice quavered.\n“I like my loft downtown,” I said, still trying to figure out what was going on.\nThen I heard it. The light sound of glass breaking. Looters.\n“Where were the police?”\n“Everyone is up,” she said.\nMy birthday. Celebrating twenty years of life on Earth. My brain started going into overtime, as I saw more shadowy figures. More noise. I am big into the Crime and Mystery novels and always wanted to get into law enforcement and the FBI.\n“Let’s talk to the bunch,” I said, exiting the room with Jennifer. “As long as we keep quiet and no candles or flashlight near the window, we should be fine.”\nThere they were. My friends. Sitting around my black leather sectional. The television was on, but nothing came out. What the fifty-inch flat screen did though, was give off light. Plenty of light.\n“Shut that damn thing off.”\nJade Peltier, picked up the remote and turned it off. Also mixed, she was fresh from California and eighteen. The youngest of the group. \nMike Stone, twenty was near the window peering\n out into the darkness.\n“More looters?” I asked.\nHe nodded his head.\n“Where are the cops?”\n“Don’t know,” he said.\n“Fucking weird.”\nMore noises. This time much closer; like one of the spare bedrooms close. It was the racket of someone falling and tripping over stuff.\n“Shit! Godamn it!” We heard. \nMy heart skipped a beat. Only one person could make that much of a big deal, simply from getting out of bed, and walking across the floor.\nMore swearing.\n“Who brought him?” I demanded turning to my friends. Who brought Charles?”\nCharles parker, fifteen, was a walking disaster. Everything about him was wrong. Thin and sickly. Sensitive eyes to light, he walked mostly with his head down to the ground. The dude walked like a duck and his piratical vision was next to useless. Tonight, of all night he was in my house.\nGinger Baker, twenty-five raised her hand meekly. \n Our parents are out of town; you know he cannot be by himself.” “ \n` “Probably because they needed the vacation away from him,” I said.\nI looked again at the suede sofa.\n“Where is Albert?”\n“Right here, Bruth,” he said, wearing Nike shorts and same brand of high tops. A blue jersey covered his wide chest and he was carrying his smart phone in disgust.\n“This thing is a piece of shit. I paid good money for it.”\nHe plopped himself on the end of the couch.\n Turning back to the window, my worst fears realized. I heard the loud banging of a door. He just entered the bathroom and all the noise gave us away, as several looked up at us.\n“Oh shit,” I said.\n“Shit is right,” Mike echoed, as waving arm movement followed by several others brought us to their attention.\n“You carrying, bruth?” \n“Carr. . .no, I don’t. I suppose you do?” \n“Always packing,” he said with a grin, revealing gold and diamond encrusted on his teeth,\n“How can you sit like that and not shoot your own ass off?”\n“Safety.”\nI heard the shower come on; more things clattered to the floor of the stall. Razors, shampoo. . .the only thing was not falling was Charles. At least not yet.\n“Ginger! Go control that mess and keep him quiet.”\nI looked back at the other. Four, silent and scared. A frenzied mob was a stupid mob. Like hyped on PCP or Coke. Sheer violence ruled their brains. They would come and we most likely would die, at least not without a good fight. Although, I had female friends up here. . .I shook my head at what might happen to them. It was up to me. We needed a plan, as Ginger bolted for one of the spare bedrooms to quiet her brother down.\n“My boys will be here soon,” Albert said. His arms comfortably tucked behind his head.\n“They won’t get in, J,” Peter Tucker said. He rigged my elevator, so that you needed a five-digit combination to get it moving. We were safe for the moment. \nI could hear frustration down below. The rustling of hands across metal and hateful voices heard. Like rabid convicts screaming, more blood.\n“What are we going to do?” Shelia Franks asked. \n“I said, my boys will be here.”\nI heard Ginger barking at her brother, who responded even loader. That was another thing he had problems with: understanding others. I could understand. Taken out of school; placed in one of those special programs. Mainly because, he kept shooting off his mouth off, and getting his ass kicked by other students. \nGreat, I thought. A massacre on top of a massacre.\n“Can they get through?” Shelia asked.\n“If enough come,” Mike said, still looking out the window. “Given enough time. The roof of that old elevator could be torn.”\n“Then, they could climb the cables,” Jennifer said.\n“Mike left his post.\n“Come on Al, let’s go secure that door.”\nGinger came into the room and sat Charles down, as Albert looked at him in disgust and left with Mike.\n“That boy ain’t no niggah,” he said. “He is all white.”\n“I am cold,” Charles said, starting to shiver violently. “So fucking cold.”\nHe was practically screaming these words out. I went to the window where Mike was. Sure enough, more was coming. What the hell was going on?\nJade went to the bedroom; then came back with a thick blanket, which she draped over Charles.\n“Goddamnit! I can’t fucking breathe!”\nGinger repositioned the covers behind her brother, and wrapped it around his quivering body.\n“I came back to the sofa and knelt down looking him in the eye.\n“You hear that noise downstairs?”\nCharles strained; then nodded.\n“That is the sound of death comin’. Eventually, they will tear the roof off that ancient elevator. When they do, we are toast. Got it.”\nCharles nodded.\n“Good guy,” I said, as Mike and Albert came back.\n“Well,” I asked. \n“That’s a deep subject,” Albert joked.” My-boys-will-be-here.”\n“Not deep enough,” I frowned, turning back to the window. “If they are coming, we need a plan to stay alive.”\n***\nForty-fie minutes have passed since our world went dark. Forty- five minutes of listening, as metal rattled and bent under frustrated cries. No one else came to join the party. Nor did I see anyone leave. Tireless. They would not rest until they got up here.\nI looked at the window. A plan was forming. Crazy, but it might keep us alive for a little time anyway. Snow was starting to fall. The temperature was dropping; I thought of Charles and frowned. \n A jarring ripping sound heard down below.\n“What was that?” Shelia asked.\n“Sounds like part of the roof gave,” Mike said quietly.\n“We need weapons,” Albert said, putting his gun on the glass coffee table. That elevator shaft is cramped. We get ready and take out as many mutherfucker as we can. Kick the rest down to the bottom.” \n“We don’t know how many are down there,” Mike said. “They will come rolling out of that shaft like roaches. Sooner of later, one of us is going to get grabbed.”\n“This window pushes outward,” I said. “The ledge is large enough for us to get on. From there, we make our ways on top. They burst in and not see anyone. We stay safe.”\n“No,” Charles said. Just the thought was throwing him into convulsions. “I can’t make it in the cold.”\nHe started shivering more and more violently.\n“We need to hide him,” Mike said.\n“Oh no fucking way,” Ginger said. “My parents would have my ass. J! There has to be another way.”\n“That mob breaks in and we are still here. What your parents would do is the least of your worries.”\nI carefully pushed open the window. A blast of cold air greeted my face and enveloped the room. \nCharles started crying--in loud hic-cupping wails.\n“Pussy,” Albert scowled.\nAnother piece of the elevator roof gave way. \n“My God,” Ginger whispered.\n“Everyone,” I said turning. “Get on as many clothes as you can. Raid my closet if you need. Jennifer, find something for Charles.”\n***\nOne a.m. In the morning.\nWe were set. Mike would take point. Sandwiched between him and Albert, Charles was tethered. Then the girls; myself bringing the rear.\nWe were on W. Ottawa Street. Where we needed to go, was in Old Oakland. A bunker long forgotten by a condemned house. Mike, Myself and a few childhood friends use to play Survivors. Over the years, we stocked it. Food, drinks, television. Tucker managed to get the power running\n“Ready?” Mike asked opening the window. He raised the window and started to crawl on the ledge. The line grew taunt, and Albert shoved Charles ahead, as the elevator to the roof finally gave way.\n“MY God,” Jenifer said.\n“Don’t they ever give up?” Jade asked.\n“They gonna be crawling up here like Rats soon. Get a move on!” Albert said.\nCharles hesitantly came to the window. A blast of frosty air greeted his face; he shrunk back.\n“No. . .I--I can’t do it.”\nAlbert drew him aside.\n“Look Bruth, Shit’s hard. I get that. Right now, you have to be stronger then what ails you. Get on that ledge, and no matter what, keep saying, I can do this. Understand?”\nCharles nodded, and approached the window. His teeth chattering. I could see his frosty breath; silently repeating what Albert told him to say.\nHe may pretend to be all that and put on his Gangsta Airs, but he was well intentioned. \nCharles made it onto the ledge on all fours. Crawling inch by inch and not looking down, as Mike helped him to his feet. Albert, then the girls. I came. We used an iron rail above the window, for support, as we made it along the roof.\nWhere are we going?” Ginger asked.\nMike pointed in the direction of Old Oakland.\n“Shit!” We will never make it with those things behind us.”\nHe unhooked himself and went back into the loft.\n“Albert!” Jade and Ginger yelled.\n“Don’t worry ‘bout me. I ain’t planning on being lunch meat,” he said. “Get going!”\nThe frigid wind whipped and howled, and the snow started falling faster. Large flakes floated downwards. I hooked myself to Charles and we kept moving. The girls held each other’s hand, and Jennifer kept a tight hold on my belt.\n***\nInside, Albert found what he was looking for. Behind the refrigerator. A solid steel hockey stick. He felt the harsh sharp lines, and tapped it against his palm. This would work.\nHe ran back to the open window. The howls of blood were getting closer. \n“I told J, he should oil that thing more,” he muttered, stepping onto the ledge and positioning his body above the window, and balancing himself on the iron rail. “They be sliding their asses to the bottom, giving my boys time to get here.”\nHe could hear the pounding at the door. It would not be long. They would be sticking their fingers between the door, and no telling how many. \nHe heard the doors creak open. The makeshift barrier giving way as they spilled into the room. Crazy maniacs going all such ways. Sniffing the air like Hounds, and breaking things as they went from room to room. \nFinally, seeing the open window as everything went quiet.\nThe hairs on the back of Albert’s neck stood on end. His neck veins bulged, as he stood ready. The hockey stick rose over his head. \nThe howling started again. Eerie strange wailing, carried on by the scent of whatever, Albert was not sure. He just knew they were heading his way.\n“I am Agent Crane!” He announced. “Dying Light Mutherficker!” \nThe first two heads that popped out, he hit. The steel stick made a satifisfactory double crack along the heads; dropping them to the icy pavement below. \n Conserving his stamina, he took his shots where he could, but there was too many rushing out and not caring if they fell down to the ground or not.\n“You bustards are crazy,” he said, stepping onto the ledge; still swinging. “How many of you assholes are in there?”\nKnocking a few more down below, he stepped back; then turned to see where he was going. Two he thought he pushed off, held onto the ledge. Those two grabbed his legs. Before he knew it, he was overwhelmed in a sea of bodies. Clawing and scratching. \n***\nThe faint sounds of a car alarmed got out attention as we made under the W. Martin Luther King Blvd. \nGinger turned to go back, but I stopped her.\n“We can not do anything for him. The noise will just bring more. All we can hope for, is that he is al right.”\nOld Oakland. 0ne Thirty a.m.\nWe walked into a nightmare straight out of Creature features and George Romero. Cars overturned and burning. People running for their lives; given chase. Above, horns were honking at the snail pace; we were sure check points were now in place, as we steadidly made our way to the old property.\nWe saw another overturned car, with what looked like a hand sticking out from under the overturned car. A car passed us without a second glance; stopped, and got out to see what he could pilfer. Immediately, several maninacs jumped from behind the car. He started running; slipping on the road. Immediately catching him. He disappeared underneath writhing flesh. A young couple from behind the bushes saw their chance. His wife pushing their two children carefully in the back sear. They backed up and drove down another street. \nAs we neared safety, we became aware of several shadows that were following us. They were following us because we were going a specific route. Not wavering or anything. With all that was going on, we considered that foolish. \nPaasing an empty house with huge treess in the front, I yelled, “Dinner is here!”\nWe took off down a separate street as several bodies fell out of the trees. Those that were following us took off in seprate direactions as we finally made it to the old house.\nTaking a key out of his pocket, and unlocked the the hatch. Charles went down first, then Mike and the girls. I came last, as angry shouts came my way. Two, that evaded the Maniacs started running for the shaft cursing all the way. \n“You idiots!” I screamed. “Look what you are bringing with you!”\n“Keep that open if you know what is good for you!” One said, swiftly tackled, to the ice and snow. The other made it to the shaft as I closed and locked the door.\n Fruitless attempts at pulling and kicking before his screams told us, he was a goner.\nInside, Tuck started the generator and we had power. I went to the refridgearator and pulled out a beer. I came back and gave it to Charles.\n“Dude, you earned this,” I said. “Drink up.”\n“You sure he should have that?” Ginger questioned. “What would mom and dad say?”\nI popped the tab for him.\n“Do we even know they are even still alive,” I said, as the others followed my example.\nSoon, we were feasting on cold cans of Spaghetti-Os. Jade turned on the television.\nNothing. Not even a test patttern. We were sure the president and everyone were safe wherever they might be, and that it would take a while to reorganize.\nHalfway through his first beer, Charles started drifitn off. I caught his can before he dropped it, and Ginger tucked him into bed. Thinking that was a good idea, we all did the same. Not sure where we would go. That discussion was tabled for the morning’s light." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on 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 Shift at the Clarion\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2985\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a library, after hours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Clarion Municipal Library sits on a hill like a lighthouse beckoning all that need refuge to find it within her walls. She is a gorgeous brick building that’s one floor plus a basement. Stars above me wink knowingly as I climb the steps to the front door. “Are you ready?” They seem to ask.\nI don’t need to form a reply. There’s no being ready for the night shift at the Clarion.\n“Miss Fewter, you’re late.” Mrs. Andrews appears by my side the second I open the door. She’s an old woman with curly white hair that’s put up into a stiff bun. She has a mustard yellow cardigan on because apparently “I always keep it too cold in here.” Never mind that the drop in temperature is most likely her fault. She floats to the light switch, waiting for me to turn it on.\nI shoot her a smile. “Actually, I’m early,” I say glancing down at my watch. It’s 11:50 and my shift doesn’t start until midnight. I go to put my bag in the office and come back to boot up the circulation desk’s computer.\nWhen I first started here, Mrs. Andrew scared the life out of me (pun definitely intended.) Now, she’s like a grandma to me and even though she has a sharp tongue, I know she cares about me. She huffs and crosses her arms as she watches me. Softly, almost a low grumble, she asks, “Have you eaten?”\nI smile. I told you she cares about me. “Yes ma’am.”\n“What’d you eat?” She points a bony finger at me. “I swear if you say one of those frozen pizzas, I might die all over again.”\nI roll my eyes at her dramatics. “Fine,” I say. “Then I won’t tell you.”\nWith the circulation computer booted up, I do my walk through. I check if the day staff has left any messages for me and if there are messy areas that they might’ve forgotten to clean up.\nMrs. Andrews is right on my tail, floating so closely that I feel a chill and I regret not bringing my sweatshirt with me. “How many times have I told you?” She continues her lecture. “You’re a growing girl and you need to eat like an adult. How are you going to take care of a family or your future children?”\nI scoff. “God, you sound like my mother. Who says I want to have children? Oh, and by the way, I’m almost 30 and I have a master’s degree in Library Science. I haven’t been a growing girl for a long time. I would say changing my ways is a lost cause at this point.”\nShe surprises me by not saying anything, but the glare she gives me says it all. “I’m disappointed in you, Miss Fewter,” it says. “You really should be making better decisions.\" And most deafening of all. “Go ahead, do what you want. Join me in the afterlife for all I care.” I know that’s what she’s afraid of most. That I’m going to end up like her. She should know better though. If six years working at the Clarion hasn’t killed me, a frozen pizza definitely won’t.\nThe front door slams open and that’s my cue that the night is about to start.\n“Librarian!” Frank’s loud voice echoes in the empty room. He’s been coming to the Clarion for 3 years now and still hasn’t bothered to learn my name. In moments, he’s standing in front of the desk and I have to crane my neck back to look at his face. He’s a foot taller than me normally and that height difference is even starker with me sitting.\n“What can I do for you, Frank?”\nHis hazel colored eyes glare at me. Beneath those eyes, his snout juts out from his face hiding a row of sharp canines. His auburn brown fur matches his tailored suit perfectly which must’ve cost a fortune considering his large werewolf frame. His voice is a low growl as he asks. “Is the new Nautilus James mystery in yet?” Frank, it turns out, is an avid mystery buff and is one of the fastest readers I’ve met. I can barely buy enough mysteries to match how quickly he reads them.\n “Mrs. Andrews can show you where they are,” I say and laugh at her outraged expression. I know she’ll forgive me since she’s unable to resist helping someone find a book to read. Dead or not, she’s a librarian through and through.\n“Follow me, Mr. Bader.” She floats away with Frank following close behind her.\nFor a few blessed moments, it’s quiet, but I know it won’t last. The night shift at the Clarion has only just begun.\nOver the next few hours, it’s just one thing after another. If I’m not breaking up a fight between a chimera and a griffin over computer usage, I’m convincing a mermaid that “No, she can’t sit in the toilet all night. Other people have to use it.” Library school did not train me for this. What I know about the many creatures that frequent the Clarion, I had to learn on the job or from the previous librarian who as you might’ve guessed was Mrs. Andrews. She taught me just about everything I know about working here. She passed away a year after I started working and though she should’ve passed on, she stayed to watch out for me. Not that I’m complaining. As much as she fusses, I don’t know what I would do without her.\n“You’re being watched.” I have gotten so used to Mrs. Andrews’ sudden appearances that they don't even scare me anymore.\n“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m sitting behind the circulation desk reading a book during one of the thankfully slow moments of the night.\nMrs. Andrews gestures to the left. “A human boy sitting over by the History Section. He’s been watching you for the last half an hour.”\nI groan. I can’t get a moment’s peace, can I? It’s not like humans aren’t allowed at the Clarion. I’m human and so was Mrs. Andrews. It’s just that most humans have a nasty habit of making a mess of things when they get around the magical and the preternatural. It’s just easier to keep the humans to the daytime and everything else to the after-hours night shift.\nI grab one of the complimentary bookmarks and mark my place. “Watch the desk, please,” I say and walk straight for the history section. The boy seeing my approach tries to divert his attention to the walls as if that’ll convince me that he hasn’t been staring at me the whole time.\n“I don’t know what bet you lost,” I say as I come to stand in front of him. “But it’s been a long night and I don’t want to have to clean you off the walls after you piss off someone you shouldn’t.” I’d say he’s somewhere between 9 and 13, but I can’t tell for sure. As young as he is, it’s even more reason to make sure he doesn’t start anything.\nHis eyes widen as he looks up at me. It’s then that I am able to see his eyes clearly. They’re brown, but they also glow. It’s subtle, and you wouldn’t notice it unless you were paying attention. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, no matter how human someone appears, you can always see the truth in their eyes.\nWhen he see my eyebrows quirk up, he realizes his eyes have given him away. He shuts his eyes tightly and sets his forehead on the table. “Sorry,” he murmurs. So, he’s not human, or at least not completely.\n“Is there something I can help you with?” My tone is soft and calm, as close to motherly as I will ever be. I’ve seen kids like him before. They’ve come to the library because they need answers and they have nowhere else to go to get them.\n“You’re the librarian, right?” He’s lifted his head, but his eyes are still downcast toward the table as if he’s asking the table instead of me. “I heard you could help me figure out what I am.”\n“First, you’re not a what, you’re a who?” I tilt my head to try to make eye contact with him. “What’s your name?”\n“Isaac.”\n“Nice to meet you, Isaac. My name’s Calliope.”\nHe looks at me then. “That’s a pretty name.”\nI’m just about to take the seat across from him when Mrs. Andrews appears in front of me.\n“Miss Fewter,” she whispers. “Someone’s here to see you.”\nI look at Isaac and smile reassuringly, “Can they wait? I’m about to have a chat with my new friend, Isaac.”\n“It’s Aurelius.” The smile slides off my face. Of course, he’s here.\nI put the smile back on, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Could you take my friend Isaac to the break room? Maybe get him something to eat. It looks like he hasn’t eaten in a while.”\nMrs. Andrews nods stiffly. Then, whispers so only I can hear her. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”\nI watch as she ushers him away. I can tell she’s worried, but I know she also trusts that I can handle myself. \nI make my way to the circulation desk where a tall man is facing away from me. He’s wearing a black duster coat that almost reaches the ground. His waist-length locs are tied back into a low ponytail. Hearing me approach, he turns to me.\nHe’s a little pudgier around the middle and his chin sports more of a beard that I thought him capable of growing, but his eyes, they still twinkle like he stole the stars from the night sky. It should be a crime to look that good.\nHe smiles at me, despite himself. “It’s good to see you, Cal.”\nI shake my head and try to ignore how beautiful he looks. “I wish I could say the same.” Aurelius is my ex. He’s also one of the six immortals, the governing body of all magical creatures.\nWe dated for a little over two years and then, out of the blue, he says, “I don’t want to watch you die” and dumps me. I knew upfront the whole immortal-human thing was going to be an issue. Maybe it was hubris that made me think that things would end any differently than they did. \nI plaster on my customer service smile, “What I can I help you with, Immor Aurelius?”\nHe tilts his head and shoots me a look. “Seriously?”\nI nod, but don’t say anything.\nHe gets right to business. “I tracked a Nephilus to your door. I don’t need to tell you how dangerous they are and how stupid it would be for you to try to protect one of them.”\nHis condescending tone annoys me. I shoot back. “Then, I also don’t need to tell you that according to the Amaranthine Code Section 4 Subsection 8, the library constitutes as a sanctuary. Anyone within these walls are protected by that code and cannot be forcibly removed or taken without their consent.”\nI had my suspicions about who Isaac is, but now I know for sure. He’s a Nephilus. A son of heaven and hell. The child of an angel and a demon. Incredibly rare and frighteningly powerful. Even so, he’s a kid and I swore I’d make the Clarion a safe place for anyone that entered and that includes him.\n“Calliope…”His tone bears an unspoken warning. “Where is he?”\n“We both know he’s dangerous. You scare him, you spook him, you threaten him and you will have doomed us all. You need to let me handle this.”\nHe shakes his head. “You’re just a librarian. This is beyond your purview.”\nMy blood begins to boil. “Your purview is outside of these walls, mine is within them. Do not talk to me like you understand what I do!”\n“Miss Fewter?” Mrs. Andrews’s small form appears at my side. From the anxious look on her face, I can imagine the news she’s come to bring me.\nI swallow my anger. “What is it? More good news, I hope.”\n“A perimeter breach. It’s those blasted Purists again.” Purists are a group of anti-magic human protesters that have been the bane of my existence since I started working here. Usually, they’re a minor annoyance and we can just lock the doors until they get bored and leave. Today though, we have a ticking time bomb in our break room and whatever commotion the Purists bring with them could be the thing that sets him off.\nI take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll make you a deal,” I say, finally. “You help me evacuate every one down to the basement, and I will convince Isaac to go with you on the condition that you don’t harm him and you keep him safe.”\nHe shakes his head. “I can’t promise you that.”\n“I can promise you if anything happens to him, you’ll need to pray to whatever God you serve that I never find you.” Aurelius told me once that he never feared a human before he met me. From the look on his face, it seems that he’s still a little afraid of me and knows I will make good on my promise.\n“Fine,” he says. “It’s a deal.”\nIt takes less than 15 minutes to get everyone to go down to the basement. I send Mrs. Andrews downstairs with everyone though I know she would rather stay with me. Aurelius falls in step with me as I make my way to the break room. \nInside, Isaac is sitting on the sole chair flipping through a book that Mrs. Andrews must’ve given him. It’s one of those fact books that tells you weird and interesting facts about a particular category. I think the one he’s reading is about animals.\n“Hi Isaac,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend to come chat with you.”\nSeeing Aurelius, Isaac’s eyes widen and he starts to shake. “He’s going to take me away. Isn’t he? It’s because I’m a monster, right.” His trembling voice makes my heart ache.\nI kneel down beside him and lower my voice to keep him calm. “You’re not a monster. You’re what’s called a Nephilus. I’m guessing you don’t know who your parents are.”\nHe shakes his head and swipes at his eyes. “I’m in foster care.”\nI smile, trying to reassure him. “Your parents were powerful which makes you powerful, too.”\nHis eyes brighten. “You mean like a superhero.”\nI nod. “Exactly. Who’s your favorite superhero?”\nHe takes a moment to think and then says, “Black Panther.”\n“Storm’s my favorite,” I say. “They’re adults, so they understand their powers and how to use them to keep people safe. My friend over there is going to help you harness your powers so you can do the same thing.”\n“He’s not going to hurt me, is he?” I don’t want to think about the adults in his life that might have hurt him because of what he can do.\n“No, he’s not going to hurt you,” I say. I look behind my shoulder at Aurelius. “Isn’t that right?”\nHe kneels down so he is at Isaac’s level and nods, “I swear to you, I will not hurt you.”\n“And if he does or if he lets anyone else, he’ll have to deal with me.” Isaac giggles, more at ease. “But between you and me,” I say, leaning to whisper into his ear. “I’m sure you could take care of them yourself.”\nIsaac agrees to go with Aurelius and I let him take the book he was reading. I grab one of the complimentary bookmarks, write my number on it, and stick it in between the pages. “Just in case,” I say.\n“Thank you, Calliope,” he says and he hugs me.\n“Before I go, may I talk to you for a moment?” Aurelius asks. I nod and we find a quiet corner to talk.\nWithout wasting any time, he says, “I’m sorry for what I said. You’re not just a librarian. You are very good at what you do and I’m sorry I ever said otherwise.”\nThat’s the last thing I expected from him. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear it. “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.” He looks conflicted, like there’s more he wants to say.\n“What is it?\n“I lied to you.\" He sighs, like he's been holding that in for a long time. \" I lied to you about us. When I broke it off and said I didn’t want to watch you die. That wasn’t the truth. I wanted to grow old with you. I have never wanted to be able to die until I met you. And that scared me, so I ran. This absolves me of nothing, I know. I know we don’t owe each other anything, but I felt that after everything, I owed you the truth.”\nI’m floored by this confession and I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what, if anything, it means for us.\n“You don’t need to say anything,” he says, as if he reads my mind. “I just wanted you to know. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him safe.”\nI nod, because I don’t trust myself to do more than that.\nAurelius and Isaac leave, and if I’m honest, part of me wants to go with them. The Purists are still shouting outside and the mermaid has returned to the toilet. This job is hard, but as hard as it gets, I can’t imagine leaving. The Clarion is a lighthouse promising refuge for all that need it. Where would it be without its keeper?" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Witching Hour in the Citadel\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2961\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a library, after hours." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The creaking library doors were the only thing to wake her. Drea had sunk deep into the worn armchair in the stacks. Della had already shook her awake once already and she promised she was making her way to the entrance. Drea stood, and slung her worn messenger bag over her shoulder. She remembered sitting back down to pick up a dropped pen when her favorite Mozart concerto 21 started. She leaned back, got lost in the melody and awoke to the doors closing.\nDrea’s feet skidded over steps as she raced down the central staircase and across the marble atrium. Too late! She watched the head librarian carefully maneuver her car into the powder soft snow that was falling from the sky. \nIt was a holiday weekend and there were no security guards tonight. They had cut most of the power to the newer part of the building, opting to route power to the older parts to protect the books. She pulled out her phone, 12%. “Shit! I was only suppose to wait out traffic. Look what time it is,” she growled under her breath. She looked around the barren marble atrium and then back up the stairs. “Conservator Della, probably has a charger in her office. I’ve been there once, it couldn’t be that hard to find,” Drea assured herself.\nShe trudged back up the stairs and headed deeper into the library. Drea knew that if that door was locked, she was screwed. The phones on the first floors were in the locked offices. Her best chance was the Conservator’s office. It was located on the 7th floor, in the restricted section deep within the stacks.\nDrea cursed to herself. She never wanted to move halfway across the world, but what choice did she have. Her close knit family, stuck together, no matter what. In a year or so when the world went back to normal and they could be around people without masks on, she could finish her graduate degree and finally move away. For now, she travelled with the family. When her father was transferred to the dry dusty country with an ancient history, she took solace in her favorite haven. Libraries. \nThis particular library was housed in an ancient Citadel. She had become familiar with all the staff and almost all the nooks and crannies. The head librarian, the Conservator her official title, had finally started to trust her and was weeks away from letting her have free rein in the restricted section. She could only pray that the Conservator had a reason to come back this weekend.\nShadows followed her as she hurried passed rows of wooden tables topped with green glass lamps. Stacks of books sat at the ends, waiting for librarians to re-shelf. This floor was a study hall of sorts. She looked down at her phone it was going to die before she got to the office. She glanced at the vintage gas lamps on every surface, and thanked the Conservator for her “traditional” tastes.\nShe stopped short as she felt a deep vibration travel through the Citadel. “Oo gurl! Imagining things tonight,” she said aloud but kept going. She cleared the landing and blew past the middle floors, and raced up the last flight. Her sneakers squeaking as her feet flew up the stairs. They screeched as she skidded to a halt in the middle of the last marble atrium. \nBefore her a pillared wall with a closed double doorway. Drea’s shoulders dropped, the doors appeared to be closed and locked. She hung her head and turned to go back down. \nThe building shuddered again with another vibration, coming from the room behind her. It almost brought her to her knees, she stumbled and turned back to the doors. The doors were now cracked and a faint humming was coming from the opened doorway. \nA magnetic tug pulled at her, and she drifted towards them. The hum didn’t sound human or mechanical but there was something about it. She squared her shoulders and rounded the desk. She didn’t think twice as she headed into the restricted floor.\nOn the other side, she raised her phone high, the circle of light only extending a few feet. In the oldest part of the Citadel, the lighting was still gas, and always on. The stacks here staggered and gradually got taller in the center. Drea stayed on the main walkway, winding through the room, following the deep green carpet. The humming growing louder the deeper she got. \nShe shook her head and slowed, looking to her right and left, she found the source of the sound. The books where humming. “Wait, what?!” Drea stopped and reached out to the nearest shelf, touching one of the books.\nShe nearly jumped out of her skin, the world shifted and her body reverberated as though it was a gong. Dragging in several deep breaths, she shook her head and stuck her hand out again but stopped just short of pulling a book off the shelf. \n“No, I need to find a charger, and call Troy, so he can come and get me. If I ever find a way to call out. Why would these librarians keep all the tech in the offices! So picky when it comes to their precious building and books! Well, I get the books part at least. Humph, ok keep going,…no no no dammit don’t go out,” Drea stuttered as her phone died and the flashlight dimmed. “Shit,” she muttered. \nShe edged her way to the end of a stack and felt along the top, her fingers brushing the bottom of a brass lamp. “Thank you Della for being so old fashion,” she said and turned back. Any moment she would come upon the doors.\nRounding another corner, a wave of vibration hit her square in the chest hard enough to make her stumble. She dropped the lamp and fell to her knees. The lamp went out, plunging her into darkness. She knew up ahead were the doors but the vibrations were coming from the Conservator’s office. She got to her feet to edge to the door.\nThen the books answered.\nAll around her the books sounded like gongs.\nThe sounds clanged through her head, again bringing her to her knees. The world around her shifted again but she stumbled towards the doors blindly, hands outreached. The books sounded again, calling to whatever was in the office. Drea stumbled and fell right in front of the doors. \nThe world was reduced to darkness and vibrations. Gongs ringing through her head. She raised her hand to the doors but before she touched it, a wave of vibration rumbled out of the office again, strong enough to knock her flat. Everything went black, vibrations pulling her apart and putting her back together in the span of milliseconds. \nThen she was falling.\nDrea managed to flip herself over and watched as lights raced up to meet her. Her momentum slowed, and then she crashed landed and blacked out.\nVoices around her cursed and groaned as well. “Ladies falling from the sky? What is going on T.S.? You had better explain yourself and get to getting real quick.” She heard somewhere above her right knee. \nDrea cracked her eyes and looked up into a group of men and women, all wearing dark clothing. Not one of them looked alike, nor were the same race, or species. ‘Shit are those pointed ears,’ she thought. Her eyes widened and she glanced around. Only one of them had noticed she had opened her eyes and he watched her from beneath the brim of his hat. His dark clothing gave nothing away, but she marked his details before trying to move. \nThat’s when she realized she was laying on top of someone. The group around her discussed moving both of them, until she squeaked at the sight of the crumpled man beneath her. \n“Aye! Now, just who are you and what’s your business here in Imaginary?” Drea looked up sharply and stared for a heartbeat. “What did you say? Where am I?”\n“I’ll say it again chit, who are ya? Do you know who you are laying atop? Get your arse up! Ham wake up,” A skinny man to her left chirped. Drea jumped to her feet and backed up into yet another large, very hairy man. The skinny one stooped and leaned close to the prone form.\nDrea tried to inch away but the burly hand clamping her shoulder wouldn’t budge. The man with the wide brimmed hat came closer but said nothing. “Uh, T.S. he’s not coming to. I think he might be fading,” the skinny one said. The crumpled body darkened and then winked out. The group gasped, as it was over in seconds. \nThe skinny one turned to the hat, “She killed him. You know what this means T.S. you have to answer the code. She takes what’s his and you serve her.” The man they kept calling T.S. turned to her and tipped back his hat. He surveyed her from head to toe and Drea took her first good look at him.\nHe was tall, over six foot, swarthy olive skin, black hair, and his eyes were pools of darkness, with only the whites to mark them. Familiar, but how? He continued to frown at her and then turned to the others. “I don’t know what or who she is but she doesn’t belong here. Take her to the witch and get some answers. Send her back to wherever she comes from and tell no one. NO ONE, do you understand me?” The hat snarled and glanced around.\nThe people around her jumped and looked down or away. Drea continued to search his face but he wouldn’t look at her. “Wait! Do I not get a say here? You can’t just man handle me like this! Who are you, and where am I? At least answer my questions,” Drea demanded.\nThey turned towards her but barely spared her a glance. Another giant men came from behind and they picked her up between them. The hat looked her square in the eye and said, “Do not say a word girl. You are in over your head and a stranger here. You’ve killed a King and ruined any chance we have of restoring Imaginary to its former glory. You are going to Hecate and going back to wherever you came from. Take her, I will catch up,” T.S. growled and turned from her and the men that held her. “But wait! I don’t understand!” Drea struggled to break their hold but couldn’t pull away. \nThe giant men turned and started to run. They were fast, inhumanly fast, and the world blurred past her. They made several turns before stopping in front of a tall brownstone looking building. The stoop and the stones of the building appeared black with an oily sheen. \nThey hurried her up the stairs and into a dark hallway. Down the length was an open doorway, glowing brightly with shifting light. The giant men, picked her up and stalked down the hallway to the glowing room. \nInside sat a round covered table and a beautiful young woman, with the eyes of a crone, but the face of a maiden. She was dressed in more scarves than Drea had ever seen, the only visible part of her body, her brown hands and head. Her uncovered hair hung in fat heavy curls down her back, and her violet eyes snapped from face to face before coming to rest on Drea.\nAll around her sat mirrors and bowls of water on every surface. Brackets hung from every available space on the walls and held torches. Keys hung from the ceiling clinking together on the wind of the newcomers. The giants stepped forward but said nothing. \nThey pushed her forward and she stumbled and caught herself on the table. The young old woman stared at her as she rose and straightened. They surveyed each other and Drea started to open her mouth, when alarms clanged through the buildings around them, bouncing off the walls. \nThe room went silent and then the young old woman rose and crossed to a window and cracked the shutter. “Hamlet is dead! Our King is no more. His light has been extinguished! Take heed, we could be under attack!”\nHecate turned back and raised as delicate black brow and came to stand in front of Drea. The young woman recoiled as the witched reached out and touched her forehead. “GODSDAMN! She’s HUMAN! John! Charming! Out now, go find T.S. and bring him here. Ok girl, just how did you get here and what do you want?” \nThe witch moved around the small table and started to pull bottles off the wall. Not waiting to uncork them, she threw everything into a shallow bowl and kept moving around the room. Drea watched the items in the bowl crumble and the bowl start to smoke. She coughed as the fumes fill the room, she turned back as the witch approached.\n“I’m sorry girl, there is no time to explain, but if you have anything to do with the ruckus out there, we have to get you out of here quick like. Ah, T, here you are, close the door,” Hecate glanced at the door as it swung open silently and the man from earlier stepped through. Drea turned and opened her mouth again but he held up his hand.\n“You are in danger here. None of this is real and we do not exist. We are characters from literature and you are in the world of imagination. The longer you stay, the more you fade on the other side, so we are sending you back. No argument. I am Tally or T.S., as you may have heard,” the swarthy stranger drawled and smiled tightly at Drea. Her stomach flipped over. She knew that smile, she just wasn’t sure how yet.\n“Ok, so send me back. If you won’t tell me exactly what is going on, or hurt me, then get this over with and send me home,” Drea snarled with all the salt she was feeling. Hecate turned back to Tally and shrugged. T.S., blinked at Drea and then nodded at Hecate, “Do it, Tate.”\nThe witch picked up the bowl and strolled to the nearest full length mirror and threw the bowl at the mirror. Instead of shattering, the bowl went straight through and fell into a void. After a second it lit from the inside and roared with light. Hecate turned to Drea and swept her hand before the mirror.\n“Tate, there are folks out front,” a gravely voice rumbled through the door. The witch turned towards the door and looked back. “It will stay open for another ten minutes. I suggest you go through and quickly,” Hecate said, nodded and turned to go. Drea watched her and murmured her thanks. Hecate stopped at the door and turned back, “You are welcome Drea Jackson, it was nice to meet a human like you. I wish we could of talked,” she said and left.\n“Now look here girl, forget what you saw here,” T.S. said and turned towards her. Drea started to make her way around the table. Her foot caught and she tripped on a low stool, but he was there before she started to fall. \nDrea gasped as an electrical current passed from him to her. She jerked and fell into T.S. and for a moment they stared. “Hecate said you were human but could it be? I know you, but it isn’t possible,” he whispered and stared down into her eyes. \nDrea, lost in his eyes, couldn’t close her mouth. He smelled like mossy sandalwood and every inch of him was hard. Her nostrils flared again and she leaned closer ever so slightly. “Same, but who are you? Why do you smell so good? Maybe if I just……” Drea leaned in, thinking to just get a little closer and drink him in. \nMore shouting outside made them both jump and pull apart. T.S. coughed and turned her towards the mirror. “Just close your eyes and you will be back,” he whispered. Drea tried to turn to look at him one last time but he turned her again. \nHe leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I do know you, Drea Jackson. You are who gives me life here in Imaginary. You are the reason I don’t fade, and you read my story every year and keep me alive. You also wouldn’t have appeared here to me, if I hadn’t wished for you too.” \nDrea tried to turn again but T.S. pushed her through the mirror and she was falling yet again. \nShe jerked awake to a frowning Conservator Della. “Drea! I’ve already woke you up once! Get your things and walk with me. You know we can’t be in the Citadel after a certain time. The witching hour is almost upon us and weird stuff tends to happen. Come come!”\nDrea looked from side to side and around the Conservator. She was back. Was that a dream? Where the hell did she go? What in the hell was any of that. Who was T.S., and what did he mean? She was so confused. Della continued to stare at her with her head cocked to the side. \n“Ok, I’m sorry Conservator, I had a really strange dream and I’m not sure I’m actually here,” she murmured. \n“Of course you are here child, this is the land of Imaginary, isn’t it, all libraries are! Now, come on, let’s get our things and head out!” Della chuckled and clapped.\n“Wait, what did you just say?”" } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Receiving In Darkness\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 2680\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that begins in the light and ends in darkness, or the other way around." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A void. That wasn't what he saw that night. It was much softer, not the blunt darkness of nothingness that led him throughout this journey, but the warm hug of the blackness with soft light needling its way through the dark cloak above him. The night sky was more vibrant in all of his years living. Of all the worlds he has seen- and he has seen a lot- none has ever had such a view as this one. Even though other worlds had aurora borealis in hundreds, and tornadoes made of pure lighting, aliens and caped wonders and explosions and creatures once thought to be only ink in a tattered book, this world had one thing uncommon among the others: its simplicity. \nOnly the dark and its opposite, its children of light peeking behind its mother, and down at Garrett. Garrett found the once warm sand beneath him starting to send shivers down his legs, his legs standing on edge. Snapping cold, but enough so that the hushing wind sent shivers across his body. He thought he’d be used to the cold by now. If he could get used to multiple worlds where nuclear armageddon makes a fiery planet and the only way to get from point A to point B was to walk, then the cold was supposed to be easy. Right?\nThat was his goal that night. To stay in that one spot, to never get up and do anything else, but to rest and receive. At least that’s what his newest master told him to do. Master Jai was an interesting teacher. Yes, Garrett has been taught from monks to traveling nomads, to drunken boxers and even a shinobi and an assassin or two, but unlike them, Master Jai was quite...simple. Garrett wondered why Surgat pointed him to this dimension. There was no conflict. No wars, no fighting, no carnivorous animals hungry for a dark-skinned boy no longer chubby. There was simply an endless desert where for only three hours, the sun was out, then nothing but this.\nIt was quiet. Not even in the Shaolin monastery was it this quiet. Birds to crickets, from thundering storms to waterfalls in the distance, but this world was just quiet. There was no eerie feeling to Garrett. Only an unfamiliar feeling that sent him on edge. Because he knew he could have been doing something better, something more important than this. Yet Master Jai told him one simple thing: sit and receive.\nReceive from where? The wind? A magical demon who would give him a key to alternate worlds? What was he to receive? Garrett would have scratched his head over the invisible objective if it weren't for the growing chill in the night. It was starting to get cold fast. Not tundra cold, but a blanket would be welcomed. All Garrett was in was a simple black garb, one Master Jai gave him, and a scarf. Yet Master Jai took the top portion and the scarf away, leaving Garrett with just his own flesh besides pants to himself in the night.\nGarrett crossed his legs and sighed. He looked back up to the stars and admired the beauty. The stars were in the millions, so uncountable, Garrett knew he’d get a headache if he tried. Yet he had nothing else to do, so he started to count. One...two...three...four...five..twenty eight...forty three…\nGarrett lost track when he got to seventy-seven. Images flashed in his mind. Of Master Jai and the training he thought was to come. Maybe sparring or stick fighting. Or maybe scimitar dancing or maybe even camel riding. Garrett never rode a camel before. After a while, Garrett exhausted his ideas of the future and simply went back to the viewing of the stars. He caught one star in the distance, one that was brighter than the others. The North Star. At least, that's what Garrett called it in his world. Who knows what it was called on this one. All he knew was that it led to the same thing: home.\nThe thought came to him like a crashing car. Anguish seeped into his heart. He felt his heart drop to his stomach and he felt tired. He could hear them. His father playfully chewed him out for eating the last of the Kit Kat ice cream from the freezer, his mother snorting with laughter over the fact that it was, in fact, her that ate it all, not Garrett, but the boy just wanted a chance to wrestle with his father. Finally, there was Veida who would be sighing to herself over the fact that she wouldn't get that studying done when truthfully, she didn't need to study anymore, as she would always ace her tests. She just wanted to spend some time with her family. With mom, dad, with Garrett.\nGarrett felt that longing for his sibling. Yes, they would fight, verbally, sometimes physically, mostly with pop-it's and toy darts, but she was always there, right behind him to give him a trail of support when he didn't know he needed it. They never hugged often, but when they did, it was mostly forced by her, but secretly Garrett enjoyed his sister’s embrace. From when she had her last prom to her graduation, Garrett could count on his fingers how many times he embraced his sister. Garrett felt a smile creep on his face.\nWith it came that wallowing feeling of a hole being burrowed into him. He forced himself to look up at the stars to see their glitter in the dark, instead only the images of his mother came into his consciousness. From childhood to now, according to Garrett’s mother, he was such a playful kid, or to stop paraphrasing it a “badass little child.” from jumping from furniture to furniture in a Spiderman costume his Dad didn't regret buying him after showing him Spider-Man 2 and watching as his mother screamed at him over the hyperactivity, to Garrett in a flash costume in sixth grade running across town for Halloween, Garrett felt himself churn to laughter before he felt that tightening pull into sadness came. He could feel tears cloud his vision.\nBesides all that, Mom was always there for him, supporting him when he was too nervous to partake in the spelling bee, helping him with his multiplication homework in elementary school, he knew she’d always have his back when she wasn't jokefully yelling at him. Love was odd like that in their household. Yet Garrett knew that was his way of expressing her love to him, even when he was acting the most difficult.\nDad…\nIt wasn't the first bike ride, or the first time his dad showed him how to box that made Garrett cry from floating in those memories but that time. The time his dad sat back and listened as his son went on an hour-long rant about the entire history of the human Green Lanterns from way before Alan Scott all the way past Simon Baz and Jessica Crews all the way to the Infinite Frontier. He remembered looking over at his dad and seeing a smile slowly appears on the man’s face, him shaking his head and finally saying “my son’s a nerd.” For a moment, Garrett thought he wasn't joking, until the man started laughing, and Garrett joined him. “Better that than a dumb jock. Or have they changed since I’ve been to school?” his dad asked him.\nGarrett snapped back into reality, tears streaming down his cheeks as the hole inside of him grew. The intrusive thoughts came back into his mind, threatening to erupt his peace of mind in happy memories into dust. What if…?\nThat was the start.\nWhat if I never see them again? What if they are gone?\nGarrett tried to stop himself from seeing it. But the flashing image of that monitor, showing his earth, his world, exploding into a soundless fury finally shattered his mind. He felt it. Like a ghostly finger turning off the switch. Or turning it on. He forgot about the stars, about the world, about his training, and sobbed. Like a dam, tears and snot came billowing out of him until his cries were unrecognizable to him. Gone...gone...gone…\nHe swore he could see it. Their faces. How and what they’d be doing before they would see the flashing light and their whole lives would be gone. He felt his stomach explode in emotional agony as he came to that final conclusion: that it was his fault. \nIf he would have been stronger, faster, smarter, more well prepared! Why didn't he see it coming? Why didn't he expect Victorious to do it? Why did he underestimate his opponent? Why didn't he take it seriously, like Sasha said, why couldn't he stay calm like Raizen, why couldn't he calculate correctly like C.O.D.Y.? If he wasn't a sixteen-year-old boy, playing hero, then his world would still be alive! \nI’m not a hero…\nHe couldn't picture what those monsters could have done to Sasha. What that virus could have done to C.O.D.Y. What Liger did to Raizen. What that infamous four, possibly the greatest supervillains in the multiverse, did to his friends. He didn't want to think about it, but the dam was all flooding out. He saw the images of death, of flesh, ripping away, bones cracking, ligaments shredding. He heard the screams, all of them crying out for him, for him to save them, some asking why, why did he let this happen!\nWhy couldn't you save me?\nHe saw the image of that old cartoon in his mind of Harvey Dent falling into the flames of Gotham, another soul stained by the city. Only this wasn't an animated series. This was real! Not a cartoon! And most definitely not a comic book! Garrett knew his father was right. Life wasn't a comic book. There were no men in capes that could leap tall buildings in a single bound, no men with vast fortunes who could strike fear into the hearts of criminals, no first avengers, and no wall-crawling friendly neighborhood heroes. Just men, women, and children who were wondering why their lives ended because some immature child thought he could tackle mongrels. Not super villains, but actual terrorists, people who have committed crimes against humanity against universes! How could Garrett Thompson stand up against them?\nGarrett didn't know how long he was out that night. Eventually, the snot dried up on his hands and his eyes burned from the number of tears bursting out of them. He felt tired like he could sleep right there in the cold night. He wanted the cold wind to sweep him away, maybe someplace where he knew nobody, not even Surgat could find him. He wasn't No Hal Jordan. He wasn't Peter Parker, no Scott Freeman, and especially no Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent. They were fiction, nothing else. They had no limits. And Garrett? He has as many as they come. At least Garrett thought so…\nThe boy’s eyes burned so much from the trauma coming out of him, that he had to close them. He just needed to rest his eyes. Just rest them…\nIt started with a breath. The cool wind that swam into his nostrils all the way to his lungs, then back out through his mouth. He did that over and over again. He didn't ignore the images in his mind. Not the fiery blaze of the monastery he called home, not the screams of Kimmy, and not the bullet shattering a hold into his Master Richard. Not the crazy bandits who tried to kill him and the Nomad, not the ones who were clobbered and sliced to bits by Junoshak and Ahlifan, and not even the images of flesh-eating zombies and demonic werewolves. \nOn that night, all of Garrett's fears came back to him. Worlds of cyberpunk, to great warriors of Miongved, to Falconus, to Shinobi slaying Samurai and assassins gunning for his head. They all swept through his mind like an icy storm each gust of wind bringing with it more and more memories. Garrett let them all pass. One came and left then another. He breathed. Again...and again...he felt his body sink into the sand and the wind not being so cold anymore. It was simply there. The void around him, behind his eyes that once terrorized him now, was simply a void. The thoughts came and raced but as fast as they came, they left as well. Garrett just simply breathed… \nOn and on this went. He forgot about the night sky and the desert before him. He forgot about his failings, his family, his friends, his earth, his winnings, and trophies. He forgot about all of them. Or did he simply put them to the side? He felt himself grow lighter. His hands that once felt heavy in his lap now felt nonexistent. That phantom feeling spread to his arms, to his chest, to his neck and face until his entire body felt...he wouldn't be able to describe it to this day. Only that he wasn't there. He wasn’t anywhere anymore. He was simply being.\nThrough the blackness of that void, he swore he could hear voices, different from the invading thoughts, he swore he could see images in the inky blackness, different from the intrusive past failing trying to haunt him before. These weren’t from him. These were not him. They were something else. Someone else.\nHe saw them. The familiar shapes and voices vibrated through his being. They were somewhere, together, scared but together. All of them. Mom...Dad...Veida...Raizen, C.O.D.Y...Sasha. They were all together, talking, waiting, explaining, wondering one thing:\nWhere is Garrett?\nFor a moment, the same intrusive thoughts came back into his mind. Those are just your imagination. Your family is dead. Sasha is dead! And it's all your fault! Instead of that cold dagger meeting in his stomach, nothing came. The thought disappeared like smoke in the wind. More images appeared in his mind. He could feel a hand reaching out towards him. It was warm…no..hot...like fire, except it would scald him. It was trying to reach him, to grab a hold of him to pull him back. He almost saw a face but the light was covering it. Globes of earths cascaded across the void behind his eyes. He could hear them. The birds. The children. The cars and air balloons and explosions and speeches and crashes. He could hear all of them. The images formed until somebody was looking at him. She was…\nHer skin was ebony, glistening like black gold, and her hair was long with jewels not from earth decorated across her braids. Her eyes glowed, humming with violet power. She opened them and stared into Garrett. She gasped in shock. She muttered something, something Garrett couldn't quite understand. Garrett was gone before he could meet him. It was enough though. Enough so he could see. So he could know…\nThat warmth kept to Garrett. It sourced from somewhere. Somewhere until he realized what it was. It glowed behind his eyes and when he opened them, the warm sun met him. He looked around him. He was still on that sandy hill overlooking the desert. The wind was hot, and sweat started to trickle down his face. Garrett smiled. He stood and stretched before Master Jai appeared. The man looked to be in his forties, even though he was two thousand years old. He was garbed in white, a white turban on his head that shaded his salt and peppered beard from the sun. He held out Garret's garbs in front of him. Garrett smiled back at him and took them, slinging them over his shoulder. “You have received good news?” Master Jai said in a language, Garrett knew wasn't any language from his earth, but somehow he understood. He nodded.\n“I did. I’m ready to begin.”\nMaster Jai nodded. “Good. Come.” the tall man waved Garrett forward to two camels and the two set off on their journey." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Shooting Star\n\nGenre: american\n\nWord Count: 2918\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters who like each other but don’t get a happily-ever-after." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "CW-drug use\n\nFor Antoine de Saint-Éxupery who taught me about shooting stars\n\n“Thank you! Enjoy your birthday party,” I smile at the blonde little boy with a red dinosaur shirt and blue tennis shoes as I hand his birthday cake over to his mother. I pause at the counter, my finger tips softly drumming as they make their exit past the small wooden tables and through the bakery door; the bell dings. I make my way swiftly to the door, flipping the sign to indicate closed.\n\nBella walks from the back of the kitchen, her pink apron covered in a flurry of flour and sugar. She smiles at me while brushing some strands of dark, chestnut hair from her face. I’m listening to chatter in the kitchen as I start to sweep and mop the floors. I join my colleagues in the kitchen where I grab a red bucket, fill it with a sanitation solution, and grab a towel. “So, only two more weeks; how does it feel?” inquires Annie. She looks up at me from the humongous mixing bowl. Her blonde curls are tied back in a precarious ponytail. \n\n“I feel OK about it all. It is what it is. I’m ready for the next journey,” I tell her. Annie shrugs before adding in her large bowl of eggs to the dry ingredients. \n\nI stop back to the lobby and place the bucket on the wooden cashier counter. After mopping, I sanitize the mop before I wipe down all the tables and chairs. Bella swings into the lobby with white boxes; the bakery’s logo of a little boy staring at a shooting star adorns the top. “Do you want some of these cookies? I think Mark will be impressed. We don’t have many left from today,” she observes. All three of us leave together. The bakery’s sign still glows along with Herb’s Herbs neon green sign on our left.\n\nOn Monday morning Nick slides the chocolate chip cookies into the display case while I lose myself in a love song with a banjo. Nick goes back to the kitchen for a few more cookies, then some cupcakes, and finally, our signature pastries. I do everything I can to not look at him, to not watch his strong arms flex with each tray of goodies. I do everything I can to not imagine his rough fingertips on my smooth cheek. I do everything I can to not think of him so close to me. I’m scrawling numbers on inventory sheets. “Hey, Marnie,” Nick starts and I turn to him. I make the mistake of staring into his soft, brown eyes and noticing his stubble from the weekend. Nick adjusts his pants because they’re half a size too big before telling me, “Uh, Mark is gonna have me take over ordering so you can just give the inventory sheets to me.” I nod at him obediently.\n\nFriday morning and we have twelve cake orders for the weekend. I’m glad Nick spends the day in the kitchen. Mark spends his day in the office, asking vendors if they can get more ingredients. It’s a rush that the bakery hopes for, but never counts on. Towards closing time, Mark pops out of his office; he flips the sign. I’m surprised, but he just mumbles he’s out for a smoke. A young man, dressed all in black, approaches our store front. He saunters in. “I’m sorry, sir, we’ve closed early,” I call out from behind the counter. \n\n“I’m here for an interview. My name is Alex,” he tells me and I pause my cleaning. I stand up straight, brushing the long black tendrils from my ponytail out of my eyes. My cheeks are flushed from the day. I clear my throat. “Ok, let me go see if Mark is ready for you,” I tell him while he takes a seat. I knock on Mark’s door and he mumbles something about being there soon and to give the interviewee a cookie.\n\nI offer the tray to Alex. His skin looks unnaturally pale against his black t shirt, black hair, and black skinny jeans. But his eyes are blue. I smile at him and he chooses Chocolate Chip. I return to my usual cleaning. Mark strolls out, his baker’s belly bouncing with each step. Mark’s eyes are always bloodshot. He rarely wears an apron so he is always covered in his craft. He grunts out some questions; Alex mumbles back some answers. I tell Bella there’s an interviewee in the lobby and she spies with me from the kitchen. After about twenty minutes, Alex takes his leave. When Mark’s back is turned he looks at me and winks. \n\nSunday morning is Alex’s first day. Mark explains to the team that Alex will be on the front end, with me. Alex will be my replacement. I walk him through a tour. We pause at the bulletin board in the backroom, littered with past and present schedules, our contact list, and reminders to wash our hands and clean up after ourselves. Alex glances up at the sign I made, MARNIE’S LAST DAY ON SUNDAY! COME SAY GOODBYE OVER BREAKFAST FOR DINNER AT LUCY’S DINER! 7PM-8PM.\n\n“Can I come?” he asks me. I nod at him, he winks at me again, and heads back to the lobby. I walk him through the Point of Sale system and explain which orders will be picked up for today. Until then, I tell him we have to wait to be needed. We take seats on two small stools tucked behind the counter. I begin to ask Alex about himself. I learn he’s just moved from Oregon. When I inquire what brought him here he tells me it’s about the sunshine.\n\n“What about you? What’s a pretty girl like you up to in the last week of summer?” he asks me. I blush. I swing my feet from my stool and resist his gaze. The phone rings which I answer. I quickly scrawl down the cake order before taking Alex to the kitchen with me to ask if we can make it. \n\n“We’ve got a request for two dozen cupcakes and a smash cake. Any flavor. But they want it by 2pm today. Party theme is the first birthday of a boy. And they want blue elephants decorating it. I checked, we have a topper,” I tell Annie. Annie rushes over to the fridge, checking our inventory before giving us the go ahead. I take down the customer’s information. I have Alex run the payment in the system for practice. “I don’t do much, I’m starting my senior year in a couple weeks,” I tell my feet. Alex was staring at the wall art but turns his attention to me when I speak up. \n\n“You don’t seem seventeen,” he replies.\n\nI meet his blue eyes, “No one ever says I do.” We sit, staring at each other for a moment.\n\n“What’s up with the little boy and the shooting star?” Alex breaks the silence and indicates the cartoons that adorn our walls. \n\n“It’s Mark’s favorite book. It was written by a French man. I guess it’s pretty famous.” I say. \n\nAlex hops from the stool to go stand under a drawing of a rose. “This one is my favorite,” he tells me. We stare at the curves of the petals and admire the thorns along its body. “You know, guys like flowers, too. It’s always expected that a guy should get the girl a flower, but it’d be nice if they got us some, too,” he muses. \n\nAlex makes me laugh all week. On Wednesday during clean up, he blows flour in my face. He challenges me to see who can fit the most marshmallows in their mouth during a particularly slow hour on Thursday. Friday, we have a contest to see who could get the most cake orders for the weekend. I am pleasantly surprised and a little disappointed that Alex wins the competition that day. “So, I won and that means I would like your number,” Alex tells me. I blush beet red while punching my information into his phone. He smiles and we clean up for the evening. \n\nThat night, Alex texts me hello. We spend the evening talking about work and his life before he came to Colorado. He tells me that he left a girl behind whom he loved very much. Alex is older than me by three years, just like Nick. A moment later, Alex asks me to meet him at a cafe for coffee. \n\nWe meet up on Saturday at 11am, before our evening shift starts. I arrive for coffee first and order a vanilla latte. A small beat up white car pulls up, Alex says something to the driver, and heads over to me. Alex orders a tea and I make fun of him, “Why ask me out to coffee if you don’t drink coffee?” Alex just winks at me. We sit on cold metal outdoor chairs.\n\nWe talk for a few hours and then Alex goes quiet for a bit, “Do you think you’d want to be my girlfriend?” he asks me. He takes my hand for the first time.\n\nSunday is my last day and we all go out for pancakes for dinner. Alex sits next to me. He holds my hand the whole time. I’m surprised, but Nick shows up, too. It’s his first one in months. I feel his eyes as Alex kisses me. Bella remarks that we’re a cute couple. Nick focuses on his waffles-watching the syrup nestle into each little square. Before leaving, Mark says goodbye to me and looks at Alex, “You take good care of her.” I feel Alex pull me in and kiss my cheek. He promises Mark that he will. Annie takes a picture of all of us sitting in the red leather booth. \n\nAfter the photo, Nick keeps his eyes only on mine for a moment as he says, “See you later, Marnie.” It’s a promise he can’t make me, but, for a moment I forget Alex. I remember Nick and our inside jokes. I remember the way he called me Marshmallow all summer long. I remember his messy handwriting on personalized notes for me to find each morning on the cash register. I remember telling Bella I liked him. Her laugh echoes in my mind as I realize, I may not hear it again. Not the way I used to.\n\nSchool starts soon for me and Alex still has to work. So over text, we agree to meet for a picnic. We walk around a beautiful lake near his home and enjoy sandwiches in the grass. I also packed him a surprise dessert, some homemade brownies. When I pull them out Alex winks at me, “Are these special brownies?” He seems excited.\n\nI laugh at him, “Of course they are, I made them for you!” \n\n“No, no, Sweetie, I mean are they special?” he repeats the question. \n\n“Yeah, Babe, I made them for you from scratch earlier today.” I say, my brows furrow slightly.\n\n“Baby,” he takes my face in his and I stare into his blue eyes, “Baby, I love you. You’re too good for me.” He laughs and takes a bite of brownie. \n\n“You love me?” I ask him, stunned. It’s been barely two weeks since we met. I smile. He nods at me, a mouth full of brownie. \n\n“I ought to marry you,” he lifts a brownie and winks, “And teach you how to make these real special.”\n\nMy senior year is in full swing and per Dad’s advice, I’ve taken a couple weeks to hunt for the next job opportunity. I decide to interview for a few different nannying opportunities before eagerly taking a job caring for the Jacobson boys: Carter and Elliott. Carter is nine and Elliott is five. I meet them at their home after school; Jane, their mother, takes a few hours to run errands or take one of the kids to an appointment.\n\nOne Friday evening, I watch them while their parents go on a date night. I spend the night texting Alex asking him how he’s doing with the busy season. He says that Nick and some of the other guys are going out for dinner. I tell him to go have fun and be very safe. Once I put the boys down for the night, I head over to the couch. I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing, it’s Alex. “Hey babe!” I yawn a greeting to him and check the time. It’s around 10:30pm. \n\nI hear someone calling out, “Take the shot! Take the shot!” I hear club music loudly blaring through the speaker, “Babe? Hello? Alex? Can you hear me?” I call out as loud as I can. I’m cautious. The Jacobsons could come home at any minute. I wait a moment, turning down the volume on my phone as more music blares through, “Just one more beer, man!” I hear Nick say. I’m surprised. \n\n“Alright, one more beer,” I hear Alex respond. I’m nervous, Alex is 20. \n\n“Who are you calling, Baby? Alex, put away the phone,” I hear a sultry voice. \n\nThe phone disconnects. My heart shatters. I feel it. I feel the moment that woman calls Alex “Baby”. I burst into tears. Loud, obnoxious, angry tears. He’s at a bar. He’s drinking with a woman who calls him “Baby.” \n\nThat Friday, I confront Alex in the park during our usual after school picnic. His eyes have bags under them. I wonder if it’s from the busy nature of the shop or if it’s from his late nights at the bar. Alex sits cross legged in the grass and pulls apart his sandwich. He tosses out a pickle as I say, “You know, you called me last Friday.” Alex puts his sandwich back together and gives me a puzzled look. \n\n“When?” he asks me while taking a bite. \n\n“When you were out at a bar,” my voice is quivering. I’m cold, despite the fact that it’s 80 degrees out. My palms sweat.\n\n“Baby,” Alex starts, he puts down his sandwich and leans over to me so he can take my face in his hands, “What’s wrong?”\n\nI stare up to his blue eyes and swallow the lump in my throat. “What’s wrong is you’re out drinking with some girl calling you ‘Baby’ at 10:30pm on a Friday night.” I feel my lower lip quiver as tears begin to fall. \n\nAlex wipes them away, “Baby, I like havin’ a little fun. Don’t you worry. I love you. Remember?” \n\n“Don’t do it again, ok? It’s not right to be drinking under age,” I say.\n\nAlex rubs his hand on my goose fleshed arm. He leans forward, shedding his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders as he kisses my cheek, “Baby, don’t you worry. I’ve been drinking and smoking since like 14.” I don’t feel better. Alex returns to his sandwich laughing, “Baby, you are just too good for me.” I open my mouth to protest, but he seals it with a kiss and I melt into him as we fall into the silky grass. His dark curls are slicked back and I notice how thin he seems to me without the jacket on, a thin t-shirt to keep him warm. I inhale his scent, nestling in. I notice the strange perfume again; it’s stronger now with the jacket around my shoulders. I suppose it’s a new cologne.\n\n“Baby, keep the jacket,” Alex instructs me before I drop him off at home. I smile big before kissing him goodbye. \n\nOn Monday, I head over to the Jacobsons after school. After playing on their backyard jungle gym I’m a bit cold and grab Alex’s jacket from the back of my car. I wrap it around myself and smile. I fix the children's supper of mac and cheese. We color until Jane gets home who tells the kids to head to the playroom for a bit after hugging them. I tell her everything went well. Jane tells me to take a seat.\n\n“I need to discuss a very serious concern with you,” Jane begins. She tucks a lock of her short, brown hair behind her ear. She looks worried. “Marnie, we’ve noticed a very specific smell and we have a concern that it may indicate an exposure to our children. We were young once; we understand we live in Colorado. However, we absolutely can not allow our children to be exposed to marijuana.” I stare at Jane for a moment. I want to rip Alex’s sweatshirt off. My skin burns with embarrassment and tears fill my eyes. \n\nI clear my throat, “What smell? I don’t understand. I have never touched drugs or alcohol! I would never dream of exposing Carter or Elliott to anything like that!” \n\n“Honestly, I can smell it on you now,” Jane says softly. She looks down at me. \n\nI ball up the sleeves of the sweatshirt in my hands, “Jane, I really don’t understand. I’ve never done drugs or alcohol.”\n\n“Sweetheart, do you know anyone who might be in your life who smokes marijuana?” asks Jane. My heart drops. I know where I recognize the scent now: Herb’s Herbs-Medicinal and Recreational.\n\nIn that instant, I put all the puzzle pieces together. Jane lets me go. I drive home sobbing. I toss the jacket in my backseat.\n\nI call Alex five times.\n\nHe doesn’t answer." } ]

[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Unbeknown\n\nGenre: african-american\n\nWord Count: 1430\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character stumbling upon a library book that changes the course of their life, for better or worse." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sage set a reminder on her phone. Time to sort through the bins her parents dropped off months ago to inaugurate her house. No more excuses. Thank goodness the forecast predicted precipitation on Saturday.\nRain and wind pelted the garage door. Sage pulled up her hoodie and slipped on gloves. The first bin she opened contained a mishmash of items. Folders with graded reports, another jammed with certificates, from elementary through high school, academic trophies, graphic tee shirts, and a couple of Barbie dolls.\nShe lifted the lid on the next one and squealed. Her once treasured paperbacks. Friends nicknamed her Book. Which she thought endearing.\nShe replaced some of her favorites like Ben-Hur and Great Expectations with hardcovers. Sage removed each novel, remembering her trip to the bookstore to purchase or the occasion she received it as a gift until a thin black hardcover appeared, sandwiched between Les Misérables and Beloved. The front blank, but the spine had a title. A red stamp from the regional library on the inside. She shut it, plopped on the steps, whirling the book of poetry, a genre she would not choose.\nDid I forget to return it?\nShe read the first poem. An expression of love. \nWhat am I doing with a work of romantic poetry?\nLaying it aside, she cleared out the last bin. Frequently glancing at the book, but no recollection of when, why or how she possessed it, troubled her.\nSage organized the things she planned to keep and placed them back into the bins and dumped those she didn't in a large trash bag.\nAt the kitchen counter, she thumbed through the poems and clutched a mug of hot chocolate. To remember, Sage closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. Nothing.\nShe did laundry, dusted and vacuumed. Still no memory.\nFor lunch she warmed soup and grilled a cheese sandwich. Turned on the gas fireplace and curled up on her chaise. After waking from a nap, she browsed again. Nothing came to her. Her friend Delta might know.\n\"Hey girl, what's up?\"\n\"I need your elephant brain.\" Sage said.\n\"You finally opened Pandora's boxes?\"\n\"I found a library book.\"\n\"And that's odd?\"\n\"It's a book of poetry.\"\n\"Okay, that is odd.\"\n\"I've racked my brain all morning wondering where it came from. Do you remember anything?\"\n\"Let me think.\" Delta ticked and hummed. \"My first thought, Manny.\"\n\"Manny? You talking about Emmanuel Figaro!?\"\n\"Yeah. He had a crush on you.\"\n\"Stop playing.\"\n\"You didn't know?\"\nSage went through her school years without one boy being interested in her. It didn't bother her much, her friends dated. Love of reading kept her occupied. Also, they occasionally hung out as a group. Quiet Manny usually accompanied them to the bowling alley or roller-skating rink, but he never got close to her. \"No, I didn't. And you never mentioned it.\"\n\"Everyone noticed. You are so clueless Book, that's why you're still single.\"\n\"No, it's not. You think Manny gave me the book?\"\n\"I don't know. I said he was my first thought.\"\n\"Well, if you recall anything, text me.\"\nSage didn't think she was clueless. She dated someone in college, knowing instantly his attraction to her. They dated for a few months. She dumped him when he wanted to know her like a husband. So far, no one else.\nShe considered many situations, like checking it out for a class or it getting mixed up with someone else's book.\nAlthough a stretch, she contacted the library. The librarian told her they kept records dating back 20 years.\nSage gave her the title. She read another poem while on hold. They were simple but sweet.\n\"You are in luck. The volume checked out May 6, 14 years ago, and marked lost. \"\n\"Can you tell me who checked it out?\"\n\"That information is not available.\"\n\"Thanks for your help.\"\nSage located her High School yearbook on the bookcase in her home office. Familiar faces of her classmates jumped off the glossy pages. She quickly flipped through the colorful images, identifying the persons and locations. Many wonderful memories resurfaced. She turned to the individual photos.\nEmmanuel Figaro, a lanky, pimply faced boy who wore his hair cornrowed to the back. However, for this photo, his braids were out. The neat afro touch his shoulders and filled most of the frame.\nHer phone dinged. A text from Delta. IT WAS MANNY.\nREALLY??? Sage replied.\nA contact number followed.\n***\nThe phone rang several times. She was about to cancel when he answered.\n\"Hello.\"\n\"Manny?\"\n\"Who's this?\"\n\"Hi, it's Sage.\" Something metal crashed to the floor. \"Is everything okay?\"\n\"Where did you get my number?\"\n\"Delta.\"\nHe groaned.\n\"Sorry. Did I disturb you?\"\n\"Sort of.\"\n\"I'll make it quick. This may sound crazy. I came across a library book among stacks of paperbacks I left at my parents'. No idea where it came from.\"\n\"I'm not surprised.\"\n\"Did I do something to you?\"\n\"Why are you asking?\"\n\"You sound terse.\"\n\"Still using odd words?\"\n\"Manny!\"\n\"My name is Emmanuel.\"\n\"So it is.\" She flung the book onto the coffee table. \"Emmanuel, did you give me a library book of poetry?\"\nSilence.\n\"Are you there?\"\n\"It's my fault. I was afraid of your intellect and outgoing personality. You were out of my league.\"\n\"It was you?\"\n\"The one time we were alone. You were exiting the library, and I was entering. You asked what I was returning.\" He chuckled. \"I almost passed out. But I held it together. Because you never read poetry there being another week on the return, I said try it. You promised to return it, but didn't. We had exams, and graduation. I never saw you again.\"\n\"Sorry. \"\n\"My Mom was furious when she found out I had overdue book fees.\"\n\"I can pay you back. How much do I owe you?\"\n\"The interest includes dinner.\"\n\"Dinner?\"\n***\nDelta helped style her locs in an updo and choose the top to wear with her jeans. Even though, Sage begged, Delta wouldn't reveal what thirty something Manny looked like.\nSage slid her hand in her bag and clutch the book before entering the Restaurant. Emmanuel instructed her to wait at the bar. She scoped out the staff and patrons in the dining area and repeatedly checked her watch, but time slowed like a scene in an action movie.\nShe sipped the complementary seltzer and ran her finger across the condensation.\nSomeone brushed past her and sat on the stool beside her.\n\"Hi Book.\"\nSage gripped the edge of the bar. If not for studying his photo days ago, the handsome guy would be a stranger.\n\"Shocking, aren't I?\" Emmanuel said.\nShe nodded.\n\"The girl with the gift of gab is speechless. Come, our table is ready.\" He grasped her hand.\nSage's chest stuttered and she couldn't feel her feet touch the floor as he led her to a corner booth. She observed him confidently order drinks and appetizers.\n\"You look great.\"\n\"Thanks.\" Her voice trembled.\n\"Am I making you nervous?\"\n\"Yeah!\"\n\"Good. Now you know how it feels.\"\nHer muscles tensed. \"Is this dinner your intent to get back at me?\"\n\"No.\" He placed a hand across his chest. \"It's been a long time. I liked you a lot, then I didn't. Thought I was over you until you called. I couldn't sleep thinking about seeing you.\"\n\"I don't remember what happened. It wasn't deliberate. I never would cause you or anyone else trouble.\"\n\"Can we start over?\" He said.\nDuring the meal, they reminisced about the group roller-skating and bowling outings. Emmanuel mentioned the time they were on the same team and the only two who scored perfectly. \"You gave me a high-five, I waited until morning to wash the hand.\"\nShame engulfed her. \"I have many memories from those days but–\"\n\"It's okay, those are my memories. I shouldn't expect you to have the same. Maybe we can create new ones.\"\n\"I'd like to.\" Sage withdrew the book and offered it out to him.\n\"You keep it along with this.\" He passed her a wrinkled envelope. \"I wrote this the night I loaned you the book.\"\nShe carefully opened the envelope and lifted out a small sheet of paper with neat handwriting.\nI am near her.\nBut she doesn't see me.\nHer words are lively.\nBut she doesn't talk to me.\nI stare at her.\nBut she doesn't feel me.\nHer fragrance intoxicates\nBut she doesn't come near me.\nI love her\nBut I am Unbeknown to Her" } ]